And why is it no longer socially acceptable, or practically possible to lie in bed and pull the covers over my head and pretend the problems don’t exist?
I don’t know, folks. It seems to me that this generation is being simultaneously criticized for being lazy and unproductive while being expected to save the environment, stop poverty, support small businesses, end racism and misogynistic behavior, and find some way to make everyone happy all the time.
Really, I’m okay with most of that stuff. I shop locally, give money to charity whenever I have anything to spare, am not racist, and do feel that I am treated (as a woman) as an equal most of the time. It’s that fixing the hole in the ozone layer and stopping the icebergs from melting that really makes me whimper.
My awareness of environmental issues is something that started back in high school, during a government simulation activity. I was the Environment Minister for Saskatchewan, and butting heads with the guy from Alberta forced me into some real, in-depth research of what his province was doing wrong. (Turns out? A LOT) One of my best friends of the time was the Finance Minister, and also the brunt for some of my big rantings and ravings about how giving us a certain amount of money to make what changes we could on a province-by-province basis was simply NOT GOOD ENOUGH. This friend went on to become one of the most environmentally conscious geography students I have ever met. She is the type of person who stopped eating meat because it is just about the most wasteful thing you can ingest, and is now trying to start to eat it again because she sees her family throwing out meat, and figures that is an even bigger waste – she is the very practical type of vegetarian.
From that high school project through to my first year of university, I was quite well informed about the environment, and did my part in terms of recycling, using fluorescent bulbs, doing a hundred mile diet whenever it was convenient – that kind of thing. But somehow, the reality of the fact that our temperatures are increasing, our oceans are warming - in other words, that climate change was a real and terrible thing – never really imbedded itself into my consciousness. I was walking instead of driving because it made sense for the environment and for my personal health, but hadn’t yet had panic attacks about, well, we’ll get to what I have panic attacks about.
This attitude of mine changed last year, and it changed for one of the silliest reasons I can think of. My roommate at the time was something of a conspiracy lover. Whether I thought most of the stuff she was talking about was real or true or worthy of thought is beside the point – she seemed to enjoy just thinking about these things, in a pretty purely academic sense, and didn’t ask me to share any of her beliefs, which was fine. We ran into problems when she first starting looking into the multitude of myths surrounding December 20, 2012. And she chose to tell me about all of this stuff at around 2 in the morning on a night when I was already stressed about things that were happening in my personal life. And as she was telling me about how the earth’s polarity is changing, and how the Mayan people really were tremendously intelligent, and how Nostradamus kind of predicted it, I had a full-blown panic attack. I really did. I started hyperventilating, and sobbing, and as sh
e very solemnly told me that the scariest part about this whole inevitable situation for her personally was the fact that she had always wanted kids, well, I just about lost it. And I mean lost it in the scary sense, where I momentarily considered suicide as a preferable option to being stuck here when the Earth imploded, and picturing my boyfriend coming to try to find me in some sort of Homeward Bound epic that would end in his death and my heartbreak and I have to tell you, typing this is still getting me a little panicked. Woosh.
Of course, I have since looked into all the insanity myself, and have found things like the Cracked article on how ridiculous it all is (see here) And while I have discovered that the earth’s polarity is always changing, and has in fact switched itself several times without imploding, and while I realized that calendars have to end sometime, really, they do, and the date itself has no real importance, it was how I chose to comfort myself that has led to real panic about our environmental situation.
The way that I seek comfort is by asking other people what they think. Anyone who was at all close to me at that time can attest to the fact - they were asked several times a day, “But do you REALLY think it won’t end?” and it wasn’t until they got annoyed with my pestering that I was really comforted. Everyone told me that, of course, this was complete bullshit of the worst kind. But I ran into trouble when I consulted people who reminded me that, while the 2012 theory was bullshit, the Earth itself is, naturally, in a whole lot of trouble. My biggest BIGGEST mistake was in talking to that environmentally-conscious friend from back in the fourth paragraph. She offered the opinion that the world was in more trouble than anyone was really aware of, that steps being taken were not at all adequate, and that, while the world would most probably not end in 2012, we should probably resign ourselves to major natural disasters and the inevitable end of our lives being spent in log c
abins (if there were any trees left) with no electricity, heat, or anything else that would have to be run by gas.
Well. That was NOT COMFORTING.
And nor was the book that she brought with her when next she came to visit. Actually, it is a pretty wonderful book, called Gorgeously Green by Sophie Uliano. You can visit her most helpful website at www.gorgeouslygreen.com , where you will find lots of helpful hints on how to not only help the environment, but to help yourself at the same time. She recommends everything from cleaning products to furniture, all of which are great for your personal health, as well as the poor, battered Earth.
