Time Is Of The Essence

Fucking midterms.

Well, until later, why don't ya'll just sign here. (Although it would probably make more of an impact if you were Canadian while signing. Aim for that.)

Never Looks Back. Loves Hypocrisy.

Well, it's about that birthdayish time of year again.

Twenty years ago I was: Young. Soon to be packed up in the family car with all our possessions, one sister, two parents, and two cats. Ready to embark on the three day journey to British Columbia, a place I'd been once before. B.C. had: an ocean. No coral, no sharks, no tropical fish. My first impression of the ocean had been rather disappointing, given that all the picture books included coral, sharks, and tropical fish. B.C. also had Cookies by George. This definitely made it worth while.

Fifteen years ago I was: Weary. Still young, but unwilling to admit it. Settling in to island living, where there are no Cookies by George. Also, no aquarium, no Granville Island, and no Greek restaurant adjoining a pet store with an overwhelming supply of puppies.
Learning that looks were becoming important, and that I did not have them. Developing a long term hatred of my chicken legs, which would eventually fade in to a mild amusement over their astounding length and scrawniness.

Ten years ago I was: Failing. At everything. Terrified of walking into my high school, about to be kicked out (for the first time). Watching people die. About to be kicked out of my parents house (for the last time). Chain smoking, drinking coffee, and still suffering the after affects of the overdose from the year before.

Five years ago I was: Fat. Pregnant, but not yet hugely so. Moved back home to run the restaurant while my parents were in Scotland for the year, except they didn't go to Scotland. Instead, working for minimum wage under my mother, while living on a mattress on her office floor. Angry. Furious. Ready to kill anyone who got in the way of my attempts to build a life for myself and my soon-to-be daughter.

Two years ago I was: Reveling. Loving the freedom that daycare provided, just finished a conference where I could have: beer with lunch, washroom breaks without child as witness, and clothing without oatmeal and snot smeared across the knees. Loving the fact that, for the first time in over two years, I could sit down and do nothing for an hour at a time. Using that to it's full potential. Sitting. Doing nothing. Counting down the days until I would be in Egypt. Loving the fact that I was counting the days until I would be in Egypt.

One year ago I was: Ready to move on. In my last semester of college, having barely survived the hellish semester prior to that. Ready to go up the hill, where SFU had finally processed my transfer. Ready to take on real (upper division) classes, convinced I was nearly done.

Now I'm: Me, I guess. I'm older, but not old. I'm still behind in the game, living the life of an eighteen year old college student, with the responsibilities of a mother, minus the benefits (sex on demand) of a relationship. Have I improved in the last year? Have things gotten better?

Well, I've solidified my knowledge of my daughter. I no longer think, Now, what would a real parent do? I'm not perfect, but no parent is. My daughter, on the other hand, is perfect, so I'll take some credit for not fucking that up.

I've gained people that I'm close to, and trust. And although I've grown apart from others since I moved down here, I haven't lost any friends. Which is good, because I hate wasting time on people that just aren't worth it.

I've got more music. Thank you, new computer. This might not seem that important, but I love me some good tunes, or bad tunes, or any tunes, really. It makes me happy.

I got laid. Hey, I don't get out much, okay? Okay.

I'm smarter. I know this because, when skimming through old essays I've written, I'm bloody embarrassed by that shit. Christ, it's not that hard to form a cohesive argument, is it? What the hell was I thinking?

I have a blog. That makes me cool, or something. Either that or it makes me procrastinate even more than before.
What the hell is the new cool? I've been trying to figure this out for ages now. Can anyone tell me? Send help.

Headlines: The World Is Round

No, not really. My local paper would be above and beyond posting a headline like that, no? After all, here in suburbia, we've got all the smut and glory of any old metropolis. We've got The Trial. We've got that fucker that ruined what may or may not have been one of the best House episodes ever (I wouldn't know, I missed the best parts), running around in bullet proof armour while threatening to blow away random strangers across the street from me. Yes, in the middle of House. Fuck that shit.

