I was out for a walk by the river with my son today, and was telling him stories about being his age. One of the things I talked about was the duck slide that used to be by the art gallery. You Saskatoon folks remember that, right? :D
Anyway, I mentioned that the slide had been taken down some years ago, and the Midget said, "You should make them put it back! Say if they don't, you'll sue them for taking a piece of your childhood."
I love that kid. :D
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
The rational part of my brain just exploded.
I'm too tired to be wordy and clever about the weirdness of the past week. I'll just summarize in poorly structured sentences and maybe some bullet points. Bleh.
About the random "messages from God." Three of the five were just random folks on the street. Granted, one was kind of visibly crazy, but the other two were seemingly sane and "normal" people who suddenly stopped in their tracks when walking past me, stopped me, and said that God had just told them to talk to me. All of the three completely random people said that they could "see Christ in me" and that "God doesn't care how broken you are, he'll take you back in his arms no matter what." Creepy.
The fourth was a woman (who happened to be in a wheelchair and mostly blind) that I went to see for a work demo. I got to her house, and as she was telling me that her husband had just gone out and we'd have to reschedule, she suddenly burst into tears. I went and sat next to her and asked her what was wrong, and she said, "I don't know you and you don't know me, but God is telling me right now that you'll understand." She went on to tell me that she lives with serious bipolar which is not under very good "control" at all, in addition to her physical problems, and that her husband seems to not understand at all, and that he had stormed out moments before I got there because they'd gotten in a fight, he spoke to her rather harshly, she asked him not to, and he told her that "her bad attitude was making him act that way." Wow, can we say domestic abuse? She also said that she "saw a light and a joy in me that could only come from Jesus" and asked about my personal faith. I just said that I had a personal relationship with God. I didn't want to get into details. So we talked for a few minutes. I told her about my depression and anxiety and how some days my cheerfulness is all fake, so she shouldn't feel badly about not being full of joy all the time. That seemed to help her a lot. I told her that her husband has no right to treat her the way it sounded like he was, she agreed with me. Then as I was leaving, she called me back from the door and said, "I don't really know what this means, but God is giving me a message for you. He says that you have enough scars now, and it will all stop if you go back." Then she shrugged her shoulders and turned her chair to leave the room. I left feeling a bit disconcerted.
You see, this was the point where the random babbling of slightly off-balance strangers started to hit a little too close to home. Some of you know the stories about Christian Centre, the place where I went to church and school until I was 9. For those of you who don't know, I'll summarize: the church is more of a cult than anything, they manipulate and abuse their members, and until very recently still used corporeal punishment in the school. Even in the adult church members, there was a preoccupation that went beyond normal Christianity with the physical suffering endured by Jesus, and with the concept that the only reason we didn't have to suffer like that was because we were covered by his blood. Without that salvation, the logic went, we deserved nothing more than a lifetime of literal physical torture. Some of the church elders practiced self-flagellation, and nearly every adult member of the congregation would fast for days, allowing themselves only a few small glasses of water a day, as a method of doing penance for their (real or perceived) sins. They earned their salvation and redeemed themselves by taking on physical pain, and expected their children to do the same. A simple wrong tone of voice when answering a parent would earn a Christian Centre kid ten swats with what was essentially a short-handled canoe paddle, sometimes with a couple of holes drilled in it to reduce the drag on the swing of the parent's arm. The stronger parent was always the one to administer "discipline," because "it has to hurt to be effective." Refusal of bathroom privileges was a common tactic in the school. The sight of a ten year old walking down the hallway with wet pants, sobbing, followed by a teacher carrying one of the paddles and a clean set of gym clothes, was almost a daily occurrence. If you were bad, you had to hold it until you repented. If your apology wasn't sincere enough, you weren't allowed to use the bathroom for the rest of the day. Then you got paddled if you peed your pants.
I was personally called out from the pulpit when I was 8 years old. Well, really my mom was, but I was sort of "collateral damage." See, all my mom's other kids were adorable, cherubic, Aryan looking kids. They all had blond hair and blue or green eyes, chubby cheeks, and sweet smiles. I showed my First Nations blood a lot more as a child than I do now-I was always dark, thin and angular. Even my baby teeth were crooked, and my smile has always crinkled up my eyes so much that they nearly disappear. When I was 8, my mother was called on to testify about her "salvation," the salvation she received through the grace of God even after consorting with an "evil man" and conceiving a child out of wedlock-a child that clearly bore the evidence of the devil's hand in her conception. (Never mind that the older two of my younger siblings were also bastards-I was the only one who looked like it. I was the only one who carried the blood of savages.) To illustrate that God will love even the worst among us if we ask for it, I was brought in front of the church. I was the example for the entire congregation of what Satan's hand will do, and what God can overcome.
And people wonder why I'm so fucked up.
