True Confessions

Sometimes it's good to just let it out...tell the truth, no matter how ridiculous it may sound. Perhaps this is connected to my Catholic upbringing; this need to be absolved from my little mundane sins. Alas, here I am purging and begging for blog-god's forgiveness.

I steal toilet paper from hotels. It all ends up in the same place in the end anyway (Oh jeeze, no pun intended!) so what difference does it make if it's used here in Red Lake or used there in Winnipeg or any other place that happens to have a hotel with an extra roll of t.p?

I am slowly poisoning myself with lipstick that is full of lead because it's a really nice colour and stays on forever ( I once was completely debilitated with a nasty virus and ended up vomiting profusely every 1/2 hour for a whole day. At once point, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was totally impressed that my lipstick was still in tact during this fiasco. That's good lipstick and also the reason why it will eventually kill me. It's gotta be toxic if it can withstand perpetual puke.)

I secretly think that people complain too much about illness and think that hypochondriacs are super creepy. People that focus on their childrens' illnesses are even creepier in my books. Who gets off on talking about illness? Does a person really need that much attention that the only way they feel they can go about doing it is by talking about their oozing sores and phlegm filled lungs? Why don't they go and run a marathon or write a great book or bake a wicked cake so that they get some cool, positive attention instead?

I think my dog has put her tongue in my mouth way more than is reasonable and it has definitely not been by choice. But today when it happened I actually thought to myself, "Now that's enough. I'm tired of snugglin' my dog and having her rotten old tongue go in my mouth." Why the hell can't I just keep my mouth closed when I'm petting my dog? No, I have to get in close and talk all goofy to her with things like, "Hi my little smooshy smooshy."

My sister got me a wicked Napoleon Dynamite toothbrush and the design is highly disappointing. Who doesn't want to have the sweet voice of Napoleon and the funky tunes of Jamiraquai jamming in their mouth at 7:15 every morning? But you have to put the right amount of pressure of the brush on your teeth in order for it to work, and it sounds all weird and muffled and makes my ears tickle just a little. My sister had awesome intentions and the toothbrush is a let down. I knew I should have kept it as a collectible but I'm constantly worried about becoming a hoarder so I use what I'm given.

Is it really graffiti if it has an important message? I think it's more like an art installation.

I walked into a dollar store in Winnipeg and actually had a bit of a panic attack because the whole place smells so bad of toxic plastic crap that I felt like I was being poisoned by cheap toys and gadgets. I feel extremely sorry for all of the workers in China that have to go to those factories every day and endure that nauseating odor. It also makes me crazy that people buy that shit, because I always see that kind of stuff at garage sales, and if they don't sell there, then I see that crap at the dump. True confession; that seriously makes me crazy and I have to calm myself down so that I don't go into freak out mode when I see stuff like that. (Refer to blog regarding precycling...)

The first time I said the f-bomb was in Grade 4, playing soccer at recess with the boys in Ignace. I screamed out, "F**k off, Billy!" because he was relentlessly teasing me. I found out later that he had a crush on me, but I just thought he was being a pain in the ass.There is a fine line between a crush and a pain in the ass and I'm kinda sorry that I didn't know the difference at the time because maybe Billy would have ended up being a great boyfriend.

I got caught raiding a garden when I was in Grade 6 and even the cops were involved. To this day,
 I think that the cops should have told my parents but instead they just gave us a big lecture and let us off the hook. It worked for me; I never did that again and felt horrible about it, but I still think the cops should have made more of a stink about it. If someone raided my garden I'd be devastated because we're actually really dependent on it every year and tending a garden is a hell of a lot of work. I think I was actually in university when I finally told my mom what I had done.

I have a potty mouth and like to say things like bite me, suck it and blow me. I know it sounds horrible, but saying those little phrases sometimes gives me sheer delight because they're just so damn straight up and to the point. Sometimes there's no better way to say that you're angry with the world then a good ol' "suck it". My son has given me time outs for swearing. I take a nap on a chair for 5 minutes. It hasn't made me want to stop swearing. Time outs blow. (As a side note, you should go into the bathroom, close the door, turn on the fan, and just say "blow me" really loud. You'll feel silly at first, but if you say it a couple times, I can guarantee you'll feel better.) I really have to work hard at not swearing at school every single day. I hate hearing kids swear. I'm a hypocrite.

I have a crazy obsession with teeth. I will be completely attracted to a blithering idiot if he has nice teeth...super nice teeth. I kept my wisdom teeth and made them into a necklace that I wear occasionally and people always say, "Are those your teeth?" and give me a look of disgust. Teeth are awesome. I was a dental hygienist in my past life.

I have grown up on the lake all my life, and I have never run a boat motor by  myself. I don't know why because I'm not afraid to, but every dude I've asked, including my dad and many other men, won't let me. What's up with that? I feel completely incompetent without having that checked off on my to-do list. Is being a part of the boat motor society kinda like being a part of the Mason's? Is there some kind of weird initiation or hazing that I don't know about? It also took me forever to build up the nerve to pump my own gas.

I think if I were to ingest a pickled egg, I would spontaneously combust. On the same topic of food, if you eat a banana beside me, I'll probably punch you in the face. I hate that sound more than anything else in the world.