Now, mind you. This is an attitude that I have created in the past year since being introduced to Sophie and her helpful hints. Unfortunately, the only thing that I was able to gleam from it in my then frantic headspace was that my makeup was full of carcinogens, as were all the products I had ever used for cleaning my home, my body, and my life in general. I learned that all the smells of baby products I had learned to love were actually sickening and full of harmful chemicals, and that I was flushing a whole other kind of toxic waste down the toilet (above and beyond the kind that I already knew about!) For the next month or so, my poor little self vibrated between fear of one specific deadline for the end of humanity, and the inevitable changes that MUST be made NOW if a person wants to avoid a really really real deadline that humanity is just racing towards.
Now, dear people who are reading this, my aim in this entry is not to frighten you as badly as I was frightened. But I do sort of wish in spite of myself that everyone in the world could go through the same kind of panic attacks that I went through. Because it has helped to push me over the edge into being as green as I am able, given the number of things that are currently out of my control (things like not being able to lower the heat in my centrally heated apartment). Because if our generation is going to save the world, we need to do it, like, you know, yesterday. And there are so many things, big and small, that everyone can do. This is one of the reasons that I support the decision to give Obama the Nobel Prize – because anyone who can get America to be Green and stop people from throwing bombs at each other is aces in my book, and should be greatly encouraged. But that is another subject for another day. The subject for today, my friends, is my advising you to go have your own panic attacks, and then turn around and do something good for the Earth and yourself, while it is still at all worth it to do so.
Plus, I have to tell you, eco-friendly paint doesn’t require all your windows be opened, eco-friendly beauty products are making my skin glow more than it ever has, and shopping organic at my local farmer’s market is just good clean snobby fun.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Who Elected Us To Save The World??
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
So I officially live in Toronto now! I have the lease sucking my soul out through my wallet every month to prove it, even! And I have my teeny-but-adorable apartment, and a boy living in it who remembers to put the toilet seat down and does dishes voluntarily. I am back in a program I am at least 95% sure I enjoy, and there is a bowl on my dining table that is full of fresh apples and tomatoes and red peppers. Oh my.
It's an interesting thing, living in this city that I have chosen to make my home. There is (or, at least, I have found there to be) a sort of interesting reverse snobbery going on here. Living in small town Alberta during the summer, I made sure to tell people that, oh, no, don't live here! Live in Toronto, thank you! Ever so much cooler than you could ever hope to be, Okotokians! (It really is a very nice part of the world, as long as you don't interact with too many people in cowboy hats, I don't want you to get the wrong idea there). But now that I am back in Toronto, it seems that part of belonging here is making sure you do not participate in certain events that would seem to define a lot of Toronto's appeal. Maybe this is just me, but I swear it's a real and true thing!
Take, for example, the Toronto International Film Festival. I refuse to call it TIFF, because I do not like to equate in my mind a major Canadian event with anyone who would carry pom-poms.
You will note that I did indeed call it a major Canadian event, because that is what it is. For the duration of the festival, Toronto premieres some very exciting movies, and plays host to some very important people. But I feel, somehow, and get the impression from others I've talked to, that the festival is to be treated as nothing more than a method of crowding up the sidewalks. To actually be one of the people who stands on either side of the velvet rope, waiting for the stars to come through, puts you immediately in the bracket of "tourist", and is to be avoided at all costs. (I think that if you simply go to the movie, and pretend not to notice your favourite star, this is still okay?).
I remember the first time I heard about the festival. I was getting my hair cut, and the stylist was telling me about her daughter, who lived in Toronto, and attended some of the films. This girl called her mother and said something along the lines of, "Mom! O-M-G you have to watch the coverage of the festival, I was standing literally two feet away from Elijah Wood!!!!!" So, of course, the mother did, and she saw her daughter looking as bored and disdainful and snobby as it was possible to look while surrounded by screaming teeny boppers. Apparently, the daughter said that of course she had to look as if she didn't care, because to actually show any interest in this very famous person would make her, in some way, less cool.
And I have found myself feeling the same sort of way. Although, to be fair, with it being the first full week of classes, there's little enough sidewalk room as it is, and some of these people are wearing scrunchies whilst hoping to catch a glimpse of Megan Fox. This is the fear. I do not want to appear to have any interest in Megan Fox. But maybe next year I will drag my tired ass out of off this couch and saunter on down to my campus in time to determine for myself whether George Clooney is aging as well as everyone keeps telling me he is.
It's an interesting thing, living in this city that I have chosen to make my home. There is (or, at least, I have found there to be) a sort of interesting reverse snobbery going on here. Living in small town Alberta during the summer, I made sure to tell people that, oh, no, don't live here! Live in Toronto, thank you! Ever so much cooler than you could ever hope to be, Okotokians! (It really is a very nice part of the world, as long as you don't interact with too many people in cowboy hats, I don't want you to get the wrong idea there). But now that I am back in Toronto, it seems that part of belonging here is making sure you do not participate in certain events that would seem to define a lot of Toronto's appeal. Maybe this is just me, but I swear it's a real and true thing!
