I Try

She was from Stats Canada ("Or elections B.C.   Or something like that...").  My sister was pretty much her choice demographic.

"Did you vote in the last election?"
"Errr.  I was out of the country."
"So you didn't vote?"
"Uh...  No."
"You weren't aware of alternative voting options?
"There are alternative voting options?"
"Alright, thank-you.  How did you hear about last election?"
"Facebook."
"And your primary source of information?"
"Ummm, Facebook."
"Did you receive your Elections Canada voter's card?"
"...My parents might have..."
"How did you know you're registered to vote?"
"I'm registered to vote?"
"So, have you ever voted in a national or regional election?"
"Umm...  I don't know.  I don't remember.  I don't think so?"

They say change should start at home.  I try.  Really, I do.

That's Me, Alright

Shayla: Oh, I love Taylor Swift.
Kris: I like Taylor Swift far to much for a self-respecting twenty-four year old who doesn't like country.
Shayla: I love country music.  You don't like country?
Kris: Nope.
Shayla: What do you like to listen to, then?
Kris:  Ummm, I listen to a lot of different stuff.  Mostly like....
Shayla (interrupting): Hip hop?
Kris: Errr, no, more like....  Wait.  Hip hop?   Do I strike you as someone who listens to hip hop?
Shayla: Yeah.  Or, you know, something you can groove out to.

Apparently I come across as a pretty groovy person.

If Evil Lady is the Look You're Going for...

We all know someone who thinks they're rocking this hairstyle right now.  Yup, I'm talking about the two-tone-blonde-black whatever you want to call it.  I'm actually not sure what "look" it's supposed to convey so if you're in the know please fill me in.  Is it punk, emo, trashy fashionista?

 If you have this hair you can make plenty of excuses to over-ride my opinion.  I'll actually nullify it for you.  Here: First of all, I know a hair student who currently has a  frizz bouffant in white-blonde that features black bangs.  Hair students clearly know more about hair then I do.  Me with my boring brunette curls.  Clearly leaving my hair healthy and the close to the way it grows out of my head can't be very cutting edge.  Then there's also the selection of decent looking celebs who've tried this out.  Rihanna, Christina Aguilera, Shakira...

Even though I'm pretty low-maintenance I don't really care if you want to experiment with your image.  Whatever.  turn your  hair purple.  Defy gravity with the assistance of products called things like "hair glue."  Dye it white-blonde or black or flaming red.  Cover yourself with ink or poke holes in your tongue.  I really don't care, life can use a little variation.  But, quite frankly, this particular two-tone comes across as the opposite of class.  It's not evoking a rebellious image.  Ditto edgy, unique or young.  

Maybe I'm the only one who consistently makes a connection between this "look" and this particular literary character.  Probably not, though.  Which makes me wonder, what kind of world do we live in when Cruella De Vil is a trend-setter?

She gave my sister nightmares for about eight years

The Granola Temptress

I can't buy granola bars.  Well, I mean, I physically can.  It just never works out for me.

Before I go a little farther let me admit that I'm well aware that "granola bar" is actually secret code for chocolate bars you can justifiably eat for breakfast.  I've had ones called things like, "Peanut Butter Caramel Chunk."  or maybe "Decadent Double Chocolate."  The term Granola and about eight flakes of oatmeal means they can market to mothers who don't want to feel guilty about what they're sending their kids to the bus-stop with.

All this taken into account you'd think I could be an adult about granola bars.  Sometimes I think I can.  I walk down the aisle and think to myself, "okay, well, I'll just buy this box and take one in my lunch this week."

...Right.

Here's what really happens.  I get home, open the box, and eat one well I unpack.  That evening I'll eat two before bed.  Chocolate for supper anyone?  The next morning it's two for breakfast and that leaves one for work.  Which I'll eat on my coffee break.

I'm actually well versed in nutrition and follow that a majority of the time.  I was, however, raised having desert after dinner.  We always had homemade cookies or cake.  From scratch.  My Mother is a housewife.  And now I can pass on those.  It's those darn processed granola bars that we only got twice a year when my Grandma would give them out as treats.

So now I can't buy them.  I suppose I could just go through fifty boxes in a month and wear the learned novelty out.  Also develop diabetes, gain twenty pounds and get out of breath walking up stairs...  On second thought, I'll just walk past them when I'm picking up a box of cereal.

Because when they're in my cupboard I turn back into a buzzed little kid with a severe sugar craving.  Only this time with no imposed limits.

Crushes and the Blogger

I have a blog crush.  Yes, I do.  But, warning:  You can read this whole post.  I'm still not going to tell you who he is.