You know, this feels really good. They may seem like mundane little tidbits of whatever you wanna call its, but it feels nice to actually let these thoughts out. My brain has a file folder, no probably a whole filing cabinet of useless facts and information that just sits there without being given an opportunity to just go. Isn't that what dreams are for? To get rid of the excess stuff, small little morsels of guilt and frustration that we have running around upstairs so that we don't have to think about it anymore? I don't recall ever dreaming about chewed bananas or hypochondriacs, but it feels good to purge about it all the same.

You should try it. Or better yet, share them with me. I'll absolve ya' of your guilty conscience. :)

Check out Napolean's sweet dance moves

Facebook Friends, Fans and Foes

I love Facebook. I love being able to chat with Steph daily when she lives across the country. I can hear her voice in the comments that are sent to me and enjoy the banter back and forth. I love that I have reconnected with long lost cousins and take the time to stop and visit them on my journeys when I travel. I found several of those cousins in a Facebook group about "Bobinski's". I love the fact that I found my old public school friend and plan on meeting up with her in our hometown next summer to reminisce about our childhood. I love the fact that in my 37 years I have somehow been able to connected to hundreds and hundreds of people, and we like each other enough that we want to know about each other….even if just a little bit, for just a little snippet of a bit in our day. This form of communication simply would not occur for me if it was just happening through emails or telephone calls. Anyone that knows me knows that I actually despise communicating on the phone. I don't like to sit in one spot for too long and being on the phone makes me way too idle. That's another reason why Facebook works for me…..it works for my ADHD tendencies, and I can bounce back and forth between household chores, bike rides, kitchen dance parties and the like and still have the time to stop, take pause and throw a quick "howdy" to my sister where as otherwise I may have said nothing. (Teresa rarely leaves messages on my answering machine anymore because she says there's no point….I don't return calls. She's right. But I return a Facebook. It's faster. I do like to talk, I just have some kind of weird thing about phones which could be a whole other blog in itself.)

So who was it that said that today's generation is "disconnected"? I think people are communicating more now than ever before. Kids are texting maniacs. I can't believe that sometimes I hear myself saying to one of my students, "Text her and find out if she's coming to school today." Comments that come up between "mutual friends" on Facebook end up being discussed at further length. Links of interest are being sent to others. Information is being tossed around and words are flying like never before, zinging passed our eyes and ears, being quickly bitten and consumed. We are evolving into constant communicators and I'm digging it…..for the most part. We're getting to know our friends just that much more, and that isn't something to be ashamed about. 


But then there's this; 


I've curiously started to notice discretions in the terminology that is out there in Facebook land regarding "friends". I have a multitude of "friends" on Facebook and at one point I did start to do a bit of categorizing of those friends, and then thought, well, that's pretty stereotypical and judgmental of me, isn't it? Why am I categorizing these people? For some reason or another, we have decided that we want to know about each other's life in some small or big way and that's all I need to do with this list of interesting characters. To be fair though, I do have a list of "limited profile" friends, but that is simply to protect my privacy from the high school students I teach. They just don't need to know about all aspects of my life, but it doesn't mean that I don't want to share with them. When they graduate, I take them off of the limited profile, and then they find out that my life is basically what they expected it to be, give or take a bit. On top of this, I also have a fan page, where I showcase my art work and different artistic endeavors that I am attempting to undertake, and have a very nice fan base there. Now this is where I find that the terminology gets blurred. As far as I'm concerned, if a person is going out of their way to add my fan page to their own page, I am honoured by the respect they have given me as an artist. I appreciate that and consider that a kind gesture. A good handful of these people are not on my personal homepage's friend list, but a majority of them are. So if a stranger wants to add me as a "friend", I usually oblige, after doing a bit of research and letting my spidey senses check things out. Instinct is still handy when looking at a computer screen. We are still conscious after all. 


So what has triggered me to write this blog anyway? I'm pissed off. Let me tell you why. There are a lot of other artists and musicians and creative beings out there that are taking advantage of this situation and using Facebook as a catalyst for their own "stardom" without giving their fans a modicum of respect. They have not distinguished between fans and friends, so when a fan becomes a friend on their personal list (because after all, it might help in getting a Juno/Grammy/reward some day) they oblige but do not acknowledge that person. Statistically, things look good because they have "x" amount of "friends" when in actuality they have a group of strangers on their friend list that they will never consider acknowledging and that to me is just downright rude. Oh sure, there will be blanket statements of gratitude, but will they really take the time to communicate with individuals if push comes to shove? Nope. Probably not. Excuses such as being too busy, or on the road, or in the studio come up, and if that's the case, then they should probably consider not using Facebook or other sites such as Twitter as a communication tool for their creative endeavors. They should delete their group, delete their fan page, or have someone with human qualities, such as compassion and respect, at least administrate the site for them. If someone writes on my fan page wall, I am going to make sure to respond to that person. I figure not doing so is the same as being acknowledged at the post office by a stranger with a "good morning" or a tip of a hat and not responding in a similar fashion or not responding at all. That certainly wouldn't be nice now, would it? It's just common courtesy to give a small returning gesture and that's what makes us human. That is where the disconnect happens. Not in the using of Facebook, it's in the ignorant use of Facebook. 

