Thursday, August 20, 2009

And a possible talent goes to possible waste.

Dear Globlets,

It's surprising how much fluid is still managing to leak from underneath my eyeballs. I guess I won't have to pee at all today.

It always starts when music is discussed. My mom asked me when I was going to play the guitar again and I told her I don't have the time. I almost started crying then and there because I want to play. I want to play the piano too. I want to be amazing it. At both instruments. But I can't.

I've known this would happen for a very long time but I still couldn't seem to do anything about it. Maybe it's the fact that I'm going to be 18 one month from today that has made me shit myself so much. Maybe it's the fact I saw Jacquie driving a car the other day - a girl from school who used to be really mean to me, who should still be a fifth grader and not driving a big SUV. I can't drive yet. That's another thing. I don't have the time to learn how to drive. I barely have enough time to read for fun.

The beauty of home/un-schooling is that you're able to do things on your own time, focus on things you enjoy doing, acquire skills and knowledge that you likely would not if you went to high school. I hear incredible stories about people who have been able to achieve so much and go so far because they were able to focus on what mattered to them the most. They were able to dance and dance and become well-known ballet dancers. They were able to become successful writers, musicians, and so on. They were able to work at their talent and go where they wanted to go. I admire them. I might have been able to do that if I had the courage to. Now it's too late.
The thing is, I'm trying to get into a school like UVic. I'm taking the courses I need to complete to get in, via Distance Ed. I plan to study things I like there: writing and photography (if the Ph. course is worth it.) There's just a part of me that wishes someone had said, "Okay, you want to be a musician? Take the year to study and play music. Just music. And you'll get amazing and Juliard will beg you to go there." But that would never happen and it never will. I don't think I am or ever could be good enough.
I made that sound easy. It wouldn't be a shortcut, I'd have had to work really hard for that.
But music has to be a hobby and nothing more. It's unrealistic to think otherwise.

So, what am I going to do? Well, since hobbies are for fun and personal enjoyment, they have to be scrapped until other, more important things are completed. Like school. Oh yes, it will be very easy. I will just put all my music away in a box somewhere and forget about it. I will unplug the piano and give my guitar to Adrian. Then I will focus only on my schoolwork and be done "high school" in a year.
THEN will you start piano and guitar again? No! Then I will see if I can get into UVic or Camosun or something.
Will you not have time for music then? Who knows! Probably not. :)
Why don't you just practice for an hour each day? I don't have an hour each day to practice. I need longer than that to get anything done anyway. If it's scheduled, it's not as natural.
What if you curl up in a hole and die? Hey, yeah! That sounds great!

I'm sorry. I know I've got to do my school shit. I know I've got to learn how to drive. I know I need a job. And I think cutting out music is the only way I'll be able to do all these things. These important things. These stupid important grown up things. Everybody does them. I should too.

Every day that goes by, whether I do schoolwork or not, feels like I'm one day further away from being finished. One step forward, two steps back. Every day. And I don't know what to do about it.
"Just do your work!" Yeah. I get it. But obviously I don't. And if I don't, I don't know why I don't. I don't know how so much time has gone by with so little to show for it. Like sand through the cracks between your fingers. Quickly, smoothly, consistently, each grain invisible, but you feel them all.

And now comes camp. I have so much to do beforehand, it scares me. I'm worried about camp this year. I'm worried that, since it's an un/home-schooler's camp, there will be amazing people there just like there is every year, who've achieved or are achieving something incredible. I'm worried they're going to put the idea that I can do whatever I want to do in my head when it's become so apparent to me that I can't. So many of them are wonderful, talented musicians. Will I play the piano there? I think I shouldn't. It's so hard to say no to it.

I've been crying off and on, mostly on, for two hours. I need a shower, food, proper clothes, and to fix my face before work in less than two hours.

The only thing I'm really looking forward to about camp right now is the hugs. I hope it's going to be a good one. It'll probably be my last.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Red, Pink and White.

Dear Globlets,

He asked me on my lunch break. He asked me what colour and where to find them. He asked me, "6 or twelve?" I told him he wasn't obligated. I told him, "One," knowing it would do no good. 6 of them were in the bouquet he brought me. This was a first for me. Red, pink, and white.

