So, I've been having a wee bit of a tiff with another resident of my townhouse complex, and it led me to think about marginal people who don't like trees.
Here's some backstory:
Our townhouse is at the very top of the complex and backs onto a fire lane, which is chained off at the top to prevent people from using it as a through-road. This lane is primarily used by pedestrians and bikers and happens to afford me a beautiful view of the trees.
For the last few months, some individual has been parking his commercial (read: GIANT) bucket truck on this fire lane...directly adjacent to my backyard.
This upsets me for a number of reasons, most of them having to due with the fact that this vehicle basically blocks the sun.
When this truck is parked there, I lose my view of the trees. I worked very hard to find that view, and I don't appreciate someone impeding that.
Vancouver is not as awash with greenspace as one might think. Yes, there are parks and protected areas, but there is also a massively growing population who like to cut down forests in order to build ridiculously sprawling houses.
The fact that we even have a view of trees behind our townhouse is precious to me.
And so I went about trying to defend my right to view trees with the veracity and single mindedness of a pitbull.
I became intimately familiar with my city's bylaws, I talked to city officials and I talked to strata council.
The answer I received from all parties was a variation on the "that truck can park wherever it likes" theme.
Those who know me, understand that I can get a bit...single-minded about things that bug me. I have no ability to compartmentalize. If something bothers me, I will focus and dwell on it until:
a) I am driven crazy
b) I find a solution
c) I find something new to fixate on
In this case, I actually ran into the owner of the truck one dreary, rainy morning and tried (nicely) to persuade him to park SOMEWHERE THAT WASN'T NEAR MY BACKYARD. I used the "I like trees" argument to close my case.
The truck owner looked at me like I was a nutbar and told me that he would "try". He also told me that he "didn't see the big deal with trees."
It was at this moment where I knew that truck owner and I would never be best friends. I cannot be cordial with someone who doesn't "get" why trees are a big deal.
TREES ARE A BIG DEAL, OK?!
The uneasy truce has played out and the truck is now parked slightly lower than it was before, thus blocking someone else's view of the trees.
I have my trees back. Even though I can still see the horrible truck, at least I kind of have to go out of my way to see it, so it's at least not directly in my face.
I do still secretly hope that "I hate trees" guy gets a job that forces him to re-locate to Alberta, where he'll be quite at home with his kind. And then can all drive big trucks and laugh at nature together.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Business 101
Due to overwhelming pleading from my multitude of readers (aka: gentle harassment from my mom), I decided to update my blog again.
WHERE TO BEGIN.
Since I last wrote, I have done the following:
1. Witnessed a risque dance number performed by several grey-haired women. The routine, set to the tune of "Hey Big Spender", came mid way through the birthday party for an established octogenarian.
2. Fully embraced post-Olympic Vancouver and reveled at the distinct lack of cheerful tourists blocking every foreseeable intersection.
3. Lost 2 pounds through a mysterious regime known as "Watching TV, Eating Salty Food and Not Moving Very Much".
Most excitingly, however, I (along with two friends), have decided to start a business!
Granted, much of this discussion did happen over 1 (or 3) pitchers of Sangria, but I think the idea has legs.
Here's the gist. The three of us are:
a) reasonably well educated (together, we have a combination of 3 Master's Degrees and 4 Bachelors' Degrees)
b) at odds with our current, dull, full time jobs
c) in need of a creative outlet
The combination of these circumstances has created the perfect storm of an idea.
The three of us are looking to start a writing, editing, researching collective. We want to take the rough work of students, fledgling companies, etc. and make it...better. We want to shape text and delete extraneous commas! We want to research obscure things for obscure people! We want to make money!
And we're not going into this completely blind. The mother of one of my friends does this kind of stuff for a living and is approaching retirement. Not only can she give us tips, but we might be able to steal her client list!
I'm cautiously excited about this prospect. I'm not exactly entrepreneurial, but I do have a talent with words and I'd like to be able to use those skills to bring in some coin.
Right now, we're at the OH GOD WHAT DO WE CALL OURSELVES phase. I've tasked my mom to come up with potential names and she's been blowing up my phone and email with ideas.
Actually, I'm surprised she hasn't called while I've been writing this entry!
"HEY STEPH I HAVE 13 MORE IDEAS SINCE WE LAST SPOKE 1 MINUTE AGO!"
(I love you mom, but writing this blogs means I get to make fun of you on the internet sometimes...)
So this is a very new idea, born of desperation and alcoholic beverages (but, really, isn't that how the best ideas are born?!)
