Time Travel

Time travel?, you say, raising a brow in interest.

If only I could tell you my hiatus from this blog is from figuring out how to actually travel through time and space. I wish I could tell you I have patented my algorithm and am giving everyone who comments on this blog a million dollars. Alas, I cannot. I have never been very science or math minded, so if I am actually going to time travel to the last sixties, because that's where I would go, someone will have to figure it out for me.

It's been a whirlwind. Life is a bit on the crazy side and while there have been many times I've wanted to sit down and simply write, I haven't been able to find the time. Then there are those who say, you find time to do the things you love. This isn't necessarily true. It's nice when you find the time to do what you love, but most of us don't work that way. We find the time to get done what needs getting done, like laundry, dinners, painting, flooring, running errands, filling our gas tank, but when it comes to what we truly enjoy we compromise. Probably not even intentionally. We promise to do it later. Maybe at the weekend. Or the next holiday.

Now, I love writing. If that comes as a surprise, you haven't been paying attention and I owe you spanking. I've always enjoyed writing, ever since I was a chubby-faced, scraggly-haired, sensitive Sally. And I've always tried to write, and I think that's important to clarify. I do try to write. I want to be good. But a simple truth is, while I can meticulously join sentences and breathe life into characters people care about now, this hadn't always been the case, and tonight I find myself thinking about those who were subjected to my early writings. Perhaps an apology is needed.

Last week, I time travelled. I literally (though, not really literally, more so figuratively) was thrown back in time over a decade when through the door of our newly opened tattoo shop strolled my grade twelve creative writing teacher. Surely, I looked the epitome of confused because she said to me, "It's Mrs. D."

And I knew. I never forget a face, let alone one I confided in when I honestly wasn't sure I'd make it through being a teenager. How emo sounding, right? Except, it's the truth. I struggled through being a teenager. I loved school because it was a reprieve from a rather daunting family life, I had wonderful friends, without whom I wonder where I might have ended up, and I was stubborn and dwelling in darkness. What? You don't believe me? I have my creative writing book to prove it.

It looks far cheerier than it actually is. Honestly, when I reread some of the atrocities I wrote, I cringe. Not only because I clearly didn't have a grasp on the English language, but because I wasn't happy. I was struggling. And I knew at the end of the day it was my job to fix it. To mend myself. Also, I roll my eyes over how emotional and raw everything I wrote was. How dramatic. And I realize I'm officially an adult, discounting the blues of another teenager, except this one is myself, and I actually lived with those demons.

Lived? Why the hell is that past tense? I still live with some of those demons. We're good friends now. Fully aware of each other. Cohabiting rather well on most days. On others, it's grim, but in a encouraging way. A 'fuck you' demons kind of way. A 'I'm going to get through this and have the last bloody laugh if it kills us all' type of existence. 

Now Mrs. D, who isn't Mrs. D anymore, but Ms. S was (and is) a very influential person on me and in my life. Strangely enough, at the time, I didn't realize it. While she certainly encouraged my writing, she actually influenced me emotionally more than creatively. That sounds bad, but I don't mean it to. In fact, I'd take an emotional influence over a creative one any day. I've always had a rampant imagination and would ideally like someone to simmer the fire instead of stoking it, perhaps then sleep might come easier.

Way back when I seemed to be clawing my way through life before life had even really started, Ms. S validated my feelings. It's hard to explain why this is so important. I suppose one might need a bit more back-story, but I really don't plan on marching back down a road I left behind a long time ago. After the most tedious cycle of confrontation, acceptance, grieving, anger, sadness, ignoring, and so on, I eventually learned how to forgive and let go. To move on. It's been a long second half to my life, but I doubt I would have been able to get through it without someone saying: 

It's okay to feel lost, alone, and afraid. 

It's okay to dwell in the darkness with your demons.

It's okay to be angry, sad, and hurt.  

