Debt: A Crisis I Can't Make Sense Of.

There are several many things in life, in our society, that I don't even pretend to understand.  Our disrespect for our elders.  Our tendency to be workaholics.  Our willingness to cheapen so many experiences.  Our fear of death.  Even the ones I engage in I don't understand.

But this post is about debt.  I just don't get it.  We're a society driven by the stuff.  When I Google "Average debt in the Canadian household," the front page is full of articles on how Canada's average debt surpassed $100,000 this February.  One.  Hundred.  Thousand.  Dollars.  On average!  Americans are in even worse shape.

Why are we okay with this?

Back in the day if you wanted more land you went out and grew some wheat and if your crop succeeded you expanded.  If you didn't have a crop and you needed a new jacket you went out and harvested someone else's until you got paid and then you bought what you needed.  I'm sorry, but doesn't that make sense?

The worst part is we're not even over our heads in order to put food on our tables.  We're buying homes that are significantly larger then they were just a decade ago.  We're charging brand-new clothes and restaurant meals on credit cards that have interest rates to the tune of 20%.  Twenty.  Percent.  Is that annoying?  I can quit spelling it out like that.

I don't mean to be down on anyone who lost their job because of the downturn and can't find other work.  Or any American with unexpected medical expenses.  Or the single Mom, or someone reeling from a nasty divorce.  Or the student who got in over their head.  But where do we draw the line?

Some debt makes sense.  A mortgage on a basic home, for example (take into consideration, first, housing prices).  Also certain small business loans.  Let me put a disclaimer here:  I am not a gambler by nature and I will never treat my finances like I am.  Low risk, low reward.

I'm also not an economics expert.  I almost definitely make less money then you.  I don't fully understand credit scores or RRSPs.  I do have the advantage of not having to pay for a degree at a prestigious school.  I live in a small home with a room mate.  I drive a car from 1998 that I work on myself and sometimes I buy clothes from a thrift store.

But I live very comfortably.  Admittedly, I don't have children and I live in a low-cost part of the country (read: rural).  I prioritize.  I get a thrill out of saving.  I also travel extensively, but cheaply.  I choose to go through periods without steady employment.  I volunteer.  I market farm.

I know, I have the luxury.  I live in a prosperous society.  But I could live for years on what my fellow countrymen owe, on average.

I work and then I buy the things I want.

Doesn't that make sense?

Shades of Gray

Why so complicated?

Painting, of course, by Norman Rockwell

Seventeen 'Till I Die

Today my room mate turned seventeen.  I told her, as I always tell people who turn that age, that seventeen is the best year.  In my mind I could fairly happily stay seventeen forever.  But why?

(xCoffeeAddict)

It was actually a pretty crappy year.  I was lacking direction and fought to no end with the school I'd chosen to graduate with.  This ended in tears and the principals office.  As well as fantasies of judo-throwing her incompetent self through the floor (she got fired the next year, and had been shuffled around repeatedly because she can't do her job).

I got kicked out of home.  It didn't last long, but was something of a reflection of my family situation in general.  I never got pregnant, did drugs or assorted rebel behaviour.  My parents just didn't get down with my lack of respect for imposed authority.

I spent three assorted months house sitting.  Nothing seemed more magical then a place to myself.

I questioned the beliefs I was raised with late at night, realizing they'd have to become mine, and not sure if they could.

I built.  Houses, with my Dad.

I passed my road test and took to driving like I was made for it.

I dedicated myself to judo, and subsequently reached my peak.

I struggled to establish a social group after the six month trip earlier that year threw a massive friggin' wrench in the one I was supposed to have.

For whatever reason, all that compiled into a belief that seventeen is independence, freedom and life more abundantly.

In the month before I turned eighteen I bought my own little car that I learned to love.  I also graduated, put a down payment on a place, moved out and got a full time permanent job.

Maybe it's just that I never much cared for being an adult.

The Biggest Role Boobs Will Ever Play on My Blog

I want feedback.  I specifically want feedback from my male readers out there.  I'm sure you guys exist.  Even if I never do post boobs for real (sorry for the tease).  But I have a very specific question.

First of all, I've never watched Jersey Shore.  Not even a little piece of a little clip of the show.  But the general impression I've formed about the show made me think it would fit this post well.  Here's what confuses me.  I know girls who channel Jersey Shore with all their might.  You know.  Pale lipstick, excessive eyeliner, trashy hair extensions, that disturbing orange hue, single line eyebrows.  That kissy face.  I wish I was rude gutsy enough to snag some of their ten million pictures off Facebook and show them to you.  But I'm not, so these shots of Jersey Shore are gonna have to do because, frankly, it's pretty much the same thing.