Families who left the church were often threatened with physical harm. The sermon the week after someone left would focus on the hellfire and eternal pain that awaited those who "turned their back on God." Children of the family who had left would be mentioned by name, with graphic descriptions of how their flesh would be rent from their bones over and over for eternity, all because their parents had turned away from the Lord and not given them a fair chance. These sermons were given in front of the entire congregation. I heard my first one when I was 5.
I know that the indoctrination I received as a child is at least part of the reason I've struggled with self-harm all my life. My parents, my teachers, and the church leaders all told me that if I did something wrong, I had to be hurt. The pain made it okay. Even after we left Christian Centre, my mother and stepfather maintained the "pain makes your many failings more acceptable" attitude until the day I broke contact with them. Now I don't know how to cope with failure unless I hurt myself. Even just not knowing the answer to a question puts me in a state of mental distress that doesn't stop until something hurts. I can't focus on anything but how wrong I am, how much everyone around me must hate me, how I will never be accepted or loved until I redeem myself. But when I bite into the inside of my cheek until it bleeds, or dig my fingernails into the flesh of my arms and legs, or slice into my skin with whatever sharp object I can find, somehow the fog clears and I can allow myself to carry on with my day.
I used to focus primarily on forms of self-harm that wouldn't draw blood or leave marks-pulling out my hair, banging my head against walls, slapping myself, sometimes scratching without really breaking skin. But lately it's been more satisfying to cut. I've carved things into myself, words like "fuckup" and "failure." It's one of the things I'm trying hard to stop. I don't talk about it to get attention or sympathy, I talk about it because hiding it makes it too easy for me to keep doing it. If people know, I feel more motivated to stop because I'm really ashamed of this whole situation. Just so that's perfectly clear.
Anyway, when this woman said "you have enough scars now," in almost a "that'll do, pig" tone of voice, a chill went up my spine. I know it's a random coincidence, but since I had just been talking to a friend earlier that day about my history with religion and its connections to my current problems, it hit me pretty hard.
The last one of the incidents was last night outside the bar. I was having a cigarette (I smoke when I drink, leave me alone) with one of the bouncers when this woman walked up to me and started talking about God. At first she was sort of incoherently rambling about God's love and peace, but she strangely became more lucid as she talked. She talked about how she had prophesied over people in power, mentioning the names of a few local politicians. She talked about how Jesus was tortured so we wouldn't have to be, and how without God's love we will be tortured that way. (At some point in this conversation, the bouncer I was talking to went back inside and I wandered across the parking lot to go get a cup of coffee. The crazy lady followed me.) She took off her glasses and stared into my eyes, and said "I can see that you've suffered a lot in your life." My first thought when she said that was that she was using a technique commonly known as "cold reading," or "how 90% of the douchebags I hooked up with between the ages of 17 and 21 convinced me that we had a real connection." Walking up to the drunk chick who is wearing too much black eyeliner and silver jewelry usually gets you a good cold reading audience, in my experience. Unfortunately for the crazy lady here, I'm wise to that game. I shrugged and tried to change the subject. She continued, saying that "God will still let you come back. You've suffered enough, you've done your penance."
Then she told me that she was from City Centre Church, the urban outreach project run by Christian Centre. And repeated that "God wants you back."
So, to whatever god it is that these fuckwits are following: ENOUGH.
ETA: I'm not saying that there's necessarily some big scary deity trying to recruit me back to his creepy kool-aid party or anything. This is likely just a random set of coincidences that hits too close to a difficult personal subject. But still...it was creepy.
About the random "messages from God." Three of the five were just random folks on the street. Granted, one was kind of visibly crazy, but the other two were seemingly sane and "normal" people who suddenly stopped in their tracks when walking past me, stopped me, and said that God had just told them to talk to me. All of the three completely random people said that they could "see Christ in me" and that "God doesn't care how broken you are, he'll take you back in his arms no matter what." Creepy.
The fourth was a woman (who happened to be in a wheelchair and mostly blind) that I went to see for a work demo. I got to her house, and as she was telling me that her husband had just gone out and we'd have to reschedule, she suddenly burst into tears. I went and sat next to her and asked her what was wrong, and she said, "I don't know you and you don't know me, but God is telling me right now that you'll understand." She went on to tell me that she lives with serious bipolar which is not under very good "control" at all, in addition to her physical problems, and that her husband seems to not understand at all, and that he had stormed out moments before I got there because they'd gotten in a fight, he spoke to her rather harshly, she asked him not to, and he told her that "her bad attitude was making him act that way." Wow, can we say domestic abuse? She also said that she "saw a light and a joy in me that could only come from Jesus" and asked about my personal faith. I just said that I had a personal relationship with God. I didn't want to get into details. So we talked for a few minutes. I told her about my depression and anxiety and how some days my cheerfulness is all fake, so she shouldn't feel badly about not being full of joy all the time. That seemed to help her a lot. I told her that her husband has no right to treat her the way it sounded like he was, she agreed with me. Then as I was leaving, she called me back from the door and said, "I don't really know what this means, but God is giving me a message for you. He says that you have enough scars now, and it will all stop if you go back." Then she shrugged her shoulders and turned her chair to leave the room. I left feeling a bit disconcerted.
