People

Brilliant. I got married and quit blogging. I'm a blogging statistic.

 I started out as a single blogger who read other single bloggers.

In all fairness, I was slowing down pretty good long before the conflict-free, recycled diamond ring.

I'm pretty sure I'll never write a Christian-wife blog or a mommy blog. But I guess you never know. A year ago I decided to pursue travel writing. And then I got married instead. I went to Australia, then took a couple courses and started writing full-time. Just not here. I love my job, but I think it hurt my love for rambling posts and Because or Why Not. Who knows what next year will bring.

Now at least three of my RL single friends have started marvellous travel blogs as they start changing the world in Uganda and the Philippines, or just explore the globe on their own terms.

I'm posting this because I still read your blogs. I do. Allison, Tabs, Risha, Alex... Sometime only every few months. But 20sb still taught me to care about people I've never met.

Google Reader is leaving us in July. And then I'm turning 27.

I miss this, but you can't have it all.

I will find a way to continue stalking reading your blogs.

And, Risha. How'd you do on 101? I thought it ended in April, only to find my cut-off was January. I will be making a new list this summer.

Office Wear Conundrum

What does a twenty-five year old, part-time tomboy even wear to the office? Shockingly, this was about my biggest concern. I went to the interview in black skinny jeans and a blue cable-knit sweater over a ribbed tank-top. To be fair, I didn't understand that it was supposed to be the official interview.

I'd never filled out a personality quiz for a job before. Is that standard procedure these days?

My second worry? That being a full-time student with a part-time job would ruin the rest of this experience, not to mention my relationship. Oh, it would be fine at first, but you probably know what it's like when deadlines and finals come around.

When I was seventeen my mother told me to apply at the bank. I realized that days in pumps and pinstriped pants would kill me.

Yesterday I visited my farm. I let the calves suck my fingers and showed my boyfriend around our tri-sided parlour. I was a different person back then. But, more than that... I think... was that I was living one part of me. I can't do everything.

So now, I have a desk, and a mac, and staff meetings. I still wear jeans. Sometimes even hiking boots. I was pleased to learn that my co-workers never wear heels or blouses. A few visits to the op shops, and I'm set to go with some cleaned up shirts and a pair of flats. I dropped two courses. Because school was supposed to be fun. Life matters.

I'm not sure how being a staff-writer and editorial contributor will fit me, but I'm excited to find out. Maybe one day I'll visit to show my kids around, and marvel that I was once this person. Meanwhile, the challenge will be enough to keep me around, for the first time in a while. I'll be pretending I know what I'm doing and that I'm quite used to this person.

And if you have any insight, I'm still open to ideas for what 25 year old, part time tomboys should be wearing to the office.

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?

Brave Enough

A string of lights in a summer evening.  She's brave enough to dream.  Like dreaming is enough.  ---

(violetda)

The hours feel long.  Endless smiles for endless customers.  Peppermint gum and a particular aptitude with the Numerical keyboard.  Something to be proud of.  Gossip with the next cashier over the party last night or customers best forgotten.

Jostin in deli is leaving, she's been told.  She'll miss his smile when he comes through her till with a sandwich for lunch.  She'll miss quirking her eyebrows when he offers her a ride home in his pickup truck.  And saying that she'd rather walk, thank-you.  She'll miss the reminder of an awkward kiss between the shelving in the back before Julie asked him out.  Before he said yes.

She's drafted a cover letter.  She'll make the deli position hers.  It's opportunity.  To learn to slice peppercorn turkey, weigh salad and hang her white apron on her own hook in the hallway.  And benefits.  After two years it's certainly time.

This is where she's going.  But dreaming...  Dreaming is what she does in the silence of home.  When she gets caught in the quiet with her guitar in her lap.  And on lunch breaks.  Lying on the picnic table.  Eyes closed, salad forgotten and sun on her face.

Winter isn't for lunchtime naps and dreams.  Winter is for reheated soup in the staff room.  It's icy breaks and cigarettes on the plastic chairs outside.  There's nothing better then her burgundy trench with the lighter in the pocket.  It's winter.  She doesn't care.

Her favourite season.  She forgets how to dream.

---One light fades.  It fails.  The string drops into darkness and a wounded socket.  Just a moment, a shadow.  Not even a hope.  One day she'll let it go forever.

Well, now. Buenos Dias.

(noahlee)

Left to my own schedule I stay up later and get up later until I'm frightfully near nocturnal. Fortunately life requires me to stay on a slightly more realistic time frame. I'm really not a morning person, and I never will be.  Maybe this is partly because I've always refused to embrace caffeine.

I have learned to detest the sound of an alarm clock more then almost anything else. Bed suddenly seems the best place in the world. I will gladly hate morning song birds.  And don't get me started on those cheerful people happily belting out their "good morning"s. 

Once I'm up and about, though, freshly showered and munching on toast and homemade jam it begins to seem as though anything else would be just a waste of time. 

Morning is the most productive part of just about any day. At least if I manage to rub the sand out of my eyes.  It's a great time for thoughts, and also the best in which to spot a sunrise.  Funny how that works.  I like watching the world coming alive.  I'll never actually manage to regularly get out of bed early for a morning run or even a cup of tea on the back deck. I'll just have to take the moments between the snooze button and my true day's beginning to gather my wits and warm up to the day.

I also might want to work on heading to bed a bit earlier.  Something that is easy to avoid until the alarm goes off and I consider the benefits all over again.


Of course, the fact that I'm posting this at 1:00 AM might be an indicator to how that would actually go.

---

I have to thank Riley for causing me to post this.  She's written out a highly effective blog review for me which has resulted in the subscribe button and About page now on my blog.  I will be working on implementing a few other changes over the next little while.


