As my Facebook friends already know, last week my order of 25 Barred Rock chicks arrived. A sweet, cheeping box of fluff balls who quickly imprinted on my hand, so that they come running when I scrabble my fingers in the straw. I could sit for hours in the cozy chicken coop, just watching them stretch their tiny wings and dash back and forth like zany fuzz rockets.
And this morning, that's just what I did. Spent hours in the chicken coop.
You see, yesterday I noticed that a few of the chicks were being somewhat negligent in the personal hygiene department. Their yellow puffball bums had some unsightly goo hardening menacingly. I thought that surely this was normal, that it would crust and fall off, and the chicks would go on their merry ways.
Not so the case. This morning there was a lot more ugly chunky bums, and one chick in particular seemed to be suffering ill effects. So I asked Google "why do my chicks have poop stuck to their bums?" which prompted a barrage of websites and forums discussing the topic. The widely accepted answer: "Pasty Butt".
This is not to be confused with "pastry bun" which I would much rather have had 25 of today.
The causes of pasty butt are much debated, as are the cures, but the agreed-upon necessity is that the butts must be cleansed. Apparently this dried up gunk clogs the works, so to speak, and for a tiny chick a plug in the pipes spells imminent death.
So out I went, bucket of warm water, a box of Q-tips and a bottle of mineral oil in hand. Some people recommended holding the chicks' bums in the warm water until the poo softened, then wiping it off. Some said to use a damp cloth. One person admitted that "we are ruthless. We just pull it off - sometimes a little fluff comes off, too, but then there's less for the poop to stick to!"
My trusting little gaffers came running up to my hand, eager for whatever they thought I was giving them to eat. I think that first chick was awfully surprised.
As it happens, there is a silver lining to this spectacle. I now know how to chink my log cabin. I'll use chicken poo. It sticks to everything and turns into concrete once it's dried!
At first I very gentle cradled the little chick to my bosom and delicately daubed with a dampened Q-tip. The chick looked shocked. It began to struggle a little more as my ministrations became somewhat more vigorous. Sure enough, it's vent was completely covered, and no doubt it was relieved to finally be able to make a movement. On me.
I tried to soften the goo with mineral oil on chick #2. It doesn't work any better.
The next chick I cupped in my hand and submerged it's infected area in the warm water. It screamed. The rest of the chicks rushed over to investigate this strange screaming bucket.
The poo did not soften.
Halfway through the job, I was grabbing chick after chick, holding them head down, bum up to the light, and roughly rolling the wet Q-tips at the base of the... cabin chinking. There was a group of bullies that pecked at the drops of dirty water that rolled down my crossed legs. Every now and then one would leap up and try to peck the feet of the chick being treated. They started scrambling up my lap, beady little eyes plotting further torture for whichever sibling I was holding. Wretched little beasts had already forgotten their own humiliation despite their raw little bums bearing witness to the atrocity.
So I spent the early hours of my day scrubbing nearly 25 chick bums. Something I did not expect to do. Ever. When I left the coop, most of the little creatures had resumed their normal routines; hopping around, pecking at the specks on the walls, trying to jump on top of the waterer... but a few remained forlornly huddled under the heat lamp looking damp and dejected. I can only hope that their bums soon dry and their feathers grow fast!
Monday, 10 September 2012
Sunday, 9 September 2012
Sweet Sweet Success
You may recall my initial Plan for Success, which did not include cake decorating.
I think it was Robbie Burns who told us that the best laid plans of mice and men go aft agley, and that's precisely how my plans went. As a newcomer in a small community, I decided to take a blanket-marketing approach and basically tried to do everything I could - door to door window painting sales, bargain-basement ceiling paintings, fancy cake on display... even two different business cards for separate endeavors. I figured something was bound to stick.
Unfortunately, as it happens, cake is pretty sticky. And cake orders started coming in.
Now, I only tried out cake decorating on a whim. One time at a farmer's market I was applying henna to a market-goer's hand, and someone mentioned that it looked a lot like icing. She said "you could probably decorate cakes, too!" So I did. And yes, I could.
I found it somewhat stressful, those early cakes. I was attending the School of YouTube, learning from the self-proclaimed masters. The ones with webcams, anyway. But there's only so much one can really learn from watching a home video on frosting a cake... I figured I'd be less stressed when I'd improved my technique. Seems like all I could see were flaws - major ones. Lopsided layers. Bubbles in the buttercream. My Very First Wedding Cake nearly sent me to the looney bin when my worst nightmare came true and I frosted two layers with the opposite colors! So instead of the tiers going green, cream, green, cream, green they went green, cream, green, green, cream! And I was almost out of icing and I had to scrape it all off and oh boy I nearly lost it.
And at first I thought, wow, the baking of the cakes is kind of a bummer. I wish I could make someone else bake the cakes, so I could just decorate them. Just do the "fun" part.
Then I'd be frosting, and I'd think - well, this base coat is really irritating. If only I could get the cakes pre-frosted, and then I could just do the "fun" part.
After that came the decorating details, piping little swirls or flowers, writing messages in buttercream... and I'd think gee whiz, my hands are so shaky for this. Wasn't this supposed to be the "fun" part?
And then I'd get to wash up all the greasybutterystickysugary dishes. I think by now you all know how, for me, dishes are SO NOT the fun part!
Delivering cakes is not so great either - a nerve-wracking ride in the Suburban, balancing a teetering confection, trying to keep the dust out and the flies off and the bumps to a minimum and my arms are aching and why is it so sunny just on the one side of the cake so all the icing gets soft and shiny and good grief are we there yet??!!! Even OtherHalf says "oh I hate this part. Even I get stressed out."
Apparently, the "fun" part is having the recipient of the cake go all wide eyed and goosh "Oh! It's beautiful! It's wonderful!"
Even getting paid almost felt like a let down - it's the part where I look at the cash (usually as it's leaving my purse!) and I think hmmm... I spent two weeks painting viola petals with egg whites and sprinkling them with berry sugar, then two days baking and washing up after baking, and made two extra trips to town for special flavouring, extra butter, and then more icing sugar... I had one insane day of trying to get my buttercream to crust in the humid heat of my fly-infested kitchen, yelled at my kids to "get outside already!" and forgot to feed my husband, and missed two nights of sleep for worrying about how to make it all just perfect. After deducting the cost of materials for this cake, I made about $0.27 an hour. People call it a Labour of Love. I'm not feeling the love.
I had two cake orders this week. One was a wedding cake which had very thoughtfully been booked several months in advance. This gave me many opportunities to remember about it, and have mini panic attacks throughout the summer. The second cake was a last-minute frenzied affair, which gave me two days of full on anxiety, including baking into the night, which didn't matter since I only had nightmares about the fondant once I finally fell asleep. Realizing the potential for disaster, but also seeing that this business was really taking off, I was determined to Make it Work. I did my best to eliminate added stressors - I preplanned the meals for the week; crock pot affairs involving minimum prep and clean up. I wrote "Cake" on the calendar on the days I knew I'd be fully devoted. GiantBoy wrote "every one hide!" beneath my "cake" message. I didn't erase it.
Sure enough, the week was a never-ending one, and insanities popped up out of nowhere - my chicks arrived a week early, necessitating extra time spent prepping the chicken coop; a box of pickling cukes were donated to the cause, so jars had to be found and washed, another trip to town for lids, and the smell of boiling vinegar late into the night; one evening I take the blame for - a perfect evening for a horseback ride with Tweeny that I just couldn't pass up... it was a week where a day lasted a month but there was no time for anything anyway. The cakes were made, delivered, and the evidence washed away.
And I'm throwing in the towel. Literally, as in I got every single tea towel dirty this week as part of my "keep the flies off!" campaign, and figuratively, as in I've tasted success and I don't like it.
Well now doesn't that just beat all. She whines and snivels and wants to be successful and a big fish in a small pond and all that, and just when she's turned a corner, just as she's made cakes for the rich and famous of Boyle, sparking a Beat the Jones' cake ordering frenzy, NOW she's complaining that she's busy and tired and doesn't like it?!
Yup. Welcome to the intricacies of my brain.
Although, to be fair, I don't think it's entirely a "now I've got it and I don't want it anymore" thing. As previously mentioned, I've never really been that keen on the cake decorating. Some have been fun - cakes that I've designed for friends or family, cakes that I've worked on in secret, anticipating the reaction when they're unveiled. But most of them have been torture of varying degrees - and even though I know I can do them well, I know they taste great, I know my customers are thrilled - I can't seem to stop feeling higher-than-the-daily-recommended-dose of stress when I'm working on them. I've been having a hard time finding any "pros" at all, never mind enough to actually outweigh the "cons".
In short, the cake decorating business is no fun.
I know, I know, jobs aren't always fun, life's not always fair, and cats don't always land on their feet. Blah blah blah. The bottom line is, I'm a pampered pet in my marital affairs, and I am not required to contribute one iota of financial support to our family, and therefore I don't have to do jobs that aren't fun. And if anyone doesn't like it, well, I already said life's not fair. My position is due to the fact that I am not a feminist, and therefore I expect my husband to take care of me, which he does quite cheerfully. So.
I know more cake orders are bound to come, and I cringe when I think about turning them down, 'cause I don't really like saying "no". But I only need to recall the extreme unpleasantness in my household during this past week, and I'll find the inner strength I need to stick to my decision. I am crossing "cake decorator" off my list. It will return to the category of thingsIcandowhenIwantto.
This will leave me with more time for the Good Stuff, on which I will be reporting as it occurs. As a matter of fact, I currently have a batch of old fashioned pickles fermenting in my pantry - more on that and other Home Farm experiments in posts to come.
I think it was Robbie Burns who told us that the best laid plans of mice and men go aft agley, and that's precisely how my plans went. As a newcomer in a small community, I decided to take a blanket-marketing approach and basically tried to do everything I could - door to door window painting sales, bargain-basement ceiling paintings, fancy cake on display... even two different business cards for separate endeavors. I figured something was bound to stick.
Unfortunately, as it happens, cake is pretty sticky. And cake orders started coming in.
Now, I only tried out cake decorating on a whim. One time at a farmer's market I was applying henna to a market-goer's hand, and someone mentioned that it looked a lot like icing. She said "you could probably decorate cakes, too!" So I did. And yes, I could.
I found it somewhat stressful, those early cakes. I was attending the School of YouTube, learning from the self-proclaimed masters. The ones with webcams, anyway. But there's only so much one can really learn from watching a home video on frosting a cake... I figured I'd be less stressed when I'd improved my technique. Seems like all I could see were flaws - major ones. Lopsided layers. Bubbles in the buttercream. My Very First Wedding Cake nearly sent me to the looney bin when my worst nightmare came true and I frosted two layers with the opposite colors! So instead of the tiers going green, cream, green, cream, green they went green, cream, green, green, cream! And I was almost out of icing and I had to scrape it all off and oh boy I nearly lost it.
And at first I thought, wow, the baking of the cakes is kind of a bummer. I wish I could make someone else bake the cakes, so I could just decorate them. Just do the "fun" part.
