High School and the Fine Art of Giving No Fucks

It's amazing, you know?

It blows my mind sometimes, the way minor, yet arguably shitty, incidents and experiences can take you to a place you thought you'd left behind. Habits formed from self-preservation remain in play long after the threat has dissipated.

A 34-year-old mother of two, with a job and a mortgage and responsibilities can be reduced to an anxious, self-conscious adolescent in a matter of seconds, just from the sound of a giggling teenaged girl.

The high-schoolers have infiltrated the YMCA.  My mornings spent getting ready for work after my morning swim used to mean running into a few elderly women and occasionally one of my co-workers.  That was pretty much it.

But now there are high-schoolers. 

I hear their voices and laughter bouncing off the ceramic tile, muffled by the sound of the not-quite-hot-enough showers and my shoulders hunch up and my eyes, like magnets, are drawn to the ground.  I adjust my towel, just a little more tightly, as this body of mine, the one that not 20 minutes earlier had been gliding gracefully through the water now feels preposterous - all sagging, scarred, bumpy-fat flesh.  Taking up space.  Too much space.

"For the love of Gord.  You're 34 years old.  Woman the hell up already," I tell myself and sigh.  So many years gone by and I'm still affected.

I like to say that high school was a breeze, a lot of fun. 

(aside from grade nine.  aside from gym class.  aside from the girls who threatened me with violence because they thought I was "looking" at them.  in the change room.  I stopped looking up, ever.)

I tell people that high school was the time I ran out of fucks to give.  I learned to relax.  A little.  It was the time I tell people (and I tell myself)  that I learned to not care what people thought of me.

(I cared.  I just didn't let on.  It was safer if people thought they couldn't get to you.)

I practiced not giving a shit.  More accurately, I became practiced in the fine art of appearing to be all out of fucks to give. 

I learned to sneer at people, especially girls, I felt thought they were better than me.  Prettier, richer, more desirable.  The ones who had their shit together.  Brick by brick, I built walls of 'giving no fucks' to encase myself in and I told myself that they were nothing, of no consequence.

The most relatable character in this film, from my perspective. - SOURCE

My mother told me, "Hold your head high."

I held my head high.

But even now, hearing these voices echoing off tile, voices that exude the confidence of knowing the world is at your feet, sets my face to utter stoicism.  Instinctively, I still brace myself for mockery, setting my expression to one of utter neutrality, as I gauge the risk of making eye contact, or drawing attention to myself.

(go ahead.  Laugh at this fat, spotty, scarred body.  see if I care)

But of course, no one says anything.  Because this isn't high school, dammit.  I'm a 34 year old woman in the YMCA changeroom and I am about as incidental to these kids as any stranger on the street.

Rejection. Frustration.

So it's Thursday night and the opening for the gallery exhibition I had entered my painting in takes place tomorrow night. I have not yet heard if my piece was accepted.

I'm thinking I'm skunked again.

Sigh.

I'm feeling kind of sorry for myself, I will admit.  Just bums me out.  When I dropped it off, I got a look at some of the other submissions and immediately felt overwhelmed and kind of out of my league.

The Well-Travelled one tried to cheer me up by reminding me that a lot of the people who submit to these things have been painting and otherwise making art for years and sometimes decades, many of them having a formal educational background to boot.

This area, being a small, relatively close-knit area I have to wonder if there isn't a certain level of clique-ishess where those who have been active in the community get preferential treatment.  It's the same feeling I get with the theatre folk around here.

However, it's entirely possible that I looking for mini-conspiracies and nepotism in a misguided attempt at making myself feel better and stop berating myself for being a mediocre talent at best.  Jerkbrain is a jerk, and rejection just seems to feed the beast.

Meh.

As pointed out to me in another well-intentioned attempt by the Well-Travelled one to assuage my self-flaggellation in the face of defeat, at least this has been a bit of a learning experience.  I now know a few things I didn't before, such as turnaround time for custom framing, and where to buy my own damn frames.  I even know how to frame my own canvases now, so I guess that's something?

Bah. 

Still sucks.

SOURCE

Silencing Survivors, or, "I Need To Screen Cap More Often" (Content Warning: Rape/Sex Abuse)

So I grew up in a wee village that was, at one point, a thriving logging town. So, lots of history and such. The Book of the Face, being what it is, of course has a few groups and pages dedicated to this history. I happened to come across one such group through my newsfeed and stumbled onto an interesting thread where an old, early 50's class picture with as many names as could be identified captioned below.