I've been known to recommend her blog before, which is a really good read.  But now I'm also going to recommend her reviews.  Well worth it if you're actually serious about improving your blog. 

It Ain't Just an Excuse

(AtlanticLoner)

I like being busy.  The ironic bit is that I'm not good at motivating my free time.  I need to find something that will push me, that I can get involved in.

I like talking about deadlines.  It makes me feel important.  I like having to reference my schedule.  What it comes down to, I think, is that I enjoy being productive.  I thrive of knowing I'm getting things done (and maybe a little bit of stress).  And keeping busy allows me to forget that I'm staying in one place.  I like forgetting stuff sometimes.

But if left to my own devices I'll sleep in 'till ten and stay up to late.  I'll get distracted by Youtube, novels, and my guitar.  When I get frustrated with my wasted time I'll go for a pathetic run and maybe check my mail and pay my bills.

And I hate that.  Procrastination is my worst trait.

I like when writing and a cup of tea is time to unwind instead of it being something I've accomplished.

Yeah, I was a bit of a burnout when I didn't know what I was doing, and it didn't work to go anywhere.  If I don't work, I'll go crazy.  And I know it.

So, I've packed up my schedule.  And it's doing me good.  Do you secretly like being busy?

More Blogging BS

Here's the thing.  I get paid to blog, now.  Seriously, I do.  Not much.  Like, I'm not professional or anything.  But I get paid to blog.


Unfortunately it's just not here.

So, the job blog is actually not too exciting.  It's not quite as creative and fun as one.  So, as you can see, I'm still completely into Because or Why Not.  It's the blog I really care about, even if it doesn't make me any money.

Just, you know.  Bear in mind that I'm force posting every weekday.  It's a little tiring, and everything.

The Notebook Chronicles

The little bald one with the glasses is the regular.  I know him only as the milk truck man.  He actually wears a blue collar.  I like to think I belong in that class, despite my ripped t-shirt.  We make our living off the same industry.  His job occasionally overlapping mine.  But that is all.

The milk truck man.

We exchange pleasantries before most of the world has even woken.  "Good morning," and, "How are you today?"

This morning as I finished clean-up I felt like we shared a bond.  Both of us the working class.  Earning our keep at jobs we do well.  Keeping our hours and making sure you get milk on your morning cheerios.

I grinned at him.  As though, somehow, we knew a common secret.  It not occurring to me that it was a connection noted only in my mind that particular AM.  He probably only thought I was strangely cheerful at a time when usually I look forward to is going back to bed.

I leave our farm as the sun rises.  My part of the process complete for now.  He finishes loading the fruit of my labour and continues on, his day just beginning.

The milk truck man pulls up to another parlour as I crawl beneath the covers.

---

The feature where I let you read the ramblings of my past.

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.

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?

I hadn't been back in three and a half years, until yesterday.  I'd driven past many times, pointed it out occasionally, but hadn't visited.  I'm not sure why.  I'd spent more time there then with my family for two and a half years.  I still refer to the time I was a farm girl.  And by that I mean many long cold mornings milking cows.  Yes, I was a farm hand once upon a time.  I have changed so much since then.

The first thing was the smell.  You would wrinkle your nose in distaste.  And justifiably so.  Entering the parlour was weird.  Always wondered, why call it a parlour?  It's far from classy or clean.  It is much was as I remembered it.  They have music now!  Bernie brought me tea, Cheryl talked to me about politics, Doug explained the farm changes, Scott told me how he'd hit something on the tractor.  It had been a long time, but these people were still the same farmers I loved.

I put on gloves and remembered so much more then I thought I would.  I recognized one or two cows they still have, and many many more that I named when they were still cute and little.  Visiting the new calf pens I let them suck on my fingers, like I always used to.  I came home smelly and happy.  There are things I miss.

I miss working outdoors, and the physicalness of the job.  I miss being so good at what I do.  I knew those cows backwards, every number, name and history just by looking at their feet.  I was in charge of entire elements of the farm.  I miss the morning sun as I left work, the people, and peacefully driving tractor for hours. 

In short, I should've gone to visit on a winter morning shift when the machines broke down and I could remember working by myself for hours.

Today the old gray hoodie I'm wearing smells like pesticide.  Such a contradictory smell.  It makes me sick.  I recall trying to shower it off behind the tarp of my parent's outdoor shower before crashing out in the back of the bus.  I wore this hoodie too often on those early mornings.  I haven't washed it enough since.
Today I walk to the edge of a lookout.  The mountains are hidden in an upside down bowl of fog.  For some reason I'm convinced it's snowing and wonder where the line will drop to.  I push my hands deeper into my pockets.  Why does it look like the end of autumn?  The beginning of winter.  Looking out my eyes follow the back road, the river gully, endless orchard rows.With a jolt I realize I'm standing directly above the fruitstand I worked at last year.  The trees right below me were sort picked a few short months ago.  Laughing with gristly old men who let me take the easy branches.  Sitting on overturned bins I'd eat mini culls and drink lukewarm coffee before returning to the stand to sort and sell the apples.
From here I can look farther back.  Cherries.  I have five of those seasons on my record.  Across the valley I make out the block of orchards I hit last July.  I can outpick some of the hippis, now.  I'm still not a highballer.  Quebecois dreadlocks and Mexican accents in the rows next to me as I affixed my stickers on wire handles.  M17.  They claim to pick faster stoned.  They may well be right.  Walking down the road I felt like society's rebel in my canvas harness and Thai pants.
Today I stand in this brush taking it all in.  Wrapped in this damned hoodie that smells of poison and yesterday.