See, because this is a real blog crush.  There's the "Hey, Girl!  I think you're funny and a great social network connection so, guess what?  I have a crush on you!"  Those are fun.  They're fine way to tell people I like their writing, I like chatting, I like their twitter and the pictures they take of themselves in the mirror (just kidding.  I don't "crush" on anyone who does that.)  But I think it's a lame use of the term.

Then there's the real crush.  As in, I think I'd like you for real.  I'd like to hang-out with you, go on epic adventures with you.  Maybe, you know, marry you.  That's all.

I think you're funny, intelligent and kinda cute.  Yes, I think about you.  Mostly when you post.  I wish we could be friends.  It would be nice if I could see if we're both the same as we seem to be when we write.  If we could really argue about music on road trips to places we're both excited about.  If we could really talk about what's important and where we want to go.  If you'd let me tag along when you do fun, creative things.  If you'd want to learn to do the things I know.

I never had any sort of never-met-before crush until I started blogging again.  I thought it was stupid to like celebs or people you'd never meet.  I still do, actually.  I like myself better in real life.  I simply like the real part.

Still, though, this post is about someone specific.  The only blogger crush I've ever had that I honestly thought maybe I shared values, lifestyle opinions and interests with.  But he's far too far away.  I've never stalked his Facebook (because I've never thought about it before.  I know what I'm doing after this publishes) or anything silly.  I'll just keep reading his blog and thinking that he's a pretty cool guy.

The internet sucks.

Getting in Hot Water

"Can you girls just hand me that beer?"

Let me back up a little.

After taking the wrong back road we managed to arrive just at dusk (this is Canada in January so, like, 5:30).  My Civic braved the mining road like the gem she is.  We'd parked on the far end of the pull off and set up our tent on top of two feet of snow and three tarps.  After unrolling our sub-temperature sleeping bags (that means "You will survive."  Not, "You will be comfortable.) We finally shivered our way into bathing suits, hoodies and snow boots.

Cue: Classic natural hot springs.  A beautiful set of pools surrounded by snowy overhangs.  large flat rocks, river within fifteen feet, the toking crowd and snowflakes that melt in your hair.  A star spread sky.

What makes it all worth it, as inclusion to the joy of getting in hot water, is the chance to spend hours with people you care about.  The rare opportunity to do so without cell phones.  Without texting, social etiquette concerns or pressing engagements.

Finally as our single water proof time-piece neared one AM the girls in our group climbed back onto the path.  By now the only people left in the pool were the guys from our group and a few others we came to dub "The Canadians."  Strange, yes, seeing that the rest of us excepting one fit that definition ourselves.

Rather then braving the outhouses at the top of the trail we opted to change on the path.  Four of us took turns holding up towels and dropping our wet suits into a frozen heap on the ground.  I stood holding the towel for a very naked friend.  The other two of us were also engaged in providing and using these make shift change rooms.  That's when The Canadians piped up.

"Uh, girls.  Is there, like another beer up there?  Just, yeah, do you see a Molson?"

I glanced down.  three feet to my right I could spy the top of a can.

"Yeah.  There's one right here."

"Oh, yeah, cool.  Do you, like, think you could just hand it to us?"

I glanced down.  My friend was looking for a bra in our snowy pile.  I was balancing a flashlight and a the two corners of the towel.  Since we'd been at this ten minutes already I would've thought that The Canadians could have figured out the inappropriateness of the request.

"Seriously?  Hand you your beer?  Umm, yeah.  Just let me drop my towel on my friend here and hand you your beer."

No, I didn't say that.  I mumbled something about in a minute.  Canadian dude started scrambling up the bank.

"Oh, there it is.  Just out of reach."

Luckily girl number five managed to reach us in time to hand him his Molson and they faded off to the bottom pool.

Why did we call them the The Canadians?  They were proof as to where our stereotypes actually come from.  And very much thanks to this quote.

"I f***in' drink beer all the time.  F***in' Christmas shopping, I drink beer.  In the f***in' shower I drink beer.  Driving to these hot springs I drink beer.  F***in' love beer, man!"

We figured out a better process the next morning.  Arrive at the pools when there is nobody around.  Toss a frozen chunk of suits and towel into the hottest pool.  Proceed to change.  It's really too bad that the colder it is in open air the better the hot spring experience.

I Like Boys Who Wear Bandannas

It seems as though I think it's hot every time I see a guy rocking a bandanna.  At least in real life.  But I didn't just say that.  