Take, for example, the Toronto International Film Festival. I refuse to call it TIFF, because I do not like to equate in my mind a major Canadian event with anyone who would carry pom-poms.
You will note that I did indeed call it a major Canadian event, because that is what it is. For the duration of the festival, Toronto premieres some very exciting movies, and plays host to some very important people. But I feel, somehow, and get the impression from others I've talked to, that the festival is to be treated as nothing more than a method of crowding up the sidewalks. To actually be one of the people who stands on either side of the velvet rope, waiting for the stars to come through, puts you immediately in the bracket of "tourist", and is to be avoided at all costs. (I think that if you simply go to the movie, and pretend not to notice your favourite star, this is still okay?).
I remember the first time I heard about the festival. I was getting my hair cut, and the stylist was telling me about her daughter, who lived in Toronto, and attended some of the films. This girl called her mother and said something along the lines of, "Mom! O-M-G you have to watch the coverage of the festival, I was standing literally two feet away from Elijah Wood!!!!!" So, of course, the mother did, and she saw her daughter looking as bored and disdainful and snobby as it was possible to look while surrounded by screaming teeny boppers. Apparently, the daughter said that of course she had to look as if she didn't care, because to actually show any interest in this very famous person would make her, in some way, less cool.
And I have found myself feeling the same sort of way. Although, to be fair, with it being the first full week of classes, there's little enough sidewalk room as it is, and some of these people are wearing scrunchies whilst hoping to catch a glimpse of Megan Fox. This is the fear. I do not want to appear to have any interest in Megan Fox. But maybe next year I will drag my tired ass out of off this couch and saunter on down to my campus in time to determine for myself whether George Clooney is aging as well as everyone keeps telling me he is.
Sunday, August 23, 2009
I apologize for the overly sentimental poem below - blame introspection and late nights. I think I will let it stay, though. I still kinda like it, whether or not I would have posted it if I thought anyone was reading this.
The topic of relationships and break ups and all the messiness that goes along with loving someone has been on my mind a lot lately. It's one of those classic questions - what brings people together, what makes them stay together, and what can tear them apart, when it seems like they suit so well?
A friend of mine got dumped by his girlfriend of over three years recently. I shouldn't say dumped, because I don't like to think of it that way - rather as the probably inevitable parting of people who were about to live a seven hour drive from each other. She will be going to McGill in the fall (and we shouldn't hate her just for that, jealousy is not attractive) and the prospect of a long distance relationship can really make a person question how strong the bond is that holds them to their significant other. I myself, living in a residence environment last year, saw over ten really strong relationships at the beginning of the year turn into two or three. And those two or three, it seems to me, could only survive because of either a ton of hard work, dedication and faith from both parties, or because at least one of them is a doormat.
Even as a person whose boyfriend was only a 40 minute walk away, I definitely felt a strain and an adjustment in our relationship. So much is new, that first year of university. You're thrust into so many new situations, you meet so many new people, and you are faced, as a person in a relationship, with so many new temptations. Late night study parties and late night drinking fests alike can lead to actions you will regret (or not) in the morning, and I have been nothing but thankful that Duncan and I have stayed strong, and, I think, had a little of our "new couple" arrogance beat out of us in the process.
But what, in the end, makes a couple last? I'll let you know as soon as I know for sure, but I think what you need to have is a combination of real friendship, real trust, and, most importantly, a real desire to be in a relationship at such a young age. I know a boy whose parents really thought that, instead of having a girlfriend during his first year of university, he should be single, so that he could properly enjoy being young. So that he had no commitments except the ones put on him by school and work. And there is a lot of sense in that thought! Isn't this the time in our lives when we're supposed to be absolutely selfish? I mean, before we know it, we'll have whole new responsibilites, be it marriage or children or full time jobs and home ownership. Now is the time when we can really play with our lives, experiment, and figure out who we are. Of course, for me, this sounds horribly undesirable, and I would rather discover who I am along with someone who's discovering himself at the same time (two for the price of one?).
But you have to wonder...are we too young to be spending so much of our lives on other people?
The topic of relationships and break ups and all the messiness that goes along with loving someone has been on my mind a lot lately. It's one of those classic questions - what brings people together, what makes them stay together, and what can tear them apart, when it seems like they suit so well?
