Category Archives: Being me

HELLO! AND GOODBYE!

I SURVIVED THE MOVE! HOLY FUCK!
Omigod.

Bonus points if you know where the kid's decapitated head was found in this Dead Milkmen's classic, Stuart, that this photo was inspired by. One of my favourite songs ever.


Presently recovering after bingeing on delicious spicy Thai peanut with chicken, and drinkin’ me some wine. It’s my first night alone in my place. I had four guests night one, two on night two and three, and one for the last night. Now? Alone. Oh, alone. ALONE! I should listen to Heart, but that’d be wrong, ‘cos I’m happy about space.
It’s been 5 days of living in Victoria, and I’ve yet to hear a siren around my home. There’s zero traffic. No loud neighbours. No crack/meth smoke wafting into my bathroom from someone else’s vents. I’ve heard one float plane take off from nearby shores, but that’s it.
The area? I’m in love. My brother has fallen in love too and hopes to move here within the year.
The move itself? Epic.
More on that later.
For now? Just reporting that I AM ALIVE and shall live to write again.
Stay tuned, minions. Lots to tell.
I even have Imperial Stormtrooper photos to share. OH, YEAH.
Meanwhile, there’s more where that wine came from, and, GASP, there’s even chocolate. Hmm… blogging, or chilling?
Tough fucking answer. I’m outtie.
PS: I have full-blown larygitis, SO NO PHONE CALL FOR YOU.

Going, Going…

Tonight I have a party thingie so people can come say goodbye to me.
Don’t I feel narcissistic. Holy cow.
I never throw parties for myself but I’m sure liking this “see everyone at once and LEAVE TOWN” deal. Do I get a horse and a cowboy hat? “Ah’ll be seein’ ya, pardners.”

Riding the ferry back from Victoria.


Clearly I was big on the Saturday afternoon westerns when I was a little girl.
Anyhow.
The big day cometh. I’m thinking there likely won’t be a lot of posts once I hit moving day/week, but I’m really looking forward to getting some of my thoughts on moving down on pape– err, down on the screen before I go. Posterity and all.
So, this weekend I’ll find some time for a reflective post.
One third of my life has been spent in this apartment. Somehow I fell into the world’s biggest rut. Whew.
This is the week where I slam the brakes and literally every single thing in my life is changing, except for my day job — but that’s changing in context too, since I won’t be working in offices any more.
I’ll be having dinner Friday night to hash out the plan with my fab friend about how we’re gonna put together my new blog. Like I say, The Cunt shall live and I’ll still be writing this blog. I suspect it’ll be my edgier work more exclusively. Lifestyle writing will go on the new blog.
I can’t wait to get that up and running too. Different writing, all my own photography. A record of the ways my life is changing and the places I’m exploring. Very fun.
It’s great. It’s the era of social media. I’ve got people lined up to meet over on the island, connections introducing me.  I don’t know a soul in Victoria in person, but social media’s opening all the doors.
When I moved to the Yukon in ’94, it took me 3-4 months to make friends. I highly doubt that’ll be the case this time, but I’m not in a rush to get there. First, a month of No Planning, Just Being, which I’m calling my “rat-race detox.”
I can’t wait to flip the tables on my life balance. Work from home. Walk for enjoyment and exploring. Ride buses 2-3 times a month, instead of 2-4 times a day. Be antisocial for the day job, and embrace people after hours. Feel like stopping work and visiting the beach? Sure, I can take an hour or two for that soul-break.
I can confidently tell you now that I’ve been doing EVERYTHING wrong for years. I shouldn’t have still been living in Vancouver. This place started getting too big after 2003, when the Olympics construction began. By 2007, I was losing my joy. After 2010, I lost all my joy. It was just not for me anymore.
Every time I’ve ever vacationed as an adult, it’s been coastal region roadtrips, small towns, remote locations. And I never want to return to the city at the end of the week. Methinks I’m tired of the masses.
Vancouver is an incredible city. World-class. Beeyootiful. But it’s changing too quickly. That nature everyone’s moving here for is getting chewed up by developments. Now it’s one city bleeding into another city, sprawling out with 2.3 million people.
I was born here, man. I grew up with this nature. I remember the quiet, the pristine place/pace. I remember when we were this little hick town no one really knew about.
I never asked for the world to find out about us, and wasn’t thrilled when everyone started moving here. You can’t beat the setting, but the endless crowds of grumpy people and the difficulty of enjoying the nature when it takes me 1.5 hours to bus to some beaches in city limits, etc, have just really made me feel like I don’t even live in Vancouver anymore. I never enjoy the ocean, I’m too tired to get out.
So, that’s all changing.
Leaving town means I take back 60 hours of my month from busing next week.
60 hours! Time’s money — and it’s joy and it’s recharge and it’s awesome. I like Time.
In fact, it’s possible I spend as much as 70-75 hours per month in transit, actually.
I’d like to repurpose that time. I want to do an extra 20 hours of walking, 20 more hours a month working for my bosses, and 20 hours a month writing.
Now that’s some fucking life balance, baby.
So, tonight, the goodbye party ensues, and, I think, it all starts getting Really Real.
I’ll miss stuff. People. But I won’t miss the price I paid for it.
Change is a good thing. Bring on the change.