I'll keep you updated. And if you have any ideas for a company name, feel free to email me. Or email my mom and run them by her.
WHERE TO BEGIN.
Since I last wrote, I have done the following:
1. Witnessed a risque dance number performed by several grey-haired women. The routine, set to the tune of "Hey Big Spender", came mid way through the birthday party for an established octogenarian.
2. Fully embraced post-Olympic Vancouver and reveled at the distinct lack of cheerful tourists blocking every foreseeable intersection.
3. Lost 2 pounds through a mysterious regime known as "Watching TV, Eating Salty Food and Not Moving Very Much".
Most excitingly, however, I (along with two friends), have decided to start a business!
Granted, much of this discussion did happen over 1 (or 3) pitchers of Sangria, but I think the idea has legs.
Here's the gist. The three of us are:
a) reasonably well educated (together, we have a combination of 3 Master's Degrees and 4 Bachelors' Degrees)
b) at odds with our current, dull, full time jobs
c) in need of a creative outlet
The combination of these circumstances has created the perfect storm of an idea.
The three of us are looking to start a writing, editing, researching collective. We want to take the rough work of students, fledgling companies, etc. and make it...better. We want to shape text and delete extraneous commas! We want to research obscure things for obscure people! We want to make money!
And we're not going into this completely blind. The mother of one of my friends does this kind of stuff for a living and is approaching retirement. Not only can she give us tips, but we might be able to steal her client list!
I'm cautiously excited about this prospect. I'm not exactly entrepreneurial, but I do have a talent with words and I'd like to be able to use those skills to bring in some coin.
Right now, we're at the OH GOD WHAT DO WE CALL OURSELVES phase. I've tasked my mom to come up with potential names and she's been blowing up my phone and email with ideas.
Actually, I'm surprised she hasn't called while I've been writing this entry!
"HEY STEPH I HAVE 13 MORE IDEAS SINCE WE LAST SPOKE 1 MINUTE AGO!"
(I love you mom, but writing this blogs means I get to make fun of you on the internet sometimes...)
So this is a very new idea, born of desperation and alcoholic beverages (but, really, isn't that how the best ideas are born?!)
I'll keep you updated. And if you have any ideas for a company name, feel free to email me. Or email my mom and run them by her.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
With Glowing Hearts.
Ok. Confession time. Until last Friday, I was doing my best impression of a hostile Vancouverite and shunning the Olympic Games.
I moaned about the tourists and the transit headaches and laughed at Mother Nature's cruel sense of humor.
And then, I saw the torch being run down the street outside my work.
It was a happy accident that I managed to be heading down for a coffee break when I was swept up in a sea of excited co-workers on their way to see the torch. So I decided to forgo caffeine for some reflected glory.
Waiting in the growing crowd outside, I couldn't help but get caught up in the excitement and enthusiasm of those around me. The torch wasn't even in the vicinity yet and I found myself spontaneously yelling "OOOH" when an official looking vehicle drove by.
From my vantage point, the whole of downtown seemed a-wash with people. People were in the streets, on top of newspapers stands and climbing the spindly urban trees in hopes of getting a better vantage point.
And then.
The torch came around the corner. I must admit that my jaded Canadian heart jumped into my throat.
The sound that exploded from the crowd was like an ocean wave - it grew and roared and crested as people jockeyed to see a glimpse of the flame.
The crowd was held back by the peace officers, and as I let myself be shifted and moved by the crowd, I found myself right next to the torch runner. I was close enough to see just how wide his smile was as he held the flame aloft.
The torch passed as quickly as it came, the runner flew past us and continued to run in the direction of BC Place Stadium.
The crowd grew quiet and dispersed. Once held together by collective excitement, we were now strangers again.
The remainder of the day passed with simmering Olympic excitement. Co-workers shared stories of running into athletes and celebrities and we all watched, with mounting trepidation, a protest form and grow legs in front of the art gallery.
The work day came to a close and I found myself walking my familiar route to catch my train. My usual practice is to walk fast, with purpose. But this walk was different. I noticed the volunteers in their turquoise jackets. I noticed the tourists, comparing maps and I noticed the flashes of red and white patriotism among the crowds.
For the first time, the Olympics was more than just an inconvenience. It was a welcome break from my routine.
And when Alexandre Bilodeau won the first gold medal, ever, on Canadian home soil, I think my heart actually starting beating in time to our national anthem.
I've never been one for overt patriotism, but these Olympics are helping me remember what's really behind the maple leaf.
PS: My new found patriotism does not mean I have stopped glaring at idiot tourists who hold up traffic to take pictures of seagulls.