But no, that's not the headlines. Don't want people to think that our little piece of suburban heaven may be, well, unpretty, do we? So what's the front page news? The full page news? The entire cover of the local paper, in all it's technicoloured glory?

Seniors Scared of Panhandlers

I shit you not.

Now, there are two things I find rather terrifying about this. Number one being the fact that anyone would give a damn about what seniors find scary. Because we all know what seniors find scary, and adding to the list is pretty fucking redundant. Hell, let's do it anyway:

• Dogs
• Stairs
• Sidewalks
• Ice
• Driving
• Not driving
• Driving over thirty
• Admitting that if you're fucking blind you should not be driving
• Commies
• Hippies
• Pinkos
• Vietnamese
• Homosexuals
• Girls who aren't married by the age of twenty
• Girls who don't wear makeup
• Boys who flirt with their grand daughters
• Grand daughters who don't have boys flirting with them
• Koreans
• Cats
• Bats
• Food made by anyone but them
• The after affects of food, made by anyone, including them
• Students
• Computers
• Voicemail
• Cell phones
• Cordless phones
• Non-rotary phones
• Protestants or Catholics, depending
• Mennonites, non-depending
• Beer, wine, rye, vodka (but not scotch or brandy)
• And yet; cognac
• How the fuck can you be scared of cognac, but drink brandy?
• People
• Being alone
• The indoors
• The outdoors
• Dying
• Life

Did I miss anything? Oh, probably. Yeah, my bad, I forgot to add darkies, spinsters, bastards, cuckolds, children born out of wedlock, and the mothers of said children.

Oh, and the homeless, of course.

Which gets us to the second point of what scares the shit out of me: The city has taken this phobia as its golden child in an attempt to milk the seniors approval for all its worth.

Before I go on, I gotta give a hat tip to the chief of police, who seems rather stuck between a rock and a hard place at this point, and seems to be doing well at paying lip service to whatever fucking moron up in city hall decided that penalizing homelessness was a cheap way to garner votes, at the same time as managing not to go out Nazi style on any box dwellers.

See here, we have bylaws against "aggressive" panhandling. Yes, this is the country where business is seen as the only viable option for students, advertising aimed at children is banned only in that province full of fucking frogs that no one cares about anyway, and all you have to do to score with ten vapid teenagers is drink enough bud (but not light, we're not quite American). So what does "aggressive" panhandling entail? Cause I could work with that shit. I've been spat on, it sucks. Any bylaw against spitting on me is a good bylaw in my books.

But no, these bylaws, they're to make sure that panhandlers don't be operating anywhere that there might actually be money. No stopped vehicles. They're stuck. They can't escape you. They don't know how to say no. Obviously, in New West, only men drive.

And add panhandling within ten meters of a bus stop, bank, or credit union. That's ten meters, kids, not ten feet. And ten meters is like, eight city blocks, or some shit like that.

The thing about New West is that the commercial areas are pretty freakin' compact. This is a small suburb schmucked between other suburbs. We're surrounded on all sides, ain't no where to grow. So the two commercial areas each take up about six city blocks, and that's all folks. Nowhere else to go, but to the next city over. So our bus stops/credit unions/ banks? All looped up in the same area. If you count out ten meters between that shit, you're left with some serious overlap.

Which means when they say, "We're not trying to criminalize homelessness," what they mean is, "It's only criminal if we have to witness your homelessness. Out of sight, out of mind, after all."

It's a panhandler. Deal. They say, "Hey, spare some change?" You say, "No, sorry." Done. If you have a problem with that, it's not because you can't deal with a sales pitch. You've been in a car dealership. You took that shit for a test drive, even though you had no intentions of buying. You window shop for clothes, and if you happen to try them on, so be it. You watch tv, and sit through the ads. Hell, you did an eat and run when you were sixteen, I know it. I saw you. I've got it on videotape.