My Content Isn't Changing, So…

I’m moving. I’m PMSing. And my threshold is low. So, I wrote this.
Tell ya, the “strong personality” thing gets to be a drag on Twitter when the passive-aggressive types get all offended by some thing I’ve said. Then they start a series of little digs on things I’ve said, little cuts. This has happened several times now.
Look. My moniker is SmuttySteff, my Twitter bio has said forever that I’m often offensive, and my blog’s called Cunting Linguist. You know what I’m not about? Rainbows and unicorns, sunshine and puppies. I expect people to get offended, and to be adult about it and just walk away.
I’m not here to please everyone, and I’ve never pretended that I want to make the world happy, either. I know I’m an acquired taste, and I typically don’t apologize for it. I’m snarky and full of zest.

This made me laugh. RIP, Arnold.


Life’s all about finding people who accept us for who we are. I have zero intention of changing myself to meet the approval of people who are already expressing disapproval with me.
Like doing that makes any fucking sense at all? That’s like going out with someone who wants you to change your hair, and your clothes, and your job. No, man. We don’t do that.
Don’t like me? Go. I’m fine with that. Just don’t think I care enough to hear why, most of the time.* I won’t change myself anyhow, so don’t tell me what you don’t like. This is social media, not friendship. We go where we get something out of it. If we’re not getting something out of it, we leave. Pretty simple. Oddly, I get a lot of people who still seem to like what I say. That’s groovy.
But, inevitably, I supposedly say something SO offensive it has to be called out by this “type” of person. The issue doesn’t matter, because it’s just more of the irreverent approach I take to talking about everything. Just because it’s suddenly a topic close to someone’s heart doesn’t mean I’m suddenly More Bad. They’re just taking it personally. Big difference. I’m being consistent, so I don’t see the problem.
These passive-aggressive nitpicky types eventually unfollow, but there’s always some kind of huff about it. Again it’s happened, but this time I just decided to not take the passive-aggressive shit and blocked them. So far, they’ve called me “insane” and “mean.”
Oh-kay.
Nowhere in the Internetz For Dummiez guide does it say any of us needs to put up with the others’ shit. Don’t like someone’s content? Don’t get all petty and argumentative. Just unfollow and walk away. When I had 400 followers, I was a lot more tolerant of things said. With a few thousand now, though, I hear more crap and my threshold’s far lower.
You seriously think I need to sit there and listen when someone’s getting all passive-aggressive on me because they’re not digging my content?
How low of self-esteem is it that you think I have, there, person? I don’t think so.
We’re not in grade school. Behaving like children is unnecessary.
Despite the name-calling that’s ensued after I blocked this person, I’ll still be employing block in the future as a proactive deal. Because I’m an insane mean bitch and that’s just how I roll.
Life’s too short to willingly listen to people who cut me down. Go find another doormat.
*I know there are a lot of reasons I get unfollowed, and most don’t have to do with me being evil, but rather that I’m ranty, or tweet about irrelevant things, or I’m not a marketer, or… etc. It’s all good. Go where thy tweety heart is fondest. I get it.

An Open Letter To My Mother

I wrote the following post on the 6th anniversary of my mother’s death.
Now, it’s more than 6 years later, tonight being the 13th anniversary of when her tumour was found.
I’ve been meaning to post this writing here for years, but dragging it up is, well, heavy.
Tonight, I’m more bothered by loss than I have been in quite some time. As the months and years go by, the pain tends to lessen for the most part, so much so that you feel like a traitor for not being a mess on a day-to-day basis. Moving on can feel like betrayal.
But sometimes, on rare and distant days, it comes back so hard and raw that you think it’s only been weeks. Usually, I find this happens when things in my life are going in a new, better, awesome way, in ways I wish more than anything I could share with my mother.
Good things… Like my incoming move to Victoria, which is where she took me for the most fabulous weekend when I was in the 4th grade.
Instead, it’s my dad I call with good news, and I’m lucky I still have him. I’m not even 40. It should be both of them.
Next Tuesday would be my mother’s 70th birthday. She passed at 57.
If you want happy, find another blog today.
I don’t want to re-read this, so I’m posting it word-for-word as it was first published on August 6th, 2006.

Thanks for reading.

Steff, February, 2012.