A friend of mine got dumped by his girlfriend of over three years recently. I shouldn't say dumped, because I don't like to think of it that way - rather as the probably inevitable parting of people who were about to live a seven hour drive from each other. She will be going to McGill in the fall (and we shouldn't hate her just for that, jealousy is not attractive) and the prospect of a long distance relationship can really make a person question how strong the bond is that holds them to their significant other. I myself, living in a residence environment last year, saw over ten really strong relationships at the beginning of the year turn into two or three. And those two or three, it seems to me, could only survive because of either a ton of hard work, dedication and faith from both parties, or because at least one of them is a doormat.
Even as a person whose boyfriend was only a 40 minute walk away, I definitely felt a strain and an adjustment in our relationship. So much is new, that first year of university. You're thrust into so many new situations, you meet so many new people, and you are faced, as a person in a relationship, with so many new temptations. Late night study parties and late night drinking fests alike can lead to actions you will regret (or not) in the morning, and I have been nothing but thankful that Duncan and I have stayed strong, and, I think, had a little of our "new couple" arrogance beat out of us in the process.
But what, in the end, makes a couple last? I'll let you know as soon as I know for sure, but I think what you need to have is a combination of real friendship, real trust, and, most importantly, a real desire to be in a relationship at such a young age. I know a boy whose parents really thought that, instead of having a girlfriend during his first year of university, he should be single, so that he could properly enjoy being young. So that he had no commitments except the ones put on him by school and work. And there is a lot of sense in that thought! Isn't this the time in our lives when we're supposed to be absolutely selfish? I mean, before we know it, we'll have whole new responsibilites, be it marriage or children or full time jobs and home ownership. Now is the time when we can really play with our lives, experiment, and figure out who we are. Of course, for me, this sounds horribly undesirable, and I would rather discover who I am along with someone who's discovering himself at the same time (two for the price of one?).
But you have to wonder...are we too young to be spending so much of our lives on other people?
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Where have you gone from me
O lover mine
What gave you cause to stray
I have searched in all
Your usual
Hiding places.
And when you're gone from me
Oh darling one
Where do you go
What do you find there
That gives you more
Than me.
I look for you
Search for you
Wanting so to be beside you
as I once was
To feel your skin
Against mine
For rooms are darker
Evenings longer
When you do not add
Your light
And life
What can I do
O angel one
To bring you back to me
I change myself
Rearrange my life
Asking only
to be with you.
You've gone from me
O one I want
I feel
And fear
You'll not return.
O lover mine
What gave you cause to stray
I have searched in all
Your usual
Hiding places.
And when you're gone from me
Oh darling one
Where do you go
What do you find there
That gives you more
Than me.
I look for you
Search for you
Wanting so to be beside you
as I once was
To feel your skin
Against mine
For rooms are darker
Evenings longer
When you do not add
Your light
And life
What can I do
O angel one
To bring you back to me
I change myself
Rearrange my life
Asking only
to be with you.
You've gone from me
O one I want
I feel
And fear
You'll not return.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Nostalgia
You know how, when you were 16 years old, you had a blog? Don't lie, because you did. Everyone did, at that age. And we all thought we were soooo super cool, and that we totally had things to say that the whole world needed to know about.
If you have a blog now, and are feeling insulted, bear with me. I think I am going somewhere with this.
My point (and I do have one) is that rereading old blog entries, whether you wrote them or your BFF of the time did is an embarrassing and enlightening experience. I started reading my old xanga account tonight, and it was pretty painful. But it was also kinda fun. I can still look at all of those entries, and know exactly what was going on at the time - most of them had to do with a certain guy who is, thank goodness, out of my life now. But they also had to do with my friends of the time, my enemies of the time, my hopes and dreams and insecurities and little egoisms. I remember who was really important to me back in high school, and I smile over all the things we did. It's the kind of read that makes you go to your MSN list and re-add certain people, or go on a Facebook stalk of different people than usual. I had some really great adventures with people I don't even talk to anymore, and while some of these people have been nixed for good reason, there are others that I genuinely miss. I should look some of them up, maybe.
But what is really great about the old blog entries, and a reason that I don't think I will ever purge myself of all those old musings, is that it's such a great snapshot of me at a certain age. I like to think I've improved. I like to think that I handle things better now, with more tact and more grace. There were a lot of facepalm moments, as I read my thoughts and the comments of others (again, usually associated with that same guy), and I like to believe that when I re-read this blog a few years from now, there won't be quite as many. It's tangible proof that I am moving forward, instead of backward. And that is a really nice thing to know!
In other news, I am a muddle and a stew of mixed feelings right now. In less than a week I will be leaving the Familial Home in Turner Valley and journeying back to Toronto, to start a new year of school in a new apartment and (hopefully) with a new job. Things are a changin' and they're doin' it mighty quick like. And on the one hand, I am SO EXCITED. I am so thrilled to be going back to somewhere that challenges me daily, to somewhere that gives me legitimate reasons to stay up until 2:30. And there are Ikea trips to look forward to, an apartment to decorate, and a boy to cuddle up to who I have definitely missed this past week.