You see, this was the point where the random babbling of slightly off-balance strangers started to hit a little too close to home. Some of you know the stories about Christian Centre, the place where I went to church and school until I was 9. For those of you who don't know, I'll summarize: the church is more of a cult than anything, they manipulate and abuse their members, and until very recently still used corporeal punishment in the school. Even in the adult church members, there was a preoccupation that went beyond normal Christianity with the physical suffering endured by Jesus, and with the concept that the only reason we didn't have to suffer like that was because we were covered by his blood. Without that salvation, the logic went, we deserved nothing more than a lifetime of literal physical torture. Some of the church elders practiced self-flagellation, and nearly every adult member of the congregation would fast for days, allowing themselves only a few small glasses of water a day, as a method of doing penance for their (real or perceived) sins. They earned their salvation and redeemed themselves by taking on physical pain, and expected their children to do the same. A simple wrong tone of voice when answering a parent would earn a Christian Centre kid ten swats with what was essentially a short-handled canoe paddle, sometimes with a couple of holes drilled in it to reduce the drag on the swing of the parent's arm. The stronger parent was always the one to administer "discipline," because "it has to hurt to be effective." Refusal of bathroom privileges was a common tactic in the school. The sight of a ten year old walking down the hallway with wet pants, sobbing, followed by a teacher carrying one of the paddles and a clean set of gym clothes, was almost a daily occurrence. If you were bad, you had to hold it until you repented. If your apology wasn't sincere enough, you weren't allowed to use the bathroom for the rest of the day. Then you got paddled if you peed your pants.
I was personally called out from the pulpit when I was 8 years old. Well, really my mom was, but I was sort of "collateral damage." See, all my mom's other kids were adorable, cherubic, Aryan looking kids. They all had blond hair and blue or green eyes, chubby cheeks, and sweet smiles. I showed my First Nations blood a lot more as a child than I do now-I was always dark, thin and angular. Even my baby teeth were crooked, and my smile has always crinkled up my eyes so much that they nearly disappear. When I was 8, my mother was called on to testify about her "salvation," the salvation she received through the grace of God even after consorting with an "evil man" and conceiving a child out of wedlock-a child that clearly bore the evidence of the devil's hand in her conception. (Never mind that the older two of my younger siblings were also bastards-I was the only one who looked like it. I was the only one who carried the blood of savages.) To illustrate that God will love even the worst among us if we ask for it, I was brought in front of the church. I was the example for the entire congregation of what Satan's hand will do, and what God can overcome.
And people wonder why I'm so fucked up.
Families who left the church were often threatened with physical harm. The sermon the week after someone left would focus on the hellfire and eternal pain that awaited those who "turned their back on God." Children of the family who had left would be mentioned by name, with graphic descriptions of how their flesh would be rent from their bones over and over for eternity, all because their parents had turned away from the Lord and not given them a fair chance. These sermons were given in front of the entire congregation. I heard my first one when I was 5.
I know that the indoctrination I received as a child is at least part of the reason I've struggled with self-harm all my life. My parents, my teachers, and the church leaders all told me that if I did something wrong, I had to be hurt. The pain made it okay. Even after we left Christian Centre, my mother and stepfather maintained the "pain makes your many failings more acceptable" attitude until the day I broke contact with them. Now I don't know how to cope with failure unless I hurt myself. Even just not knowing the answer to a question puts me in a state of mental distress that doesn't stop until something hurts. I can't focus on anything but how wrong I am, how much everyone around me must hate me, how I will never be accepted or loved until I redeem myself. But when I bite into the inside of my cheek until it bleeds, or dig my fingernails into the flesh of my arms and legs, or slice into my skin with whatever sharp object I can find, somehow the fog clears and I can allow myself to carry on with my day.
I used to focus primarily on forms of self-harm that wouldn't draw blood or leave marks-pulling out my hair, banging my head against walls, slapping myself, sometimes scratching without really breaking skin. But lately it's been more satisfying to cut. I've carved things into myself, words like "fuckup" and "failure." It's one of the things I'm trying hard to stop. I don't talk about it to get attention or sympathy, I talk about it because hiding it makes it too easy for me to keep doing it. If people know, I feel more motivated to stop because I'm really ashamed of this whole situation. Just so that's perfectly clear.
Anyway, when this woman said "you have enough scars now," in almost a "that'll do, pig" tone of voice, a chill went up my spine. I know it's a random coincidence, but since I had just been talking to a friend earlier that day about my history with religion and its connections to my current problems, it hit me pretty hard.