_______________

 
blackness. utter blackness found me as i rocked fetally in the corner, on the cold hardwood floor that february night.
rocking, rocking. alone in blackness. perhaps a metaphor for my future, i wondered? blackness. aloneness. isolation. fear. nowhere to go.
because of cancer. angry cells gnashing and clawing at what little health lived in you. mutations eating you from the inside out. tumours spongeing up your blood, leaving you in the throes of anemia, a wasted, pallid mockery of the beauty you once had been.
the prognosis? grim. rare, they said. aggressive. “mysterious.”
“a rare, mysterious killer,” as if that somehow made my fear more palateable.
“we’ve done what we could,” he told me. the liar. the fucking rat bastard. what they did was break the tumour, dropping the grapefruit-sized mass on your ribcage. they spilled the cancer’s seed back into your fertile belly.
it burst. it spilled. it took hold. you produced a harvest of cancer. a veritable bounty. a cancer crop.
you succumbed to a web of tumours so large, so intrusive, that they obstructed and shut down every major internal organ.
but the rat bastard never told me he dropped the ball, and with it, what little chance you had at life. no, i had to wait as my rage consumed me, drinking myself into increasing stupors nightly. months later, i learnt the truth: butterfingers.
i sunk to new lows. cavernous lows. sub-terranean.
i drank more after that. filled with fucking hatred for a medical system that almost works. for doctors working too long of shifts, having too shaky hands. for that slip of the finger.
i gulped through a nightly bottle of red through much of that first year, lost in a whirlwind of that angst and hatred.
my future held blackness.
i’d been down so long, with love, at the bank, and now this, the threat of being rudderless. a daughter without a mother.
and six years have passed in the longest time of my life, in a heartbeat, in a haze. i don’t know where those years have gone, but i’m stunned at all they encapsulate.
and i’m so glad to be on this side of it now. my god, the changes i have seen, the depths i have gained.
i don’t expect this grief to ever leave me, and truth be told, i hope it never does. knowing what i’ve lost keeps me tethered to what remains. keeps me holding on to that which i still have.
and what i still have are the lessons you taught me. the woman you were. the woman i should become. that i have become. and the bounties it all brings.
in your dying days, a clarity of values found you. you realized what you had squandered, that you played the game well finally, but far too late in the game. how great this gift of life is, how important dreams and desires are, and since your death, i have striven to hold those values as my own.
but this year, this time, your death day is different. this time, it comes after the steepest, sharpest incline of growth i’ve ever had. brushing with death and dreaming of greatness, this past year has been the year that has finally given me a sense of self like none i’ve ever known.
that sense that you yourself only obtained within months of your death. the sense of self i only gained from escaping mine.
there’s a strangeness to my grief this year. i have imagined you on a payphone in heaven, in a cloud of whiteness, beaming with a proud smile as we talk of my small accomplishments, of the dreams taking shape before me, and a warmness fills me.
then i open my eyes and the flatness, emptiness, this strange new normal returns.
but that’s just another part of me now, a part i sometimes embrace, when the time is right.
_______
…six years.
come 4:14 a.m. tonight, it’ll have been six years.
six years since i awoke with a shot in the dark, confused why i was sitting up in the night with this sudden unavoidable sense that all the good in the world had been snuffed in an instant.
six years since my door cracked open and your neice entered to find me awake, a faint stream of light pouring in the door, hitting me in the eyes.
“steffani…” she started, tears in her eyes.
and then i knew what had been snuffed. across town, in a hospital, you wheezed your last breath and expired the moment before i awoke.
devastated, i was consoled by one thing — even in death, we remained tangibly linked.
and no matter how alone i ever feel, that stays with me, that mysterious bond that keeps you in me.
like that moment during your memorial in that rented space on jericho hill, as the clouds broke, the sun began to shine, and the reverend said, “i’m sure shirley jean left this life thankful –” when a gusty wind crashed a window open and roared into the service, blowing copies of my eulogy across the checkered floor.
silence befell us all as just sat there for a few brief, miraculous seconds as the breeze worked the room, then quelled, remaining calm for the remainder of the service.
but we all suspected the weather had little to do with it. it was a rare moment where disbelievers suspend skepticism and, without speaking of it, everyone knows something slightly inexplicable just occured.
since then, i’ve always suspected you’ve been in my life in some capacity, though i’ve never been conscious of how.
some days, you’re a feeling. a fuzziness that hangs over me and covers me in a soft coat of contentment. a haze of easiness that leaves me impermeable to the cruel world outside.
other days, i remember the woman i lost, the mother who made me who i am, and a tsunami of sorrow engulfs me, pulling me under, leaving me turning, churning in a tidal wave of terror, alone, reaching, trying to break the surface, but choking, suspended a wall of liquid horror.
fortunately that fear seldom finds me now, but it’s still something i know will return. after all, it’s what loss is, and that i understand.
but in that loss i have found so much of myself, and i’m grateful.
for that, thank you. xo.

Of a Girl and Her Overfilled PVR

Moving means lots of change.
Like, cable providers.
The good news is: My new apartment building comes with free extended cable TV. The bad news is: It means I have to cancel my Telus Optik contract and turn in my PVR.
Unfortunately, my PVR is jam-packed with programming I’ve not yet watched.
Just now, I was flipping through that dreaded unwatched PVR recording list and my little grey cells began hopping with thoughts.

Art by http://feliciamaystevenson.blogspot.com is very groovy.