Then I'd be frosting, and I'd think - well, this base coat is really irritating. If only I could get the cakes pre-frosted, and then I could just do the "fun" part.
After that came the decorating details, piping little swirls or flowers, writing messages in buttercream... and I'd think gee whiz, my hands are so shaky for this. Wasn't this supposed to be the "fun" part?
And then I'd get to wash up all the greasybutterystickysugary dishes. I think by now you all know how, for me, dishes are SO NOT the fun part!
Delivering cakes is not so great either - a nerve-wracking ride in the Suburban, balancing a teetering confection, trying to keep the dust out and the flies off and the bumps to a minimum and my arms are aching and why is it so sunny just on the one side of the cake so all the icing gets soft and shiny and good grief are we there yet??!!! Even OtherHalf says "oh I hate this part. Even I get stressed out."
Apparently, the "fun" part is having the recipient of the cake go all wide eyed and goosh "Oh! It's beautiful! It's wonderful!"
Even getting paid almost felt like a let down - it's the part where I look at the cash (usually as it's leaving my purse!) and I think hmmm... I spent two weeks painting viola petals with egg whites and sprinkling them with berry sugar, then two days baking and washing up after baking, and made two extra trips to town for special flavouring, extra butter, and then more icing sugar... I had one insane day of trying to get my buttercream to crust in the humid heat of my fly-infested kitchen, yelled at my kids to "get outside already!" and forgot to feed my husband, and missed two nights of sleep for worrying about how to make it all just perfect. After deducting the cost of materials for this cake, I made about $0.27 an hour. People call it a Labour of Love. I'm not feeling the love.
I had two cake orders this week. One was a wedding cake which had very thoughtfully been booked several months in advance. This gave me many opportunities to remember about it, and have mini panic attacks throughout the summer. The second cake was a last-minute frenzied affair, which gave me two days of full on anxiety, including baking into the night, which didn't matter since I only had nightmares about the fondant once I finally fell asleep. Realizing the potential for disaster, but also seeing that this business was really taking off, I was determined to Make it Work. I did my best to eliminate added stressors - I preplanned the meals for the week; crock pot affairs involving minimum prep and clean up. I wrote "Cake" on the calendar on the days I knew I'd be fully devoted. GiantBoy wrote "every one hide!" beneath my "cake" message. I didn't erase it.
Sure enough, the week was a never-ending one, and insanities popped up out of nowhere - my chicks arrived a week early, necessitating extra time spent prepping the chicken coop; a box of pickling cukes were donated to the cause, so jars had to be found and washed, another trip to town for lids, and the smell of boiling vinegar late into the night; one evening I take the blame for - a perfect evening for a horseback ride with Tweeny that I just couldn't pass up... it was a week where a day lasted a month but there was no time for anything anyway. The cakes were made, delivered, and the evidence washed away.
And I'm throwing in the towel. Literally, as in I got every single tea towel dirty this week as part of my "keep the flies off!" campaign, and figuratively, as in I've tasted success and I don't like it.
Well now doesn't that just beat all. She whines and snivels and wants to be successful and a big fish in a small pond and all that, and just when she's turned a corner, just as she's made cakes for the rich and famous of Boyle, sparking a Beat the Jones' cake ordering frenzy, NOW she's complaining that she's busy and tired and doesn't like it?!
Yup. Welcome to the intricacies of my brain.
Although, to be fair, I don't think it's entirely a "now I've got it and I don't want it anymore" thing. As previously mentioned, I've never really been that keen on the cake decorating. Some have been fun - cakes that I've designed for friends or family, cakes that I've worked on in secret, anticipating the reaction when they're unveiled. But most of them have been torture of varying degrees - and even though I know I can do them well, I know they taste great, I know my customers are thrilled - I can't seem to stop feeling higher-than-the-daily-recommended-dose of stress when I'm working on them. I've been having a hard time finding any "pros" at all, never mind enough to actually outweigh the "cons".
In short, the cake decorating business is no fun.
I know, I know, jobs aren't always fun, life's not always fair, and cats don't always land on their feet. Blah blah blah. The bottom line is, I'm a pampered pet in my marital affairs, and I am not required to contribute one iota of financial support to our family, and therefore I don't have to do jobs that aren't fun. And if anyone doesn't like it, well, I already said life's not fair. My position is due to the fact that I am not a feminist, and therefore I expect my husband to take care of me, which he does quite cheerfully. So.
I know more cake orders are bound to come, and I cringe when I think about turning them down, 'cause I don't really like saying "no". But I only need to recall the extreme unpleasantness in my household during this past week, and I'll find the inner strength I need to stick to my decision. I am crossing "cake decorator" off my list. It will return to the category of thingsIcandowhenIwantto.
This will leave me with more time for the Good Stuff, on which I will be reporting as it occurs. As a matter of fact, I currently have a batch of old fashioned pickles fermenting in my pantry - more on that and other Home Farm experiments in posts to come.
Saturday, 11 August 2012
It Ain't Over...
It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings.
Now that I think about it, I probably shouldn't use that term, since I sing a lot, and I'm not as svelte as I once was. For instance, the other day I was painting at the neighbor's house, humming away as usual, and the Master of the House asked what song I had in my head. To which I replied - "just now, or all morning?" and he answered "all morning, I guess." So I listed the songs I'd sung, whistled and/or hummed in the few hours that I'd been there, and they included two hymns, a Christmas carol, "Our Uncle Rudy Goes Waltzing With Bears" and "I've Got a Brand-new Combine Harvester". (By the way, there is a truly entertaining rendition of the last song on youtube, performed by the Wurzles. Well worth a google. The Muppets do it, too, with Peter Sellers.)
There can be many songs rattling around in my brain at any given time, just looking for a reason to warble out. My teachers used to remind me to be quiet during tests - I'd be humming away as I filled in the blanks. And thanks to years of memorizing music for choir performances, I've got a song for any occasion. Christmas songs are my favorites, and I still love the Spanish songs I learned to sing in Mexico - even though I don't remember what they mean anymore. But I think I could still preach the gospel in Spanish - "Tu tiennes un Amigo que tu ama, Il nombre es Jesus!"
My point is: despite the fact that the somewhat chubby lady is in perpetual song, it ain't over.
My six months are up, I have reported on my pursuit of success, and here I am, in Boyle, on my farm, and life goes on. So what does one do when one's heart's desire has been handed over on a silver platter?
Well, when that one happens to be me, one finds that ideas don't turn off automatically. Sure, I've got my farm and all that that implies, and now I discover that there are all sorts of new things to try out. New challenges to be met. More stuff to investigate. Like, could I raise meat rabbits and chickens together and save on fencing? Could I just put ALL the livestock in the barn, like on "Babe"? (Don't worry, I'm not planning to teach a pig to herd sheep.) How long will it take to convince OtherHalf to obtain a pig? Can I successfully butcher a steer? Can I grow okra? If I start a market garden and deliver weekly boxes of fresh produce, will I start to hate gardening?
And I find out things - like people really do fire pottery in a pit kiln, which is a hole in the ground, filled with "raw" clay pots and then piled with firewood and sawdust. Light on fire, roast a weenie or two, and in 16 hours or so Ta Daaa! Earthenware! Sounds like a challenge to me.
Plus there are 7 free llamas in Athabasca right now...
We have a whole trailer full of fence posts just waiting to join hands and hold livestock.
And I sold a cake and bought myself a scythe with the money.
But I'm not going to give away the whole plot! You'll just have to keep checking the blog, and in between the garden, kids' schooling, hanging out with SisterDear, 4H, horseback riding, goat milking, llama shearing, rug making, pot throwing, cooking, painting, crocheting, skiing out to check the traps... well, somewhere in there I'll find the time to let you all know how things are coming along.
It's gonna be a wild ride!
Now that I think about it, I probably shouldn't use that term, since I sing a lot, and I'm not as svelte as I once was. For instance, the other day I was painting at the neighbor's house, humming away as usual, and the Master of the House asked what song I had in my head. To which I replied - "just now, or all morning?" and he answered "all morning, I guess." So I listed the songs I'd sung, whistled and/or hummed in the few hours that I'd been there, and they included two hymns, a Christmas carol, "Our Uncle Rudy Goes Waltzing With Bears" and "I've Got a Brand-new Combine Harvester". (By the way, there is a truly entertaining rendition of the last song on youtube, performed by the Wurzles. Well worth a google. The Muppets do it, too, with Peter Sellers.)
There can be many songs rattling around in my brain at any given time, just looking for a reason to warble out. My teachers used to remind me to be quiet during tests - I'd be humming away as I filled in the blanks. And thanks to years of memorizing music for choir performances, I've got a song for any occasion. Christmas songs are my favorites, and I still love the Spanish songs I learned to sing in Mexico - even though I don't remember what they mean anymore. But I think I could still preach the gospel in Spanish - "Tu tiennes un Amigo que tu ama, Il nombre es Jesus!"
My point is: despite the fact that the somewhat chubby lady is in perpetual song, it ain't over.
My six months are up, I have reported on my pursuit of success, and here I am, in Boyle, on my farm, and life goes on. So what does one do when one's heart's desire has been handed over on a silver platter?
Well, when that one happens to be me, one finds that ideas don't turn off automatically. Sure, I've got my farm and all that that implies, and now I discover that there are all sorts of new things to try out. New challenges to be met. More stuff to investigate. Like, could I raise meat rabbits and chickens together and save on fencing? Could I just put ALL the livestock in the barn, like on "Babe"? (Don't worry, I'm not planning to teach a pig to herd sheep.) How long will it take to convince OtherHalf to obtain a pig? Can I successfully butcher a steer? Can I grow okra? If I start a market garden and deliver weekly boxes of fresh produce, will I start to hate gardening?
And I find out things - like people really do fire pottery in a pit kiln, which is a hole in the ground, filled with "raw" clay pots and then piled with firewood and sawdust. Light on fire, roast a weenie or two, and in 16 hours or so Ta Daaa! Earthenware! Sounds like a challenge to me.
Plus there are 7 free llamas in Athabasca right now...
We have a whole trailer full of fence posts just waiting to join hands and hold livestock.
And I sold a cake and bought myself a scythe with the money.
But I'm not going to give away the whole plot! You'll just have to keep checking the blog, and in between the garden, kids' schooling, hanging out with SisterDear, 4H, horseback riding, goat milking, llama shearing, rug making, pot throwing, cooking, painting, crocheting, skiing out to check the traps... well, somewhere in there I'll find the time to let you all know how things are coming along.
It's gonna be a wild ride!
Wednesday, 8 August 2012
To Sum Up...
Okay, I realize that six months has come and gone. Somewhere in month five I thought, Oh boy, I really ought to report on my success (or lack thereof) but as usual, Things got in the way.
So, did I attain my goal of success in a mere six months?
First, a quick recap. When I started on this journey in January, I was living in a big ugly rental house in Wasa, BC. Hubbykins was dabbling in various business ventures (ooooo, that sounds nefarious) and I had decided to become successful; as in, make proper money doing the creative things I enjoy.