The last one of the incidents was last night outside the bar. I was having a cigarette (I smoke when I drink, leave me alone) with one of the bouncers when this woman walked up to me and started talking about God. At first she was sort of incoherently rambling about God's love and peace, but she strangely became more lucid as she talked. She talked about how she had prophesied over people in power, mentioning the names of a few local politicians. She talked about how Jesus was tortured so we wouldn't have to be, and how without God's love we will be tortured that way. (At some point in this conversation, the bouncer I was talking to went back inside and I wandered across the parking lot to go get a cup of coffee. The crazy lady followed me.) She took off her glasses and stared into my eyes, and said "I can see that you've suffered a lot in your life." My first thought when she said that was that she was using a technique commonly known as "cold reading," or "how 90% of the douchebags I hooked up with between the ages of 17 and 21 convinced me that we had a real connection." Walking up to the drunk chick who is wearing too much black eyeliner and silver jewelry usually gets you a good cold reading audience, in my experience. Unfortunately for the crazy lady here, I'm wise to that game. I shrugged and tried to change the subject. She continued, saying that "God will still let you come back. You've suffered enough, you've done your penance."
Then she told me that she was from City Centre Church, the urban outreach project run by Christian Centre. And repeated that "God wants you back."
So, to whatever god it is that these fuckwits are following: ENOUGH.
ETA: I'm not saying that there's necessarily some big scary deity trying to recruit me back to his creepy kool-aid party or anything. This is likely just a random set of coincidences that hits too close to a difficult personal subject. But still...it was creepy.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
"I hope someone treasures you the way you deserve."
I always smile and nod when I hear something like that, thinking that whoever's saying it likely doesn't mean it. Even if they do, why would I want to be "treasured?" I roll my eyes a little, hoping it's not too obvious, and carry on with whatever I was doing.
But I'm starting to think I might want to be treasured. One day it might happen, and I'm getting less and less inclined to push it away if it ever does.
But I'm starting to think I might want to be treasured. One day it might happen, and I'm getting less and less inclined to push it away if it ever does.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
A Blog, In Which I Reclaim My Fucking Life.
Here's some background information.
I come from a very complex family background. My mom's (I'll call her K) family is what you might call "white trash," as well as being abusive alcoholics several generations back. My dad's family is primarily First Nations, lower-middle class, and has a history of substance abuse and trouble with the law. Unfortunately, many of them are the "stereotypical Indians" that get so much bad press, though an equal number are not. (It's a big family.) My stepfather's family is upper-middle class, from an academic and artistic background, and were always very ashamed to have me as a member of the family. Upon finding out about my First Nations heritage, my step grandmother's response was, "well, you don't LOOK like one of them, so you don't have to tell anyone about that." For anyone who has wondered why I have so many issues and heaps of guilt surrounding the whole "passing" thing, think about that for a minute. Also of note: my stepfather (referred to from here out as M, and those of you who know my maiden name can put some pieces together) is the Concertmaster of the symphony orchestra here.
Growing up, I was always involved in music, drama and the like. I played violin and double bass, taking the bass far enough to play in the Saskatoon Strings (basically the junior level of the youth orchestra) for a couple of years. I acted and sang, even getting parts in a couple of productions done by the amateur theater company in town. I was getting involved in the "crew" angle of theater as well, working on stage crews and doing the sound for one production with the same company.
I started having sex when I was 15. At that point, I was taking a year off from any active performance, having aged out of the Strings but not been accepted to the regular Youth Orchestra yet, and being too busy with other things to do much theater. I was continuing my bass lessons and working hard at school.
I may have had a genius level IQ and been brilliant at many things, but as is so often the case with "gifted" kids, common sense was unfortunately not my strong point. I ended up pregnant twice before the pregnancy that resulted in my son. The first one I miscarried within days of the positive pregnancy test, and never told my family about. The second one, however, I carried to about 13 weeks before miscarrying. My family knew about that one. That pregnancy was what turned my entire life upside down.
When I told K and M about my pregnancy, I didn't expect them to take it well, being that they were both rather abusive to begin with. What I hadn't prepared myself for, however, was exactly how much they would punish me for it.
"Well, I guess that's it for the Youth Orchestra," said M. "Being that they're kind of affiliated with my workplace, and I'm not going to tarnish either organization by having my pregnant whore of a stepdaughter appearing onstage."
"And you can forget about theater, too," said K. "I still work with them sometimes, and I'll be damned if you're going to fuck up my good name too."
I was told that I was more than welcome to continue my bass lessons, if I could pay for the instrument rental and lessons myself. Of course, that wasn't really an option, so that was the end of my performance career in a lot of ways. All I've really had since then is karaoke.
Anyone who has a background in acting, music and the like will understand what I mean when I say that for the past ten years or so, something has been missing from my life.
I have kept a lot of this "on the down-low," so to speak, because for a long time I felt that it would be unfair of me to jump back into the artistic community, give people an explanation of what happened to make me disappear for a decade, and not only start drama but potentially tarnish M's reputation.
After I moved out, which happened for the first time around when I got pregnant with my son, I found out that K and M had spread gossip and lies about me to other members of the artistic community. That clinched my decision to keep everything quiet and just keep to myself. I felt that even if I had the opportunity to get involved in another play or something, I would likely not be welcomed with open arms by my old friends. And as I said, explaining the truth would just "start shit."