Well researching this topic I discovered that online I can't like boys in bandannas.  First of all, "research" means, of course, that I was lurking Google images and Deviant Art looking for good looking males wearing bandannas.  Imagine my chagrin when I realized there were so many bad pictures of said topic, and virtually none worth showing my readers.

The idea started when I was watching this music video on Youtube.

Of course I soon remembered that I can't possibly admit to watching this band even if it's because it has this guy and I'm checking out this wrist bandanna.  I then started to think about how I could list off all the super cool ways of wearing them.  It wasn't long before I realized that I can't really do it without sounding like a douche.

I can't do it without sounding like some degree of hippi, redneck, punk or emo (whether or not I am has yet to be seen...).  I'll sound like I like smelly old bikers, highly image-conscious jerks, wanksters or illegal skater kids (whether or not I do is quite well established.  Negative, thank-you very much).

(colinhill)

(loudxmusic)

So, on Because or Why Not I formally find guys in bandannas a very large turn-off.  I also would never consider wearing one myself.  Nope.  Bandannas are not hot.  Bandannas are, in fact, unattractive.

I won't let on that I have checked out young guys wearing bandannas the right way (no do-rags please!).  I also, without a doubt, believe that good looking young women should consider it a serious strike against their self esteem if they've even considered wearing one of these trashy accessories.

Unless I actually meet you.  Then, maybe, we can talk about bandannas another time...

Randori, Newaza and Other Japanese Words I Don't Remember

All of me hurts.  Well, when I try to move.  This is specific to, but not limited to thighs, upper stomach, neck and upper arms.  Not to mention the bruises running pretty solid up my left arm.  Does that sound bad?  I think it's because that's the arm I usually break fall with.

Yeah, I'm back at judo. Item 46.

I might not be coming back with the obsession I had at 17.  I always wished I had a chance to start younger and train harder.  But, I've missed it.  Practicing this year will whip me back into some much needed shape.  I build muscle easily for a girl.  I miss my chiseled shoulders, and my masculine forearms.  Wait... what?

Maybe I'll fall in love with the sport all over again.  And if not I'll be able to leave some energy on the mat.  My Mom was never a big fan of her teenage daughter rolling around with sweaty guys, or the part where we try to choke each other unconscious.  But she once said it was good because it was an outlet for some of my fight.

if nothing else I'll leave healthier (unless I tear something in my knee).  Right now that's hard to remember when sitting down necessitates a five inch uncontrolled fall.  In a good way.

 

Maybe you'll see why I find judo beautiful.  This is the international competition scene, no choreography here.  I can understand why a match would be dull for someone who isn't a judoka, so feel free to check out these highlights.  Bobby says to warn you to turn on the mute.

The Joys of Public Service

My sister relayed a piece of urban myth last night around the dinner table well I was visiting.

A male flight attendant had a passenger complain to him about her overhead luggage before take-off.  As the story goes he turned to her, stated, "Have a good flight you F***ing Bitch," and grabbed two bottles of beer.  He then proceeded to jump down the escape chute and run out onto the runway.*

He got arrested for creating a disturbance, or endangering airport security, or something.

I sat and laughed.  Meg sat and grinned.  The rest of my family looked at us like we were idiots.

If you don't think that's funny, then you don't understand and you may want to consider getting a service industry job.  At least short term.

Or at least realize you're not special, and actually being nice to anyone serving you will get you farther.**

*Unfortunately I can't find any news accreditation for this.  However, all I can think of is to google the "quote."
** We will sit in the back and laugh at you.  If you made our co-worker cry you'll probably pay.***
***Let it be noted that I am referring to previous jobs.  Not my current one.

A Brief History of Because or Why Not

Honestly, this comes up if you Google Image Search
"Because or Why Not" 

That's right.  I named a post after my own blog.  It's a devious plan of mine, actually.  I'm a little upset that I can't google my own blog.  All sorts of other useless stuff comes up, but not Because or Why Not.  So part of me thinks that if I write a post with "Because or Why Not" in the title and scattered frequently throughout then maybe It'll eventually show up in the first twenty pages that I'm willing to look at.

Yes.  I'm confessing that I've googled my own blog.

Of course, it's my own fault for choosing a title like Because or Why Not.  I still really like the new title, I just am realizing no one will ever find it through googling "Because or Why Not."  Although, what kind of an idiot would google that combination of words anyway?  It's an ego thing.  There's cheaters out there like Stir-fried Dinosaur or Your Ill-Fitting Overcoat who get, like, the first suggestion.  Of course, they're also very interesting bloggers who have more to say then I do.  But other then that...