Will it change? Will people out there in Facebook land see that creating a fan page is a hugely conscious undertaking that needs to be thoroughly considered before being created? Again, probably not. These people are unfortunately, riding on the coattails of their fans with swelled heads of idolization. They're using the adage, "But I'm giving them my music, or my art. I am sharing with them. I'm sharing my passion with the world" and blah, blah, blah, crappity crap. But that creativity should occur regardless of whether they have the fans on Facebook or not (if they are true to their art form). So it comes down to this…..technology can work to our advantage here. Call these fan page creators on their actions. Start asking them about their art, their music, their style, their drive, their passion. Learn about them, learn from them. And if they're not willing to share, then take advantage of technology and delete them, because ultimately, they really aren't that personable after all. Hang on to the human beings that will tip their hat to you, even if for just a bit. Because you're a human being with your own thoughts, and you deserve that respect.

Cavebabies Were Born in December

Man, I just came back from a phenomenal house concert; JD Edwards and his charming, and equally talented girlfriend, Jessie Havey (formerly of the Duhks). My head is buzzing with exhaustion and euphoria and I really, truly should be sleeping but I'm caught up in the moment of this month and digging it. March is a great month, so far, and I'm less than a week down the road.

I decided not too long ago, the day after the month of February ended actually, that I from here on in declare that February is obsolete in my life. I've had it with that miserable excuse of a month. In my world, January will now be extended an extra 15 days, running to day 46. Then it will kick in to March, starting at negative 15. Screw February. It's the worse month ever on record of any month there is. It's miserably cold but starting to get muddy, so you never know whether you should wear rubber boots or can get away with sneakers. My dog's fur gets caked with dirt and ice after a walk and then slowly melts mud blobs all over the house, no matter how hard I try to keep her confined until I can give her a good rubdown with yet another good towel. By February, I'm tired of snow, and now I have to deal with mud and snow? No thanks.

And by mid-February I am a moody, brooding soul, at the pinnacle of artistic tension and frustration. It comes with months of being holed up inside, reading, conversing, focusing on my art and writing, being introspective and pensive. It takes its toll after a while. I feel I can't possible exploit one more thought out of my squeeze-dried brain. February makes me mentally tired. Bleck.

But as soon as the last second of February 28th ticked itself into March 1st, the moon blasted itself full and my mind went completely blank. Instant transformation occurred, thoughts were gone and my body completely inundated my grey matter. I have not had a silly thought in my head for a week and it's been fantastic. I think my knuckles have been bleeding from dragging on the ground and I haven't minded, just stocked up on band-aids. Because March is about desire; carnal, guttural, spring desire. And there must be some logical reason for what seems like an instantaneous switch from thought to desire that can be linked right back to our old caveman days (Man, those cavemen have had to take the blame for everything, eh?) I figure it's because the natural mood drug, Vitamin D, AKA sunshine, is absorbing into the bones and resurrecting the body. Most cavebabies were probably born around December. I wonder if the statistics are connected to this banal theory void of any research whatsoever. My brain's hurting from thinking this much. Did I mention that I haven't thought in a week?

And I don't mean to sound like suddenly we become a bunch of heavy breathing sexual heathens devoid of any intellectual capabilities  in March but you can't deny this sense of "something's in the air"....people have more pep in their walk, doors are being opened for strangers at the post office, people are wearing brighter clothing, people are wearing less clothing and feeling the air on their exposed skin, windows are rolled down, you can hear the bass music from the truck that drives by making everyone undulate to the rhythm until they get to their desired locations, more eye contact is being made, smiles are being exchanged....collectively, we seem to be erasing the crappity crap (Thanks Jen, for sharing that quote with me) of the winter. That kinda feeling goes way beyond the mind. It seeps deep down into the blood where it pulses. And by the way, there's nothing wrong with being a bunch of heavy breathing sexual heathens devoid of any intellectual capabilities every once in a while.

So I suggest that if you're still stuck in the cavernous hell hole of February still, that you take the time to peel off some layers. Heck, go outside and look up at the night sky and take a deep, deep breath and just smell March and soon enough, you're going to feel it too.

"It hurts to see you leave without the taste of your last touch" JD Edwards "The Rose"

Purple Harley of a Bike

Ah...biking has been on my mind lately. I think it's this incredibly warm weather, and being able to see just a hint of pavement. When I was a kid, I used to visualize blowdrying the roads dry so that I could pull out my big purple Harley. But I didn't call it my "purple Harley" when I was a kid. I didn't know anyone that had a Harley when I got my bike. Hey, I lived in Pickle Lake at the time and we were a bit sheltered there. It was just "my purple bike" at the time (actually Teresa and I shared it for some time, but eventually it became alllll mine), but in retrospect, it was the Harley of bicycles.

Man, that bike was sweet. Low to the ground, huge banana seat, shiny silver butterfly handle bars, a sweet plastic weaved basket in the front decked out with flowers that looked like quintessential gerbera daisies, a high bar on the back to hang on to or lean against, reflective pedals, and metallic purple paint. It was a beauty and it was my magic.