Today, I went and helped my friend Jen do the makeup for the local production of La Boheme. It was a lot of fun, although seeing the members of the children's chorus, some of whom are the same age I was when I got involved with acting, damn near tore my heart out. The thought that some of those kids will be lucky enough to have all the support and opportunities they deserve, while others will likely either have their dreams somehow dashed or simply slip through the cracks, is more depressing than I can really articulate.
I left the theater around the end of the second act. On my way out, I ran into a few members of the orchestra who were backstage during the intermission. Of course, among them was M. He tried to ignore me when I said hi to him. One of the cellists said, "M, someone is talking to you," and he couldn't continue the attitude without looking childish. Still, he was standoffish and rude to me.
Somehow, that brief and unpleasant exchange of small talk flipped a switch in my mind. I've decided that I've sacrificed enough, and foregone enough joy. It's time for me to start taking steps to get back into acting, if nothing else. I will not be shamed and forced out of something I enjoy any longer. I will not make an active effort to get the truth about the last ten years out, but I will also no longer make special efforts to hide it for the sake of someone who willfully destroyed my dreams and crushed my sense of self worth. If, in the process of doing what I have always loved, someone finds out the truth about M, so be it.
I deserve this, and it's time that I took it back. I'm pulling my passion and my dreams out of the hands of K, M, and their elitist asshole friends.
I come from a very complex family background. My mom's (I'll call her K) family is what you might call "white trash," as well as being abusive alcoholics several generations back. My dad's family is primarily First Nations, lower-middle class, and has a history of substance abuse and trouble with the law. Unfortunately, many of them are the "stereotypical Indians" that get so much bad press, though an equal number are not. (It's a big family.) My stepfather's family is upper-middle class, from an academic and artistic background, and were always very ashamed to have me as a member of the family. Upon finding out about my First Nations heritage, my step grandmother's response was, "well, you don't LOOK like one of them, so you don't have to tell anyone about that." For anyone who has wondered why I have so many issues and heaps of guilt surrounding the whole "passing" thing, think about that for a minute. Also of note: my stepfather (referred to from here out as M, and those of you who know my maiden name can put some pieces together) is the Concertmaster of the symphony orchestra here.
Growing up, I was always involved in music, drama and the like. I played violin and double bass, taking the bass far enough to play in the Saskatoon Strings (basically the junior level of the youth orchestra) for a couple of years. I acted and sang, even getting parts in a couple of productions done by the amateur theater company in town. I was getting involved in the "crew" angle of theater as well, working on stage crews and doing the sound for one production with the same company.
I started having sex when I was 15. At that point, I was taking a year off from any active performance, having aged out of the Strings but not been accepted to the regular Youth Orchestra yet, and being too busy with other things to do much theater. I was continuing my bass lessons and working hard at school.
I may have had a genius level IQ and been brilliant at many things, but as is so often the case with "gifted" kids, common sense was unfortunately not my strong point. I ended up pregnant twice before the pregnancy that resulted in my son. The first one I miscarried within days of the positive pregnancy test, and never told my family about. The second one, however, I carried to about 13 weeks before miscarrying. My family knew about that one. That pregnancy was what turned my entire life upside down.
When I told K and M about my pregnancy, I didn't expect them to take it well, being that they were both rather abusive to begin with. What I hadn't prepared myself for, however, was exactly how much they would punish me for it.
"Well, I guess that's it for the Youth Orchestra," said M. "Being that they're kind of affiliated with my workplace, and I'm not going to tarnish either organization by having my pregnant whore of a stepdaughter appearing onstage."
"And you can forget about theater, too," said K. "I still work with them sometimes, and I'll be damned if you're going to fuck up my good name too."
I was told that I was more than welcome to continue my bass lessons, if I could pay for the instrument rental and lessons myself. Of course, that wasn't really an option, so that was the end of my performance career in a lot of ways. All I've really had since then is karaoke.
Anyone who has a background in acting, music and the like will understand what I mean when I say that for the past ten years or so, something has been missing from my life.
I have kept a lot of this "on the down-low," so to speak, because for a long time I felt that it would be unfair of me to jump back into the artistic community, give people an explanation of what happened to make me disappear for a decade, and not only start drama but potentially tarnish M's reputation.
After I moved out, which happened for the first time around when I got pregnant with my son, I found out that K and M had spread gossip and lies about me to other members of the artistic community. That clinched my decision to keep everything quiet and just keep to myself. I felt that even if I had the opportunity to get involved in another play or something, I would likely not be welcomed with open arms by my old friends. And as I said, explaining the truth would just "start shit."
Today, I went and helped my friend Jen do the makeup for the local production of La Boheme. It was a lot of fun, although seeing the members of the children's chorus, some of whom are the same age I was when I got involved with acting, damn near tore my heart out. The thought that some of those kids will be lucky enough to have all the support and opportunities they deserve, while others will likely either have their dreams somehow dashed or simply slip through the cracks, is more depressing than I can really articulate.