Between my writing, what I read on the web, and the fact that I work with words on the job, when I have down time, I’d rather watch TV than read, but even with the amount I do watch, I’ve managed to amass a backlog of 211 programs on my PVR, with a huge chunk of that being movies that clock in at 2-hours-plus viewing time — everything from Das Boot to Scott Pilgrim vs. The World.
Just looking at the fucking list feels like I’m giving life a cold, wet swirlie. And worse, the programs keep amassing! WHOOP, there it is — another way to suck two hours of my life through a straw.
It’s like I feel this obligation to watch it all, since this inanimate machine took the time to track it down and record it. Wouldn’t wanna hurt wittle Optik PVR’s feelings, now, would we?
These are the stupidities by which our lives are consumed. These illusions of obligations we allow ourselves to be controlled by. In a digital world, there’s no reason to have to watch it now. Once magnetic data, always magnetic data. These programs shall live to be seen again.
So, there I am, wondering when the hell I chose to get a series recording of Extreme Clutter when it occurs to me that maybe, just maybe, needing to cancel my contract for my move and give the PVR back, with these hundreds and hundreds of viewing hours left unwatched, just MIGHT be a GOOD thing.
In many ways, that’s what moving is for me. It’s a great big reboot button.
POOF. Start over. Clean slate. Movin’ on. Lock the door, Henry.*
A more judicious start with a new PVR. A decided restocking of the bookshelves with a new list of Must Reads for my Slower Life that comes with Beach Reading Time and Park Sojourns a-plenty.
But how did I fall so far into the digital/physical realm of cluttered life like I have? How did I let it get so complicated?
More importantly — how do I prevent that from happening again, on The Other Side?
See, in moving, it’s close enough that a lot of people in Victoria are acquainted with people I know over here, and vice versa. There’s the social media there bridging the gap, too. So, before even moving, I know a bunch of folk want to have drinks or whatnot, and soon. It’s a little intimidating, actually.
Now, part of me likes this. Great! Peoples! Let’s have peoples. Everybody needs peoples.
But I also worry that I might just go from working/commuting all the time to having a life filled with appointments and get-togethers. I can’t just pivot from one kind of distraction to another.
Balance, grasshopper. Except, to be a writer, the balance needs to be askew. One requires a bit more of nothing time so they can juggle the words and ideas of their craft. And there has to be moments of doing nothing. Like, watching mindless television in which thoughts can go swimming in that big vapid head, causing a sudden desire to press pause and run off to write.
Works for me.
So, naturally, I’m concerned about the social/private mix before I even get there, because I do want both, but discipline is hard to have in the summer. (Again with the “Maybe not having 500+ hours of recorded content to watch is a good thing.”)
Or maybe I deserve a few months of enjoying life and being social in a slower place, after what’s been a long road of becoming gradually unhappy with my big city life.
It’s a good thing I’m keeping an open mind about everything, and it’s nice to drop by the blog and bounce a few of these ideological balls around, because I know some of you relate to these dilemmas.
It’s also good that I’m beginning to emotionally accept that I might not do that Good Wife season 3 marathon I wanted to have, or catch up with Modern Family or watch the rest of the horror movies I’d recorded in my “exploring gore” burst last fall.
This too shall pass. Let’s have a moment for the long-neglected PVR list. I’ll rent you, Where the Wild Things Are. We’ll be together again, Harry Potter.
Now just watch. Despite my attaining some kind of Zen/Big Picture life-lesson out of all this, some geek will come along with a remedy by which I can transfer my 300 gig Optik PVR box to that external hard drive I have, and I’ll be all over that like Oprah on a ham.
Because we’re nothing if not creatures of comfort.
Oh well. There’s always Netflix.

*Except digital people I haven’t met, no one in my life is named Henry. Fact!

Soon to Come: New Space, New Life

I’m sorry I’ve been away, Minions, but life has been full-tilt of late.
Since the last time I wrote and now, I’ve gotten a lot more of my belongings packed, and took a three-day trip to find my new home. Which is to say, soon I’ll be living in a new and awesome space.
It’s not a bigger space, like I’d wanted, it’s almost exactly the same size as my present home, but it’s got water within 5 blocks of me on three sides, downtown’s less than 10 minutes away by walking, and Victoria’s famous Beacon Hill Park is five blocks, too. Shopping? Everything I need is 2 or 3 short blocks away.

The beach I'll find just five blocks from my home. Fantastic.


For convenience factor, my so-called “convenient” big-city life is a joke compared to what my situation will be once I’ve moved.
My soon-to-be new landlady makes me smile every time I think of her. So sweet, caring, and knows all her tenants by name, and details about their lives. Standing 5 feet tall, she’s short, squat, and full of love as her little arthritic terrier waddles behind her. She rushes to the door to help people in, talks to everyone. I love that.
In my new apartment, they’ve gutted and replaced literally EVERYTHING except the stove, but I’d be unsurprised if I turned up and she thought to throw in a new one of those too. The deck’s being replaced in the spring. The building is spotless, well-loved by tenants and owners, and I’m excited to be joining what looks like a pretty caring community-type apartment building.
I don’t know why people seem to think I’m so urban and hip. I’m really not. I love the water, I love people-watching, exploring, private time, quiet, and space to think. Just because I can chat with just about anyone doesn’t mean I want people around me all the time.
Somehow, some way, all my quiet space and nature-connecting evaporated on me in Vancouver. Without a car, it’s hard to access the awesome in this town, and the town doesn’t allow for the financial freedom of owning a car, so you know how that works. Where I live, which is about all I can afford and stay sane with in Vancouver, there’s the constant drone of traffic and planes landing at the international airport, there’re frequent sirens and horns honking. There are people and tons of traffic everywhere I go. Even my building has turned against me. There are my weird neighbours downstairs who slam everything because none of the kitchen cupboards close (mine don’t either) so they think SLAMMING will make it better.
I think, like me, Victoria is in a time of transition. I don’t want to be where it’s busy and crazy. I like the location I’ve chosen. It’s close enough to everything, and far from the homeless and the university students. It’s close to everything I need, both spiritually and in my day-to-day.
In my new life, there will be both inspiration and time a-plenty for writing, silence, photography, and just being.