I moaned about the tourists and the transit headaches and laughed at Mother Nature's cruel sense of humor.
And then, I saw the torch being run down the street outside my work.
It was a happy accident that I managed to be heading down for a coffee break when I was swept up in a sea of excited co-workers on their way to see the torch. So I decided to forgo caffeine for some reflected glory.
Waiting in the growing crowd outside, I couldn't help but get caught up in the excitement and enthusiasm of those around me. The torch wasn't even in the vicinity yet and I found myself spontaneously yelling "OOOH" when an official looking vehicle drove by.
From my vantage point, the whole of downtown seemed a-wash with people. People were in the streets, on top of newspapers stands and climbing the spindly urban trees in hopes of getting a better vantage point.
And then.
The torch came around the corner. I must admit that my jaded Canadian heart jumped into my throat.
The sound that exploded from the crowd was like an ocean wave - it grew and roared and crested as people jockeyed to see a glimpse of the flame.
The crowd was held back by the peace officers, and as I let myself be shifted and moved by the crowd, I found myself right next to the torch runner. I was close enough to see just how wide his smile was as he held the flame aloft.
The torch passed as quickly as it came, the runner flew past us and continued to run in the direction of BC Place Stadium.
The crowd grew quiet and dispersed. Once held together by collective excitement, we were now strangers again.
The remainder of the day passed with simmering Olympic excitement. Co-workers shared stories of running into athletes and celebrities and we all watched, with mounting trepidation, a protest form and grow legs in front of the art gallery.
The work day came to a close and I found myself walking my familiar route to catch my train. My usual practice is to walk fast, with purpose. But this walk was different. I noticed the volunteers in their turquoise jackets. I noticed the tourists, comparing maps and I noticed the flashes of red and white patriotism among the crowds.
For the first time, the Olympics was more than just an inconvenience. It was a welcome break from my routine.
And when Alexandre Bilodeau won the first gold medal, ever, on Canadian home soil, I think my heart actually starting beating in time to our national anthem.
I've never been one for overt patriotism, but these Olympics are helping me remember what's really behind the maple leaf.
PS: My new found patriotism does not mean I have stopped glaring at idiot tourists who hold up traffic to take pictures of seagulls.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Teef
At the time of writing, I cannot feel the entire right side of my face. The area from my right ear to the middle of my lip is a complete expanse of numbness. I have to consciously think about not biting my tongue. This is more challenging than it sounds.
As you probably deduced from the preceding few sentences, I spent a joyful 2 hours of my afternoon in a dentist chair.
I'm a dental sissy. The idea of needles and drills and other dental torture implements invading my mouth fills me with an enormous amount of dread.
To their credit, the dentist and hygienist were both very sweet. The dentist explained the entire procedure and the hygienist held my hand and talked to me about her Mexico vacation plans while the Novocaine was being injected. Yes, I needed my hand held. I DON'T LIKE MOUTH NEEDLES OK! STOP JUDGING ME!
And so I waited to get numb. I waited and I waited. The most that happened was a vague, unpleasant tingly sensation. But I still had feeling. The hygienist prodded me a few times and asked "Can you feel this?" and looked at me strangely when I nodded in the affirmative.
The solution to this problem? Another shot! So there was more hand holding and more talk of Mexico and the creeping numbness finally started to kick in.
After about 10 minutes, I couldn't feel much of anything on the one side.
The filling itself, while uncomfortable and full of drills and noises and spraying dental matter, was quite straight forward.
As an added bonus, I watched a tv that was situated on the ceiling. Unfortunately, the show was Dr. Phil, so I had to endure whiny teenagers who were SO IN LOVE OK?! with their shifty boyfriends and who hated their parents for....being parents.
So, the dentist finished the filling, but still, I was captive in the chair.
Oh yes, this appointment was a "two fer". Not only did I get a filling, but I also suffered through the unique dental torture that is a mouthguard fitting.
Ok.
So imagine that expanding foam insulation that everyone's dad buys at Home Depot.
Now imagine taking that insulation, spraying it in your mouth and "gently clamping down" as this horrible stuff oozes all around your mouth and threatens to drip down your throat.
And imagine someone cheerfully telling you not to swallow which, of course, reminds you that you desperately want to swallow.
Oh! And this stuff sets really fast, which means it forms a pretty intense seal around your teeth.
Apparently, my teeth bonded to this stuff in an "unusual way" and the hygienist had to literally brace herself against my head in order to successfully pry the gunk off my teeth.