One of the comments on the photograph was from a gentleman who spoke of suffering sexual abuse at the hands of the teacher in said picture. A few other commenters alluded to hearing of this particular teachers proclivities and many on the thread commiserated on the oft-used, especially in previous generations, method of shuffling teachers around to different schools when allegations of abuse came to light.

The commenter who had experienced the abuse himself notified the rest of the thread that an admin had contacted him and asked him not to post "defamatory" comments in the group. Later, the photo had been deleted and the thread was gone.

Now first off, don't get me wrong. Group admins get to moderate as they see fit and if one doesn't like how they choose to moderate, there are other places on the Internet to be. Do they have the right to delete comments and pull photos? Sure they do. Just like bloggers have the right to moderate comments and social platforms have a right to enforce their terms of service. Not giving someone a platform is not the same as actively suppressing someone's right to speak.

However, silencing is a tactic that gets used against rape survivors and childhood sex abuse survivors all too often. In this case, the gentleman's comments were described as "defamatory" when what they were were fucking brave. It takes a lot of guts to speak openly about sex abuse, given the way survivors tend to be doubted, or victim-blamed or have their abuse minimized in a "I'm sure it wasn't that bad" head-patty kind of way.

Calling the comments "defamatory" would have been fitting if this guy was repeating a rumour he had heard, rather than speaking of his own experiences. Referring to someone speaking of their lived experiences as "defamatory" implies that the survivor is to be doubted and that protecting the name of the abuser is more important than the need for the survivor to speak openly about abuse they have suffered.

Which is, to put it succinctly, bullshit. It's silencing and it's fucking Wrong. It takes guts to speak up about abuse, when often there is much more to lose than to gain, personally, from speaking up. When someone does speak up, we owe it to them to listen, not silence.

700km, an Off-Roading PT Cruiser and the Faint Sound of Banjos, part 3 (the not-so-dramatic conclusion)

Part One

Part Two

So it looks like this, the third part in my "What I Did A Few Weeks Ago" trilogy will likely be the shortest of the series, as my memory is getting increasingly fuzzy. But, hey, I don't want to leave anyone hanging. In other news, holy crap! TWO posts in one week. How about that??

So Sunday we woke up by the faint light of the sun rising over the blueberry stand across the highway, groggy and stiff from trying to stay comfortable in the back of the Cruiser. Not an easy feat, as he's not one to be scrunched up to sleep and although i generally tend to curl up in the fetal position to sleep, I was trying to remain somewhat conscious of not kicking or hitting the poor man in my sleep. Which I am told, I have a tendency to do.  Sleeping me is quite violent.

This is possibly the shittiest sunrise picture ever taken.  I took this one.

Watching the condensation slowly evaporate, we had a pre-breakfast breakfast of coffee from the Tim Hortons in whose parking lot we spent the night and glorious sweet chelsea buns from the bakery in Bancroft we had visited the previous day. Finishing up, I got tired of watching condensation evaporate (because yes, that IS as boring as it sounds) and rather unsuccessfully tried to dry it up with my t-shirt.

Pre-Breakfast Breakfast.  Tim Hortons, I want some royalties for this.

After getting on the road, our first stop for the Morning was at Cordova Falls, which is just outside of the little mining town of Cordova Mines. Cordova Falls, to date, has probably been the least Impressive of our waterfall hunting excursions, but that may be a result of it being both a dammed (as opposed to damned) waterfall and it being later in the season. I will say I was impressed seeing the pennstock for the dam. Impressed that it had not burst, as this old wooden contraption looked about 60years old and was sprouting leaks all over, some of which had been lovingly and not-at-all-half-assedly patched up with various bits of wood, some of which were jammed right into the leaky spots.

That's Reassuring.

Once we had fully explored the Upper and Middle Falls, we decided to skip the Lower Falls and head to town to see if we could actually locate THE Cordova mine. The town of Cordova Mines, Ontario is a fairly small one, almost a ghost town now. We knew the mine had to be about 4km from the dam we had just visited, as that was what the sign at the dam had told us.

If you can't trust a historical plaque, who can you trust?