Because or Why Not spent years as Barefoot in Summer.  It was (another confession) The Cherry Life of a Tomboy for it's first two weeks.  Forgive me, I was sixteen.  Also had a brief stint as Cayenne or Vanilla.  Apparently at three AM I couldn't make the foodie connection.  It's used to be a clique blog complete with endless haloscan comments.

Late 2009 I came back to blogging.  Late March 2010 I discovered community blogging, and haven't looked back, yet.  I'm glad to have you!  Oh yeah, here at Because or Why Not.


Because or Why Not.  Because or why Not.  Because or Why Not.  Get it, Google?

So, I was gonna be all manly and post the first image that came up with a Google image search for Because or Why Not.  But then it ended up being this, and I realized there were much better looking ones available a few pages down.

Redneck Style: A Guide

There are a few things to bear in mind when dressing like a redneck.  First of all, the stereotypes are true.  If you think stretched confederate flags and ball caps are a myth, you're wrong.  We believe in sexy, but not so much in subtle.  I believe the correct word for this is "trashy."  Bear in mind that we're not feminists.  However, we can play with the boys, and that's partly why the teenage pregnancy rate is so outrageously high.  It's not all bad, though.

The secret is to stick to key pieces.  The essential will always be the ribbed tank top.  The effect is most effective when it's too tight.  They can be stocked up at Wal-Mart for three bucks a piece.  Logos and racer-backs are encouraged.  For full effect please be sure that lacy bra straps are visible at all times.

Pair this with a denim mini.  Durable and multi-functional this is an important part of every redneck girl's closet.  We especially like that they can be worn for any function from meeting the parents to weddings.  As an alternative daisy dukes make a good replacement.  These are so simple.  All you need is a pair of tight jeans and scissors!  They also work a bit better after you've passed out on the lawn of some house party.

If the brush is too thick, or the weather too chilly for this option ripped jeans are fine.  Also, we really do wear plaid shirts.  We like that the top four buttons can be left undone.  Print hoodies are a good functional option as well.  Don't forget that these can be tied, or slung.  Sweats or pj pants can be worn out shopping, or for 7/11 runs.  These, however, should be paired with low-cut tops and preferable should state "cutie," or similar sentiment across the butt.

Don't forget to accessorize!    Let's start with shoes.  Yes, we believe in heels!  These should mostly be worn during the day.  Say, when on a trip to the hardware store.  For bush parties, brand runners are much more practical.  Uggs are also good in winter.  You'll look pretty lame when, well trying to climb into the back of a lifted pickup to make-out, you slip on a patch of ice with your stilettos.

Jewelery is over rated.  Except piercings.  Belly button studs are hot, and you should have at least three or four piercings in each ear.  The best way to go, however, is tattoos.  There's not really such a thing is too many.  Favourite spots should include ankles, upper breasts, and the ever popular tramp stamp.

Then, the crowning glory.  Long is the norm.  Hair should also be at least streaked blond.  A full on bleach out is more typical.  Straw cowboy hats or trucker caps are also a good option.  Always keep a stock of simple bandannas.  There are several ways to wear them, and they'll always signal that you're up for a little mud bogging.  Also, make-up isn't really necessary except that heavy mascara should be worn at all times, such as when nursing your youngest well waiting for the bus.  It's so easy!  Take care of yourself first.

As you can see, dressing like a redneck has more to do with mindset then anything else.  With a little practice you'll be ready to take on the next bush party or mountain camping trip.  Don't worry about being over the top.  Just follow the simple tips above and you'll be ready to go.

Disclaimer: Even though I used we and us throughout this post I can say, err, most of it doesn't apply to me.
Also, what I learned from this post...  I can't spell accessorize, jewelery or stiletto...
Photo sources: Teethlikeswords, xxtwilightbellaxx, and chell-o on Deviant Art

When Skater Boys Strip

(Source: Afireoutsideme on Deviant Art)

Pretend it's June in North Ontario.  The sun is weak, the town is tiny and the area is stunningly beautiful.  It's also St. Jean Baptiste which means the Quebecers in my little group want to get wasted* and declare their sovereignty.

Now, I'm not all Vivre Quebec, but I enjoyed hanging out with the biggest Libre believer of them all.  Thom was a guitarist of the tenth degree.  A ponderer with a French-guy afro.  Funny, deep, and a little bit lost.  Being as it was Quebec's national holiday he got all introspective and wanted to wander off to the beach with his guitar.  I was bored on our free block and decided to go along.  Mostly, I confess, I wanted to sit looking over Lake Superior and listening to Thom's acoustic guitar.