Panhandling? It's shit you can buy, or not, as you choose. So choose. Make up your own fucking mind. Buy into that 'free choice' theory, and make a free fucking choice. Yes, there's a cost involved: panhandler may buy drugs, or coffee, who knows? But guess what? There's always a cost involved. I don't give a shit about you're inability to reason through that cost and come up with a decision as to it's merits on your own. If you're that fucking incompetent, there oughta be a bylaw against you, asshole.

We don't need specific laws targeting aggressive panhandlers. If a panhandler is acting in a truly aggressive manner, well that's already covered under our other laws. Check it out: Following people around? Stalking. Verbally abusing people? Verbal abuse. Physically abusing people? Physical abuse. Etc, etc, etc. It's there, it's done. The truly aggressive panhandlers are covered under the exact same laws as the rest of us.

This notion of "aggressive" as applying to any panhandler who may approach you when you can't lie about having cash is fucking stupid. If you honestly believe that this is some kind of fucking meritocracy where a native girl who's missing half her teeth because, despite the fact that they have medical, she grew up on a reserve where the nearest dentist was three ferry rides away can get the same job as you hooked up your daughter with at your husbands law firm, and you really, truly believe that this kid is on the street because she deserves to be, don't give her money.

And if the idea that some people really don't have anywhere else to go, or anything else to do, makes you uncomfortable? So be it. Be uncomfortable. Toss and turn on your Sealy. Have an extra glass of red before bed. Read two more chapters of that blockbuster novel that you just had to buy in hardcover. Take a motherfucking bubble bath. Because believe it or not, you're guilty conscience does not justify criminalizing homelessness.

Guess what, asshole. You're guilt's not going away. Eat it up, because you made it, and you'll fucking like it.

Now Tell Me...

How do you really feel?

It's all about the Johari Window. Go nuts.

Runs With Scissors

But Follows Orders Well
So it's time for another post. And what do I have to post about? Nothing! Don't blame me, I'm busy. Blame them. To your right. No, your other right.
So for your viewing pleasure, I have one days worth of crap. Enjoy.

Hates Your Dog
You, with the walking mop. Yeah, you know who you are. I realize your dog pees on trees, and I'm okay with that. Not my cup of tea, personally, I stick with toilets. Of course, I also have a brain bigger than an orange, so I'm more easily trained. Still, I'm a reasonable girl, and can be accepting at times.
But that tree over there? The one cemented into the sidewalk? That's just not okay. I'm just not that big on jumping over the river of urine running down the street, thanks anyway. And seriously, a dog that size should not have a bladder that big. Get that shit checked out, will ya? That's plain wrong.

Slow Learner
The homeless population in my area was pretty stable. There was Guy With The Cane Who Smokes In The Lobby, Overly Apologetic Schizophrenic Santa, Single Dreadlock Guy, Seriously Happy Bottle Guy- with or without girlfriend- Who Runs a Tight Schedule, and Randomly Rotating Junkies at Skytrain.
But for the past couple of weeks, continuous perplexity:
While anywhere in the neighbourhood: why so many homeless these days?
While skirting police barrier set up directly between home and daycare: gotta remember alternate route when court's about to start.
While around neighbourhood: shit, it's starting to look like East Hastings around here.
While skirting police barrier on the way home from daycare: next time, cut through the college, not the police barrier.
And through it all, perplexed and confused.
Yeah, twice a day, every day, around the barrier set up while they ship the man charged with the murders of numerous women from East Hastings, and it takes me two weeks for the lightbulb.

Indifferent To Your Dog
Yes, still with the dogs. Don't get me wrong, I do like dogs. And police dogs are just dandy and all. Well trained, save lives, all that jazz. But come on, no dog gets a funeral that big. It's a fucking dog, people.
Callous and indifferent, you say? We like our animals, and we like saving lives. Combine the two, and that's worthy of a massive funeral, and sure, throw in a month's bereavement leave.
Fuck that.
You like animals, don't force entire species to extinction. You like saving lives, don't vote for which ever shithead offers you a savings of ten bucks a month in tax breaks, at the expense of our health care, social institutions, and foreign aid.
Until then, your big old doggy wake is a bunch of hypocritical bullshit.