Having a bike when you're a kid equates to ultimate freedom, escaping your home, your parents, your siblings, your responsibilities. You've got a quarter in your pocket and a Revello on your mind and you have the means to get one without having to ask your mom 'cause you're on your bike and nobody knows where you're going. Freedom on wheels.

And that bike was completely loved for that reason. My dad used to make us put a bread bag on the seat of the bike once we parked it in the yard so that if there was a crack in the vinyl of the seat, the whole seat wouldn't get soaked when it rained, leading to a wet ass for the duration of a whole day. Plus, I think he just wanted us to preserve the seat a bit longer. He always oiled the chain for us every spring and made sure that the bike was in tip top shape. And we used to stick little plastic things on the wheel spokes that looked like straws that slid up and down the spokes when the wheels rotated, making a cool sound that is comparable to nothing else. It was a sound of its own. That bike even had a liscence plate. It had an identity and could be tracked down if need be. And I remember Teresa stuck an OPP sticker on it. The sticker had a picture of a weird little yellow monster with blue spots (does anyone else out there remember those stickers?) and it had the phone number for the OPP on it. I liked that little bit of security; knowing that someone could call the number on my bike if they found it abandoned by a rotten thief. Yeah, I thought that way when I was a kid. Justice would have to be served if someone took my bike.

There were just so many memories connected to the bike....I remember the first time I rode it on my own. Well, kinda on my own. I was probably around 5 or 6 and the seat was big enough to hold my sister and I. I sat in the front, and she sat in the back, keeping her feet well out of the way, helping to hang on to the handle bars and telling me to pedal. Pedal! Pedal! Pedal! I zoomed down the hill towards Pickle Lake's only main street absorbing my first biking experience with the feeling of pure exhiliration. My sister taught me how to ride my bike and soon we were regularly wrestling over who was going to have a chance to ride it next. We doubled a lot.

It was also on the purple Harley, with my sister, that I had my first serious bike injury. This is back in the day when helmets weren't mandatory. Heck, seatbelts weren't even mandatory in those days. Well, in my little world, shoes weren't mandatory either. My sister was doubling me around the neighbourhood when we lived in Thompson. I was probably around 4 years old and as you can imagine, I didn't really listen too well when my sister told me to make sure to stick my feet out. I did what every person fears they are going to do. I stuck my foot in the spoke and darn near sliced off my whole heel of my foot. I do remember screaming really loud. I remember seeing my neighbour stick her head out her door, and I remember seeing my dad come out of the house, and I don't remember anymore from that experience, thankfully. Harley war wounds.

We made plywood ramps and spent hours biking down Spruce Crescent for the quick thrill of air time. I would pick up Melanie or Shannon and we'd stuff our basket with a towel and head to the beach or Mel's cabin for the day, biking home only when the sun was settling in for the night. I can still smell the sun in my skin, and feel the air blowing my hair into impossible knots that my mother would curse to comb out. I would wear my flip flops out skidding the bottoms along the road. I would stand up and sway my whole body back and forth, weaving down the road until I could hear a vehicle sneak up behind me. I'd race my dad home at lunch time, begging him to clock how many miles per hour I was making on the Harley.

And then one day it was just gone. I don't remember how that happened, and I don't remember being traumatized by it either. I was on to the next hand-me-down bike; my sister's three speed. ( I continued to get hand me down bikes until I saved up my own money in high school and bought myself a red speed bike from Sears which came unassembled. My boyfriend put it together for me and it was always a little big crooked, but it got me out to Harry's Corner every day at lunch during the summer so that I could visit him at the gas station.) And I don't necessarily yearn for the bike per se, even though it would certainly be a classic collector's item now, for sure, but I yearn for the sense of innocence and the simplicity of life that those bike rides afforded me.

My students occasionally tease me. They say they saw me whizzing by on my bike down Howey Street. I pawn my coffee off on teachers that I meet at the coffee shop in the morning, begging them to take it to school for me since I'm on my bike. But I've also just burned my legs on the hot coffee that I've stuffed into the water holder as I cruise up the hill to school. I've salvaged a couple of old bicycles that have been either given to me or yanked from the dump and strapped them to my deck of my house like beautiful ornaments, perhaps to my neighbour's dismay. My friend Deanna bought me a shirt for Christmas that says "biker chick" on it which includes an image of a bicycle and I wear it with honour. Call it an addiction, or obsession, but it's not in your typical "I want to be fit and bike for the sake of exercise" kind of addiction....it's all about the connection that bike gives me to my past and to remind me that life doesn't have to be so complex. I can just hop on my bike and erase my worries and just pedal myself into giddy oblivion. It's that easy.

"Get your bike out of the lanes marked 'yesterday' or 'tomorrow' and pop your wheelies in today."

Breakfast at the Lakeview

My tummy is full after a Sunday morning excursion to the Lakeview with my buddy Fingers and my son Alexander. You can't go wrong with the fare at the Lakeview....everything from fruit filled pancakes that cover the whole plate to their token breakfast specials. If you've been there long enough, you know that if you ask nicely, they'll swap the pan fries with tomatoes, but who goes to a restaurant to eat healthy?! (The great part is that Grace and Pearl, owners of the Lakeview, are very compromising when it comes to their menu, and highly respect their customers.)