As we got closer to the beach a cop car pulled up and informed us that a bear had just been reported on the beach.  There's another thing about this town.  It wasn't unusual to see black bears crossing the street in the middle of town.  With a dejected Thom I turned and meandered down towards main, stopping at their little skate park.

Laying on the curved concrete Thom played and I listened.

Groups of fourteen year-old boys can be a little obnoxious.  Especially when it's a birthday party and they're on the way to the corner store to try scam cigarettes.  They spotted us like prey on a field mouse.

"Dude, you're amazing.  Man, play us something."
"What do you want?"
"Play us some Slipknot!  Know any Metallica?  Dude, Slash!  Who's she?"
"Kris.  She sings."  I shot Thom my "way to try switch the heat" look.
"Dude!  Play us something and she can sing."

Kids don't shut-up easily.  Thom cued the opening bars of Hotel California, about the only song that we both knew he could play and I could sing through.  Amid just-breaking voices and experimental swearing he glanced at me.  Kind of a "just do it, I dare you."

As I started on dark desert highways and cool wind in my hair the miraculous happened.  The group shut-up.  They stood against the graffiti and stared.  When the guitar died they were all, "Man, that was amazing.  Amazing!  Beautiful!  Really."  That's right.  We got a fourteen year old male to use "beautiful" as description.

Then the birthday kid dropped twenty bucks in Thom's case.  Twenty-bucks!  We were on a youth volunteer program, so that was a night out at the Legion (yes, the Legion was the happening night life).  It was his birthday money, but he wouldn't take it back.

They headed off to the convenience store.  We returned to our non-heavy metal under the night sky, but it wasn't too long before they were back.

"Dude!  You were amazing!  But we're out of money, Man.  Here.  Have a rock."
"No way, Man.  They're too good for a rock!  Here, have my shirt.  No, seriously, take it!"
I was laughing.  Thom was like, "C'mon guys!  You can't go home without a shirt.  No, it's cool."
"No really.  Take my shirt.  Take my shoes."

"Here!  I'll give you my pants!"

To our chagrin a barely teen dropped his pants.  Right there on the skate park of a little northern town.

"Want my boxers, too?  I'll give 'em to you!"

Thom was freaking out a little.  I couldn't stop laughing.  We managed to get the kids to (mostly) keep their boxers on.  Eventually it was us who had to leave them running around the ramps partially dressed.

"I was scared," Thom confessed.  "Man, like, maybe we get in trouble for little kids strip in front of us!"

It was perfect.  My first and only St. Jean Baptist.  But regardless it'd probably be my favourite.

*Yes, I see the irony as the holiday is (apparently) named after a saint.

What's Your Happy Song?

So in Mexico, as in any third world country, you can buy bootlegs off any street corner.  They'll have crackly speakers set up blaring Ranchero, cheap American hits and general noise surrounded by displays of dollar c.d.s in plastic sheaths.  The difference between Mexico and most other countries where I've indulged my criminal side is that the Mexican vendors have a fondness for creating their own mix c.d.s.  You can buy albums called "Coca Cola Cowboy Americano."  The cover art will be a milk cow and Laura Croft Tomb Raider on a psychedelic purple background.  Got the picture?

My sister brought one of these mixes home for me once.  This one is "Exitos TAZAMANICOS 2007" and has a very mild cover with Taz ripping something to shreds.  The play list is, as always, very hit and miss.  However, there was one song that promptly jumped out at me as my happy song.

How, exactly, is a happy song defined?  Basically if it is impossible to be crabby well the song is on, it's a win.  It won't be it the same for everyone.  The first friend I knew with a happy song would proudly blast Celine Dion and declare how it made her cheerful.  I didn't find it had the same effect for me, but to each their own.

Now, this one is awesome, though.  Listen to it!  I'm sorry, but how can that not pick up your day?  It's Yofo by Molotov.  Honestly, I have no idea what sort of nonsense they're on about.  I've also never listened to anything else by them.  But I love whistling along with this one.

Tell me your personal happy song.  I will do my best to look it up.

Not an Award Post

Don't run away.  This is not an award post, and it's not a meme.  It's some sadist wondering where I think I'll be in ten years.

So, I like Alex.  Really, I do.  He's smart, artist, and really good at computers without being all geek about it.  He's also got his life together (as a theatre professional, photographer, and long-term relationship guy).

So, I read his post with a sort of fear and dread.  Yes, all justified.  Apparently Alex wants to know where I think I'll be in ten years.  Thanks, man.  Here we go.