So, the thing is, I've never heard a guy say they like that crap.  As a girl I honestly think it's a little disturbing (and I feel the same way about the fake orange males wearing Ed Hardy and trucker hats).  It's trashy.  Period.  So, guys tell me they like girls who act like ladies.  They say they like girls who can rock the natural look.  They say all sorts of stuff, and then chase after girls who leave the house looking like, well...  Check attached images.  Then...  then they get all over these girls like their the hottest things their poor horny selves have seen all year.  I've seen it, and I know you have too.  

I have three theories.

1.  Boys are shallow.  They think they like genuine girls because they like the idea of a genuine girl.  They also don't quite understand how much of the Jersey chicks are fake.  

2.  They actually like genuine girls.  However, the thing is that genuine girls take a little more work.  The Jersey chicks are easy.  What other kinda girl would put this out there?  And, really, why go hard when you can go easy?

3.  The Jersey chicks just know how to play they guys.  They know when to smile, when to flash boob. And, oh yeah, they know how to flirt.  Flirt like you'll get somewhere.  They know how to make any boy feel like he really matters.  Like sex is the biggest objective in their life.  And, yeah.  It probably is.

So tell me, guys.  Why does this work on you?  And girls, do you get it?  Or are you a little bit Jersey yourself (in which case I do apologize).

Don't be surprised if this post only survives a week or two.  I doubt I'm brave enough to risk the Jersey chicks in my life eventually stumbling across it.

Blah

I've always said I don't get depressed.  I've always stuck by this statement pretty well.  I do, however, get pissed off.  Seems like this time of year I end up frustrated at almost everything.  It's like I'm  suddenly realizing that summer was far too carefree.  And that somewhere, in the suntanned bliss of eternal youth, I turned yet another year older.

I wish it didn't happen.  I get to thinking about where I am, what I'm doing, and who exactly that makes me.  Very very dangerous questions.  Especially when you don't have good answers.  And dammit, I do not have good answers.

I like to redirect my energy.  I love skating hard and scoring goals.  I like getting slammed into the mats by kids with brown belts.  I like pretending the little things I've accomplished matter.

I love arguing.  Always have, always will.  It's a skill I've honed until I'm pretty good at it.  Which is too bad, because that's not a beneficial thing.  Especially when I don't have anyone to argue about anything worthwhile with.

Either that or I employ frighteningly brilliant avoidance tactics.  The fact that I have no television doesn't even help that much.  I'm just that good.

And I don't get Seasonal Effective Disorder.  Yeah.  Right.

(Ronaaa)

Autumn Beats Me Up

(Source)

I know it's still the end of summer.  A season for freedom and carelessness and passion.  I know I was jumping from cliffs into beautifully fresh water this weekend.  Around this time we're usually melding into a beautiful Indian summer.  However, this year I've already tasted the crisp tang of fall.

The first emotion autumn brings me is an extreme urge to move on.  Summer's dying and I need to travel, quit my job... leave.  I need to learn, wander, wonder.  Time to work and move on and join autumn sports.  September is a learned habit to pack up, start school, travel, move.

Change.

And then, or at the same time, I start to want to settle down.  Cooling air makes me want fuzzy blankets and someone to share them with.  I want fall colours and cable stitch sweaters to wear with my bluejeans.  I want to make jam from our harvest, collect firewood, hunt and knit burnt orange touques to keep me warm through the winter cold.  I want an acreage and an orchard.  Some dark cool dirt to dig in and a fireplace to come inside to.

Settling in.

Here we can climb wooden ladders with laden canvas totes.  Gala, Honeycrisp, Delicious, Macintosh.  You better believe I can bake a mean pie.  I can milk a cow, make yogurt, cut meat to stock the freezer.  I've pressed juice, made pickles and dug potatoes.  This is where I'm from.

But I have a backpack by my bed.  And a tendency to search airline tickets when I'm supposed to be paying bills.  I have mind-stretching universities in my bookmarks and a tank full of gas that begs me to use it every time I drive to the edge of town.  Rusty Spanish that begs to be stretched out.  Energy to wear out on the ice, the judo mats, the ski hill.