I left the theater around the end of the second act. On my way out, I ran into a few members of the orchestra who were backstage during the intermission. Of course, among them was M. He tried to ignore me when I said hi to him. One of the cellists said, "M, someone is talking to you," and he couldn't continue the attitude without looking childish. Still, he was standoffish and rude to me.
Somehow, that brief and unpleasant exchange of small talk flipped a switch in my mind. I've decided that I've sacrificed enough, and foregone enough joy. It's time for me to start taking steps to get back into acting, if nothing else. I will not be shamed and forced out of something I enjoy any longer. I will not make an active effort to get the truth about the last ten years out, but I will also no longer make special efforts to hide it for the sake of someone who willfully destroyed my dreams and crushed my sense of self worth. If, in the process of doing what I have always loved, someone finds out the truth about M, so be it.
I deserve this, and it's time that I took it back. I'm pulling my passion and my dreams out of the hands of K, M, and their elitist asshole friends.
Monday, June 8, 2009
Fuck.
After the whole head shaving incident last year, it took me a while to get back into a good headspace. Hair has special significance for me, and what I'm doing with mine generally reflects how I'm feeling. Once I got past the problem of feeling like I didn't deserve to have hair, muscled through the awkward, fuzzy, growing out phase, and tried a few different varieties of pixie cuts, I finally decided a few months ago that I was ready to grow my hair again. I've been so excited about it. I finally unpacked my hair accessories from where I shoved them when I shaved my head, and every time I go shopping I look at glittery hair clips and the like with rising anticipation. I miss my hair. I miss it a lot. I remember what it looked like when I moved back to Saskatoon from Shellbrook, and DAMN. I was hot. So the prospect of having long, gorgeous hair again has made me very happy.
My hair is baby fine, but there's a lot of it. It takes a great deal of razor cutting and texturizing to make it behave at all. Since I'm broke, I've been texturizing it myself lately. This has worked out quite well for me. Much better than I thought it would. (Yes, Jackie, I know I promised I'd come to you. But you have no idea how broke I really am. I'm very sorry.)
Last night, since I couldn't sleep anyway, I decided to do some prettifying. I gave myself a mini-facial, re-shaped my fingernails, and decided it was time to texturize my hair and trim my bangs a little. Everything was going well until what was supposed to be the last little bit of texturizing, at the front of my head just behind the bangs. Apparently lost in a daydream, I grabbed the wrong pair of scissors and cut a giant chunk out of the front of my hair.
After trying pretty much everything I could think of to fix or hide my mistake, I realised that the only option was going to be shaving my fucking head again.
So now my hair is gone, and I'm devastated. I couldn't even finish cutting it myself-I had to get Chris to shave it for me while I bawled like an infant.
There's no real point to this post, just me getting this out there. I'm bald and depressed. FML.
My hair is baby fine, but there's a lot of it. It takes a great deal of razor cutting and texturizing to make it behave at all. Since I'm broke, I've been texturizing it myself lately. This has worked out quite well for me. Much better than I thought it would. (Yes, Jackie, I know I promised I'd come to you. But you have no idea how broke I really am. I'm very sorry.)
Last night, since I couldn't sleep anyway, I decided to do some prettifying. I gave myself a mini-facial, re-shaped my fingernails, and decided it was time to texturize my hair and trim my bangs a little. Everything was going well until what was supposed to be the last little bit of texturizing, at the front of my head just behind the bangs. Apparently lost in a daydream, I grabbed the wrong pair of scissors and cut a giant chunk out of the front of my hair.
After trying pretty much everything I could think of to fix or hide my mistake, I realised that the only option was going to be shaving my fucking head again.
So now my hair is gone, and I'm devastated. I couldn't even finish cutting it myself-I had to get Chris to shave it for me while I bawled like an infant.
There's no real point to this post, just me getting this out there. I'm bald and depressed. FML.
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Freak Walk
As some of you know, I was one of those teenagers who did bizarre things just for the shock value. I like to think I've grown out of that. Now when I do bizarre things, it's because that's genuinely what I feel like doing. :D
Last night I got together with my brother and a friend and went for a walk in the middle of the night. It was nice. We had some fun conversations and took pictures of each other. The thing is, we were all dressed strangely. I was wearing a glittery minidress and stripey tights, my brother was wearing a kilt, a leather vest, and a top hat, and our friend, though otherwise normal-looking, had borrowed my hot pink feather boa. Before last night, it had been a very long time since I had occasion to get all dressed up and go gallivanting.