I don't have a clue.  See, in ten years I'll be 33.  Thirty-three!  I have a hard time thinking past the summer.  Unlike many intelligent blogger friends I don't have a career.  I don't have an education, a kid or even a relationship (serious or otherwise).

All I do have is a vast array of experiences, a love of written words, a passion for challenges and a wanderlust.

I also have a bit of a fear of commitment.  Probably based on a strong sense of follow-through.  But that follow through is best served in, oh, eight month doses, for a stretch.

Last year I returned home from traveling around the world, failing to bond with my sister, and finally managing to heal from one heck of a boyfriend.  What I didn't realize was that this definite conquering of a life-time goal would leave me in such a predicament.  Do I want to settle down, farm, travel more, go to school?  I couldn't and can't decide.  I'm in the same place now, a few experiences richer and a year older.  The only thing I know is that sitting stagnant is hard on me.  Change is a necessity.   So, where ten years will take me I really can't say.

I could be married to a farm boy with a baby on my hip.  I could be living in an seventh story apartment rambling through assignments that are making me hate a topic I love.  Or I could be waitressing with a drive to see a new place and meet new people.

Know what?  I like it that way.  Maybe it'll hurt me in the end, but that thought of having a pretty good idea of ten years down the road kinda stresses me out.

Facebook Feed: Today's Highlights.

I simply can't get over how amusing people can be.  Here's what's coming up on today's feed.  Couldn't help but share.  Please remember, the grammar is not mine.  


"NEW RECIPE!!! try this and let me know what you think. Get a banana or two and mash it good, then mix in a handfull of raisins, then rap it in large sliced dill pickels, then garnish with mushroom. SOOOOO amazing."


"the Scrabble gods are trying to screw me over: 'AAAAIII'. What are the odds...."


"Justin Bieber: You may think he is manly but then you compare him to.... Bruce Lee, Sylvester Stalone, Jackie Chan, Arnold Swarzenblabla, My aunt, Antonio Bandaras, Nicholas Cage, Tom Cruise, Vin Diesel, Michelle Rodriguez, Mila Jovich, and Roberto Luongo. DOESNT SEEM SO MANLY ANYMORE DOES HE."


"We made it to new mexico! And no we did NOT arrive in a yellow submarine. Now to find this horse and haul buns back home!"


"all good is hard. dying, loseing, cheating, and mediocrity is easy. stay away from easy."
Ok.  That one isn't particularly funny.  It just stood out.


"Welcome, everyone, to TBG! We're very excited for kick-off, and are happy to have you on board! We hope you choose to participate in the internet's first ever random acts of kindness contest.
Remember to visit our website! www.goaheadmaketheirday.com"
-You mean to tell me you haven't visited our Facebook Page yet?  That's even as bad as the fact that you haven't visited the homepage.  Click the link.  Click it now!  No, wait.  Finish the post and then visit.


 "...Likes old trucks now. Time to trade in the Dodge."  
-This one is compliments of an Alberta Boy.  I believe we've discussed them before.


"a que TROP hâte à demain soir...pour être avec lui TOUT le Week-End !!! :D"

-For my Francophone friends, little taste of the Quebecois Frenglish that constantly show's up in my feed.

I actually drafted these out last week, which is why the timing may seem a little off.

Break Out the Shorts

Some of my sharp readers will notice I've put my 101 in 1001 as a separate blog page.  No, you don't have to go read it again.  I have marked off all of two items so far.  However, I didn't blog about either of them.

So, I marked another one as in progress.  Today I waxed my leg.  Yes, singular.  My left one, to be exact.

I forgot how annoying it is.  It sucks.  And, ladies, I'm gonna confess a little secret of ours here.  It's a pretty good secret, 'cause most of us won't even admit it to each other.  It's not because it hurts that much.  It doesn't.  Oh, sure.  You're spreading hot wax on your skin and ripping out hundreds of hairs by the root.  It's intimidating.  But certainly not scream worthy.  We're female.  Most of us give birth at some point.  We can handle the waxing thing.

What's annoying is the mess.  You're hands are sticky.  You've got streaks of wax on your legs.  Drips on the floor and a smear on the jar.  Meanwhile you're bent double trying to spread more with that damn popsicle stick on the back of your thigh.  And if you're a paranoid hoarder, like me, you're trying to save the strips.  So the one you're using has already been used on the one side.

And it takes so long.

I'm saying I only did one leg because I ran out of wax.  It's true.  I need to get another jar and to the other one before they get on different schedules.  But it was kinda relieving to pack up and wash my hands in those silly vials of blue oil they provide.