Fall brings out both sides of my excess energy.  Estrogen and testosterone in a mad and endless clash. This fall neither will be much of an option.  I'll need my silly little side projects.  No month long road trips or beer in hostel basements.  No international markets, or no running my own local booth.  I'll be wearing out my fight in a dojo and wondering why I'm settling for middle ground.

To Apply or Not to Apply?

Some of you know I have a job I'm not terribly excited about.  Don't get me wrong.  The people and the company are great.  There's just simply nothing challenging about the job that I'm doing and now that I've been there a bit the learning curve is closer to a straight line.

So, I have the opportunity to apply up.  It would be moving into the office side of things.  Balancing numbers, accounts, that sort of thing.  Traditionally, I'm not an office type... at all.  (I was 18 when I wrote that, though).  Last night I promised myself I'd write a list of pros and cons in the morning.  The morning is here (and gone), so in the interest of being a little more personal on my blog (and really hoping for a little feedback) I'll post it here.



Pros:
Full time hours.
Variation in work (would mix with my current position).
Benefits.
New experience.


Cons:
Not very experienced.
Commitment (I like the fact that I can justifiably give notice anytime).
Would probably end up hating office work.

Those are far less exhaustive lists then I thought they'd be.  Bear in mind that just because I choose to apply does not mean I'll get the job.  Another reason to just give it a shot?  The two last cons are the biggest ones, for me.

My sister says I too often do things because I think I should.  Rather then because I'm interested.  Or because I have a drive to book up my time.  I'm an odd sort of workaholic.  It has been refreshing to work fewer and better hours then I used to.  And for non-stressful management.  Although, the hours would still be good.


I'm just rambling now.  Your thoughts, please?

She Holds an AK47

I've been at a music festive here in the NW, and it was five days of amazing.  I have something to say.  But, here.  First of all have some music.


Now.  I'm wearing dog tags.  They say simply

Name: Yex Seung
Gender: Female
Age: 8 Years
Status: Active
*Burma*

It's a representation of an active soldier in the country with a larger concentration of child soldiers then any other country in the world (over 75,000).  I'm sorry to admit I wasn't aware to the extent of the tragedy.  I'm wearing her tags.  She is raped, fired at, and taught to hold an AK47.  At eight years old.

I don't want to scare you away and I don't want to freak you out.  I know there's a tendency to avoid anything depressing, sad or hard.  I don't want that, but I believe in awareness and honesty.  Truth is, this is a pretty broken world sometimes.  We do have reasons to celebrate, but a responsibility to bear.  I'm a part of the human race, and I need to ask myself what that means.

I'm not trying to guilt you, either.  What I do want is for you to visit projectak47.com.  Or I want you to search a change you believe in.  Maybe you'll reach into your heritage, or your past.  Maybe you have to deal with yourself first.  Just don't hide.  I've researched this one enough to believe in it.

You can get dog tags of your own.  But I don't want you to start there.  Read about a project.  Get Involved any way you can.  Learn.

Yes, I believe this is a positive cause.  However, what I'm also asking for is that you find a way to support somebody somewhere somehow.  Find something you believe in.  You're creative, smart and hopefully caring.  Believe it.  And tell me what you find.  I want to learn about that too.

Fragments of Friendships

They're memories of you. All of you. Sometimes I don't open the drawer for months. Other times I take them out five times in a single day. Pulling these close to my heart, brushing them with my lips. Clenching them in my fists or throwing them back and slamming the drawer.

Random pieces. I like life a little better when I forget they exist.

A homemade necklace. A charm that says “friends.” Yours said “forever,” of course. We were twelve and we knew it. This one is a broken heart. That's not what it meant at the time.

I hold it now and it remember the confusion of torn families I only observed. Whispers over the phone. And you disappearing one week without a goodbye. The strong decision your Mom needed to make. I still see your Dad sometimes. I'm glad you're free, and I trust you grew into a woman that would make your Mom proud. Confirm she made the right decision. I know more, now. Things I wasn't ready to understand when I was twelve. Things you probably weren't either, but had to. I'm sorry. I wish my two letters could've said more then that I missed you.

Where are you now? I don't know. I guess I never will. I searched your name on Facebook, but it's probably not what it was.  I still have that piece of pressed metal that says “friends.” That's what I'll remember you as.

A sand dollar. I was sixteen now, walking with you down an abandoned Mexican beach. I was so proud to call you my best friend. So sure you were cool, you convinced me that athletic teenage girls like us looked good in over sized t-shirts. We would wrestle, and I would win. I believe that you thought it would last forever. I trusted you.