3 o'clock was his scheduled time of arrival, yet by 1:30 I was already eagerly glancing out the window to see if he was there. An overjoyed, overexcited smile was glued on my face for an hour and a half while random giggles escaped my already eager lips.
“Hello there, what can I get for you?” I asked a customer, beaming.
“I think I’ll take a carrot cake, please.”
“Excellent choice,” I exclaimed. I rushed over to the deli case with a small brown paper bag in one hand, tongs at the ready in the other. I stuck the closed tongs inside the bag and opened them inside of it so it would allow room for the thick; pineapple, raisin, shredded carrot and walnut-filled; cream cheese icing-covered cake. I bounced back over to the till.
“Is there anything else I can get for you today?”
“Nope, just the cake, thanks.”
“Oki doki! Then that’ll be $3.00, please.” He handed me a five and I gave him a toonie. “Thank-you very much!”
“Thank-you,” he replied.
“Have a great day!”

Another customer came in. She looked at me as she walked in and that’s how I knew she came knowing what she wanted. You can always tell when someone is new to the place if they wander through the room, looking up at the menu board, then looking down at the floor to make sure they don’t bump into chairs or step on any children or old people, mouths hanging open, hands scratching and grabbing at their empty, growling bellies, saliva dripping down the sides of their mouth, and their eyes open wide, seeking something to satisfy their deep-felt hunger or sweet temptations as they browse the delicious offerings in the deli case and mumble to themselves the words on the board.
“What can I get for you?” I asked the woman who knew what she wanted.
“A medium coffee to go, please.”
“Anything else for you today?” I got her a cup.
“No, that’s it.”
“Okay, that’ll be $2.00 please! And you know you can come back with your cup any time today and get a free refill!”
“Oh! Great.”
She gave me what she owed, took her cup, and filled it with drip coffee, cream and sugar. Just as she was leaving the cafe/bistro, with an exceedingly “teethy” smile that must have lasted a good ten minutes after this happened, I wished her a wonderful day! A wonderful day.
I don’t think I’d ever been so friendly in my life.

It was nearing closing time and I was putting away and sealing food, just as I usually do at that time on a Saturday. Only this time I was persistently smiling, half-dancing to the soft rock playing (which I was beginning to detest around the 8th time it played,) and skipping around the kitchen, rather than walking my usual hurried walk. I have to admit, I was multi-tasking quite well. I was not forgetting things or giving customers the wrong drink even though I was constantly looking outside to see if he was there.
Had there just been a small, though definite movement outside? It could be him! I looked out the window. He wasn’t there.
Zero movement, though the possibility of his appearance any second? I’d better check to see! He was still not there... but before I knew it, he walked inside.
And if I had not already surpassed the amount of red-cheekedness allowed for the day, nor already abused my daily limit of maximum smiles, I surely must have when I saw him come in, backpack over shoulder and a bouquet of beautiful flowers in hand.
I wanted to take them and go home with him where we’d be First Mate Oris and Captain Tentacles for the rest of the afternoon.

In the end, that boy travelled from Langley to the ferry in Tsawassen, arrived in Victoria’s Swartz Bay ferry terminal, took a bus for another hour, maybe more, until he got downtown from where he proceeded to walk up the hill towards my workplace, purchased flowers – white, pink, and red, and patiently waited for me to end my shift. We walked home together, all 8 of us. 6 roses, me, and him.

Friday, August 14, 2009

And it went... wherever I... did go...

Dear Globlets,

Presenting one of the best Monty Python scenes ever:

I detect Dr. Seuss... do you concur?

I wonder where that fish has gone.
You did love it so. You looked after it like a son.
And it went wherever I did go.

Is it in the cupboard?
Yes! Yes! No!…

Wouldn’t you like to know?
It was a lovely little fish.
And it went wherever I did go.
It’s behind the sofa!
Where can that fish be?
It is a most elusive fish!
And it went wherever I did go.