So, in progress.  One leg smooth.  The other one still resembles a little bit of a jungle.  But now I have to remedy that.  I'll be sitting on my kitchen floor again, soon, getting up the nerve to rip my hair out.

Somebody Call the Cops. The Neighbors are Fighting Again.

You are probably not from a small town.  According to my statistics (which, btw, I'm just making up) you are probably young, slightly more likely to be female, semi-driven, and a city dweller.  Don't be mad if I've buttoned holed you all wrong.  I know I've got my minorities out there, too.  I just figure I know who I'm talking to for the most part.

Now, I've told you this often, so you're probably aware that I grew up in a small town.  I'm sorry for driving this point home, but since you live in the city I feel a constant need to make my posts relevant to your life.  Actually, I am well aware that you have no idea what I'm on about small towns.  I could never truly make you understand, but I try.

I'm going to tell you about an accomplishment called the police blotters.  This is a section of the paper dedicated to every call-out in the small-town cop's life.  They have things like over width farm vehicles and wives moving their husband's golf clubs into the middle of the street.  The local paper is well aware of the fact that people read it for humour. What we try to do is get anonymously listed in these blotters.  Nothing like five minutes of fame.

One of the most effective ways to pull this off is to get listed as "shot's were fired in the fifth block of..."  Here are some of the ways people I've been, err, associated with have been listed.

Stealing garden ornaments is ever popular.  They are disappearing in most editions of the paper.  I have some friends who were briefly famous for successfully stealing the potted plants of a hilarious local character, Mrs.
Dalton.  She wipes her cat's bum, takes toys from small children until they learn their manners, and has a remarkable wardrobe of vintage outfits, gloves and ridiculous hats..

Ah yes, the time the cow got out.  Or, one of the times the cow got out.  This time she wandered, not off into the wilderness, but out onto the road and out into the neighborhood.  It was precious.  Mostly because I wasn't there.  It got considerably better when a female cop showed up.  My brother has a re-account where she yelled at him, "Stay where you are!" in all her female cop power trip.  Buttercup chewed her cud and meandering down the road well the poor lady in a uniform was quite at loss as to how ridiculous she appeared.

My littlest brother will quite forcefully state that they even stopped when cars went by.  Apparently that's not enough.  A collection of young hooligans tossing snowballs on main street is a truly valid reason to call 911.  Unfortunately, the youth had dispersed by time police arrived at the scene.

We've all done doughnuts in near empty parking lots, right?  That perfect little beater with the hand brake.  Those perfect frozen conditions with a light skiff of snow.  Now, who else has had their father reported for this activity at the local community centre?  I don't think you quite understand. My Dad had fled the scene after a serious case of reckless driving.


My own masked intruder almost deserves a full post to himself.  Except he wasn't masked, he was wasted out of his mind.  I was there and he dented the door a little bit well I fled out the front in my socks.  We'll keep it brief and note these two items.  1. my cousin, room mate, and best friend came in, saw the guy under my sink, and thought he was me before getting confronted and making her getaway.  2.  Our incompetent cops couldn't find my house.  Creepy intruder ended up being chased all over town and captured by my brother and Dad, even though I called 911.  They couldn't even find him when my Dad gave a play-by-play over the cell phone.  Turns out he was wanted in Alberta, anyway.  And, yes, for a while there I had restraining orders against two, possibly three people.  I'm hardcore like that.

No.  I don't know of anyone who's actually gone cow-tipping.

I Believe I'm Sorry the Season is Over

Today will definitely be our last day.  There's not doubt about that.  It's been a good run, despite my sojourn to southern states halfway through the season.  However, it's also been brutal.  You see, "Carving" is an essential skill in snowboarding.   One I'd ignored for, oh, a couple months seasons.  Prefering to look like a five year old, or maybe preferring not to compact my spine I'd always wimped out and just alternated my lead foot.

This is not me.  This is my brother.
He is far more talented then I am.

So, my first time out this year went something like this.  We didn't get snow until late, so craving a little board action we decided to drive up a summit and hike from there.  I, being brilliant, agreed to invite a friend of mine.  It was actually a very bad idea.  Mostly because only family members should be allowed to see me act like I did.  This form of behaviour could best be described as "spoiled brat".  It kind of built as we hiked in our boots, with our boards for two hours and slogged out through trees and powder.  Was good for one thing, though, I realized I needed to quit being so lazy and learn how to carve.

Well, my next trip was to a beautiful hill with sixty dollar tickets.  I wasted had a productive day killing myself in an attempt to learn.  I thought I never wanted to strap a board on again, and came home convinced I was too old for this.  However, through sheer pain I managed to master this skill by the end of the season (aka, today).  Now I'm trying to do little bunny hops.  I never learn.