I explained my perspective just recently to my dear friend Harriet, who shares in my love for the ambiance of the Lakeview. I said that when I go and have a meal at the Lakeview I don't go there to have a private conversation. I go there to have a meal with the community. It's very common for conversations to be overheard, and for locals to partake in what may be considered a private discussion. Don't go to the Lakeview with a secret, because it won't remain that way for long. We're all in close quarters in those red vinyl booths. Sometimes I can smell my neighbour's breath, which isn't always necessarily good if they ordered the perogies with onions. But you can easily forgive these shortcomings because your breath probably smells like cabbage. Oh, and never, ever go to the Lakeview with a new date, because the regulars will all razz you and tell your potential partner every single embarrassing thing about you....no mercy.

It would be a weird day at the Lakeview if it wasn't being inhabited by Steve or Stan, Hugh, Martin, Rudy, Bob, Jack, John, Kurt, Larry, JB; you know, "the guys" that are still living and breathing because the Lakeview coffee pulses through their blood. That coffee is a damn good reason to wake up every morning.
The Lakeview coffee is completely the reason for my incessant obsession with coffee; plain ol' Lakeview coffee without any special flavouring or dashes of cinnamon. It's just good. Period. And I waitressed at the Lakeview for four summers, so the smell of java permeated into my clothes (along with the odor of grease and cigarette smoke....it was back in the day when everyone had a cigarette with their coffee, including me) leaving a permanent desire for that joe. It's also what kept me going if I made the mistake of partying my tips away the night before and had to stagger to work for a Saturday morning shift a few hours later. There was many a weekend that I got home at 2:30am, showered and turned around and went back to work for 3:30am. I didn't really like serving corn beef hash on those mornings, and my patience spread thin when the tourists asked for "American" cheese and grits. But the coffee kept me going. I was usually close to being completely sober by the time half my shift was over. Those were some pretty wild days....I can't believe I wasn't fired.

And that coffee has created a bit of controversy lately since the owners of the Lakeview decided to change the coffee cups that have been the same style for probably the last 50 years. The plain white coffee cups with the plain white saucers have been replaced with newer, larger, colourful mugs that don't need a saucer. This is efficient for a number of reasons; less space in the dishwasher due to the missing saucer, less time wasted on refills, and more coffee to drink for a reasonable price. But that's about it. I am of the old school mentality that the old way was the good way. Actually, I think just me and Hugh are probably the only ones that think this.....there's something to be said for tradition. And really, the old cup and saucer were just more aesthetically pleasing. And I could carry six cups of coffee at once because of those saucers. Now they use trays. Phhhst.....trays. And there was a nice place to hold the spoon. And the little bit of spilled coffee was caught in the saucer. Fortunately, I have one of those cups in my home so I can reminisce about them. I never use it.

I guess that it plays with the whole idea of evolution. If they change the mugs, what next? Will they get rid of the mirrored wall? What about the wooden paneling or the big "L" that screens the coffee shop side as you walk in? The horse shoe table is missing it's stools.....is that going the way of the dodo as well? I posted a photo of the Lakeview in a section on my Facebook sight, and a former resident said that nothing had changed. That's exactly right, and as it should be. Some things are just good the way they are.

And another reason I probably am not really into the whole idea of change is because going to the Lakeview constantly reminds me of when I was a kid, especially when I bring my son with me. When my dad is already there at the restaurant, and we walk in, he has such a great smile on his face. Alexander shyly goes over to him and gives him a great big hug, before he joins me again. (Today when Alexander looked at the menu my dad said, "Why are you even bothering looking at the menu when you know you're going to have the blueberry pancakes?" Everyone knows that Alexander always has the blueberry pancakes.) When I was a kid, living in Ignace, my dad would drag me along to the Husky, where he would drink his coffee with the Italian clan and play rounds and rounds of cribbage. I would snuggle in to his side with my apple juice and count his cards for him, 15-2, 15-4....and I was the one that always moved the crib peg for him. I was asked for my opinion on what cards he should keep. I was made to feel important, like I was needed in order for my dad to have a successful crib game. Who would have thought all of that love could happen over a game of crib at a grungy old gas station with a cup of coffee? Well it did. And I can assure you that it happens time and time again, at old restaurants that are just left the way they've always been.

And that's just breakfast. Wait until you have Mrs. Siemaszko's borscht on Fridays. Yet another reason to love the Lakeview, but you'll just have to go there yourself to find out.

I'll leave you with "One More Cup of Coffee" originally done by Bob Dylan, remade by The White Stripes.

Conscious Precycling (Yes... I Spelled it Right)

Ok, I try to keep up with the times, but really, in all honestly, I'm just going through the motions, pretending, because I don't actually keep up with the times at all. I don't watch the news. Heck, I don't watch television. And when I read the local paper, I just end up writing letters to the editor so I try to minimize my exposure there too. So when the term "precycle" whizzed past my ears, they perked up. Precycle. What an ingenious word and concept. So, I went and Googled it, because isn't that what today's modern thinker does? We are Googlers with a capital G. And lo and behold, the concept of "precycling" has been around for years.