And this, BC's Parliament Building, is just about 6 blocks the other way... and with more ocean to see. Shot by me, my first night in town.


My friends were all ganging up on me, saying I should live in another area, but after two full days of walking everywhere, and realizing the so-called convenience of Cook Street Village meant “convenient geography but without much convenience in the form of food and other necessities.” I realized they’re all talking out of their ass. They don’t know what’s “right” for me, not any more than I know why X is right for them.
Deep down, I know I need my new space. I think some higher power knew, too. I had planned to cancel my first apartment viewing but never did. After that appointment, I walked out and the place across the way shone for me. An unadvertised place, I walked up to and buzzed the manager. Sure, I could see it, she said.
I still saw everything I had booked, and more, and returned to my new home for a second viewing, and the “this place is right for me” vibe got stronger and stronger.
It seems spooky and awesome that it worked out so serendipitously for me. The gods are on my side in this move, it seems.
There are things about city life I’ll miss, and I know that before I even leave, but my soul needs it. I can’t be doing this rat-race of stupidity any more. It’s not who I am now. I get home angry more often than I’m relaxed. I don’t feel like walking around the neighbourhood or exploring. I just don’t give a shit now. That’s no way to feel about life.
When I walked down to the end of the street after viewing my spaces, and I came out at Dallas Road Beach, my heart swelled. Really. I could imagine myself wanting to walk there daily. When your heart reacts like that, if you don’t listen then you’re an idiot. I’m listening.
Back in my car-owning days, I would be at the ocean for no reason so often. But in Vancouver, being on the ocean means seeing evidence all around me of the fact that there’s 2.3 million people scattered out there. All those lives twinkling in the lights of the city night. I don’t want to be thinking about 2.3 million lives. I just want to think about mine.
To get to ocean where you see no one, you need a car, a hike down lots of stairs on a cliff, and a liking for naked people sunbathing. Oh, right, that’s not “no one” either.
My soul needs slow and simple. My soul needs exactly what I’ve found.
In 24 sleeps, 18 more office days, I’ll be moved, big-city-free, and thrilled about it.
[No pictures for you of my space until I’ve moved in, at the least.]

Of Plants, Aliens, And Relocation

I feel like ET.
I was getting pretty down on things in November, and at the same time my jade plant was dying. My jade was clipped and grown off my mother’s monstrous plant that had to be given to a commercial business ‘cos it was so damned big — about 7-8 feet radius the last time I saw it.
But this guy was more than 4 feet wide. It lost nearly half its bulk, all shrivelling up and falling off, rotting from the inside out. I had to sweep every couple of days, it was losing so much. I was crushed!
Turns out I was giving it too much water. Like the rest of my life, it was me overthinking and being overattentive that was the problem. Not anything, you know, REAL. Just excessive attention. Another place where I need to chill.
I stopped watering it. I let it breathe and do its thing. That’s it.
Seven weeks later, and the self-destruct sequence of “GAH! Stop fussing over me!” has finally been aborted by the plant. Now it’s got new growth, including new branches, all over the place. Looks fantastic.
It’s just like in ET, where our little alien buddy’s health is directly linked to the flowers in the closet. They start dying, ET’s dying. They come back, so does ET. Just as my life’s getting fun and promising and healthy again, so too is my jade tree’s.
So, I thought it was a good time to give it a pep talk. “Okay. It’s time to bulk up and get tough! We’re moving soon. But, remember? You’ve ridden the ferry twice. Once when you were on your mommy’s branches, and once when you were a baby. Look how well that turned out! So, just brace yourself, and soon you can let your roots settle in a groovy new place.”
I don’t know who got more out of it, me or the plant.

And About That Move

It’s funny. Someone (on Twitter) asked if I was just gonna move and come right back. Well, no. When I decide something like this, it’s pretty done. When I moved to the Yukon, I moved there for a year. I probably would’ve stayed even longer, but I did the old dumb thing and moved back for a fella. Lucky, too, because it turns out I only had a couple more years with Mom.
But, no. I don’t see this being anything less than a couple of years. I’m giving notice, moving everything, investing in working from home, got a raise so things are looking good for my company, and life’s generally snazzy. It’s not like I’m moving to Mars.
So, yeah, March 1st, I’m off like a prom dress and it’s to Victoria I go. I’m stoked. Work’s 100% onboard, which is a fantastic thing to know. Family and friends don’t question the dedication with which I’ve made my decision. Go time!
And of course I’ll be starting a “life in Victoria” blog.
Let me know if you have any creative names. I’m stumped still.