February blew in with a blustery lack of work, so Hubbykins began to look a little further afield. Thus, he landed in Boyle, Alberta, on Feb 16th 2012. Offspring and I arrived three weeks later and began to settle in to a new home and community. A circumstance that was somewhat disruptive to my whole success scheme.
I quickly fell in love with the little farm we were renting, and we had high hopes of making an offer to purchase on it, should we ever manage to save up a downpayment. At first we aimed for a six month savings plan, which rapidly morphed into a six year savings plan as our moving expenses caught up with us.
And I did my best to swallow my nerves and market my creativity in the great metropolis of Boyle. This included walking main street and introducing myself to all the store managers, trying to pitch window paintings in time for Easter. I did land one job painting the windows at the Bistro. The friendly man at the Automotive Parts store misunderstood me completely and agreed that his window FRAMES certainly could use a touch up - I should come back when the weather warmed up. Okay, I really am in hickville now.
The water in our sewer AND our well was frozen solid, so that took several frost-biting days to remedy. Once the water flowed again, it instantly turned all my fixtures to rust. After some weeks of experimenting with nasal-passage-searing chemical concoctions, I discovered that industrial strength toilet bowl cleaner is required to scrub the rust off my tub surround. Offspring are dismayed that every so often the dishwasher plugs up with mineral deposits and rust and the dishes have to be washed by hand. And if I try to do three regular-sized loads of laundry all in a row, the well runs dry.
We felt certain that our well troubles could be solved, so we went into our Bank to discuss the distant-future possibility of getting a mortgage. Surprisingly, the loans officer plugged our numbers into her computer and assured us that we could get a mortgage that very day, with no downpayment whatsoever! Thus began the uphill battle for financing.
When our excruciatingly expensive lawyers sent our obviously gold-plated paperwork to the bank to finalize our finances, suddenly there were all sorts of objections. We weren't farmers, so we couldn't get a farm loan. However, there were too many acres of land attached to our house to be classified as a residence or acreage. Bottom line, no money for you.
Undaunted, we tried another bank. And a mortgage broker. And Farm Credit Canada. People gave us all kinds of suggestions, ranging from generous offers of private loans for a big downpayment, to the shady idea of "lets just tell the bank that you already paid me a cash downpayment". Yeah, right. In the meantime, our lawyers continued to peruse multiple closing-date extensions, so that we could hear the "ka-ching ka-ching" all the way from Athabasca.
While all this bungling took place on one side of my brain, the other side continued to make a break for artistic success. I made a couple of cakes - I displayed one at the Bistro in their dessert cooler and landed a wedding cake job from it. I was able to show the richest family in Boyle my cake artistry, and they appeared suitably impressed and started talking about upcoming childrens' birthdays. I painted the ceiling in the foyer of the grocery store to look like a summer sky, and they hope to one day do the entire store ceiling. I landed another window painting job, this time for the rodeo, and really got a foot in the door.
I planted two gardens - one is doing spectacularly, and one is spectacularly disastrous. I've already canned 11 quarts of saskatoons and a half-dozen jars of beet pickles. Giant Boy was able to get a short-term job working on a honey farm, which provided invaluable experience in an interesting field. We have two horses grazing in the pen by the barn, and a new puppy.
One of the things that I was most worried about, moving here, was the fact that my ex-step-father lives about six miles away. My half-brother and his new bride live only four miles away, and I was excited to live closer to them, and have thoroughly enjoyed getting to know my new sister-in-law. But my step-dad? Due to circumstances-somewhat-beyond-my-control, we'd been estranged for my entire adult life, and not exactly on good terms for a lot of my childhood.
It's a funny thing, for a girl, to grow up feeling fatherless. It does weird things to one's psyche. Mostly, for me, anyway, it instilled deep in my heart a fathomless longing for acceptance - and on a more conscious level, a yearning for a father-figure that made my cry at random things like dog food commercials. Pretty much any time I sawreadheard a picturemoviecommercialstory involving a child and display-of-affection from a father, I would tear up. But, what can one do? Life goes on, and we do our best.
So I moved here, steeling myself to remain calm and just consider my ex-step-father and his wife as another couple in the community, another family in our church. No reason to freak out. I'm an adult, and I can handle this. Needless to say, I was pretty freaked out when I saw him and was flooded with a barrage of emotions which reduced me, on the inside, to an insecure 12 year old still craving a daddy.
My BFF assured me that this was probably perfectly normal, considering this man raised me from the time I was a toddler to the day I got married. She encouraged me to talk it out with him, saying "What's the worst that could happen?".
Well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm a fairly imaginative person. So, the worst that could happen would be soul-crushing rejection from this person from whom I suddenly needed acceptance more than anything. How about if I laid my heart on the line and was answered with a great huge belly-laugh? Or a polite but obvious withdrawl from the friendly repartee that we'd developed in the short time since we'd moved here.
So I did what any insecure 12 year old would do. I talked to his wife instead. And asked her to talk to him. And I talked to my sister-in-law, and my half-brother (who is my step-dad's whole son). And the funny thing is that Dad was doing the same thing (except, probably not the feeling-like-an-insecure-12-year-old-girl part). So that when Father's Day rolled around, I had someone to give a homemade chocolates, a card and a hug to. And it is very very good.
To sum up...
on my six month pursuit of success I have not increased my bank account by one cent. Every bit of profit I've made thus far I've spent; on a puppy and puppy paraphernalia, on presents, on birthday lunches, on buy-one-pair-get-one-half-off boots...
While the courtesy clerk at the grocery store does know which vehicle to stash my bottled water in, I'm not really a household name in Boyle just yet. But my signature is on two windows on main street, and my business cards are floating around out there...
This week our very first mortgage payment came out of our account. That means I have my name on the title of my dream-come-true farm after ten years of waiting and praying...
And my kids have a grandpa that gives them horses and rides in the tractor and teaches how to fence and brand calves...
And I have a dad that just makes my heart sing.
Success? I'll let you be the judge.
So, did I attain my goal of success in a mere six months?
First, a quick recap. When I started on this journey in January, I was living in a big ugly rental house in Wasa, BC. Hubbykins was dabbling in various business ventures (ooooo, that sounds nefarious) and I had decided to become successful; as in, make proper money doing the creative things I enjoy.
February blew in with a blustery lack of work, so Hubbykins began to look a little further afield. Thus, he landed in Boyle, Alberta, on Feb 16th 2012. Offspring and I arrived three weeks later and began to settle in to a new home and community. A circumstance that was somewhat disruptive to my whole success scheme.
I quickly fell in love with the little farm we were renting, and we had high hopes of making an offer to purchase on it, should we ever manage to save up a downpayment. At first we aimed for a six month savings plan, which rapidly morphed into a six year savings plan as our moving expenses caught up with us.
And I did my best to swallow my nerves and market my creativity in the great metropolis of Boyle. This included walking main street and introducing myself to all the store managers, trying to pitch window paintings in time for Easter. I did land one job painting the windows at the Bistro. The friendly man at the Automotive Parts store misunderstood me completely and agreed that his window FRAMES certainly could use a touch up - I should come back when the weather warmed up. Okay, I really am in hickville now.
The water in our sewer AND our well was frozen solid, so that took several frost-biting days to remedy. Once the water flowed again, it instantly turned all my fixtures to rust. After some weeks of experimenting with nasal-passage-searing chemical concoctions, I discovered that industrial strength toilet bowl cleaner is required to scrub the rust off my tub surround. Offspring are dismayed that every so often the dishwasher plugs up with mineral deposits and rust and the dishes have to be washed by hand. And if I try to do three regular-sized loads of laundry all in a row, the well runs dry.
We felt certain that our well troubles could be solved, so we went into our Bank to discuss the distant-future possibility of getting a mortgage. Surprisingly, the loans officer plugged our numbers into her computer and assured us that we could get a mortgage that very day, with no downpayment whatsoever! Thus began the uphill battle for financing.
When our excruciatingly expensive lawyers sent our obviously gold-plated paperwork to the bank to finalize our finances, suddenly there were all sorts of objections. We weren't farmers, so we couldn't get a farm loan. However, there were too many acres of land attached to our house to be classified as a residence or acreage. Bottom line, no money for you.
Undaunted, we tried another bank. And a mortgage broker. And Farm Credit Canada. People gave us all kinds of suggestions, ranging from generous offers of private loans for a big downpayment, to the shady idea of "lets just tell the bank that you already paid me a cash downpayment". Yeah, right. In the meantime, our lawyers continued to peruse multiple closing-date extensions, so that we could hear the "ka-ching ka-ching" all the way from Athabasca.
While all this bungling took place on one side of my brain, the other side continued to make a break for artistic success. I made a couple of cakes - I displayed one at the Bistro in their dessert cooler and landed a wedding cake job from it. I was able to show the richest family in Boyle my cake artistry, and they appeared suitably impressed and started talking about upcoming childrens' birthdays. I painted the ceiling in the foyer of the grocery store to look like a summer sky, and they hope to one day do the entire store ceiling. I landed another window painting job, this time for the rodeo, and really got a foot in the door.
I planted two gardens - one is doing spectacularly, and one is spectacularly disastrous. I've already canned 11 quarts of saskatoons and a half-dozen jars of beet pickles. Giant Boy was able to get a short-term job working on a honey farm, which provided invaluable experience in an interesting field. We have two horses grazing in the pen by the barn, and a new puppy.
One of the things that I was most worried about, moving here, was the fact that my ex-step-father lives about six miles away. My half-brother and his new bride live only four miles away, and I was excited to live closer to them, and have thoroughly enjoyed getting to know my new sister-in-law. But my step-dad? Due to circumstances-somewhat-beyond-my-control, we'd been estranged for my entire adult life, and not exactly on good terms for a lot of my childhood.
It's a funny thing, for a girl, to grow up feeling fatherless. It does weird things to one's psyche. Mostly, for me, anyway, it instilled deep in my heart a fathomless longing for acceptance - and on a more conscious level, a yearning for a father-figure that made my cry at random things like dog food commercials. Pretty much any time I sawreadheard a picturemoviecommercialstory involving a child and display-of-affection from a father, I would tear up. But, what can one do? Life goes on, and we do our best.
So I moved here, steeling myself to remain calm and just consider my ex-step-father and his wife as another couple in the community, another family in our church. No reason to freak out. I'm an adult, and I can handle this. Needless to say, I was pretty freaked out when I saw him and was flooded with a barrage of emotions which reduced me, on the inside, to an insecure 12 year old still craving a daddy.
My BFF assured me that this was probably perfectly normal, considering this man raised me from the time I was a toddler to the day I got married. She encouraged me to talk it out with him, saying "What's the worst that could happen?".
Well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm a fairly imaginative person. So, the worst that could happen would be soul-crushing rejection from this person from whom I suddenly needed acceptance more than anything. How about if I laid my heart on the line and was answered with a great huge belly-laugh? Or a polite but obvious withdrawl from the friendly repartee that we'd developed in the short time since we'd moved here.
So I did what any insecure 12 year old would do. I talked to his wife instead. And asked her to talk to him. And I talked to my sister-in-law, and my half-brother (who is my step-dad's whole son). And the funny thing is that Dad was doing the same thing (except, probably not the feeling-like-an-insecure-12-year-old-girl part). So that when Father's Day rolled around, I had someone to give a homemade chocolates, a card and a hug to. And it is very very good.