Well, not in our town. We're just talking about getting a RECYCLING program back in the community. Oh wait, let me rephrase that....the municipality is talking about getting a recycling program back in the community. There in lies a huge difference because we have a dedicated, albeit small group of people that are responsible for ensuring that there are at least some recycling options available in our communities. I am absolutely thankful for that and for their efforts and I totally take advantage of those options.

When I designed my home, I wanted to install recycle bins into my kitchen cabinetry. I felt that it would put me in a position of ensuring that I dedicated myself to recycling, and I have. I recycled before I built my house; it was just an uglier process that included exposed cardboard boxes in my garage. This new system has three big bins that spin on a caddy behind a corner cabinet; beautiful if I do say so myself. I had to special order those bins and it was worth it. I'm sure my builders thought I was coo-coo (Well, more coo-coo then they already thought...haha). Why on Earth would you waste kitchen cupboard space like that when each floor is only 650 square feet?! I was pretty adamant.

But in the back of my mind, I think to myself, if I'm recycling, and my neighbour is recycling, and people that live in communities that actually have a functioning municipal program are recycling, haven't we brought back enough tin and glass, and aluminum that we should never ever have to extract resources to make a new glass jar or aluminum can again? Why does more continue to be made, instead of just reusing what we've already used? People are obviously throwing away more than is being recycled, (still), so more resources continue to be extracted from our earth to make a convenient container for the non-recycler to drink out of and throw away again. Great. These people are definitely not precycling.

So then I started thinking about how much precycling actually goes on in my world, and I have to say that I've valiantly made a good start. Is it bragging to say that I may be ahead of the times? Precycling is based on the concept of making the decision before purchase and/or consumption as to whether that object really needs to be bought and/or consumed at all in the first place. It's conscious consumerism of weighing the pros and cons based on the environment and also based on actual need.

I'd like to brag and say that my choices are based on a conscious choice to save the world, but really it initially began because I was a starving artist/university student and had ingenuity. I wanted to make my measly income stretch as far as I could. And I was usually thinking about beer and how to get beer cheap. If I spent my money foolishly on gadgets and stuff, then I can't get a beer. Wait. I'll wash my clothes in my bathtub, cut my own hair and borrow my friend's jeans and live in them all year. Yup. I wore basically one pair of jeans all year, and then those quarters that would have gone down the wash, ended up going down the drain a different way instead. Beer consumption. It created a mind set. I realized early on that I could live a pretty decent life with a minimal amount and be just as happy, if not more happy, then I would be with money. And I was not surrounded by stuff. It was clarifying (and I was precycling).

Yet imagine that you didn't need to consider factors such as time or money in your life. Heck, while you're at it, imagine that you're a really buff movie star with all of the conveniences of the world laid out before you, including a personal chef, a nanny, a house keeper, an accountant...the whole bamboozle (no thanks, not for me, but let's play this game anyway). Ok, so we're some famous person who decides to go shopping. If that person doesn't need to consider the concept of making a quick, filling, and relatively cheap meal for their family before they head off to their night shift at work, they may consider buying healthier foods because they don't have to worry about having to find the time to chop vegetables. Who has the time to chop vegetables when you have to run out the door? People that have the option of hiring others don't have that concern. That's why they're all skinny and beautiful. *sigh* (Well, that and they're made out of plastic, but that's another blog.) But in reality, sometimes we compromise our health and our money and our time for quick, convenient choices. It seems that today, most choices are made this way. A lot of people don't have the time to even consider precycling.

Look at grocery store products. If you go to the produce section, not only can you buy an apple, but you can pick your choice of at least 5 different types of apples. But that apple does not have to be in its original form. If it's more convenient, you can buy that apple as apple leather, wrapped up in a little aluminum plasticy thingy. Or you can get the dehydrated apple rings that come in a convenient plastic resealable container. Or you can buy the individual, portion sized apple sauces that fit nicely into lunch bags. Or you can buy canned apple slices that already are coated in seasoning (and preservatives) so that you can make a "homemade" pie. And after consumption of that apple "product", you are left with a container that may or may not be recycled. You can get apple bits mixed with other fruit bits or dairy or crunchy things and this is put into plastic tubes with fun pop up lids, or that roll out or even ooze or spray. All of those products could have been made with that very same fresh apple that doesn't come in a package if someone just took the time and effort to chop it, or mash it, or dehydrate it. Heck, I wish I had that option. I've got a jar of apple sauce sitting in my cupboard. I'm not a saint. But at least it's a glass jar and I will recycle that jar. But if I was that movie star with more time on my hands, I'd be mashing those apples myself (or hiring some cute naked cowboy with an apron) and throwing the core in my composter. (Right now my dog is my composter. She eats apple cores like nobody's business! And she drools over brocolli stems and orange slices. My dog is a vegetarian.)

So obviously now I'm not washing my clothes in my bathtub (but I still cut my own hair most of the time). I can afford to live a bit more luxuriously and I can afford a beer here and there without having to wait for quarter draft night. So what do I do now as a conscious precycler?