But on the OTHER hand, I am leaving the familial home for another year, and possibly longer, now that I have a lease to take care of. And that kinda sucks. It feels, in a weird way, that this is me really moving out. Even though it's technically my third time doing it. But the first apartment was only for about six months, and in res I was homeless except for out here during all the major holidays. This somehow feels much more grown up. Maybe it's the fact that I'm really really moving in with Duncan - no Aiden buffer to make us all "roommates". Nope, this is me moving in with and living with (for real) an icky, smelly boy. A boy that I love very much, but hey, it's still scary! And I will miss my family, of course. You never appreciate your parents more than when it's November, you have an essay due, you have a horrible cold in your nose and no money to go buy decongestants. Being here this summer has been such a relief, and such a lovely break. And while I am so excited to move on to the next stage of my life, I will miss the comfort and the companionship and the chicken soup that I can get here.
It's all very scary, guys...
If you have a blog now, and are feeling insulted, bear with me. I think I am going somewhere with this.
My point (and I do have one) is that rereading old blog entries, whether you wrote them or your BFF of the time did is an embarrassing and enlightening experience. I started reading my old xanga account tonight, and it was pretty painful. But it was also kinda fun. I can still look at all of those entries, and know exactly what was going on at the time - most of them had to do with a certain guy who is, thank goodness, out of my life now. But they also had to do with my friends of the time, my enemies of the time, my hopes and dreams and insecurities and little egoisms. I remember who was really important to me back in high school, and I smile over all the things we did. It's the kind of read that makes you go to your MSN list and re-add certain people, or go on a Facebook stalk of different people than usual. I had some really great adventures with people I don't even talk to anymore, and while some of these people have been nixed for good reason, there are others that I genuinely miss. I should look some of them up, maybe.
But what is really great about the old blog entries, and a reason that I don't think I will ever purge myself of all those old musings, is that it's such a great snapshot of me at a certain age. I like to think I've improved. I like to think that I handle things better now, with more tact and more grace. There were a lot of facepalm moments, as I read my thoughts and the comments of others (again, usually associated with that same guy), and I like to believe that when I re-read this blog a few years from now, there won't be quite as many. It's tangible proof that I am moving forward, instead of backward. And that is a really nice thing to know!
In other news, I am a muddle and a stew of mixed feelings right now. In less than a week I will be leaving the Familial Home in Turner Valley and journeying back to Toronto, to start a new year of school in a new apartment and (hopefully) with a new job. Things are a changin' and they're doin' it mighty quick like. And on the one hand, I am SO EXCITED. I am so thrilled to be going back to somewhere that challenges me daily, to somewhere that gives me legitimate reasons to stay up until 2:30. And there are Ikea trips to look forward to, an apartment to decorate, and a boy to cuddle up to who I have definitely missed this past week.
But on the OTHER hand, I am leaving the familial home for another year, and possibly longer, now that I have a lease to take care of. And that kinda sucks. It feels, in a weird way, that this is me really moving out. Even though it's technically my third time doing it. But the first apartment was only for about six months, and in res I was homeless except for out here during all the major holidays. This somehow feels much more grown up. Maybe it's the fact that I'm really really moving in with Duncan - no Aiden buffer to make us all "roommates". Nope, this is me moving in with and living with (for real) an icky, smelly boy. A boy that I love very much, but hey, it's still scary! And I will miss my family, of course. You never appreciate your parents more than when it's November, you have an essay due, you have a horrible cold in your nose and no money to go buy decongestants. Being here this summer has been such a relief, and such a lovely break. And while I am so excited to move on to the next stage of my life, I will miss the comfort and the companionship and the chicken soup that I can get here.
It's all very scary, guys...
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
What are you gonna do? FIRE ME??
Being a cashier at a major grocery store is an interesting business. Probably, if I were to keep a Cashier Diary of my daily adventures, it would make a good book or something. Alas, I have not the energy or the dedication, but I do feel I should share some of my cashier musings.
You get a remarkably wide cross section of humanity, as a cashier. You're the person in the store that everyone has to go through in order to get out, so you get them all. You get, for example, the hipster couple, wearing oversized glasses and potato sacks, buying their organic bananas and muesli. Oddly, these people NEVER have their own bags. Why is this? Shouldn't they be the type who have hemp sacks to carry things in? You also get the Young Parents, in varying states of harrassment because of and joy over the youngsters sitting in one of our Spaceship Carts, eating chocolate chip cookies. The kids are always really cute and the grownups are always a leetle bit annoying. You know it's true. Then there's the Crotchety Old Man, who can easily transform himself into the Lecherous Old Man, depending on whether you decide to smile at them. This brand is actually one of my favourites. He calls you a pretty girl and then, sometimes, if you are lucky, tells you to keep the change. Another favourite is the Obviously Buying Munchies set, who come in around 9 and stock up on Cheezies and pop. And then they giggle their way through your till, and you smile fondly after them, thinking "I was young, once..."