One trail that we found almost took us all the way there, we discovered upon checking the maps at home. It started out near a small community hall, the type with a park and picnic benches and tables under shady trees, the type of place one could envision town picnics being held generations before. We braved the path as far as Petey would take us, at one point traversing a ground level river crossing. But beyond this we found a heavy gate with a variety of "No Tresspassing" signs. Later we would find out that what we were looking for was just on the other side.

Those aren't puddles.. that's the river creeping across the path.

...Just in case you didn't believe me.

Giving up on finding the mine, we headed to Peterborough for Actual-Breakfast and to see the Peterborough lift locks.  I can't remember all the ins and outs of how these locks actually work.. it has something to do with water displacement is all I recall.  I'm going to let the wonder that is Wikipedia fill all the dirty details in for you and just say that they were impressive and cool to watch.. we got there just as the first boat of the day was crossing.

See? Impressive.

Breakfast was had at one of GFWIHNCUWAGBA's (okay, acronyms clearly aren't an option here) favoured establishments.  Good potatoes, good eggs.. toast was a little too dark, bacon too crispy.  Good coffee and I got to find out just what in the hell 'Beaver Balls' were.

Turns out, they're basically like Beaver Tails (which I think may be known to people in other countries as Elephant Ears) but in ball form.  The More You Know.  At least they aren't some bizarre Fear-Factor inspired delicacy.  Although I still say that eating bull testicles would have been child's play had Joe Rogan just battered and deep-fried them.

However, I digress.

This was my first ever visit to Peterborough (with the possible exception of visiting my grandfather in hospital shortly before his passing, but that may have been Bancroft hospital) so he took me on a bit of a tour around the downtown and through some of the riverfront parks.  Having been up since about 6am we had made fantastic time to get to Peterborough, look around and still have time to visit my Nanny on the way home.  We got hit with the rain about 40 minutes before Nanny's house, after a weekend of otherwise lovely weather.  So that was lucky.

**************************************

In other news, I'm making a concerted effort to post more.  I've missed it.  I kind of put myself on hiatus writing at Different Paths, Same Destinations when I ran out of fucks to give in regards to my weight-loss efforts. I get the feeling I'm not the only one on a break.  Hopefully the other girls will come back and start posting again.  But we all have lives, and busy ones at that.

My posts here will probably focusing on my day-to-day stuff for the next little bit as I will be saving some of my social-issues ranty type stuff for a two-week guest blogging stint at Feministe (*geekyfangirlsquee*).

Say it with me, Sally Field.  "THEY LIKE ME!"

I'm ridiculously honored to have been asked to submit.  Like, stupidly so.  Like being asked to the cool girls house for a sleepover.  Except I get to write a lot.  So look for my posts over there during the last two weeks of July.

If you don't have anything nice to say, STFU and go order your coffee.

People amaze me with their ignorance sometimes.

As you may be able to tell from my display picture, my hair is currently a shade of pinkish red not usually found in nature. Originally part of a Halloween costume, I decided I liked this look and would keep it for a while.

Needless to say, reviews have been mixed, and I totally accept that.

The other day however, my friend Tess and I were sitting in the timmie's downstairs from work and a woman i know, who shall remain nameless, came in and lined up. I said hi, and the following conversation ensued:

Her: what did you do to your hair? (I've kind of gotten used to this line of questioning)
Me: I stuck my finger in a socket
Her: that wouldn't turn your hair... Well, what do you call that color?
Me: I call it "I used to be red but I have showered many times since then"
Her: ugh.. You need to dye it back.
Me: I dunno. I like it.
Her: (in what i'm guessing was an attempt at humor) yeah but what you want doesn't matter, other people still have to look at it
Me: yeah I'm not particularly concerned with other people.. Haha. Like I said, I like it.
Her: really, though, it doesn't look good.

At this point I shrug and go back to my conversation with Tess.

When I posted about the incident on Facebook I got a whole lot of support and compliments, which was awesome and sweet, but missed the point, which was "who the hell asked?"
Like I said, i'm totally cognizant that this particular aesthetic choice is not to be everybody's cup of tea. I've recieved my fair share of backhanded compliments ("well, you're still very pretty") from people who don't get that I did this on purpose. I would think, though, that unless it has been solicited, so-called constructive criticism should be kept to oneself.