Both Alexander and I pack our lunches in glass containers as much as possible. And my sister bought my son this really cool sandwich wrapper thingy that is washable, so I don't have to worry about wax paper or plastic wrap. If I knew how to sew well enough, I would make one for everyone I know, because they're just smart. Plastic wrap is the devil. We don't even own the stuff and really, it is not needed. It really isn't. When my dad wraps something in plastic wrap for me, I have to dedicate about a half an hour just to get the mummified food out of it. I buy a roll of it once a year for my art class when we do a watercolour unit because you can create a really cool effect with the plastic wrap. And I wash baggies and use them over and over again. But I try to avoid using them at all. I try to buy big ticket items second hand, such as my winter coats. They can cost anywhere from two to three hundred dollars if bought brand new!!! But my philosophy is that old men die and leave good coats, so I shop in the men's section at Value Village and other second hand stores for coats, and I've never been disappointed. This year I got a beautiful full length coat made out of llama and alpaca wool for $15.00! I affectionately call the coat "Tina" (after the Napolean Dynamite movie....if you've seen it you'll know what I mean.)

When I want to be frivolous and buy something for my house, I first see if it's available at a second hand store; especially picture frames. I'm in the process of painting a bunch of second hand picture frames white so that I can line my hallways with a variety of different art pieces and photographs I've created or collected. I buy furniture at garage sales and clean it and paint it. I have a funky purple vinyl chair that I got at a garage sale for $5 bucks! I've seen the exact same chair in modern furniture stores for hundreds of dollars.

And I know I keep on talking about money when I talk about precycling, but it is a huge factor in this concept. Look at it this way.....if I buy this product brand new, it will have to be transported to my little boonie town at the end of a two hour drive highway. That's gas consumption, pollution, shipping costs, and extra packaging. Did I really need that product that badly? Is my life going to be over if I don't have exact matching picture frames from IKEA? No, probably not.

And you know, I'm just as gullible as the next person. I like pretty packaging, and fancy looking labels. I'm an artist for crying out loud. I totally love that kind of stuff. But more and more I find myself looking at the product and wondering whether I need it that much just because its container looks all fancy schmancy. Artists are persuasive geniuses and know all of the tricks of the trade for visually manipulating you into buying crap you don't need. Standing in the hair product aisle is mesmerizing and overwhelming. My eyes go all freaky if I stand there for too long.

Hey, remember the day when occasionally mom would come home from the grocery store with a bag of cookies? Did you ever have "Dad's" cookies growing up? Remember how you would open up the bag that was made out of waxy paper, and there would be an accordion style piece of corrugated cardboard inside that separated the rows of cookies, and one of the most fun parts of getting the cookies was pulling that cardboard out? And then all of the cookies got put into the cookie jar and we carefully plotted our conquering of those said cookies, slowly, methodically. In the meantime, I snuck away with the zig zagged cardboard and turned it into some kind of craft. Have you opened up a box of cookies lately? It's plastic upon plastic upon plastic. Holy paranoid. Who complained enough about freshness for us to get to this point? If you want something to be fresh, go and get the ingredients and make those cookies yourself! That'll be fresh! And that'll be precycling.

And I love that people are really starting to get inventive with re-using packaging in creative ways. Susan at Junk n' Java makes really cool bags out of used coffee bags and vegetable bags. They're durable and easy to clean and hold a lot of stuff. My colleague at school made me a change purse out of ironed plastic bags that she cut, painted and sewed. I use reclaimed papers in my artwork all of the time. I have hired a woman to crochet a shopping bag for me out of all of the plastic bags I gave her. I make really cool camera bag/sunglass cases for my friends out of neck ties. I've seen purses made out of old jeans. It's nice to see, but in all reality, I think all of these crafts are made out of desperation. Many of us just can't possibly bare to put another piece of plastic in the landfill so we're making choices and changes and crafts.

Ask yourself these questions in all consciousness before you buy anything; absolutely anything:

1. If I buy this product, is there a "purer" form of it that is not over-processed?
2. If I buy this product, how long do I expect it to last in my home? Is it durable enough to last even a year?
3. If I decide I don't want this product anymore, where will it end up?
4. If I buy this product, and it won't end up in the recycle bin, how can I ensure that it doesn't end up in the landfill? Can I transform it into anything else?
5. What can I buy in bulk so that I'm not buying individually wrapped items?
6. Is it possible to buy this product second hand instead of buying it brand new?

Precycling is a big word. It entails preservation, preconceiving, and preparing. Those are words that take effort and conscious thought and I think we are getting well past the point of just considering those options, in all reality. How long can we deny truth and live in oblivion where if we don't precycle and recycle, someone else will. It doesn't work that way. It's not balancing out. And we can't all have naked cowboys chopping vegetables in our kitchen, but at least we can imagine that we do when we buy unpackaged, pure products that haven't been mummified in plastic. There's a reality that is manageable and available to everyone.

(Hey, are you thinking about that naked cowboy right now too?*grin*)

Love is in the Air...