At nineteen we lost touch, but I still have that sand dollar. I wrote letters, e-mails. I poured my heart out and scribbled in my notebook. Life did get in the way. Such different paths, you and I. We share the most important now, but it's not enough.

I'm sorry. I try to hard.

A pair of drumsticks. They say you'll love me forever. I almost believed that, too. Luckily I was jaded enough to question it all.

I know I held you at arms length for longer then you thought possible. But you were my best friend. A misjudgment, but I wish that part could have been true. I cried with you well you held me. I cried when I left. I stuck by you until I couldn't any more. It was too long, yet far too short.  How you could blindly cut me like that, I'll never know.

These drumsticks will never tell.

And you. You haunt my life more then any other with these reminders. We shared our childhood, our struggles and, finally, my home. Others came and went, but you were like my sister. My sister with communication skills that would never match mine. Is that where we went wrong? This crumpled stack of notes, letters, ramblings? This giant paper clip, teddy bear and a heart. How unlike us, then. You and I with our hitch hiking, our first time swearing, our baggy jeans. The times we shunned each other and our mutual respect.

And this last letter. The one where you asked me not to reply. The one I'll never understand.

I'm closing the drawer for now.  I've learned that others will be added, despite my greatest efforts and my learned reservations. I regret that it's still so damn worth it.

(photo source: Barcarola)

Me in Threes

The truly worthwhile Risha (yup, the same who's got the list going with me) has tagged me in that list of three thing that's going around like the flu.  I'm quite pleased, actually, since I was being to lazy to think of something to write by myself.  So we're off.

Three names I go by:


1. Kris.  I almost shouldn't count this as I'm rarely called my full name.
2. Cristina.  Or some variation if I'm in Mexico or Qc.
3. Canada.  Because everyone gets their home country when they travel.

Three jobs I’ve had:

1. Construction assistant.  That was back in highschool, and again at a heritage villiage
2. Recreation co-ordinator at extended care.  Through a volunteer program.
3. Milker/farmhand.  Longest held to date.

Three places I’ve lived:

1. A school bus in Mexico.  Six months at most.
2. Marathon Ontario.  For three months.  Active little mining town on lake superior.
3. The Negev, Israel.  But only well I volunteered there for a month.

Three favourite drinks:

1. Freshly squeezed orange juice.  Peferably from Morrocco or Mexico.
2. Horchata.
3. Chia.

Three TV shows I watch:

I actually very rarely watch t.v.  When I do it's often a classic comedy or occasionally some form of reality, I'm afraid. We'll say,
1. Sienfeld
2. Project Runway
3. Friends

Three places I’ve been:

1. Bulgaria
2. Jordan
3. Laos

Three places I’d like to visit:

1. Peru.  Or South America in General.
2. Sudan
3. Cambodia

Three favourite retro TV shows:

Again with the t.v. shows...  Are these retro yet?
1. Sienfeld
2. Frasier
3.Nope.  Just two...

Three favourite dishes:

1. Thai curries
2. Anything my Mexican neighbors would cook.
3. chocolaty peanutbuttery cheesecakey stuff

Three things I’m looking forward to:

1. Moving into my house.
2. Creation Fest.  Hopefully.
3. Summer

Three people I’m tagging:

1. Bobby.  Inside the Mind of BooyaBobby
2. Joy.  Chocolate Chips & Vice Grips
3. Ella.  The STUPIDEST corner of my mind.

All right, guys.  Do your thing.  But I warn you, now that I'm done it's not actually a lazy blog post.  You'd be much better to spew off something poetic.

Also Mish and,again, Rish awarded me this!  How great is it that they rhyme?  There are some good links here.  Click, people!  However, I'll just thank them and leave it there since I've already recieve this one.

Who, What, When, Where, Why

How was she supposed to know?  Tell me that and I'll tell you why.  Why it happened all at once.  Why she believed.  Why now, and why then.  What useless point it catered. 

How was she supposed to know?  Tell me that.

You know.  I know you do.  And I know where.  Where the time took place.  Those seconds dragging by.  Look back with me.  It all passed so quickly.  When.  We know that.  Don't we?  You and I.  We should, you and I.  Who, what, when, where, why.  And how.

How was she supposed to know?

Let's look back, now.  So happy.  Endlessly happy.  'Till then.  So instant.  Playing it over a million times.  Why?  I'll tell you this.  She doesn't know.  She should, but she won't.  Why won't you answer me?  Tell her now.

How was she supposed to know?