Of course, the customers are not all so pleasant. There are those who restore your faith in humanity, but first there are those who take it away. To demonstrate these people, I have compiled a list of Things I Will Do (or Not Do) On My Last Day as a Cashier. It is as follows.
First, on my Last Day as a Cashier, if some idiot comes up to me and says, "Actually, I've decided not to take this stuff, thanks..." I will smile politely and respond, "Okay! I'll still be here after you've put it all back!" And then refuse to serve them until they do exactly that, thank you so much.
Second, on my Last Day, anyone who just puts their basket full of groceries on my till and then expect me to remove everything, scan it, and then dispose of the basket will get naught but a pointed stare and crossed arms.
Third, to anyone who has buried their reuseable bags under their mountain of groceries and then tries to tell me that it is my job to unpack and repack all their stuff will be laughed at and told, if it's so darned important that they couldn't even remember to tell me said bags exist, they can just do it themselves.
Fourth. Anyone who makes a joke along the lines of "I just printed it this morning!" when I check their money for counterfeiting will get slapped. I will NOT use my "Well, as long as it's fresh, no problems!" line, or my adorable smile. Instead they get a black eye and bloody nose.
Fifth. Anyone who stares for several minutes at my breasts while pretending to have difficulty in reading my name tag, and then says, "Well hellooooo...Kat!" slapped harder than the other guys.
Sixth. Anyone who doesn't tell me they want cash back until after their debit card has gone through, or anyone who requests cash back on a credit card, and then throws a hissy fit temper tantrum when I tell them it can't be done will be sent into a corner to think about how old they claim to be.
Seventh. Anyone who complains about the fact that we no longer sell smokes, and thinks that there is NO conflict of interest now that we sell pharmaceuticals will get a stern talking to about both their health problems and supreme ignorance.
Eighth. Anyone who smells will be offered a complimentary bar of soap.
Ninth. Anyone who tries to give me thirty or more cents in pennies will be told to go away and come back when they have real money.
And finally, anyone who claims that there is a sale on an item that doesn't exist, or tells me how ridiculous it is that they should have to pay so much money for so few items, or doesn't know how much an item costs, or asks me to tell them how much their produce will be before they are willing to buy it will be told EXACTLY where they can go to find cheap prices. And that place is Wal-Mart.
You get a remarkably wide cross section of humanity, as a cashier. You're the person in the store that everyone has to go through in order to get out, so you get them all. You get, for example, the hipster couple, wearing oversized glasses and potato sacks, buying their organic bananas and muesli. Oddly, these people NEVER have their own bags. Why is this? Shouldn't they be the type who have hemp sacks to carry things in? You also get the Young Parents, in varying states of harrassment because of and joy over the youngsters sitting in one of our Spaceship Carts, eating chocolate chip cookies. The kids are always really cute and the grownups are always a leetle bit annoying. You know it's true. Then there's the Crotchety Old Man, who can easily transform himself into the Lecherous Old Man, depending on whether you decide to smile at them. This brand is actually one of my favourites. He calls you a pretty girl and then, sometimes, if you are lucky, tells you to keep the change. Another favourite is the Obviously Buying Munchies set, who come in around 9 and stock up on Cheezies and pop. And then they giggle their way through your till, and you smile fondly after them, thinking "I was young, once..."
Of course, the customers are not all so pleasant. There are those who restore your faith in humanity, but first there are those who take it away. To demonstrate these people, I have compiled a list of Things I Will Do (or Not Do) On My Last Day as a Cashier. It is as follows.
First, on my Last Day as a Cashier, if some idiot comes up to me and says, "Actually, I've decided not to take this stuff, thanks..." I will smile politely and respond, "Okay! I'll still be here after you've put it all back!" And then refuse to serve them until they do exactly that, thank you so much.
Second, on my Last Day, anyone who just puts their basket full of groceries on my till and then expect me to remove everything, scan it, and then dispose of the basket will get naught but a pointed stare and crossed arms.
Third, to anyone who has buried their reuseable bags under their mountain of groceries and then tries to tell me that it is my job to unpack and repack all their stuff will be laughed at and told, if it's so darned important that they couldn't even remember to tell me said bags exist, they can just do it themselves.
Fourth. Anyone who makes a joke along the lines of "I just printed it this morning!" when I check their money for counterfeiting will get slapped. I will NOT use my "Well, as long as it's fresh, no problems!" line, or my adorable smile. Instead they get a black eye and bloody nose.