To sum up...
on my six month pursuit of success I have not increased my bank account by one cent. Every bit of profit I've made thus far I've spent; on a puppy and puppy paraphernalia, on presents, on birthday lunches, on buy-one-pair-get-one-half-off boots...
While the courtesy clerk at the grocery store does know which vehicle to stash my bottled water in, I'm not really a household name in Boyle just yet. But my signature is on two windows on main street, and my business cards are floating around out there...
This week our very first mortgage payment came out of our account. That means I have my name on the title of my dream-come-true farm after ten years of waiting and praying...
And my kids have a grandpa that gives them horses and rides in the tractor and teaches how to fence and brand calves...
And I have a dad that just makes my heart sing.
Success? I'll let you be the judge.
Wednesday, 29 February 2012
Marketing 101
Ok, here I am again, joining you via iPhone. I have learned a few new things, like tapping space bar twice automatically inserts a period. Much faster. However, since I frequently tap the space bar instead of B, C, or V, I do tend to get some odd sentences at times.
Today I will head into the Big Metropolis to do some Marketing. This is the portion of my success plan which is necessary but painful. I have printed up new business cards and I've dug through the storage boxes and unearthed all my portfolio items, so now I have to pull up my socks and do the legwork.
The plan is to try and sell some window paintings. I figure if I can pass myself off as already having obtained Success, store managers will jump at the chance to be the first on the block to employ this Hot New Artist in Residence. So I'm going for an eclectic semi professional image - fresh warm make up, straight hair unadorned, casual jeans but smart looking wool pea coat buttoned up. swirly multicoloured scarf. I'll have to buy myself a daytimer first, which means I'll meet the manager of the drugstore LAST since it blows my cover if I buy the daytimer and then promptly scratch off the price tag and schedule a job with the manager. Maybe I should buy the daytimer in disguise!
Anyway, the thing about marketing is that it involves
A. Talking to people
B. meeting strangers
C. Making a good impression
D. Sounding like I know what I'm doing
E. meeting strangers. And talking to them. Did I mention that?
Someday I will be so successful I'll have to employ an agent and then I'll never have to do this again. I can just show up, paint, and be gone. And people will forgive me be auss I'll ( wait, did you see that stupid spelling error? That's my fat thumbs typing a space instead of a B) anyway, they'll forgive me because I'm so eccentric and successful.
I will also go to the print shop and peddle my wAres. Once upon a time I did freelance graphic design for a small town print shop and it was one of the best gigs I ever had. They, in essence, weren my agents, dealing with customers and orders. I just stayed home and doodled for them, and got paid!
Well, wish me luck. I hate this part! But here's my ride to town, so I can procrastinate no longer!
Today I will head into the Big Metropolis to do some Marketing. This is the portion of my success plan which is necessary but painful. I have printed up new business cards and I've dug through the storage boxes and unearthed all my portfolio items, so now I have to pull up my socks and do the legwork.
The plan is to try and sell some window paintings. I figure if I can pass myself off as already having obtained Success, store managers will jump at the chance to be the first on the block to employ this Hot New Artist in Residence. So I'm going for an eclectic semi professional image - fresh warm make up, straight hair unadorned, casual jeans but smart looking wool pea coat buttoned up. swirly multicoloured scarf. I'll have to buy myself a daytimer first, which means I'll meet the manager of the drugstore LAST since it blows my cover if I buy the daytimer and then promptly scratch off the price tag and schedule a job with the manager. Maybe I should buy the daytimer in disguise!
Anyway, the thing about marketing is that it involves
A. Talking to people
B. meeting strangers
C. Making a good impression
D. Sounding like I know what I'm doing
E. meeting strangers. And talking to them. Did I mention that?
Someday I will be so successful I'll have to employ an agent and then I'll never have to do this again. I can just show up, paint, and be gone. And people will forgive me be auss I'll ( wait, did you see that stupid spelling error? That's my fat thumbs typing a space instead of a B) anyway, they'll forgive me because I'm so eccentric and successful.
I will also go to the print shop and peddle my wAres. Once upon a time I did freelance graphic design for a small town print shop and it was one of the best gigs I ever had. They, in essence, weren my agents, dealing with customers and orders. I just stayed home and doodled for them, and got paid!
Well, wish me luck. I hate this part! But here's my ride to town, so I can procrastinate no longer!
Wednesday, 22 February 2012
Grind those gears
Ok, so I'm wondering how much data usage this will gobble up - blogging from my iPhone. Hmmm. Keep it short.
It's just that I'm sitting here, still in my Jammie's, sipping coffee and reading a fluffy book and I feel a deep sweet contentment seeping into my very bones. I'm in my new home, my cast iron frying pans are out of storage and happily greasy again, amazingly all four of my couches fit in my seriously shrunken living space, and I look out the window at the sun rising in the huge blue dream of sky and I could just weep for the sheer pleasure of it all.
But I'm not sure how my success plan fits in. This area is almost like a whole new planet, it's so different from the past decade. Cowboys and cold snow blowing. And a tiny church where everyone helps out and I wonder, where do I fit in here? I'll play music at the church, but it won't be country gospel. I'll have a horse or two, but I'm not likely to run the barrels at the arena with the rest of the gals. In a town with a population of 1000, surely there's another artist out there? Maybe I need to put up a poster or something.
However... for some reason this doesn't really bother me. I run out in the field through the frozen stubble and smell the straw bales and feel like a kid again. I see my own kids leAping from bale to bale, learning to play on a farm and I feel like all is right with the world. And I browse the farm auction catalogue and pick out chicks to order and take bottles to the depot and wonder where the rhubarb is planted and somehow thoughts of striving and marketing and advertising and recognition... thoughts of success - seem long ago and far away.
It's just that I'm sitting here, still in my Jammie's, sipping coffee and reading a fluffy book and I feel a deep sweet contentment seeping into my very bones. I'm in my new home, my cast iron frying pans are out of storage and happily greasy again, amazingly all four of my couches fit in my seriously shrunken living space, and I look out the window at the sun rising in the huge blue dream of sky and I could just weep for the sheer pleasure of it all.
But I'm not sure how my success plan fits in. This area is almost like a whole new planet, it's so different from the past decade. Cowboys and cold snow blowing. And a tiny church where everyone helps out and I wonder, where do I fit in here? I'll play music at the church, but it won't be country gospel. I'll have a horse or two, but I'm not likely to run the barrels at the arena with the rest of the gals. In a town with a population of 1000, surely there's another artist out there? Maybe I need to put up a poster or something.
However... for some reason this doesn't really bother me. I run out in the field through the frozen stubble and smell the straw bales and feel like a kid again. I see my own kids leAping from bale to bale, learning to play on a farm and I feel like all is right with the world. And I browse the farm auction catalogue and pick out chicks to order and take bottles to the depot and wonder where the rhubarb is planted and somehow thoughts of striving and marketing and advertising and recognition... thoughts of success - seem long ago and far away.
Saturday, 11 February 2012
Month Two, Day...?!
Success could prove to be difficult to attain if I can't even remember how to sign into my own blog! Conversation this morning:
"So, hubbykins, remember awhile back when you were messing around with my blogs...?"
(mumbly grumble sounding somewhat affirmative - apparently OtherHalf was still a bit drowsy)
"Well, I wonder, did you, you know, change the password or something?"
"I changed your old password so that both blogs were the same."
Ah ha! Gotcha!
"Well," (now maybe sounding a little irritated and possibly kinda "blamey") "whatdidyoudo? 'cause now I can't log into my new blog! It only lets me go into the old one. And Iwasgonnablogyesterday but I couldn't 'causeit'sallmessedup...!"
"Did you use the right email address?"
"Huh?"
"Remember, when you set it up you used the new email address..."
"Aah... right... oh yeah. oops. sorry."
Brilliant. Managing my success should be no problem at all.
So, out of all the moves in my life this one has certainly had it's share of unique challenges.
#1 Pack entire house without the help of OtherHalf, who had left for his new job already.
#2 Get insanely sick during the last week of packing and waste several days. Thank goodness for MotherDear and Friends!
#3 Run out of room in the moving van, and get forced to rent an extra trailer. Still run out of room and send one dresser to the dump!
#4 Arrive at new home, ready to pack up the current owners' stuff. From the photos online, I'd assumed that the original owners didn't have much stuff in the house. Assume nothing. Spend many hours with SisterinLaw packing and packing and packing.
#5 By the way, the water is frozen at the new house. don't pee while packing.
#6 Hooray! water is thawed! Clever OtherHalf and Sibling. Turn on tap, discover that sewer is frozen.
#7 Finally have two men available for moving. Haul original stuff out of house, store in shop. Haul our stuff into house. Wonder where on earth it's all gonna go!
#8 Hadn't seen OtherHalf in nearly three weeks. The first thing I shared with him was my germs. His raging fever will make thawing the water and sewer somewhat unpleasant.
There have been some great things, too. Sibling and SisterinLaw have let us overrun their house. The sun has been shining non-stop since we left the Columbia Valley. Our cat is ecstatic to be out of the moving truck. My new house is adorable. So many people volunteered their help throughout this whole process. A new neighbour here dropped by the house with a bag of beef for us. Groceries here are really cheap! The kids aren't sick at all. So far I've only found one broken item in our stuff, and it wasn't important. OtherHalf really likes his job. And I've already turned down one cake job! Tomorrow is Sunday, and potluck at church. Our new church has TWO potlucks per month. Ooooo. Oh, AND I got to see two big moose (mooses? Meese? Moosen?) on the way to Athabasca today. And I did not hit them with the truck. I also returned the U-Haul trailer to Athabasca and backed it into the parking lot and did not hit anything or humiliate myself in any way.
All in all, I would consider this move a success. So I guess I'm not too far off track! Four months to go... but a lot can happen in four months....
"So, hubbykins, remember awhile back when you were messing around with my blogs...?"
(mumbly grumble sounding somewhat affirmative - apparently OtherHalf was still a bit drowsy)
"Well, I wonder, did you, you know, change the password or something?"
"I changed your old password so that both blogs were the same."
Ah ha! Gotcha!
"Well," (now maybe sounding a little irritated and possibly kinda "blamey") "whatdidyoudo? 'cause now I can't log into my new blog! It only lets me go into the old one. And Iwasgonnablogyesterday but I couldn't 'causeit'sallmessedup...!"
"Did you use the right email address?"
"Huh?"
"Remember, when you set it up you used the new email address..."
"Aah... right... oh yeah. oops. sorry."
Brilliant. Managing my success should be no problem at all.
So, out of all the moves in my life this one has certainly had it's share of unique challenges.
#1 Pack entire house without the help of OtherHalf, who had left for his new job already.
#2 Get insanely sick during the last week of packing and waste several days. Thank goodness for MotherDear and Friends!
#3 Run out of room in the moving van, and get forced to rent an extra trailer. Still run out of room and send one dresser to the dump!