Maintains Perplexity
That other campus? It's small, and as it should be. It's in the middle of butt fuck nowhere, and no one wants to go there. Less people means less space needs. Okay, so rooms are smaller. The cafeteria's smaller. The population is smaller. No problem; it's all relative after all.
But why the fuck are the washroom stalls smaller? Less people should mean less washrooms with less stalls. It shouldn't mean I have to stand in the damn toilet just to shut the door. What, you think the people are smaller or something?
Oh yeah, that's it: why the fuck are the people smaller? Little people everywhere. They're short. They're clean. And they smell like baby powder and fruityness.
Did I miss the cardboard clown with "You must be under this height" scrawled across it's chest? Am I actually going to school in a McDonald's ball room?

Refuses To Edit
House is on. Deal.

Adviceful, Redux

You know, I've got a better idea. Instead of giving away all that common sense that would make Survivor easier to handle, lets just keep it to ourselves, and make a Survivor: The Leader's version. Huck in there some world leaders, heads of industry, and people who don't seem to actually do shit yet some how manage to influence other people, and let 'er rip.
My guess is no matter who you pop on that island, the end result would be a death match between Michelle Malkin and Belinda Stronach (yes, I'm including Belinda, cause I'd just love to see her ripping out handfuls of Malkin fro), with Belinda stompin' some Malkin ass. Just cause you know Belinda's one of those "fly under the radar" kind of people who make it to the end with no one noticing, then she'd just go postal. You know it.

Adviceful

So now that for this current semester I'm *ahem* top of my class....

Oh shit, did that sound like bragging? Because we can't have that now can we? That would be wrong....

Carrying on....
The repercussions are that I'm pretty sure I'm qualified to dose out advice to anyone, anywhere, on anything.
And yes, that includes fictional characters and t.v. wannabe's.

So:

1. To the people who go on Survivor: Do you have any concept of preparation? Seriously, it's not like you've never watched the show before. You expect to cope on a desert island, and you can't even get off your lazy asses to hit the library and get a book on wilderness survival. It can't be that fucking hard to figure out, just look that shit up.
2. Still you, Survivor dipshits: Pack. Make a list before you pack. Then check off the items you pack after they're packed. How many of you get voted out because you fuck up some challenge when you lose a boob? Did you honestly forget any shirt or bathing suit that you can bend over in without popping out? Not to mention; sunscreen or base tan. One or the other. Cause that can't be comfy. Especially on your continously popping tits.
3. Harrison Ford: Sure, Firewall looks all traumatizing and shit, but honestly buddy, do you expect us to believe that some guy's threatening to kill your wife and kids, and all you care about is saving the bank? I'm pretty sure they're insured against theft there, genius. Think about it.
4. The guy in that car ad that keeps seeing himself in the drivers seat of the cars he walks by: Do not take the fact that you keep bumping into yourself on the street as a reason to buy the car. Invest that money in a well qualified psychiatrist. And I hope you've got extended medical, cause you're going to need a lot of meds. Never trust yourself when your not in your own body.
5. To the kid on the bus with the cranked eighties style ghetto blaster: You wanna rebel? Try doing your own laundry, kid. That'd show 'em. Otherwise, you're pretty much screwed. You're a little white boy with bad, bad acne from Suburban hell. Get over it. We all know your mom bought you that hoodie.

Yeah, that's all I got. But my reading break starts right now, which means I have one full week off to do.....shit! Or stuff! Or maybe even something else!

Joy.

Oh, one late addition:

• My Cat: Would you just stay the fuck out of the fish tanks? Please. I give you water to drink, I have perfectly good furniture you can sleep on, why do you insist on using the fishtanks to meet all of your living needs? One of these days I'm getting pirahnas.