All Boxed In

My apartment is a wide chasm between growing seas of boxes.
Each end of my apartment has a mounting assortment of boxes or things I’m to purge.
In those boxes is everything from my Christmas crap through to college books I loved. It’s all there. Boxed and boxed and boxed. I hear the Weeds theme on a loop in my head.
“Little boxes…”
Oh, readers: I am not a patient woman. Lord, how I try.
But I am not. I fake patient. Kinda. I’m a good actor. You know, in high school drama, I did one hell of a mean Norma Rae monologue. Oh, yeah, me and Sally Fields, together at last.
But I am not patient. My life right now is torture, I tell you! SO MUCH WAITING. GAH! GAH! GAH!
Back when I made the big decision to move to the Yukon in ’94, you know how that went down? Let me tell you.
On a Tuesday, I mailed my resumes off at 3 in the afternoon whilst chowing down on a honeywheat and plain cream cheese bagel at Benny’s on Broadway, and at 9:15 that Friday I was awakened by a manager of a photo shop in Whitehorse, Yukon, telling me it might be a sign that his assistant manager put my resume on his desk five seconds before his photo lab manager walked in with her resignation. Two weeks later, I was living there and managing a photo lab.
Seriously, inside of three weeks I had the IDEA of moving to the Yukon and then wound up BEING there. Packed, drove, got the job. Whizz-bang, done.
Less than three weeks to move to a place of fabled wilderness where “silence bludgeons you dumb” and all. I’m taking three MONTHS to move to Victoria? I’m gonna lose my fucking nut here! I AM.  GAH! GAH!
[breathing]
Om.
Whew.
Sigh.
Okay. All right. Look. I decide “Here’s what I want to do,” well, the one thing not to do? GET IN MY WAY.
But here I am, all gimpy-girl, she of mega-long-ass-fucking back injury. Well, here’s a good idea: PACK A LOT OF HEAVY BOXES AND SQUAT REPEATEDLY. MAYBE THROW IN DOZENS OF STAIRS CLIMBED 3-FLIGHTS AT A TIME, REPEATEDLY, FOR WEEKS.
I hear that’s AWESOME for backs.
So, yeah, I thought “Doing that with a month’s notice? Not awesome.” PACE THYSELF, SWEETIE.
And there was a little thing called Christmas. Four weeks to enjoy the holidays? Sure. Good plan.
But now I’m all pissed I’m not moving February 1st, but that secretive logical not-completely-dumb-ass part of my brain goes “THANK GOD FOR EIGHT WEEKS.”
Still, I’m off like a shot in the dark and whatever other speedy-ass-Gonzales allusions you wanna dig up. I got me some 10+ boxes packed, plans made, systems conjured. I am all over this like Oprah on a ham, honey.
You know what’s totally demented?
I like the half-empty shelves. That’s working for me. I’m constantly surrounded by my things, things made by my father, and things I inherited from my mother. It’s a little weird when you’re trying to find yourself after long periods of upheaval.
Back in my would-be-sex-blogging days, I once did this very short and to-the-point sex tip. If you’re a woman, and you have trouble reaching orgasm, and there is a photo of your family ANYWHERE IN YOUR ROOM, then get it the hell outta there.
It sounds weird, but there’s this low-level awareness we have when we’ve got familiar faces around us in picture form, no matter what it is we’re doing, and if it’s of parents who chastise us, people who belittle us, and so forth, then that’s problematic.
As much as it’s nice having family stuff at home to ground us, sometimes it can lead to mental places we maybe should take a break from. I’m sort of tired of having family photos around.
Everywhere I look are books and other things gifted from friends and lovers, and things inherited or received from family. That book on my left isn’t just a grammar book, it’s a book an ex gifted on our first date like they were flowers — but it’s not a symbol of all that I enjoyed in that relationship, but instead of all I lost when it ended. Or so it would seem upon first recall.

At least I'll have to take my head out of the sand when I unpack. Until then: New surroundings! AND SANDY.


And that’s just one of dozens, even hundreds of things. Everything has a connection to some tangible memory.
To think there’s no mental baggage that comes from glancing around my home is foolishness.
In a world where we’re hyper-stimulated by visuals everywhere, having a home filled with stuff doesn’t help that come-down period we’re supposed to have when we’re in our so-called sanctuary.
Decluttering would be nice but I’m not sure how much I can whittle down. As I’m going through and packing, some stuff is getting turfed, but is it enough?
I’m hoping that the quicker I can start packing it up, the more emotional distance I might have when it comes to deciding whether or not it returns to my home upon my unpacking.
I’ve been here for 12 years. It’s among the most lived-in rental apartments you’d ever have set foot in. So totally “owned” by me. A new place will be a big change on the emotional scale.
When I realized this week that I’ve spent almost exactly one third of my life in this apartment, I was a little freaked out. No wonder this move is a big deal. How’d I wind up here for so long?
I got stuck.
So, now, with all these boxes around, it’s a reminder that change is afoot. It’s also a reminder to be in the moment and enjoy each passing day, because life will soon be a 180 of what it is now. No commute, working in my pajamas. More time to breathe.
I want to embrace the break-neck stupid that’s about to come down in the form of manic rushing, packing, organizing. I want to have a moment in some 10 or 12 weeks where I can stop, reflect on this period, and really accept that a monumental change of pace has arrived.
58 more sleeps.