Of course, sometime over the course of the night, we got caught up in the fun of looking weird in public and ended up taking some pictures and such that were pretty much just for the "freak value." Then I ended up feeling bad about that. Really, I'm not out to be a big attention whoring weirdo anymore. I want to have what I consider to be a normal, happy life. It just so happens that my version of normal includes stripey tights, fire-eating, and midnight strolls. Occasional moments of attention whoring are fine, I guess, but I don't like the idea of being "freaky" just for the shock value. I'm weird for its own sake, and in a very organic way. It's the whole "self-expression" thing. I like sparkly clothes and slightly outlandish forms of entertainment, but forced strangeness bothers me.
I guess what I'm thinking right now is this: if you're a member of some fringe culture or other, where's the line between just going on with your life regardless of what you look like and taking it in stride that people will likely think you're out to be "shocking", and actually trying to be shocking? How often do you make the effort to get attention and be weirder than usual? Does it bother you, as someone who just happens to look like an oddity, when friends act intentionally strange as a method of garnering stares from passers by? Do any of these questions even make sense?
Random thoughts of the day, likely poorly phrased.
Last night I got together with my brother and a friend and went for a walk in the middle of the night. It was nice. We had some fun conversations and took pictures of each other. The thing is, we were all dressed strangely. I was wearing a glittery minidress and stripey tights, my brother was wearing a kilt, a leather vest, and a top hat, and our friend, though otherwise normal-looking, had borrowed my hot pink feather boa. Before last night, it had been a very long time since I had occasion to get all dressed up and go gallivanting.
Of course, sometime over the course of the night, we got caught up in the fun of looking weird in public and ended up taking some pictures and such that were pretty much just for the "freak value." Then I ended up feeling bad about that. Really, I'm not out to be a big attention whoring weirdo anymore. I want to have what I consider to be a normal, happy life. It just so happens that my version of normal includes stripey tights, fire-eating, and midnight strolls. Occasional moments of attention whoring are fine, I guess, but I don't like the idea of being "freaky" just for the shock value. I'm weird for its own sake, and in a very organic way. It's the whole "self-expression" thing. I like sparkly clothes and slightly outlandish forms of entertainment, but forced strangeness bothers me.
I guess what I'm thinking right now is this: if you're a member of some fringe culture or other, where's the line between just going on with your life regardless of what you look like and taking it in stride that people will likely think you're out to be "shocking", and actually trying to be shocking? How often do you make the effort to get attention and be weirder than usual? Does it bother you, as someone who just happens to look like an oddity, when friends act intentionally strange as a method of garnering stares from passers by? Do any of these questions even make sense?
Random thoughts of the day, likely poorly phrased.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Adventures In Direct Sales: Um....okay?
Yesterday was a disaster. We usually don't work on Sundays, but I didn't work on Saturday, so I said I'd take a couple of appointments on Sunday to make up for it. The first one I went to, the lady said she had told the person on the phone that she wasn't interested in seeing a presentation. So, whatever, didn't do that one. The second one was even worse. As I pulled up to the house, the family was actually getting into their car. I introduced myself to the husband, who was just locking the front door. He told me that they had changed their mind, because his wife said it sounded like a scam. (As scamtastic as the employment practices have turned out to be, I'll give this company credit for the fact that the products themselves are good, and their sales practices aren't scams. They never fuck with the customers, just the employees. :P) Anyway, I said, "Okay, can I just use your phone for a minute to let the office know I won't be doing this appointment, then?" He said no, and ordered me off the property.
I called the office from my cell phone. As I was calling, the family pulled out of the driveway and drove away. C answered. I told her what was happening. I could hear J in the background yelling, "oh, what the fuck is it this time?" Because, you know, it's totally my fault when I can't get into demos. C told him what was up, and he started yelling, "Oh, that's bullshit. If that happens, she needs to call us from their phone, and she knows that. This is total bullshit." C told him that they wouldn't let me use the phone. She was about to say that they had left already, and J cut in with, "then she can call from her cell and put one of them on the damn phone so we know she actually talked to them. This is fucking bullshit." C told him that they had ordered me off the property and left, and J continued ranting in the background. Then he got on the phone and told me I could do an evening appointment. Now, keep in mind, Sundays are extra and optional to begin with, and just the other day J said that we never do Sunday evening appointments. When I said no, he got all pissed off and hung up on me.
Fast forward to this morning's meeting. The first little bit was fine. But S, N and I were all coughing. N had it the worst, coughing so hard he could barely talk. He looked pretty rough. J told S that he didn't want to send him to someone's house if he was sick, so he should just go home and rest. Then he said to N and I, "you two aren't allowed to be sick. Take some cough syrup and get over it." Yep, the white guy got sent home to rest, and the brown guy and the girl get told to "just get over it."
As the meeting was wrapping up, J asked me to stick around for a few minutes after everyone left. He told me that he was giving me a "promotion" of sorts. Basically, certain regions of the province are now going to be my areas. It means more travel, but I also got bumped up a level on the pay scale-better commission and bigger bonuses, plus (obviously) more gas money and pay for mileage and such. I just said thank you, but I was really wondering why he was giving me whole regions of my own after yesterday's fiasco. I'm thinking maybe it's so I don't sue him or something. :P
What really pissed me off, though, was when we finished talking about this new position and I asked about my equity term coming to an end soon. Hoo, boy.