But, and I do want to say this.  I am talented, people!  Twice I have pulled tricks that no one else I know has ever managed.  And people are impressed everytime I tell them. 

First, I hit myself in my head with my own snowboard.  Come now.  Mad skills.  that thing is only a few feet long and strapped to your feet.  I don't wear a helmet either.  Mostly because I'm a stupid person who takes risks... until I get a concussion/have my car stolen/enter senerio here.

Second, I caught both edges in a single fall.  When you catch an edge, you fly through the air and land on your head, or knees, or assosiated.  It hurts.  I did both together, somehow.  I'm still not sure how, but if I ever learn to repeat I may just make it my signature move!  "Hey guys!  Did you see that?  Kris just did her double-edge-catch!"  I can hear it now.

Ah, the luck o' the Irish.  That's right.  I'm doing a St. Patty's day post.  At least, sort of...
Mostly I just don't really get it.  I mean, ok, they have shamrocks and leprechauns.  There's always Guinness,  kissing, pots of gold, and other great stuff.  And I guess they're pretty lucky and Good ol' St. Patrick decided to drive all the snakes of the island.  But let's take a short look at the history of Ireland.
5000 BC- Basic settlements exist on the island which is accessed by land bridge.  Or something like this.  They start like any other civilization.  This isn't unfortunate, but it's not exactly lucky either.  The Inuit did the same thing.
500-600 AD- Christianity and  St Patrick influence this Celtic region.  Christianity becomes the prevalent religion.  The Irish find religion.  Sure, this is great.  For now...
800 AD- A century of viking invasions begin to wreck havoc.  Good times.
1169- The beginning of outside (originally Norman) involvement in Ireland.  In 1534 English military campaigns begin and settlers begin to flow into the region.
Early 1600s- It is clear Gaelic Ireland is defeated.  Religious conflict becomes a integrated part of their history and society.  They are also thrilled, or course, at English domination.  The Anglican church is installed, and bloody conflicts are carried out as the Irish are subdued in a "re-conquest" and Catholics are discrimiated against.
1641 and 1689- Both the beginnings of civil war.  The first is started with an uprising killing thousands of protestant settlers.  By the end almost of third of Irish population is killed or exiled.  Catholic land is redistributed.  Parliament is rearranged and James (a Catholic) goes up against William the Orange for the second war in order to reclaim property.  What luck!  No, wait, James loses.
1740- The Great Irish Famine.  Potato blight.  Hundreds of thousands of Irish die.  Another 150,000 leave.
1798- The Irish rebellion is held by the Society of United Irishmen.  It is violently suppressed, and self governing done away with 1801.  Ireland is now officially part of England.  Maybe they were a little short on four-leafed clover.
1845- The second great famine.  Population drops by millions.  Gaelic begins to become obsolete.
1916-1921- Political distress, violence and guerrilla warfare (or, war of independence).  Oh, and WW1.  England has bigger fish to fry and in1919 sovereignty is declared.  In1921 N. Ireland is differentiated and chooses to remain with the UK.
1922 and 1923- Another bloody civil war.  Who saw that one coming?
1949- After remaining quite neutral through WW2 Ireland leaves the British common wealth.  throughout these years Catholics dominated the political scene, and protestants are discriminated (except in N. Ireland which encounters violent upheaval in the 1960s).  Unfortunately, the Catholic Church makes a lot of inhumane decisions in the running of the Irish.
1970s- Economic stagnation.  Continued trouble in N. Ireland.
1990s- Tribunals set up to investigate severe scandals through the church and political positions.  This is, not lucky, but a good thing as it faces some major problems plaguing Ireland.  By now people are becoming less bound to religious following, and religious freedom is granted to a greater extent.
 1996- Angela's Ashes published.  a memoir which documents extreme poverty, religious and political discrimination, and alcoholism within the Irish setting.  Other true-life accounts emerge showing the horrors of religious sex scandal, ect.
Modern Ireland- They finally have their act together.  More or less.  Catholicism has lost much of it's control, the economy has taken it's place as a power.  There is still tension between the north and south.  Also a continuing presence of the UK.  Overall stable.  But I don't think it's in the last 20 years that Ireland has been considered lucky.  
Maybe that's it, ultimately though.  A long history of bloodshed, and they're still drinking pints in their pubs and proud that they're Irish. (note, referenced almost exclusively through Wikipedia)
Who knows?  They host a pretty good holiday.

so Happy Saint Patty's day, anyway.  

May you be luckier then the Irish!