Fifth. Anyone who stares for several minutes at my breasts while pretending to have difficulty in reading my name tag, and then says, "Well hellooooo...Kat!" slapped harder than the other guys.
Sixth. Anyone who doesn't tell me they want cash back until after their debit card has gone through, or anyone who requests cash back on a credit card, and then throws a hissy fit temper tantrum when I tell them it can't be done will be sent into a corner to think about how old they claim to be.
Seventh. Anyone who complains about the fact that we no longer sell smokes, and thinks that there is NO conflict of interest now that we sell pharmaceuticals will get a stern talking to about both their health problems and supreme ignorance.
Eighth. Anyone who smells will be offered a complimentary bar of soap.
Ninth. Anyone who tries to give me thirty or more cents in pennies will be told to go away and come back when they have real money.
And finally, anyone who claims that there is a sale on an item that doesn't exist, or tells me how ridiculous it is that they should have to pay so much money for so few items, or doesn't know how much an item costs, or asks me to tell them how much their produce will be before they are willing to buy it will be told EXACTLY where they can go to find cheap prices. And that place is Wal-Mart.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Can'tsleep
Y'know, I have a terrible, sneaking suspicion that this program I'm in - the one that's supposed to teach me how to write and how to make writing my life - is actually making me hate the whole process.
Do you remember being in, like, grade eleven, and thinking you were the best writer EVER? Writing those little emo (don't deny it, no matter how dumb you thought that trend was, they still had an influence) poems and short stories (usually science fiction or romance based) or even little snappy essays. Just because you could? I loved that phase. I look back at some of the old blog entries I wrote then, and they still resonate with me. I'm still proud of a lot of the stuff I wrote back then.
Same thing with my writing samples from Writer's Craft. I saved my little poem booklet, and my morbid McDonald's short story, and I am still proud of them. That was a time when writing was fun, and I loved it, and I felt inspired and interesting. That class, and that time of my life, was the reason I chose to go into journalism.
And I don't know if this has happened to anyone else. But I've found that, since coming here, I haven't written a single thing that was just for me. I haven't been struck with any kind of urge to just sit down at my keyboard and see what happens. I look at those other two blog entries and am struck by how forced and horrible they sound. It's like I'm too tired of writing by the time I get home that the last thing I want to do is write for fun.
Is this normal? Is this natural? Does it mean I'm in the wrong program? I have no idea. But I really miss it! I miss that time when blogging was awesome and I just had so many "original" thoughts that I wanted to share with everyone!
My favourite poem that I have ever created came to me while I was brushing my teeth. It was something like 1 am on a school night (this was back when that actually means late) and I was exhausted and sooooo ready for bed. And I was half brushing, half falling asleep over the sink, when the idea popped into my head. And the opening line. And I sprinted back into my room and turned my computer back on and just banged out that poem in about twenty minutes. And that poem (only slightly edited, I might add!) is still one of my very favourite pieces of writing. It was also the last time I have felt that inspired, or that overjoyed about the process of writing. When I showed it to my teacher (a professional poet in his own right) I described that feeling to him. And he said that it was so easy to spend your whole life just chasing that feeling. That elation, that natural high.
Unfortunately, I'm still chasing it. And the thought that I might never get it back really scares me.
I think I'll share that poem with whoever's reading this. A nice way to end this post, since I have no better ideas. Don't mock me, I love it.
In My Back Garden
There are faeries in my back garden.
They make their beds in the violets; the pansies.
The soft purple is soothing and sleepy, they say.
But never the daffodils.
Who could sleep in a daffodil? they demand of me,
Each voice an oboe, grating on my ears.
Daffodils are far too bright!
The yellow would be harsh on our eyes,
And the trumpeting would keep us awake!
The faeries are picky, and hard to please.
And there are roses in my back garden.
Cascades, waterfalls, fountains of roses.
I go swimming in them.
Avoiding the needle-points of their thorns.
The roses are changeful in their moods,
And I must tiptoe around them, in fear of their scorn.
Some days they are gypsy-like, brassy and bold.
Others, they blush pink and hide their faces amid the leaves.
And still others, haughty and prim.
Too aware of their own beauty.
Bees buzz ‘round my back garden.
Threading artfully amongst the bursts of colour below.
Playing lover to each one, in the hopes of stealing sweet nectar.
They have spats with the faeries,
Who feel betrayed by their lovers, the flowers.
Wanting to keep all the sweetness for themselves.
Enraged, they whiz up to confront the bees.
Oboes and shrieking violins, clashing in midair.
The petals plead softly from below,
Wanting only to love them both.
When a storm blows into my back garden,
The faeries scramble to a hiding place.
Afraid that their wings will get wet.
Or that their sparkles will slide off.
The pond laughs at the, giggling,
As each droplet wrinkles its smooth surface.