The Just-Before-Midnight New-Year's-Eve Post

It’s one hour from 2012. It’s probably one of the last lazy, easy-to-schedule hangings with my best friend, whom I’ve lived within 10 blocks of for 12 years now, and called a friend for 20+.
It’s unsettling, the few “bad” things about moving. I’ll miss being close to my friend. The stupid small-talk bitching sessions are sometimes among the most cathartic to share with someone. POP! There’s a bitching session! Unleash! Unwind! Let go! Move on. There. Feels better, no?
My friend whining about work has been old for a while, but all night tonight it made me smile as he put out fires with over some asshat who kicked in a window at his coffee shop that his staff didn’t know how to deal with. Tonight, I was chill and mellow as he texted and chatted away, trying to solve the impending insurance emergency.
That’s New Year’s Eve for you. The winds of change…  if any are headed your way, this is when you hear them.
Three months from now, when I want to see someone, it’ll be people I barely know who fill the gaps. Hopefully they’ll become the people I want to see.
Three months from now, when I feel like grabbing breakfast, it’ll be completely different places. In fact, nothing I do now will be the same in three months.
It’s nerve-wracking at times because I know how much I’m invested in this choice to move and be living a different lifestyle.
But when I tried to tell my friend tonight how much I’d miss him, all he would say was, “You need to do this.”
And he’s right.
It’s funny, the people who knew me best, when I said “I want to move to Victoria and work from home,” all of them said “That’d be GREAT for you.”
It was work and people who only know me on the surface who said, “I dunno. Are you sure?”
But apparently friends and family I’d leave my life with, they think I “need to do this.”
One — a father with a couple toddlers and a great wife — is taking vacation days to help me move. I’m a lucky kid.
In ways, I’ve never let more than a few people prove their loyalty to me. I’m good at putting up walls. Dad owned a construction company. It’s in the blood.
Now, it feels weird. Who’s what to me now? I’m not really sure. Here’s where I find out.
It’s a good thing I’m not moving far from home. There’s a lot to not want to leave permanently…  people included.
Meanwhile: Happy New Year.
Change is afoot… if you want it. (Apologies to John Lennon.)

My Dance With Consumerism: The Christmas Schwag

About That Other Thing, A Steff Note:
My Christmas eve posting was cryptic because sometimes we need the light of day before fear goes away. I’d gotten a call 10 minutes before I served Christmas dinner saying my late-ass brother wasn’t late — he was hit by a car and being taken by ambulance to emergency, with a definite head injury albeit the severity unknown. He’s doing very well, and is lucky to be alive. It was a pretty wrenching evening at times, and I wrote that post with him groaning in light pain while sleeping on my sofa, 10 feet away. Daylight made things better, as it often does.

***

It’s the calm between the storm fronts as my coffee reaches its bitter end.
I’m wishing I had another day of Nothing Doing after yesterday’s utter embrace of sloth, but I’m sadly headed into the world for acupuncture, shopping, lunch, and the like.
It’s half-way through my Christmas vacation. I’ve been on a shopping tear — all online — in doing the once-almost-every-decade shopping for electronics and things to make my life nicer on the homefront, signalling what will surely be a year of much belt-tightening and budget-respecting to follow. My last two such splurges took place in 2003 and 1994. Clearly, I’m due.
It’s the best kind of consumerism — the kind that enriches one’s life with careful choice-making before the splurging.

Oh, Glowing Picture On The Wall, Who’s the TVest of Them All?

For instance, I’m cutting my cable enough to compensate within one year for my splurge for a new TV and home theatre system. Thanks to sales, I got components worth $1300+ for under $600 after taxes. The amount I’ll save in 12 months for going to basic cable and using the one year of Netflix my friend gifted me? $588. Cha-ching!
My huge tube TV’s on its deathbed, taking as much as 6 minutes to just warm up and give me a picture upon start-up, and even when it’s warmed up, the input jacks are loose and just walking across the floor can cause me to lose picture. That’s been happening for three years, and was a real drag back when I was dating and watching something romantic or fun, and sucked even more with a back problem.
My stereo was from 1994, almost dead, and couldn’t even play my iPod, let alone play nicely with my out-of-date TV. My new dealio was 45% off, can play with iPod, is Netflix & web-ready, and will offer surround sound for those moments I give in to The Big Shiny Movies.

A Writer Needs What A Writer Needs

I picked up a new laptop, intended to make me work on my own writing more, and get out into the world to see people whilst I do so. My computer’s from 2006 and I suspect also similarly not long for this world. I saved another 40% on the laptop. Soon, I’ll get my office equipment, so I can have a healthier work environment. It’ll include an ergonomic keyboard & mouse tray, a back-friendly chair, a new desk, and other fixings, making for a more comfortable home office environment, since I’ll now be spending up to 40 hours a week there on just the “day job,” let alone writing for myself.
So, I’ll have a completely-new, ergo-friendly, and sexy office for only $550, because I’m getting things for up to 76% off, thanks to my smart deal-finding ways.
I did blow my wad on one treat that’s like a bottomless-refill cup of goodness for my soul — a new camera. I didn’t have a working one, and photography has been a love of mine for 20 years. It’s profoundly inspiring for my writing to spend a day shooting pictures, and there once was a time I’d write stories based on what I’d snapped. I long for those days. Nothing will make me get out and explore my new home more than having a great camera to record it with, like my new Nikon D3100.