A little background-if I make a full-price sale that's paid by cheque, cash or credit card, I get full commission, obviously. If it's financed, and the customer gets approved on what's called "A-line," basically meaning they have spectacular credit, I also get full commission. But a discounted sale, or a full price one on B or C line financing, cuts into my commission. I don't care so much about that, but the important thing to note is that with B or C line financing, the finance company only gives J a portion of the money right out, and that's why it reduces our commission.
What I didn't realize was that my final system, the one that I have to sell to get my account paid off, has to be either cash, cheque, credit card or A-line financing. I was under the impression that any full-price sale of the final system would work, but now I find out that it doesn't work that way. Yeah, thanks for telling me that right out of the gate, J. Seriously, it's 10 weeks this week, so I'll be working on that final sale starting, I believe, Thursday. But in the entire 10 weeks I've only sold 1 full-price system on one of the "acceptable" payment methods. So I'm stuck here until I duplicate that feat. So now the pressure is on, and I'm pissed off.
Speaking of sales, J and I were talking about one customer of mine who didn't get approved at first, but was getting a co-signer. I have to go back to her house tomorrow to get signatures and stuff. J asked if she was black. I said no. He asked, "well then, what is she?" Yeah, he's classy like that. After I glared at him a little bit, I replied, "she's First Nations." His response? "Well, then, I hope you're not counting on that commission for anything. In my entire career, I've only seen one indian get approved, even with a co-signer." Seriously, I could just kill him right now.
I called the office from my cell phone. As I was calling, the family pulled out of the driveway and drove away. C answered. I told her what was happening. I could hear J in the background yelling, "oh, what the fuck is it this time?" Because, you know, it's totally my fault when I can't get into demos. C told him what was up, and he started yelling, "Oh, that's bullshit. If that happens, she needs to call us from their phone, and she knows that. This is total bullshit." C told him that they wouldn't let me use the phone. She was about to say that they had left already, and J cut in with, "then she can call from her cell and put one of them on the damn phone so we know she actually talked to them. This is fucking bullshit." C told him that they had ordered me off the property and left, and J continued ranting in the background. Then he got on the phone and told me I could do an evening appointment. Now, keep in mind, Sundays are extra and optional to begin with, and just the other day J said that we never do Sunday evening appointments. When I said no, he got all pissed off and hung up on me.
Fast forward to this morning's meeting. The first little bit was fine. But S, N and I were all coughing. N had it the worst, coughing so hard he could barely talk. He looked pretty rough. J told S that he didn't want to send him to someone's house if he was sick, so he should just go home and rest. Then he said to N and I, "you two aren't allowed to be sick. Take some cough syrup and get over it." Yep, the white guy got sent home to rest, and the brown guy and the girl get told to "just get over it."
As the meeting was wrapping up, J asked me to stick around for a few minutes after everyone left. He told me that he was giving me a "promotion" of sorts. Basically, certain regions of the province are now going to be my areas. It means more travel, but I also got bumped up a level on the pay scale-better commission and bigger bonuses, plus (obviously) more gas money and pay for mileage and such. I just said thank you, but I was really wondering why he was giving me whole regions of my own after yesterday's fiasco. I'm thinking maybe it's so I don't sue him or something. :P
What really pissed me off, though, was when we finished talking about this new position and I asked about my equity term coming to an end soon. Hoo, boy.
A little background-if I make a full-price sale that's paid by cheque, cash or credit card, I get full commission, obviously. If it's financed, and the customer gets approved on what's called "A-line," basically meaning they have spectacular credit, I also get full commission. But a discounted sale, or a full price one on B or C line financing, cuts into my commission. I don't care so much about that, but the important thing to note is that with B or C line financing, the finance company only gives J a portion of the money right out, and that's why it reduces our commission.
What I didn't realize was that my final system, the one that I have to sell to get my account paid off, has to be either cash, cheque, credit card or A-line financing. I was under the impression that any full-price sale of the final system would work, but now I find out that it doesn't work that way. Yeah, thanks for telling me that right out of the gate, J. Seriously, it's 10 weeks this week, so I'll be working on that final sale starting, I believe, Thursday. But in the entire 10 weeks I've only sold 1 full-price system on one of the "acceptable" payment methods. So I'm stuck here until I duplicate that feat. So now the pressure is on, and I'm pissed off.
Speaking of sales, J and I were talking about one customer of mine who didn't get approved at first, but was getting a co-signer. I have to go back to her house tomorrow to get signatures and stuff. J asked if she was black. I said no. He asked, "well then, what is she?" Yeah, he's classy like that. After I glared at him a little bit, I replied, "she's First Nations." His response? "Well, then, I hope you're not counting on that commission for anything. In my entire career, I've only seen one indian get approved, even with a co-signer." Seriously, I could just kill him right now.
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