Ooooh, fishy, fishy, fishy fish!
A-fish, a-fish, a-fish, a-fishy, ooooh.
Ooooh, fishy, fishy, fishy fish!
That went wherever I did go.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009


Dear Globlets,

This wasn't the first time this had happened to me on a quest for jeans...
Firstly, it's very difficult to tell what size I wear. I range from size 5 to size 9 depending on the style and where I'm shopping. A 6 usually fits. If it doesn't, I get horribly depressed until I realize that I'd rather not be Asian and have a twelve year-old's body even if they don't sweat. Also, if the jeans pull off a layer of skin from my calf because they're too tight AND they're a size 6, we never shop there again. We shop at Purdy's. One chocolate fits all?
As if it isn't hard enough to find a pair of jeans that the junk in my trunk can fit in AND accommodates my (what seems to be) abnormally small waist, in that it doesn't leave four inches of excess room, the step before trying on any pair is finding one that isn't a terrible style for my body.

All I wanted was a regular pair of jeans. A REGULAR PAIR OF JEANS. A REGULAR PAIR OF JEANS!!! Am I making this clear?
All I wanted was a regular pair of jeans... with no holes. No whisker wash. No tint. Not oven-baked. Not frayed. Not blasted. Not coloured. Not belted. (Yes, I looked up terms in a jeans guide.)
I don't want skinny jeans because I'm not skinny and by wearing skinny jeans I will undoubtedly appear ginormous, disproportionate, and devastatingly stupid.
I don't want ripped jeans because... see above. They can look good, don't get me wrong... but I figure I can rip my own jeans and not pay $200 for ones already ripped or pre-wrinkled. I just find something wrong with that.
I don't want flared or bell-bottom jeans even though I think they're pretty cool... I just look like... Well, there's curvy and then there's curvy, and I feel I needn't add extra curves to an already curvy body. Sure, it'll make my waist look tiny, but only because it's contrasting with the illusion of a three foot wide hip-span. I drew a picture because I felt I wasn't getting my message across as well as I wanted:

I don't want to go for a vintage look, like my jeans have been around for ages and seen the good and the bad over the years. I like the clean look. I like dark wash and light wash, but not the too blue lighterish wash. I don't want to wear them above my belly button and I don't want a tacky jean than clings to my ankles while making my bum look like a couple of saggy watermelons. Go ahead and picture that now. I don't want flap pockets because they usually make a bum look bigger and when you sit, they like to stand up and bend in stupid ways that you have to fix by ironing them.

What I need is a relatively straight leg. It should be tight, though stretchy and still allow blood circulation, on the thigh, and once at the knee, flare ever so slightly out. Low-rise jeans, which are pretty much the only kind of jeans you can find in a store like Garage, Urban Planet, Sirens, Stitches, or any other young person clothing shop, are of the no-good. Crack kills, and Luc knows that if you sit down in a pair of extra-low, or even just low-rise jeans, crack will surface. Is that why tunics are so popular? With a regular-rise jean, still below one's belly button, your pants will have the support they need. They will be above your bootylicious hips and stay there without extreme gaping between the small of your back and the back of your jeans. Don't know what I'm talking about? Think of diet and anti-fattage ads when people hold their pants out in front of themselves. Now picture that except with the pants having all the room in the back. Curvy-style can work too, so long as it isn't flared. Boy, was that a mistake. *cue mermaid*

The only way to find a good pair of jeans, and by good I mean good quality and good fit, is to pay the big bucks. I don't mean hundreds of dollars for sparkles and rips and trendy details. I mean $50-$150 for a pair of jeans from a store that sells only jeans and/or gears their clothing towards real people. They'll have more and better selection of jeans.

It just pisses me off that low-rise skinny-jeans are the most common jeans, and that it's very difficult to find jeans that fit curves.

Now, please, if you're going to wear skinny-jeans, make sure that you're not chubby because bad things will happen. It's not a flattering style if you don't have great, thin legs. Also, wear nice shoes with them. High-heels + thin legs + skinny jeans = usually good.
Fiona pulls it off really well. That's her in the pictures at the beginning of this post.

That's all. I'm done.