She reassured me that I do still, in fact, have all of my teeth still in my mouth. I have my doubts.
So that was fun.
On the up side, I managed to not to drool all over myself on the train ride home. So there's that.
I'm home now and actively waiting for the numbing to wear off. Because I received two doses of Novacaine, the dentist said it could take "anywhere between 3 and 7 (!) hours to get full feeling back again".
In the meantime, I may engage in some idle tongue chewing.
As you probably deduced from the preceding few sentences, I spent a joyful 2 hours of my afternoon in a dentist chair.
I'm a dental sissy. The idea of needles and drills and other dental torture implements invading my mouth fills me with an enormous amount of dread.
To their credit, the dentist and hygienist were both very sweet. The dentist explained the entire procedure and the hygienist held my hand and talked to me about her Mexico vacation plans while the Novocaine was being injected. Yes, I needed my hand held. I DON'T LIKE MOUTH NEEDLES OK! STOP JUDGING ME!
And so I waited to get numb. I waited and I waited. The most that happened was a vague, unpleasant tingly sensation. But I still had feeling. The hygienist prodded me a few times and asked "Can you feel this?" and looked at me strangely when I nodded in the affirmative.
The solution to this problem? Another shot! So there was more hand holding and more talk of Mexico and the creeping numbness finally started to kick in.
After about 10 minutes, I couldn't feel much of anything on the one side.
The filling itself, while uncomfortable and full of drills and noises and spraying dental matter, was quite straight forward.
As an added bonus, I watched a tv that was situated on the ceiling. Unfortunately, the show was Dr. Phil, so I had to endure whiny teenagers who were SO IN LOVE OK?! with their shifty boyfriends and who hated their parents for....being parents.
So, the dentist finished the filling, but still, I was captive in the chair.
Oh yes, this appointment was a "two fer". Not only did I get a filling, but I also suffered through the unique dental torture that is a mouthguard fitting.
Ok.
So imagine that expanding foam insulation that everyone's dad buys at Home Depot.
Now imagine taking that insulation, spraying it in your mouth and "gently clamping down" as this horrible stuff oozes all around your mouth and threatens to drip down your throat.
And imagine someone cheerfully telling you not to swallow which, of course, reminds you that you desperately want to swallow.
Oh! And this stuff sets really fast, which means it forms a pretty intense seal around your teeth.
Apparently, my teeth bonded to this stuff in an "unusual way" and the hygienist had to literally brace herself against my head in order to successfully pry the gunk off my teeth.
She reassured me that I do still, in fact, have all of my teeth still in my mouth. I have my doubts.
So that was fun.
On the up side, I managed to not to drool all over myself on the train ride home. So there's that.
I'm home now and actively waiting for the numbing to wear off. Because I received two doses of Novacaine, the dentist said it could take "anywhere between 3 and 7 (!) hours to get full feeling back again".
In the meantime, I may engage in some idle tongue chewing.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Stress and Numbers and Graphs
I had a stressful morning, full of broken alarm clocks and flailing. I was afforded 2.5 extra hours of sleep due to malfunctioning technology, but by the time I did awake from my slumber, I was in a total state of panic.
I managed to get dressed, perform basic hygiene functions, feed the cats and rocket up to the bus stop in about 3.5 seconds. I think I broke a sound barrier.
After arriving at work 1.5 hours later than usual, I was about 1.5 hours behind in everything I tried to do today.
This made for a long, frustrating and tedious work day.
Finally, finally it was home time! I shuffled out onto the congested downtown streets and shoved my way onto a crowded skytrain. Surrounded by 9.5 million fellow cranky commuters, I spent the ride home trying to preserve some kind of personal space. It was a losing battle.
Immediately following the skytrain ride came a short jaunt in a shuttle bus which deposited me in Port Moody.
As I walked down the hill toward my townhouse, I marveled at how my stress level declines exponentially as I more farther away from downtown Vancouver.
If I were to express this in a mathematical equation (why not?!), it would look something like this:
Except replace those words with "Stress Level" and "Distance From Vancouver", respectively.
Vancouver is full of noise and people and buildings. And I don't particularly care for noise or people or buildings.
And while Port Moody is not where my heart is truly at home, it at least allows me to breath and stretch and look at the scenery without having to look past a skyscraper.
So, even though I spent the whole day 1.5 hours behind, I came home, and I took some deep breaths, and I was able to catch up to myself.
I managed to get dressed, perform basic hygiene functions, feed the cats and rocket up to the bus stop in about 3.5 seconds. I think I broke a sound barrier.