#4 Arrive at new home, ready to pack up the current owners' stuff. From the photos online, I'd assumed that the original owners didn't have much stuff in the house. Assume nothing. Spend many hours with SisterinLaw packing and packing and packing.
#5 By the way, the water is frozen at the new house. don't pee while packing.
#6 Hooray! water is thawed! Clever OtherHalf and Sibling. Turn on tap, discover that sewer is frozen.
#7 Finally have two men available for moving. Haul original stuff out of house, store in shop. Haul our stuff into house. Wonder where on earth it's all gonna go!
#8 Hadn't seen OtherHalf in nearly three weeks. The first thing I shared with him was my germs. His raging fever will make thawing the water and sewer somewhat unpleasant.
There have been some great things, too. Sibling and SisterinLaw have let us overrun their house. The sun has been shining non-stop since we left the Columbia Valley. Our cat is ecstatic to be out of the moving truck. My new house is adorable. So many people volunteered their help throughout this whole process. A new neighbour here dropped by the house with a bag of beef for us. Groceries here are really cheap! The kids aren't sick at all. So far I've only found one broken item in our stuff, and it wasn't important. OtherHalf really likes his job. And I've already turned down one cake job! Tomorrow is Sunday, and potluck at church. Our new church has TWO potlucks per month. Ooooo. Oh, AND I got to see two big moose (mooses? Meese? Moosen?) on the way to Athabasca today. And I did not hit them with the truck. I also returned the U-Haul trailer to Athabasca and backed it into the parking lot and did not hit anything or humiliate myself in any way.
All in all, I would consider this move a success. So I guess I'm not too far off track! Four months to go... but a lot can happen in four months....
Friday, 13 January 2012
Sharp Curve Ahead
Well, this is certainly an unexpected development.
As you may know, OtherHalf has been mostly self-employed for the past year, since we finished the chapter of Adventures at Blue Lake. This has been marvelous in many ways - I've always loved having him working from home so that I can hang around with him any time I want, or get him to hang a picture or pick apples or whatever. (Inside joke ;)) Monetarily, however, doing odd jobs is not terribly dependable, and hasn't really done much to further goals of independence or future security. Not that money is the most important thing - far from it - but as we cinched our figurative belts a little tighter I could see that the uncertainty of this lifestyle was weighing heavily. On all of us.
I've always found it hard to walk the line between trusting God to supply all our needs and the old axiom "God helps those who help themselves". Now, the first principle is backed up by scripture, which I believe and trust, and the second is made up by people. 'Nuff said. But have you ever seen that corny old Christmas movie - I can't remember the name of it but there's a stop-camera animated squirrel named Rupert that is living in the attic of this old rental shack, and a poor family moves in around Christmas time. One day the mother is praying fervently for money for new shoes for their daughter, and suddenly a flurry of cash pours down on her. The family (though eccentric and unpractical) is truly kindhearted and they do all sorts of good in the town with this new-found wealth, which seems to turn itself on regularly when the mother prays. However, those of us on the other side of the tv screen know that this money is in fact being shoved into a baseboard by the wealthy miser next door, and then it falls into the attic of the shack, at which point Rupert the squirrel tosses it all down from the ceiling onto the clueless people below. My point is, we did have squirrels in the attic at Blue Lake but all they did was run around and make things smelly and really didn't provide a viable income. And this house is quite squirrel proof, so cash flow is obviously at a minimum.
in ANY case. OtherHalf decided to look for gainful employ, and in the end, the job that panned out is in Boyle, Alberta. That's about 900kms from here. That makes a pretty long commute.
So it looks like we'll be shoving off once again. Now, I sat down with pen and paper and shuffled through my dusty memories... here's some numbers:
I'm 34. 35? No, I think I'm still 34.
I counted up all the moves I can remember. I included my year in college, because it meant taking much of my belongings, and making new friends, community, and joining a new church. That all counts as a move. And I counted moves to new houses in the same community, because it meant packing and unpacking everything we owned, and that counts as a move 'cause it's nasty.
I DIDN'T count all the moves that happened when I was a baby - but there were lots, even interprovincial ones. I didn't count these 'cause they didn't affect me at all, I was merely one more thing to pack.
And I've got 17 moves under my belt. Wow, that's one every two years. They weren't that evenly spaced though - I think when I was in grade two our move to the Okanagan valley only lasted 8 months. And our honeymoon job and home was housesitting for a sheep farm near Rimbey - that was only 4 months. (Praise the Lord! We never would've lasted any longer than that! That one brief period of time has instilled in both of us a life-long hatred of sheep.)
Both MotherDear and I have become real professionals when it comes to moving. She's naturally efficient and practical, so she's much better than I; I still tend to forget to change addresses on magazines and stuff like that, but as far as purging, organizing, packing and loading - we've got it down to a science.
I hate that.
Growing up with this pattern, I've really become a hit-and-run kinda person. Get in, get out, nobody gets hurt. It got so bad that there came a point where I would debate which items to unpack. We've been in this house for a year and I just unpacked two more boxes last week. Just in time to repack them. And I really didn't mind much, it was what I was used to. Seemed natural.
As you can see, this is all in the past tense. Because something changed in me over the last year or two. I've started to long for permanence. I want to erase even the option of moving. Pick a spot. Get a mortgage. Make a commitment. Stop looking over the fence.
So we started looking around here for our little piece of heaven. Lots to choose from - BC is the most beautiful place on earth.(It says so on the sign.) Prices range from Ha!As if! to Ohwowneverinamillionyears. Jobs range from I'llpayyouwithmilkandcookiesifyou'relucky to goaheadandbeoneofthetenthousandthatapplied.
So off we go to Boyle - possibly because when I was there for my brother's wedding last summer I said "what a vomitous town. I would never live here." When I said it I had that little niggling in the back of my brain you know those people who say they'd never be missionaries to Africa, right?
Ha. Funny.
Anyway, the whole thing was sudden and surprising. And we've been in this community and church for six whole years. Six. I've never lived in one spot for so long before. So I really didn't realise how awful it is to have to tell true friends that we're moving 10 hours away. My deeply ingrained love of change and excitement of moving is struggling to surface, but this new grief over tearing out the roots that've crept down for the first time threatens to overwhelm.
The other day OtherHalf said "I guess this sort of throws a wrench in your Six Month Success Plan." I hadn't even thought of that.
I guess time will tell.
As you may know, OtherHalf has been mostly self-employed for the past year, since we finished the chapter of Adventures at Blue Lake. This has been marvelous in many ways - I've always loved having him working from home so that I can hang around with him any time I want, or get him to hang a picture or pick apples or whatever. (Inside joke ;)) Monetarily, however, doing odd jobs is not terribly dependable, and hasn't really done much to further goals of independence or future security. Not that money is the most important thing - far from it - but as we cinched our figurative belts a little tighter I could see that the uncertainty of this lifestyle was weighing heavily. On all of us.
I've always found it hard to walk the line between trusting God to supply all our needs and the old axiom "God helps those who help themselves". Now, the first principle is backed up by scripture, which I believe and trust, and the second is made up by people. 'Nuff said. But have you ever seen that corny old Christmas movie - I can't remember the name of it but there's a stop-camera animated squirrel named Rupert that is living in the attic of this old rental shack, and a poor family moves in around Christmas time. One day the mother is praying fervently for money for new shoes for their daughter, and suddenly a flurry of cash pours down on her. The family (though eccentric and unpractical) is truly kindhearted and they do all sorts of good in the town with this new-found wealth, which seems to turn itself on regularly when the mother prays. However, those of us on the other side of the tv screen know that this money is in fact being shoved into a baseboard by the wealthy miser next door, and then it falls into the attic of the shack, at which point Rupert the squirrel tosses it all down from the ceiling onto the clueless people below. My point is, we did have squirrels in the attic at Blue Lake but all they did was run around and make things smelly and really didn't provide a viable income. And this house is quite squirrel proof, so cash flow is obviously at a minimum.
in ANY case. OtherHalf decided to look for gainful employ, and in the end, the job that panned out is in Boyle, Alberta. That's about 900kms from here. That makes a pretty long commute.
So it looks like we'll be shoving off once again. Now, I sat down with pen and paper and shuffled through my dusty memories... here's some numbers:
I'm 34. 35? No, I think I'm still 34.
I counted up all the moves I can remember. I included my year in college, because it meant taking much of my belongings, and making new friends, community, and joining a new church. That all counts as a move. And I counted moves to new houses in the same community, because it meant packing and unpacking everything we owned, and that counts as a move 'cause it's nasty.
I DIDN'T count all the moves that happened when I was a baby - but there were lots, even interprovincial ones. I didn't count these 'cause they didn't affect me at all, I was merely one more thing to pack.
And I've got 17 moves under my belt. Wow, that's one every two years. They weren't that evenly spaced though - I think when I was in grade two our move to the Okanagan valley only lasted 8 months. And our honeymoon job and home was housesitting for a sheep farm near Rimbey - that was only 4 months. (Praise the Lord! We never would've lasted any longer than that! That one brief period of time has instilled in both of us a life-long hatred of sheep.)
Both MotherDear and I have become real professionals when it comes to moving. She's naturally efficient and practical, so she's much better than I; I still tend to forget to change addresses on magazines and stuff like that, but as far as purging, organizing, packing and loading - we've got it down to a science.
I hate that.
Growing up with this pattern, I've really become a hit-and-run kinda person. Get in, get out, nobody gets hurt. It got so bad that there came a point where I would debate which items to unpack. We've been in this house for a year and I just unpacked two more boxes last week. Just in time to repack them. And I really didn't mind much, it was what I was used to. Seemed natural.
As you can see, this is all in the past tense. Because something changed in me over the last year or two. I've started to long for permanence. I want to erase even the option of moving. Pick a spot. Get a mortgage. Make a commitment. Stop looking over the fence.
So we started looking around here for our little piece of heaven. Lots to choose from - BC is the most beautiful place on earth.(It says so on the sign.) Prices range from Ha!As if! to Ohwowneverinamillionyears. Jobs range from I'llpayyouwithmilkandcookiesifyou'relucky to goaheadandbeoneofthetenthousandthatapplied.
So off we go to Boyle - possibly because when I was there for my brother's wedding last summer I said "what a vomitous town. I would never live here." When I said it I had that little niggling in the back of my brain you know those people who say they'd never be missionaries to Africa, right?
Ha. Funny.
Anyway, the whole thing was sudden and surprising. And we've been in this community and church for six whole years. Six. I've never lived in one spot for so long before. So I really didn't realise how awful it is to have to tell true friends that we're moving 10 hours away. My deeply ingrained love of change and excitement of moving is struggling to surface, but this new grief over tearing out the roots that've crept down for the first time threatens to overwhelm.
The other day OtherHalf said "I guess this sort of throws a wrench in your Six Month Success Plan." I hadn't even thought of that.
I guess time will tell.
Wednesday, 11 January 2012
The Heart of a Dog
My cat is just about the funniest person I know.
wait a minute! you're thinking. She's supposed to be PAINTING today! What's she doing blogging?!