....or so it would seem when I walked in to the pharmacy yesterday and was bombarded with Valentine-commercialism this and lovey-dovey that. Oh yeah, I thought....Valentine's day is coming up. It's easy to forget when you're single and just trudging through winter. Ironically, Valentine's day always reminds me of being sick, because when I was a little girl, I was always drastically ill on Valentine's day and usually didn't make it to school for the great card exchange. Instead, I was at home hacking up a lung (I was always allowed to be in my parent's bed when I was sick, surrounded by Archie comic books), visualizing that moment when the guy I had the brutal crush on went and put the card into my envelope, delicately decorated with paper lace hearts, wishing that I was there so that he could tell me how deeply his love for me travels. *sigh* And that of course is never how it went when I got back to school a few days later. Usually my Valentines were either stuffed in my desk or my older sister was ordered to bring them home, much to her chagrin. And the guy that I had a crush on usually gave me a good sock on the shoulder and called me a name like "fruit cake" and asked if I wanted to play soccer. That was as good as it got in the romantic department when I was a kid, but I didn't mind. I was a tomboy and brutally shy....yes, I was brutally shy (I still am) and a sock on the shoulder was better than nothing. And there in lay the beginnings of my introspective analysis of the male breed and this interesting mating game that continues to confuse and mesmerize and down right baffle me at times.
I have learned to laugh at my experiences with love and have yet to give up on the prospects of what love holds for me. But in the mean time, I'll leave you with some interesting things (some may consider them rules?) I have learned about love and dating and the mating game and all that stuff we like to reflect on, every year, smack dab in the dead of winter when we're freezing our asses off. (Who decided on February 14th anyway? It's got to be one of the most depressing times of year! Everyone's feeling all fat and lazy and hairy, and far from sexy and romantic. I vote that Valentine's day should be in July, when everyone's basking in the glow of the sun.) Until that day happens, here's my advice:

1. Don't date the guy that smells like bologna and still lives with his parents.

2. Don't date the guy that agrees with absolutely everything you say and do. You will eventually tire of the flattery and wonder if he has a single thought of his own in his pretty little head.

3. Date the guy that likes going to folk festivals. He's open minded and probably cute too.

4. Don't date the guy that says his body is just a "sack of skin" carrying his energy and it's almost ridiculous that he needs to carry it around when really that energy can just transport anywhere it wants to. You will spend time wondering and worrying whether he will chose to leave his sack of skin behind at any given time.

5. Have sex in a horse shoe pit at least once in your life just so you can say you did.

6. You might want to reconsider dating the guy that says, "How are you about nose picking?" Don't take it as a sign that he's comfortable with you. He's going to pick his nose in front of you whether you're comfortable with it or not, and the crappy part is that he'll probably do so while driving YOUR vehicle and now you'll have to worry where the product of his nose picking ended up.

7. Don't go out with the guy that is afraid to tell his parents who you are, regardless of your age.

8. If you have children, don't introduce your boyfriend to them for a long amount of time. They could become more attached to him than you are. The boyfriend should not be a replacement for their father. Their father is their father.

9. If a man insults your home decor, kick him out immediately. Your home is a reflection of your personality and it won't be long before he's insulting you.

10. Date the guy that likes his dad, and has a healthy relationship with his dad.

11. Don't date the guy that prides himself on going 19 days without cleaning himself. You'll eventually be subjected to that and it won't look or smell nice.

12. Have sex on the golf course at least once in your life just to say you have.

13. Do not sleep with a man that is engaged or married. He will not leave you for his fiance or wife. If anything, he'll go back to his fiance/wife more determined that he picked the right one. He loves her, not you.

14. It's not cool if a guy hitchhikes for 5 hours to visit you, especially if you had no idea he'd show up at your door. It's creepy.

15. It is even creepier if same said hitchhiker guy pulls out a black balaclava and asks if you want to see him wear that later. Try to avoid dating guys like that, unless you're in to balaclavas.

16. Guys that like to taxidermy birds may make you feel like you're in a perpetual Hitchcock movie.

17. Date the guy that compliments you verbally. Don't be happy with "just knowing he does...". You deserve to hear it, just as you would say it to him.

18. Wait until he's through his "religious phase" because ultimately you'll be competing with God, and that's hard to do.

19. Guys with ham radios are hard to understand so brush up on your knowledge of Morse code and antennas if you're going to date a ham radio guy. Pick up a book on sound waves too.

20. Date the guy that tells his mom openly that he loves her without embarrassment.

21. If he's non-communicative at the beginning of your relationship, he'll be rendered a mute by the end of your relationship. You won't be able to get him to speak or open up to you. Go find someone that will speak instead.

22. Men that cry at the sight of rainbows may be just a little bit too sensitive.

23. Date the guy that doesn't care if you ate garlic the day before and it's permeating out of every single pore in your body.

24. Date the guy that likes to read in bed.

25. It's ok to be picky. Don't pick the guy you "kinda like" or "will grow to like"...date the guy you really, really like. Be true to yourself and trust your instinct.

Well, it seems to me that I could probably continue with this one, but now I'll put it into your hands. What's the best advice you've ever given yourself regarding that big old intense word we call love? And by the way, Happy Valentine's Day, eh?