Plink, plink, plunk! How silly to be afraid of a raindrop.
The faeries mock the pond, while pulling grass dress over
their damp bodies
Plink, plink, plunk? Who would listen to such a sound?
The pond laughs louder, and splashes their dainty feet.
When nighttime comes to my back garden,
The faeries begin to yawn and stretch.
The moon sings softly to them, crooning a lullaby.
The flowers fold shut.
Waiting for the next day’s sun.
To coax them open with its wash of light.
And inside each flower sits a faerie.
Wrapped in a blanket of purple petals,
They sleep, until the morning comes.
And the trumpet of the daffodil begins again.
Do you remember being in, like, grade eleven, and thinking you were the best writer EVER? Writing those little emo (don't deny it, no matter how dumb you thought that trend was, they still had an influence) poems and short stories (usually science fiction or romance based) or even little snappy essays. Just because you could? I loved that phase. I look back at some of the old blog entries I wrote then, and they still resonate with me. I'm still proud of a lot of the stuff I wrote back then.
Same thing with my writing samples from Writer's Craft. I saved my little poem booklet, and my morbid McDonald's short story, and I am still proud of them. That was a time when writing was fun, and I loved it, and I felt inspired and interesting. That class, and that time of my life, was the reason I chose to go into journalism.
And I don't know if this has happened to anyone else. But I've found that, since coming here, I haven't written a single thing that was just for me. I haven't been struck with any kind of urge to just sit down at my keyboard and see what happens. I look at those other two blog entries and am struck by how forced and horrible they sound. It's like I'm too tired of writing by the time I get home that the last thing I want to do is write for fun.
Is this normal? Is this natural? Does it mean I'm in the wrong program? I have no idea. But I really miss it! I miss that time when blogging was awesome and I just had so many "original" thoughts that I wanted to share with everyone!
My favourite poem that I have ever created came to me while I was brushing my teeth. It was something like 1 am on a school night (this was back when that actually means late) and I was exhausted and sooooo ready for bed. And I was half brushing, half falling asleep over the sink, when the idea popped into my head. And the opening line. And I sprinted back into my room and turned my computer back on and just banged out that poem in about twenty minutes. And that poem (only slightly edited, I might add!) is still one of my very favourite pieces of writing. It was also the last time I have felt that inspired, or that overjoyed about the process of writing. When I showed it to my teacher (a professional poet in his own right) I described that feeling to him. And he said that it was so easy to spend your whole life just chasing that feeling. That elation, that natural high.
Unfortunately, I'm still chasing it. And the thought that I might never get it back really scares me.
I think I'll share that poem with whoever's reading this. A nice way to end this post, since I have no better ideas. Don't mock me, I love it.
In My Back Garden
There are faeries in my back garden.
They make their beds in the violets; the pansies.
The soft purple is soothing and sleepy, they say.
But never the daffodils.
Who could sleep in a daffodil? they demand of me,
Each voice an oboe, grating on my ears.
Daffodils are far too bright!
The yellow would be harsh on our eyes,
And the trumpeting would keep us awake!
The faeries are picky, and hard to please.
And there are roses in my back garden.
Cascades, waterfalls, fountains of roses.
I go swimming in them.
Avoiding the needle-points of their thorns.
The roses are changeful in their moods,
And I must tiptoe around them, in fear of their scorn.
Some days they are gypsy-like, brassy and bold.
Others, they blush pink and hide their faces amid the leaves.
And still others, haughty and prim.
Too aware of their own beauty.
Bees buzz ‘round my back garden.
Threading artfully amongst the bursts of colour below.
Playing lover to each one, in the hopes of stealing sweet nectar.
They have spats with the faeries,
Who feel betrayed by their lovers, the flowers.
Wanting to keep all the sweetness for themselves.
Enraged, they whiz up to confront the bees.
Oboes and shrieking violins, clashing in midair.
The petals plead softly from below,
Wanting only to love them both.
When a storm blows into my back garden,
The faeries scramble to a hiding place.
Afraid that their wings will get wet.
Or that their sparkles will slide off.
The pond laughs at the, giggling,
As each droplet wrinkles its smooth surface.
Plink, plink, plunk! How silly to be afraid of a raindrop.
The faeries mock the pond, while pulling grass dress over
their damp bodies
Plink, plink, plunk? Who would listen to such a sound?
The pond laughs louder, and splashes their dainty feet.
When nighttime comes to my back garden,
The faeries begin to yawn and stretch.
The moon sings softly to them, crooning a lullaby.
The flowers fold shut.
Waiting for the next day’s sun.
To coax them open with its wash of light.
And inside each flower sits a faerie.
Wrapped in a blanket of purple petals,
They sleep, until the morning comes.
And the trumpet of the daffodil begins again.
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