Simply Gift-tacular!

There’s one new belonging I didn’t have to splurge on, and I can’t wait to have it in my life (it needs to be driven in from the Valley still). The Santa-Folks gave me a new KitchenAid Stand Mixer that will be incredible for homemade bread-baking and other things. This has been something on my wish-list for a very long time. I’ve still been using the hand-mixer I bought for $15 more than 10 years ago.

Barbara Krueger's iconic image.


Another gift I was given for Christmas, and it’s funny, because it was likely only a $10-15 gift and isn’t earth-shattering, is a CUTE littlelunch bag that has gel-pack walls on four of six sides, which you just store in the freezer, then it keeps anything cold for up to 6 hours. It’s FUNNY to me because it’s such a small thing but it makes me so excited to think about taking lunch breaks from working at home and walking to the beach with a book or my laptop, and eating a bagged lunch with controlled calories and nutrition, and keeping both my budget in line and me in the sun. It’s a really thoughtful little gift I love. It’s cute, functional, quick to set up, and pretty to carry with me. Perfect! Now I can envision it happening — me and my little peach-polka-dotted bag, together on shorelines and in parks, soaking up the sun and enjoying the outdoor writer’s life.

I Love It When A Plan Comes Together

None of these purchases were spontaneous. They’ve all been on a wishlist for a year or more, and I budgeted carefully beforehand to make acquiring my whole list happen, and I try to buy what will last.
With only my office set-up left to purchase, I’m dead-on-track with my budget and it feels great to know I’ve bought better quality for every purchase than I expected I would find in my budget.
On Monday, I call and cancel all my cable add-ons. By then, I hope to have my new TV and stereo up and running. I see a future with less cable TV and more “deliberate choosing” of what to watch, either via the web or Netflix, rather than haphazard “what’s on?” channel-surfing that’s a bottomless pit for my time.

But Tomorrow’s Not Here Today

Then I’m looking forward to having a work desk at home that doesn’t leave my shoulders aching and my neck prone to starting headaches. It’s amazing how much that hampers one’s desire to sit and write for more than 40 minutes at a time. The desk won’t be a reality until I’m landed in my new home, come March, but my soul’s left wistfully wanting for that day.
While I’ll be thrilled to get out and meet new people on the Island when I move there, I’m making it very plain that my first motivation behind the move is to adopt the WRITER’S LIFE. This will mean a lot of time alone, and when I have a home that has a good entertainment system, lots of music to play, a camera to stoke my creativity, and a healthy writing environment with the right tools, I think the idea of being at home for all those long hours won’t feel like punishment anymore, especially when I’m so close to the city for quick escapes and refreshing The Little Grey Cells. I think those 15 hours I save on weekly “work” commutes via working from home will transform the way I work off-hours for me.
There’s still the mystery of where I’ll be. I’m prepared to compromise a little to get a two-bedroom (or one-plus-den) apartment in a neighbourhood I love. I want my work separate from my life, since it’ll be muddled together so much from working at home. I’m dying to know what I’ll be calling home for the next year or few, and I’m five weeks from knowing, eight weeks from going.

Buyer’s Remorse?

Absolutely not. With the holidays almost over and my budget intact, I feel great.
Unlike other people who buy new electronics every couple of years, when I buy things I have a tendency to use them until the end of their workhorse lives. I’m not about new or trendy, I’m about getting the best I can on a reasonable budget, of technology that’s been tested and true, and I’m big on not wasting my technology via replacing them for the “shiny” releases.
I’ve bought cheap-and-often in my youth, but I don’t do that now. When I replaced my sofa 3 years ago, I paid nearly 4 times what my friend did, but his will need replacing next year, and mine has a lifetime warranty on the frame and still has spots needing to be “broken in.” I have family members using the same brand of sofa from 20 years ago, because they bought smart with quality like me.
With a new home, a new town, new goals, new tech, new priorities, the coming year will be a really fun and exciting experience for me from day one to day done.
Sometimes, consumerism isn’t just empty acquisitions. Sometimes it’s about picking the things that really do let you be the best you. When I take breaks from writing, I love movies and drama. Always have. I love photography walks. I love writing in cafes and watching people. I haven’t been able to do these things for a long, long time. When my scooter died in late 2009, while my back was horribly injured, my life became more about commuting long-form through the city and surviving it, rather than living in it.
It’s sad it’ll take my leaving my hometown to get back to the smaller lifestyle I love, but it’s enthralling to know it’s closer every day. I’m 100% sure it’s the right direction, and with all the quality-of-life purchases I’ve made, and the things I’ll emotionally gain from the move, a part of me feels like there’ll be nothing left to want.
For now, I’m in a weird limbo between what I know is coming and what’s here today, but I’m soaking in every moment. What a ride.