I know, I know. I gessoed the canvas this morning and I'm waiting for it to dry. I also washed the dishes and even scrubbed the scalded milk off the stovetop. Sigh. This productivity thing is catching.
The funny thing about blogging is that one starts to narrate one's own life as it's happening. Has anyone else out there noticed this phenomenon? I wonder if professional authors do this, too. Maybe that's how they find so much detail to put in their novels. I prefer writing poetry - really crisp, concise poetry, like e.e. cummings. If I try to write anything longer than a short story it just peters out 'cause I resolve the plot and it's over in three pages. But novels have all these great details and character thoughts and stuff. Maybe if I blog long enough all this self-narration can turn into a book. Maybe I need to carry around a tape recorder and start narrating out loud. Maybe I'm delusional thinking that anyone is interested!!
But my cat. This is not going to be part of the cats vs dogs debate. That's like comparing apples and lug nuts. Completely different entities. The best thing is to have one of each (cat and dog, not apple and lug nut) and enjoy the qualities each one brings to the table. But presently we only possess (are possessed by?) a cat. Gummi Bear, technically, although no-one ever calls her that. She speaks a tonal language anyhow, and only responds to the right tone of voice, no matter what the name is. Well, our patio door opens onto the deck, and there's a wingback chair outside the window over the kitchen sink. So as I was washing dishes and gazing at the rare sunshine and blogging in my head suddenly there pops up a calico cat face sporting a big fat dead mouse. She gets this crazy look on her face, eyes open in perfect Os, ears perked, neck stretched out, and I can see that she's meowing in a muffled way with her mouth full. She's staring into my soul and trying to mind-meld with me so that I'll open the door. So I do go to the glass patio door and she's there before me, thinking she's won. When I reach for the handle she nearly concusses herself bonking into the glass, assuming I'm letting her in. Her and her bigfatdeadbloodymouse. And then she gives me this look. You've seen it on lots of people, I'm sure. The one-eyebrow-raised "What the heck? What's your problem?" look. And I replied with the "you know perfectly well. Drop the mouse." look. So she did. But then we became engaged in this artful dance of slideopenthedooracrack and lookaroundshiftyeyedandgetreadytograbthemouseagain countered by whiskthedoorshutagain and innocentsweetypiepleaseletmein face. Eventually she got disgusted with me and started throwing the mouse up in the air and against the glass, partly so I could see the fun I was missing, and partly so I'd have to wash the window again. Snort. Again. Like I ever wash that window!
But I'm just saying. These are the kinds of extremely important tasks that occupy my existence. Who else is there to listen to the cat telepathically? Who else is preventing dead mouse invasion? All the while, multitasking to no end, writing the story of my life on the notepad of my brain.
Anyway, I think the canvas is dry. Oh boy I'm so excited I can almost taste it!
wait a minute! you're thinking. She's supposed to be PAINTING today! What's she doing blogging?!
I know, I know. I gessoed the canvas this morning and I'm waiting for it to dry. I also washed the dishes and even scrubbed the scalded milk off the stovetop. Sigh. This productivity thing is catching.
The funny thing about blogging is that one starts to narrate one's own life as it's happening. Has anyone else out there noticed this phenomenon? I wonder if professional authors do this, too. Maybe that's how they find so much detail to put in their novels. I prefer writing poetry - really crisp, concise poetry, like e.e. cummings. If I try to write anything longer than a short story it just peters out 'cause I resolve the plot and it's over in three pages. But novels have all these great details and character thoughts and stuff. Maybe if I blog long enough all this self-narration can turn into a book. Maybe I need to carry around a tape recorder and start narrating out loud. Maybe I'm delusional thinking that anyone is interested!!
But my cat. This is not going to be part of the cats vs dogs debate. That's like comparing apples and lug nuts. Completely different entities. The best thing is to have one of each (cat and dog, not apple and lug nut) and enjoy the qualities each one brings to the table. But presently we only possess (are possessed by?) a cat. Gummi Bear, technically, although no-one ever calls her that. She speaks a tonal language anyhow, and only responds to the right tone of voice, no matter what the name is. Well, our patio door opens onto the deck, and there's a wingback chair outside the window over the kitchen sink. So as I was washing dishes and gazing at the rare sunshine and blogging in my head suddenly there pops up a calico cat face sporting a big fat dead mouse. She gets this crazy look on her face, eyes open in perfect Os, ears perked, neck stretched out, and I can see that she's meowing in a muffled way with her mouth full. She's staring into my soul and trying to mind-meld with me so that I'll open the door. So I do go to the glass patio door and she's there before me, thinking she's won. When I reach for the handle she nearly concusses herself bonking into the glass, assuming I'm letting her in. Her and her bigfatdeadbloodymouse. And then she gives me this look. You've seen it on lots of people, I'm sure. The one-eyebrow-raised "What the heck? What's your problem?" look. And I replied with the "you know perfectly well. Drop the mouse." look. So she did. But then we became engaged in this artful dance of slideopenthedooracrack and lookaroundshiftyeyedandgetreadytograbthemouseagain countered by whiskthedoorshutagain and innocentsweetypiepleaseletmein face. Eventually she got disgusted with me and started throwing the mouse up in the air and against the glass, partly so I could see the fun I was missing, and partly so I'd have to wash the window again. Snort. Again. Like I ever wash that window!
But I'm just saying. These are the kinds of extremely important tasks that occupy my existence. Who else is there to listen to the cat telepathically? Who else is preventing dead mouse invasion? All the while, multitasking to no end, writing the story of my life on the notepad of my brain.
Anyway, I think the canvas is dry. Oh boy I'm so excited I can almost taste it!
Tuesday, 10 January 2012
Productivity
Wait, I have to put the wet laundry in the dryer...
This is me multitasking. Right now I'm blogging (which is a mini-multitask in itself: exercising my synapses, self-motivating/medicating, providing much-needed entertainment and encouragement to the world...), homeschooling, doing laundry, planning lunch, answering emails and phone calls and making sure the office chair doesn't roll away. Oh! I will also boil water for tea. and eat a banana, since I'm up.
I'm also single-handedly stopping the house from burning down and keeping the Offspring alive. Pretty important stuff. Speaking of family, here comes OtherHalf, so now I will amazingly add another task and Give Him Attention. Not undivided, though, obviously.
So what is the cause of all this frenetic activity?? Well, let me tell you. Tomorrow, I will have a whole day... wait for it...
All By Myself.
Offspring are going skiing. All day. OtherHalf is working. I will be moving into Phase Two of the Success Plan; that is, Creating.
Oh, the deliciousness of the anticipation! At last, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel! All this organisation, planning and preparation will pay off as I Paint and Paint and Paint. I can joyfully, gleefully let the creative juices flow, guilt-free, knowing that food is made, clothes are clean and family are all elsewhere.
But for today, I must make sure that everything is in place. Chores done. Phone calls made. I don't want anything niggling at my brain, eating away at my bliss tomorrow.
This guilt factor is one of the driving forces behind my Plan for Success. There are certain... Pressures, if you will; expectations for Productivity that have grown and morphed into a voracious beast over this past year. When we lived at Blue Lake (that's a whole other blog!) I enjoyed many days of peaceful reading in a sunny chair, or sitting in a canoe on the lake, or wandering aimlessly around the yard in my housecoat... we lived alone, in the wilderness, and our busy times were very very busy but the in-between times were very very calm.
Now we live in so-called civilisation and there's a possibility of someone dropping in and seeing my filthy floor or calling on the phone and wanting my time so I have to actually get things done once in a while. Perhaps I don't want people to know I'm sometimes still drinking morning coffee at 10:30am. I've already answered the door far too many times in my housecoat. I must join the ranks and become Productive.
The thing is, I'm not sure if there's really a cut-and-dried definition for "productivity". If I was working as an author, I'd be very productive right now. According to my domestic pals, however, this occupation is not a good use of my time. OtherHalf, on the other hand, doesn't mind my typing away if it helps me ward off insanity.
I read an email this morning from a friend who was concerned about the amount of time she was spending reading foodie blogs while her new baby slept on her lap. I think she may be worried that her actions (or lack thereof) could be interpreted as Laziness. A true swear word in her circle. And mine. I've always suspected that I have a deep-seated Lazy Streak, and usually Guilt prances hand-in-hand with it. Together they're like some evil fraternal twins, gnawing away at my Good Intentions and trampling my Self-Worth.
But it got me thinking, especially since just last night I was snuggled with OtherHalf on the couch while we all watched a truly dull tv show about the engineering of a supersonic car. Which, by the way, kept one watching with the promise of how it was going to break the land speed record, and then abruptly ended without ever even racing the car. Prompting a google search of "did the American Eagle break the land speed record" which was followed by a truly dull perusal of Wikipedia and various websites to discover that, no, it did not - it hasn't even attempted to break the land speed record and willyoupleasesendmoney so we can afford to keep working on it? Ha.
In ANy case. As my brain continued to multitask even as my body was inert, Guilt tap-tapped on my consciousness with a quick "hey, you really ought to be doing something productive." Laziness chimed in with a smug "yeah, what a waste of time." But OtherHalf was very comfy, and I was a bit pinned down by his comfort, much in the same way my friend is presently responsible for the comfort of NewBaby.
And so, I contend that productivity is what we want it to be. In 20 or even 10 years' time, will anyone remember that today I left a pile of dirty rags in the laundry sink 'cause I couldn't be bothered to bleach them? But if, in 10 years' time when Offspring have moved away I've crocheted a million baby sweaters while OtherHalf watched a show in the evening, and now we find we have nothing to say to each other because I've been too busy producing things all these years to snuggle on the couch... you get my point. Surely the most productive thing we can do is pour into our relationships. Do I want to keep GiantBoy and Tweenie so busy with tasks that they hide from me so they can get a break? Or will I risk passing on my potential Lazy Streak so that we can all run outside and just stand in a sunbeam for as long as we want, Guilt-free?
ok to take the time to do them. Maybe it'll be learning to tell Guilt to stick a sock in it.
Oh, I heard the dryer buzz. Life goes on.
This is me multitasking. Right now I'm blogging (which is a mini-multitask in itself: exercising my synapses, self-motivating/medicating, providing much-needed entertainment and encouragement to the world...), homeschooling, doing laundry, planning lunch, answering emails and phone calls and making sure the office chair doesn't roll away. Oh! I will also boil water for tea. and eat a banana, since I'm up.
I'm also single-handedly stopping the house from burning down and keeping the Offspring alive. Pretty important stuff. Speaking of family, here comes OtherHalf, so now I will amazingly add another task and Give Him Attention. Not undivided, though, obviously.
So what is the cause of all this frenetic activity?? Well, let me tell you. Tomorrow, I will have a whole day... wait for it...
All By Myself.
Offspring are going skiing. All day. OtherHalf is working. I will be moving into Phase Two of the Success Plan; that is, Creating.
Oh, the deliciousness of the anticipation! At last, I can see the light at the end of the tunnel! All this organisation, planning and preparation will pay off as I Paint and Paint and Paint. I can joyfully, gleefully let the creative juices flow, guilt-free, knowing that food is made, clothes are clean and family are all elsewhere.