I mean, how many times should someone have to say "well, I like it" before they take the hint and drop it. My own dumbfoundedness at the gall and my generally sweet nature prevented me from getting really nasty, which maybe I should have. Hell, even my grandma only got to make so many comments before I finally said "listen lady, if you don't let it go, then next time I see you, it's going to be Green.". And I LOVE my grandma.

If I ask someone's opinion, then I expect an honest response. Otherwise, don't rain on my fuckin' parade.

It's pretty basic Kindergarten 101 stuff: if you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all.

The people that you meet...

Christmas shopping in a small town at a major shopping center on a Saturday is an interesting experience, rife with opportunity to mix and mingle, and experience all sorts of interesting confrontations (and non-confrontations).

1. Ex-husband's ex-girlfriend. Duck and cover. It's just a good idea. Take small, petty joy out of knowing I look much better than she does. Old grudges die hard.

2. Guy I've had crush on for about 4-5 years. Asked out him out once. Was turned down on the basis of a messy divorce. Once bitten twice shy, I suppose. Is with his kid, so I forgo my 'Hey still given up on women? because I'd love to restore your faith in our gender' line for the incredibly suave "... Hi. How's it going? .... ". Slap myself silly for being such an obvious social retard and blowing an opportunity with this guy I see like once a year, MAYBE.

3. Sister and brother in law. again, and again, and again. Tell sister about incredibly awkward moment with number 2. Sister insists I should track him down. I probably should have, but on the other hand, I've already asked once. No point in being pathetic about it.

4. Out-of-town friend, visiting family. Invite to christmas party, since she's in town. Make idle chitchat, get in the way of numerous shoppers.

5. Sister and brother in law again. Suspect they may have gift for me in cart, since they are being elusive. May just be in a hurry.

6. Guy I once drunkenly made out with at a bar - with his kids and girlfriend, who happened to be his girlfriend at the time of said bar night. Gah, gah double-gah. Duck and cover time again. Time to get the hell outta dodge, methinks.

7. Sister and brother-in-law again, this time in parking lot. Sister, being the jokester she is, yells 'Stop following me!' from car window. Haw Haw Haw.

I thought my own dreams were disturbing...

My friend and co-worker Aimee apparently had a dream that I was a heroin addict, and was chasing her around trying to jab her with giant syringes as she pleaded for me to give up the junk, for the sake of my children.

It kind of makes me wonder if other people dream about me, and what about.

I've lately been trying to start keeping a dream journal, but between a tendency to sleep in, and sheer laziness, it's been slow going. I did get one down though. The other night I dreamt that I had bought a big fuck-off black pick up truck, that got stolen when I decided to leave the keys in it while I slept on the big grassy hill in Rotary Park (I think that's the one... the big huge one on Bayshore drive). I woke up to one of the guys that used to work at the Tat Shack telling me my truck had been stolen.

So I went to a sporting good store and asked my sister if she had seen my truck. She said no, and asked me what the make and model was. I stood there, perplexed, because all I could answer was "Um... it's shiny, black and really big". Nicky berates me for buying a truck and not even knowing what kind I bought.

So I decide to go to the cop shop, where one of the ladies from the co-op board takes my report. The cop shop is apparently now located in the lounge above the YMCA pool. She also gives me a hard time about not knowing what kind of truck I drive, as well as for leaving it unlocked with the keys in it. I tell her that I didn't want to leave it LOCKED with the keys in it.

It’s 3:15 am, my time.

Andie is a little buzzed tonight, a bizarre combination of rye and Tim Hortons Coffee. Oh Tim, if you weren't a corpse, probably no more than bones at this time, I would make sweet sweet love to you. A little buzzed and very cold.

The baseball banquet was more fun than expected, dinner surpassing dessert in the yum category, chicken covered in all manner of seasoning, and broiled potatoes with a tangy lemon suggestion. There was dancing and door prizes. I'm the proud owner of a glass cutting board and insulated wine bottle. Being a woman's league, there was not an eligible male in sight, with the possible exception of the DJ, and both K and I commented on his gawkish cuteness, but neither bothered to investigate further. Oh, the road not taken.