At a time when I felt wrong for feeling bad, I needed a blunt lesson in life. Ms. S provided it for me. Of course, she didn't say it so bare bones-y. She was, and is, an English teacher. Her words of wisdom came often and much more articulate than those bold sentences above, but at the core of everything she said, I heard "You are not alone. You will be alright." And that was more important than the writing encouragement or grade I received. 

Although, I must say, the demons never truly go away. You just get to know them to the point of realizing what/who they are and they aren't so scary anymore. We rarely get the opportunity to actually express to someone what it is they did for us. I'm lucky to have that chance. 

Also, I am so glad I don't write poetry anymore. Good grief, I wish someone had of told me how terrible it was. Of course, I was an emotional teenager, so that might not have been a good idea. After this unexpected visit, I find myself pondering over who will walk through the door next. 

Will it be you?

Time Waster Extraordinaire

So, I'm pretty good at wasting time. It isn't something I like to brag about because, in a world where everyone is claiming to multitask and have so much to do, it kind of makes me look lazy. The funny part is, most of us aren't as busy as we claim to be. We always puzzle out ways to sneak in the things we love, be it watching movies, knitting, writing, hiking, swimming, or simply drinking hooch and listening to sad music.

The thing is, we like wasting time. Sure, we might feel bad about it later, but for the most part, life seems to be about wasting time. In fact, wasting time is sort of subjective. It's not like the majority of us are trying to figure out a cure for Cancer or working towards equal rights for everyone everywhere, even though most of us want those things. (Except the jerks, of course. They don't want any good things to happen.)

Because I've been wasting time for so long, or enjoying life as I like to call it, I have become an extraordinary time waster. If you have a copious amount of time on your hands and need to get through a couple hours, I have one website to occupy you for all eternity. Unlike YouTube and IMDB (two sites I occasionally get lost in a vortex of information), this new site will not only amuse but inform you, and for some strange reason, I don't know anyone who uses it, except me.

Don't think I discovered this treasure, though. It's super popular, just not with West Coast Canadians, apparently.

Welcome to ODDEE! 

Think of Oddee as an odd little gathering place for weirdos who like to make lists. That's right, lists. This site is filled to the brim with lists of strange things, like 20 Creeptastic Horror Movie Tattoos and 12 Amazing Real People Who Look Like Cartoons. It has lists for the celebrity enthusiast (10 Most Extreme Method Actors), world traveller (15 Breathtaking Views From Amazing Rooms), nature lover (10 Geological Wonders You Don't Know) and even the science minded (9 Bizarre Pieces of Medical Advice That Actually Work). 

Honestly, there's something for everyone. If you're out to learn or simply be entertained, this is the website for you. 

You're welcome, in advance. 

It Means Something To me

Not all my tattoos mean something. Sure, in the beginning, I dreamed of having all these meaningful pieces of art on my body. Images with stories behind them. Now, I just want some really badass tattoos. Colourful. Bold. Eye-catching. Beautiful. That's what I am looking for.

Still, it's nice to sneak a bit if meaning into a tattoo. 

For instance, my cabbage. When I first broached the subject to my Sidekick he was a little resistant. He'd never tattooed one before and there weren't a lot of examples out there. In the end, it worked well for the cover-up, turned out beautiful, and makes me smile. Who could ask for anything more? 

But how the hell does it mean something to me? Am I that obsessed with green leafy vegetables? Well, no. Not really. The thing is, it's for my father. Let me explain. My dad has a rose tattooed on his forearm. Over the years, the colour has all but faded, leaving behind black lines and shading. When I was younger than I am now, I used to call it a cabbage. Sure, he probably wasn't all that stoked about me calling it such, but over time, he started referring to it as a cabbage as well. 

So, when I decided to cover up my bunny, I thought to myself ... I need a cabbage. It pays homage to my father and reminds me of those moments. You know the ones. The good times. 