But for today, I must make sure that everything is in place. Chores done. Phone calls made. I don't want anything niggling at my brain, eating away at my bliss tomorrow.
This guilt factor is one of the driving forces behind my Plan for Success. There are certain... Pressures, if you will; expectations for Productivity that have grown and morphed into a voracious beast over this past year. When we lived at Blue Lake (that's a whole other blog!) I enjoyed many days of peaceful reading in a sunny chair, or sitting in a canoe on the lake, or wandering aimlessly around the yard in my housecoat... we lived alone, in the wilderness, and our busy times were very very busy but the in-between times were very very calm.
Now we live in so-called civilisation and there's a possibility of someone dropping in and seeing my filthy floor or calling on the phone and wanting my time so I have to actually get things done once in a while. Perhaps I don't want people to know I'm sometimes still drinking morning coffee at 10:30am. I've already answered the door far too many times in my housecoat. I must join the ranks and become Productive.
The thing is, I'm not sure if there's really a cut-and-dried definition for "productivity". If I was working as an author, I'd be very productive right now. According to my domestic pals, however, this occupation is not a good use of my time. OtherHalf, on the other hand, doesn't mind my typing away if it helps me ward off insanity.
I read an email this morning from a friend who was concerned about the amount of time she was spending reading foodie blogs while her new baby slept on her lap. I think she may be worried that her actions (or lack thereof) could be interpreted as Laziness. A true swear word in her circle. And mine. I've always suspected that I have a deep-seated Lazy Streak, and usually Guilt prances hand-in-hand with it. Together they're like some evil fraternal twins, gnawing away at my Good Intentions and trampling my Self-Worth.
But it got me thinking, especially since just last night I was snuggled with OtherHalf on the couch while we all watched a truly dull tv show about the engineering of a supersonic car. Which, by the way, kept one watching with the promise of how it was going to break the land speed record, and then abruptly ended without ever even racing the car. Prompting a google search of "did the American Eagle break the land speed record" which was followed by a truly dull perusal of Wikipedia and various websites to discover that, no, it did not - it hasn't even attempted to break the land speed record and willyoupleasesendmoney so we can afford to keep working on it? Ha.
In ANy case. As my brain continued to multitask even as my body was inert, Guilt tap-tapped on my consciousness with a quick "hey, you really ought to be doing something productive." Laziness chimed in with a smug "yeah, what a waste of time." But OtherHalf was very comfy, and I was a bit pinned down by his comfort, much in the same way my friend is presently responsible for the comfort of NewBaby.
And so, I contend that productivity is what we want it to be. In 20 or even 10 years' time, will anyone remember that today I left a pile of dirty rags in the laundry sink 'cause I couldn't be bothered to bleach them? But if, in 10 years' time when Offspring have moved away I've crocheted a million baby sweaters while OtherHalf watched a show in the evening, and now we find we have nothing to say to each other because I've been too busy producing things all these years to snuggle on the couch... you get my point. Surely the most productive thing we can do is pour into our relationships. Do I want to keep GiantBoy and Tweenie so busy with tasks that they hide from me so they can get a break? Or will I risk passing on my potential Lazy Streak so that we can all run outside and just stand in a sunbeam for as long as we want, Guilt-free?
ok to take the time to do them. Maybe it'll be learning to tell Guilt to stick a sock in it.
Oh, I heard the dryer buzz. Life goes on.
Saturday, 7 January 2012
Week One Report
We've arrived at the end of week one of my six month journey to success. Only one minor meltdown today - I found myself around midafternoon wrestling a slimy raw turkey while Offspring played Wii and OtherHalf played Angry Birds (ok, ok, he MIGHT have been working on the church financial report, potaytoes, potahtoes) and suddenly I just felt really sick of cooking and hoarding freezer foods and was ready to throw in the towel. I may or may not have thrown turkey bits around and wailed about my frustration. Of course, mid-rant, I was stricken with guilt as I realised that my snivelling about having to be "save-y" by hacking up a whole turkey (at $0.89/lb) instead of being able to just buy turkey breast and ground turkey (at goodnessonlyknowshowmuchitcosts/lb) could possibly be interpreted by OtherHalf as criticism of his ability to adequately provide for the Family. Of course this was not my intent, but guilt generally provokes feelings of anger and this fueled my verbal diarrhea to a new peak. At some point I actually spewed "make the children stop having fun! Everyone should be as miserable as I am!" or something along those lines. Happily, I was so over-the-top that OtherHalf ended up laughing, came to my rescue and even washed the dishes.
On another note; I have a new item to add to my "things I really can't comprehend" list. Does anyone out there play card "trump" games? Tonight we went to have Relaxing Fellowship with Friends. This involved playing the game "Wizard", which calls itself "the Greatest Card Game of All Time". I beg to differ. There is something evil lurking deep within trump games. And I know I'll lose, I know I'll lose big time. But games are fun. I like to play games. Something about this one game, though, gets right under my skin and I get so anxious! Here's how Wizard works: you get a hand of cards, and one suit is the "trump" and then you go 'round the table and bet on how many "tricks" you'll take during that hand. You take a trick by playing the highest card, and a trump card is higher than the other suits, and a Wizard card is highest of all. Unless you play a Wizard card AFTER someone else has already played one, in which case THEIRS is higher and they take yours thankyouverymuchsocalledBestFriend. And then, if you get the number of tricks you thought you'd get, you get some points, plus points per trick. And if you FAIL you lose points. You fail by someone else sneakily playing a higher card than yours even though they knew full well you needed to take that trick thanksalotOtherHalf. Really and truly, I think it's only BestFriend's husband and eldest son that are playing, the rest of us are just there to contribute extra cards and comic relief. And I KNOW this, I KNOW this! but that doesn't stop me from getting heart palpitations as we go 'round and 'round and I try to comprehend what on earth is going on and how do they know what everyone else is going to play so that they play the right card and win?! There is some kind of serious mental block that prevents my understanding this game. Which is no big deal, after all, someone has to lose, and I can do it splendidly. I think the thing is, I want so badly to just get it, you know? Not even to win, just to finally have the light come on, that "ah ha!" moment, to be able to enter into the spirit of the strategy. It's not so much the losing, it's the having no idea what is making me lose, and having no control over whether I'll improve or not.
I guess I should really be grateful that this phenomenon is most prevalent in a simple card game. There are other areas of life where this sort of feeling would be terribly overwhelming, and something tells me I could be walking a fine line here and there. Best to leave this concept on the edge of conscious thought, and postphone further analysing.
So, all in all, Week One hasn't been to much of a crash and burn. I have two freezers full of pop-in-the-oven meals, I've gutted and organized the under-the-stairs storage area, Offspring are loving their new math curriculum, OtherHalf is still smiling and my future looks bright. Dragon's Den is not holding auditions right now, but that's fine, it gives me time to work on a proto-type for my latest invention. I have done some preliminary research into what I'll need to get my espresso pod running... I'll keep you posted on that. I think in the next week I'll go through my seed stash and see if something could be planted, test some recipes for the espresso pod, and gesso some canvasses so I'm ready to paint.
'Til next time, then.
CG
On another note; I have a new item to add to my "things I really can't comprehend" list. Does anyone out there play card "trump" games? Tonight we went to have Relaxing Fellowship with Friends. This involved playing the game "Wizard", which calls itself "the Greatest Card Game of All Time". I beg to differ. There is something evil lurking deep within trump games. And I know I'll lose, I know I'll lose big time. But games are fun. I like to play games. Something about this one game, though, gets right under my skin and I get so anxious! Here's how Wizard works: you get a hand of cards, and one suit is the "trump" and then you go 'round the table and bet on how many "tricks" you'll take during that hand. You take a trick by playing the highest card, and a trump card is higher than the other suits, and a Wizard card is highest of all. Unless you play a Wizard card AFTER someone else has already played one, in which case THEIRS is higher and they take yours thankyouverymuchsocalledBestFriend. And then, if you get the number of tricks you thought you'd get, you get some points, plus points per trick. And if you FAIL you lose points. You fail by someone else sneakily playing a higher card than yours even though they knew full well you needed to take that trick thanksalotOtherHalf. Really and truly, I think it's only BestFriend's husband and eldest son that are playing, the rest of us are just there to contribute extra cards and comic relief. And I KNOW this, I KNOW this! but that doesn't stop me from getting heart palpitations as we go 'round and 'round and I try to comprehend what on earth is going on and how do they know what everyone else is going to play so that they play the right card and win?! There is some kind of serious mental block that prevents my understanding this game. Which is no big deal, after all, someone has to lose, and I can do it splendidly. I think the thing is, I want so badly to just get it, you know? Not even to win, just to finally have the light come on, that "ah ha!" moment, to be able to enter into the spirit of the strategy. It's not so much the losing, it's the having no idea what is making me lose, and having no control over whether I'll improve or not.
I guess I should really be grateful that this phenomenon is most prevalent in a simple card game. There are other areas of life where this sort of feeling would be terribly overwhelming, and something tells me I could be walking a fine line here and there. Best to leave this concept on the edge of conscious thought, and postphone further analysing.
So, all in all, Week One hasn't been to much of a crash and burn. I have two freezers full of pop-in-the-oven meals, I've gutted and organized the under-the-stairs storage area, Offspring are loving their new math curriculum, OtherHalf is still smiling and my future looks bright. Dragon's Den is not holding auditions right now, but that's fine, it gives me time to work on a proto-type for my latest invention. I have done some preliminary research into what I'll need to get my espresso pod running... I'll keep you posted on that. I think in the next week I'll go through my seed stash and see if something could be planted, test some recipes for the espresso pod, and gesso some canvasses so I'm ready to paint.
'Til next time, then.
CG
Friday, 6 January 2012
The List
I'm fond of lists. Here's a list of some of my favourite types of lists:
I like to write my lists in those brightly coloured notebooks - I've got a whole pile of them scattered all over the house. Here's a list of places I sometimes find my notebooks:
As demonstrated, I also forget where I've left my notebooks, and I forget which list is in which notebook. So I have lots of notebooks, and OtherHalf has a drawer in his desk with a fresh supply which I'm not supposed to take but I do.
I also need notebooks for jotting down ideas, which flow into my brain like sparkling springwater and then seep down into my sandy consciousness to momentarily refresh before vanishing altogether. Water must be stored in the cistern of my many notebooks. One can often find me scrambling about the house, red-faced and panicked, searching for "no! not that one! The OTHER blue notebook! The one with that cake drawing on the left-hand page somewhere in the middle!"
However!
This is supposed to be my list of things I like to do. To give you some background into the distractedness of my existence. So, without further ado:
I like to think that I'm reasonably good at most of these things. Now, here's a list of my actual responsibilities:
Now, my aim here is to move some of my happy, sparkly creative items into my responsibility list by properly working at them and actually making a little money, and therefore being successful at them. In the past, I've tried to take the things that are proven money-makers (like catering and cake decorating) and turn them into businesses. However, since they're not my favourite things, they quickly become drudgery once they are mandatory and I'm back to square one. So, part of my six month success plan is to focus on some of the creative things that are purely joyful and relaxing, and if they can make money, so be it. Hopefully the fulfilment of these activities will counteract the mind-numbing responsibilities of day-to-day survival. I've pared my Things I LOVE to Do list down to these few:
And with that, I can cross off an item from my To Do Today list, and get on to other things. (Grind venison, make frozen hamburger patties, make frozen meatballs... oh dear, I didn't mean to start listing again, it just happens...)