We coffee, and convinced by my good friend Danno, we are guided to the entrance to the very pit of hell, but in P-tang, they call it Yorkies. There are bars that girls drag their boyfriends to, and this is a bar that guys drag their girlfriend too. Or in our case, their very understanding female friends. or as K put it, their awesome understanding female friends. As I then said, their 'going above and beyond the call of duty awesome understanding female friends' *looks pointedly at Danno*

For a bribe of two rounds, we keep him company. The band is alright, but I've heard better. They can handle Stevie Ray, which is admirable, but then proceed to eff up something as simple as Third Eye Blind. "might have been a request" I surmise. A man who smells of onions .... yes, ONIONS.... says he heard a rumour we could dance ("it would be awesome, if we could dance... "it's been running through my head all day). Dan gets the kiss of death (the kiss of death is chaste, given to the foreheadal area) and I say 'Never again."

Sit in Timmies parking lot, Bob has joined us. It's cold but conversation is plentiful, even for almost 2 am. Watching police pulling over errant drivers, I'm glad my car is at home. It gets colder, coversation dies down, as the caffiene rushes rush off. We part ways.

At home, I have two messages, both from sam, one is the boy, one is the girl. My cat is being nocturnal and chasing imaginary ghosts, perhaps evil spirits dragged from the bar called Yorkies, but I call sketchy. I'm cold and tired and tomorrow is another day.

Reflection on long weekend grocery Shopping.

People amaze me, you know that?  The Stupidity, I mean. Today on my break I took a jaunt over to the GCSS, as it's friday, and friday means sushi day.  The place was a friggin madhouse.

Anyhoo, it inspired me to compile a list of simple rules for grocery shopping.

- First and MOST IMPORTANT.  If you lack the mental faculties necessary to grasp the subtle intricacies of the Self-Check out, then please, for your own health and safety, move over to another check out and let a TRAINED PROFESSIONAL help you. It's what they're paid for.

- I don't care if it says 1-8 items, 1-10 items or even 1-16 items.  If you have enough groceries that you feel it necessitates a cart... GET THE HELL OUT OF THE EXPRESS LINE.

- Bulk items are complicated.  All that weighing and typing of numbers at the check out eats up precious time.  So instead of going to the bulk aisle to buy SIX FUCKING M&M's*... Throw caution to the wind and buy a bag. 

*Combining this with irresponsible use of the self-check out nearly resulted in grocery related homocide today.

-Don't be a Hero. Don't invite people from other lines in front of you.  No matter how nice you're being to that person, you're still a jerk to the 17 people behind you.

-Tourist dollars and local economy be damned.  If you're a cottager, do your damn shopping in the city BEFORE you come here.

Big Excitement in the town of Midland

Yup, so today a good hour and a half of the workday was wasted when a transformer blew... RIGHT OUTSIDE MY WINDOW.

I was walking to the bathroom when the lights went out and all teh various generators and whatnot started beeping like mad, warning us that we had a hour before the whole freaking place shut down.

So a good hour was spent just watching the repair guys come, and the gawkers on the street standing around. The Dev office was all women today, just me, Cheryl and Alyx, as bill and peter were away, so there was much commenting on the hot sweaty man in the bucket, and about his generous use of electrical tape. Go Midland Hydro.


Fried.


Mr. Bucketman and his trusty electrical tape.

P-Tang, she's a thriving metropolis

Well it was a hoppin' night at the Penetang Tim Hortons. There were actually quite a few people there. That must depress the hell out of the lone bar owner in Pen, that the Tim Hortons is the place to be on a Friday night. Went out and did my Christmas card rounds to the Penetang gang, twas a good time. Dan and I stopped by Alex's for a bit, then took a detour on the way to drop Dan off so I could get gas, as "Lurch" as I have dubbed my car (thanks for the suggestions though, folks!) had informed me that I was in need of refueling by doing just that... lurching. We don need no steenkin' fuel light! Then we took an even bigger detour back into P-tang, since I didn't feel like getting stopped by the RIDE program at 93 and Vinden twice. Although I make it a rule to avoid engaging in illegal activity, on-duty cops make me nervous, as though I may unwittingly be committing an illegal act. On the way home stopped to help some people in a ditch, but the car was empty and its occupants long gone.

Road tripping to Elmira with the Sib tomorrow, her best friend is having a party so we are off to surprise her. Should be a blast.

Anyway, I'm out.