Growing up, I spent a lot of time with my dad. He worked afternoon shifts and I remember waking up when he got home and sitting with him as he ate his supper. We used to watch David Letterman. Then I would toddle back to bed. I used to get up on the weekends and go to garage sales with him. Flea Markets too. He used to always try to get me to haggle for things. I hated doing it. To this day, I refuse to haggle. I spent a lot of time with my dad. Fixing things. Working in the yard. Driving around in his Tercel or Mazda, listening to the Good Morning Vietnam soundtrack and eating licorice allsorts (which I don't think I ever really even liked). One birthday, he took me to Value Village and bought me like twenty different coloured polo-shirts, and I loved it.  

I am my father's daughter. Yeah, my teenage years were harder between us, but I think that's expected, right? I love my dad. He makes me laugh. And sometimes I just wish I knew him better as a person, you know? 

Anyhow, I have a cabbage and I will never forget why it's there. 

 Papa Smurf

Pat Yourself On The Back

Good work ethics were instilled in me at a very young age. I blame my parents for my intense need to go above and beyond. I say blame because sometimes being a hard worker can be a bad thing. It's sometimes annoying how things have to look a certain way. Be done quickly and right. To look pretty and draw attention. Good attention. Not bad. I always have put my best foot forward, and that's exhausting.

Let me tell you, when you work for big companies, life is hard. They don't see the little minions sloughing through the mess to ensure things get done. They don't see how hard you are working. How much you try. The overtime you work. The breaks you skip. And it is all for naught because at the end of the day, you are expendable. Replaceable. Just a number on an employee file.  

That always hurt a little. 

I wanted to be irreplaceable. Unfortunately, the older I get, the more I come to terms with the fact that irreplaceability (which isn't a word) in a work environment is a myth, like unicorns and gargoyles. Unless, perhaps, you are working for yourself, then maybe you can't be replaced. If, like most of us, you aren't your own boss, you can be replaced. That's just the honest truth, horrible as it is. If you move along of your own accord, or are forced to leave - someone will fill your shoes. 

Hey, don't get me wrong. They might not wear those shoes in the same way. They might not have your same drive and desire to do a good job, but that often doesn't come into play in the big picture. Your perfectionist ways mean nothing if you butt heads with a manager, CEO or whoever else is at the top of your employment pyramid. So often it seems as though personal relationships are the driving force behind so many business decisions. That always made me so disenchanted. Not because my personality sucks, though there are areas in need of improvement, but because I am opinionated, I have questions, and often find myself playing Devil's advocate. 

And yes, I know these are not character traits managers look for in an employee. 

Still, it's ingrained in me to work hard. I am always willing to take on more and rise to a challenge. The only problem with being a diligent worker bee is that you are sometimes left feeling unappreciated, taken advantage of. This is only exacerbated by the passage of time, that cruel bitch.When a certain amount of time passes, be that days, months or years sometimes your determination to do a good job is taken for granted. As if everyone wakes up with the goal to make their employer's life easier. Is that weird? That I wake up hoping to make everyone else's day move along more smoothly? Probably, but that's just the way I am. 

It's a terribly distressing thing for resentment to build. I don't like contemplating doing less work simply because I am not being thanked. And I hate hearing that nagging question in the back of my head, the horrible seed of self-doubt that demands to know why I even try. I do what I can to put a kibosh to that. Because I know why I try, because I care. It's who I am as a person. And I am grateful for that. 

Maybe that's the point. Maybe me knowing I'm doing a good job is enough. All these years, all the hard work, maybe it has paid off, despite being laid off for no reason. My heart knows what my intentions are. Maybe all the missed thank yous and lost jobs and write ups and one-on-one meetings don't matter. Perhaps I only need to pat myself on the back more often. We don't need anyone else to tell us we are the best thing since sliced bread. Not if we are telling ourselves that. 

Simply put, I like doing a good job. And that's what I strive for each day. Hopefully that doesn't change as I head into my twilight years. Actually, I have no idea what twilight years actually are.