I bid you adieu.
CreativeGenius
- list of things to do today
- top ten lists
- favourite things list
- list of things to pack
- "don't forget these items!" list
- list of seeds to buy
I like to write my lists in those brightly coloured notebooks - I've got a whole pile of them scattered all over the house. Here's a list of places I sometimes find my notebooks:
- on "my" coffee table (on "my" side of the couch. By the way, this is one of the places where my notebooks actually belong.)
- in the drawer of the dresser labelled "mama's paperwork". This is the other place that my notebooks belong.
- on the bookshelf with the cookbooks
- or on the bookshelf with the phone book
- under the couch
- under the bed
- shoved down inside the couch cushions
- in the closet
- in one of the reusable shopping bags
- in the truck
- at the church
- at BestFriend's house
- in the garden
- on my workbench in the shop
- on the easel
- on the coffee table on the deck
- on OtherHalf's coffee table (it's generally OtherHalf that finds this one, and shakes it fiercely at me and says stuff like "this is why you can never find your things!")
- in the library basket
As demonstrated, I also forget where I've left my notebooks, and I forget which list is in which notebook. So I have lots of notebooks, and OtherHalf has a drawer in his desk with a fresh supply which I'm not supposed to take but I do.
I also need notebooks for jotting down ideas, which flow into my brain like sparkling springwater and then seep down into my sandy consciousness to momentarily refresh before vanishing altogether. Water must be stored in the cistern of my many notebooks. One can often find me scrambling about the house, red-faced and panicked, searching for "no! not that one! The OTHER blue notebook! The one with that cake drawing on the left-hand page somewhere in the middle!"
However!
This is supposed to be my list of things I like to do. To give you some background into the distractedness of my existence. So, without further ado:
List of Hobbies and Interests
or: Things I Have Tried, Currently Dabble in, Or Am Trying to Learn
- artistic painting (which includes: watercolours, acrylic, oil, pencil drawing)
- painting murals
- window painting
- face painting
- henna (and other body art)
- cake decorating
- catering
- wood carving
- stone carving
- concrete sculpture
- metal working (well, I haven't done this YET, but I have all the stuff ready to start!)
- crochet
- designing crochet patterns
- writing (children's books, poetry, essays, novel)
- illustrating (mostly childrens' books)
- graphic design (I actually made money with this!)
- gardening
- landscape design
- sewing (I'm really bad at this, so I'm happy to drop it!)
- gourmet cooking
- music (this includes piano, guitar, penny-whistle, accordion, djembe, singing, teaching my kids music, and songwriting)
- acting
I like to think that I'm reasonably good at most of these things. Now, here's a list of my actual responsibilities:
- homeschooling GiantBoy and Tweenie (including making sure they get to their activities/lessons)
- feeding family
- cleaning the dwelling (this includes all kinds of vomitous tasks that suck the life right out of me!)
- keeping OtherHalf happy
- leading worship and playing piano at church
- helping out with other random church activities/functions
Now, my aim here is to move some of my happy, sparkly creative items into my responsibility list by properly working at them and actually making a little money, and therefore being successful at them. In the past, I've tried to take the things that are proven money-makers (like catering and cake decorating) and turn them into businesses. However, since they're not my favourite things, they quickly become drudgery once they are mandatory and I'm back to square one. So, part of my six month success plan is to focus on some of the creative things that are purely joyful and relaxing, and if they can make money, so be it. Hopefully the fulfilment of these activities will counteract the mind-numbing responsibilities of day-to-day survival. I've pared my Things I LOVE to Do list down to these few:
- painting (mostly with oils)
- wood carving (rocking horses, to be precise)
- metal-working (well, we'll see how it turns out, anyway)
- food service (in this case, an espresso-pod which is a work in progress. More on that at a later date)
- window painting
And with that, I can cross off an item from my To Do Today list, and get on to other things. (Grind venison, make frozen hamburger patties, make frozen meatballs... oh dear, I didn't mean to start listing again, it just happens...)
I bid you adieu.
CreativeGenius
Thursday, 5 January 2012
Week One, Day 5
Here's the thing: God has blessed me with a truly unfair amount of creative gifting... and absolutely zero ambition. I'm nearing middle age (or am I there already?!), have two children, one husband, a cat, some responsiblilities, and for as many hobbies as I like to do, I have an inversely proportionate amount of motivation. Every time one of these scraps of genius hit the public I hear things like: "Oooo, you should sell those!" "Why don't you have your own business?" "You could be making a lot of money!" etc etc ad nauseum. Why do I not follow any of this shrewd advice? Laziness, maybe? Busy-ness, partly. Apathy, definitely.
So dawns a bright new year, unless you're Mayan, and I've decided to try my hand at success. Since creative writing is one of the things I like to dabble in, I figured a blog to track my upward climb is just the ticket. Besides, once I'm fully successful I can publish it and make a movie.
Yes, I will admit, people are laughing at me. Mocking, in fact. Just today after lunch, OtherHalf and I were enjoying a peaceful moment alone and I said (whined?) "I'm tired. I don't want to be successful anymore." The fact that I'm merely five days into my journey is no reason for the snide comment and laughter that ensued. Apparently I have a bit of a reputation for ummm.... giving up. Quitting, in fact. (Insert sigh of shame.) It's just that sometimes things get really boring and something else looks far more interesting and so I do the new thing and let the old thing do whatever it is discarded things do. Rot. Attract dust. Get tripped on. Wait, this is beginning to sound like a description of my basement.
So. Game Plan. Priority #1: the S word.
Schedule.
I don't know if you know this about creative people - we really tend to dread Organization. Schedules. Anything remotely resembling someoneorsomething telling us Whatwemustdonow or Whatwemaynotdo. However, I can see that part of my lack of current success is due to the fact that while I can have ideas 'til the cows come home, I also need to save some time for the execution of said ideas.
That being said, my mental schedule is five days behind already. That's why this blog post is titled "Week One, Day FIVE" instead of it's intended name of "Week One, Day ONE" or perhaps: "The Journey Begins" or maybe "Here I Go Again".
I think I do tend to set myself up for failure - take a look at my catering company's name: "Flash in the Pan". I named it that on purpose, knowing full well that it was likely to be a flash in the pan. Which seems like a terribly clever cooking play on words. My signature dish is Greek flaming cheese. A literal flash in the pan. I have never made it. Stop snickering.
Anyhow, focus. Priority #2: Enlist Help.
Motherdear is on the way. She will be washing dishes while I attack a huge amount of cooking this afternoon. She does not know this yet.
Which brings me to Priority #3: Take Care of Responsibilities
It's not that creating a painting (for example) requires a vast amount of time, but once I start I just don't want to stop. Before I know it, it's well past suppertime and OtherHalf, GiantBoy and Tweenie are gawping away like hungry robins and I've low-blood-sugared and the meal will take an hour to prepare. So, I plan to cook and freeze as much food as possible in order to maintain a respectably healthy diet, budget and sanity.
Well, I'm off to a roaring start. This posting alone has taken me over eight hours to write, since I started it, paused to have coffee, cook, freeze, eat, go to Bible study... and now I scramble to finish it so I can go to bed. And it's only five days late. My newest invention is apparently about two years late, since I was in the process of drawing up the design for it when my best friend gave me one for Christmas. Phooey. Luckily I have another invention rattling around my brain, halfway to the Dragon's Den already!
But I digress. Something tells me I had more priorities to list, but I'm tired of lists for today (got to cross off all but two of the items on my "to do" list this afternoon - then I added two extra things that I'd already done and crossed them off too; that counts, right?) so I'll end on that note.
I'm scheduled to blog again tomorrow, so I'll see you in three days time, tops.
So dawns a bright new year, unless you're Mayan, and I've decided to try my hand at success. Since creative writing is one of the things I like to dabble in, I figured a blog to track my upward climb is just the ticket. Besides, once I'm fully successful I can publish it and make a movie.
Yes, I will admit, people are laughing at me. Mocking, in fact. Just today after lunch, OtherHalf and I were enjoying a peaceful moment alone and I said (whined?) "I'm tired. I don't want to be successful anymore." The fact that I'm merely five days into my journey is no reason for the snide comment and laughter that ensued. Apparently I have a bit of a reputation for ummm.... giving up. Quitting, in fact. (Insert sigh of shame.) It's just that sometimes things get really boring and something else looks far more interesting and so I do the new thing and let the old thing do whatever it is discarded things do. Rot. Attract dust. Get tripped on. Wait, this is beginning to sound like a description of my basement.
So. Game Plan. Priority #1: the S word.
Schedule.
I don't know if you know this about creative people - we really tend to dread Organization. Schedules. Anything remotely resembling someoneorsomething telling us Whatwemustdonow or Whatwemaynotdo. However, I can see that part of my lack of current success is due to the fact that while I can have ideas 'til the cows come home, I also need to save some time for the execution of said ideas.
That being said, my mental schedule is five days behind already. That's why this blog post is titled "Week One, Day FIVE" instead of it's intended name of "Week One, Day ONE" or perhaps: "The Journey Begins" or maybe "Here I Go Again".
I think I do tend to set myself up for failure - take a look at my catering company's name: "Flash in the Pan". I named it that on purpose, knowing full well that it was likely to be a flash in the pan. Which seems like a terribly clever cooking play on words. My signature dish is Greek flaming cheese. A literal flash in the pan. I have never made it. Stop snickering.
Anyhow, focus. Priority #2: Enlist Help.
Motherdear is on the way. She will be washing dishes while I attack a huge amount of cooking this afternoon. She does not know this yet.
Which brings me to Priority #3: Take Care of Responsibilities
It's not that creating a painting (for example) requires a vast amount of time, but once I start I just don't want to stop. Before I know it, it's well past suppertime and OtherHalf, GiantBoy and Tweenie are gawping away like hungry robins and I've low-blood-sugared and the meal will take an hour to prepare. So, I plan to cook and freeze as much food as possible in order to maintain a respectably healthy diet, budget and sanity.
Well, I'm off to a roaring start. This posting alone has taken me over eight hours to write, since I started it, paused to have coffee, cook, freeze, eat, go to Bible study... and now I scramble to finish it so I can go to bed. And it's only five days late. My newest invention is apparently about two years late, since I was in the process of drawing up the design for it when my best friend gave me one for Christmas. Phooey. Luckily I have another invention rattling around my brain, halfway to the Dragon's Den already!
But I digress. Something tells me I had more priorities to list, but I'm tired of lists for today (got to cross off all but two of the items on my "to do" list this afternoon - then I added two extra things that I'd already done and crossed them off too; that counts, right?) so I'll end on that note.
I'm scheduled to blog again tomorrow, so I'll see you in three days time, tops.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)