After arriving at work 1.5 hours later than usual, I was about 1.5 hours behind in everything I tried to do today.
This made for a long, frustrating and tedious work day.
Finally, finally it was home time! I shuffled out onto the congested downtown streets and shoved my way onto a crowded skytrain. Surrounded by 9.5 million fellow cranky commuters, I spent the ride home trying to preserve some kind of personal space. It was a losing battle.
Immediately following the skytrain ride came a short jaunt in a shuttle bus which deposited me in Port Moody.
As I walked down the hill toward my townhouse, I marveled at how my stress level declines exponentially as I more farther away from downtown Vancouver.
If I were to express this in a mathematical equation (why not?!), it would look something like this:
Except replace those words with "Stress Level" and "Distance From Vancouver", respectively.
Vancouver is full of noise and people and buildings. And I don't particularly care for noise or people or buildings.
And while Port Moody is not where my heart is truly at home, it at least allows me to breath and stretch and look at the scenery without having to look past a skyscraper.
So, even though I spent the whole day 1.5 hours behind, I came home, and I took some deep breaths, and I was able to catch up to myself.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
M-E-H
I'm craving change right now. I'm craving with it to the point of utter distraction.
I'm feeling stagnant and dull and full of boredom. If I had to sum up my existence right now, it would be "Ennui with brief bursts of amazement and wonder". And I would like to change that to read "Amazement and wonder with tiny pockets of ennui".
Feh.
Part of this is job related. I'm feeling the early warning signs of burnout. I feel more impatience and my "goodwill towards men" ideals are taking a definite hit as of late.
I sit here and simmer with unused ambition and it bothers me.
So I am doing small, wee things to change this. I'm looking for alternate career paths, I'm shaking off the lazies and doing more exercise, I'm tackling some ambitious (for me) recipes in the kitchen and I'm ready hefty books.
I'm trying to define the Things That Make Steph Happy and I'm slowly, slowly finding a path. The path is still covered in weeds and lined with suspicious animals, but the way is emerging. It's up to me to take a deep breath and follow it without too much fear.
Right now, the world does not seem to have enough color in it. And it's not the fault of the world, it's because my view is tinted grey right now and I need to take the steps to bring the colors back.
I need to free myself of the chains of dulled boredom and really start to enjoy myself. Maybe I need to run around the woods at midnight and finger paint and be ridiculous.
And I know this is a totally melodramatic, mopey post, but that's where my brain space is right now.
I promise that the sunshine and ponies will reappear, even if I have to bribe them.
I'm feeling stagnant and dull and full of boredom. If I had to sum up my existence right now, it would be "Ennui with brief bursts of amazement and wonder". And I would like to change that to read "Amazement and wonder with tiny pockets of ennui".
Feh.
Part of this is job related. I'm feeling the early warning signs of burnout. I feel more impatience and my "goodwill towards men" ideals are taking a definite hit as of late.
I sit here and simmer with unused ambition and it bothers me.
So I am doing small, wee things to change this. I'm looking for alternate career paths, I'm shaking off the lazies and doing more exercise, I'm tackling some ambitious (for me) recipes in the kitchen and I'm ready hefty books.
I'm trying to define the Things That Make Steph Happy and I'm slowly, slowly finding a path. The path is still covered in weeds and lined with suspicious animals, but the way is emerging. It's up to me to take a deep breath and follow it without too much fear.
Right now, the world does not seem to have enough color in it. And it's not the fault of the world, it's because my view is tinted grey right now and I need to take the steps to bring the colors back.
I need to free myself of the chains of dulled boredom and really start to enjoy myself. Maybe I need to run around the woods at midnight and finger paint and be ridiculous.
And I know this is a totally melodramatic, mopey post, but that's where my brain space is right now.
I promise that the sunshine and ponies will reappear, even if I have to bribe them.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Words, words, words
Ironically, I'm writing here about my spectacular lack of writing.
I know I can write - I can string words together and form passable sentences and I know, vaguely, what a verb is.
And I love to write. I love to take the ideas that live and roam freely in my brain and watch them appear, in black and white, on paper or on a screen.
So why doesn't ability + love = writing?
I have a few theories.
One theory is that I am lazy. Very, very lazy. Also, I'm a procrastinator. The combination of the two make for a very unproductive writer.
Another theory is fear of failure. I have no lack of ideas, but for some reason I feel that when they come out of my brain, they'll be pure fail and I'll be so discouraged that I'll give up.
I know, intellectually, that this is ridiculous. I know that it's ok to write something that's horrible because it might be a precursor to something that's amazing. And writing, any writing, is better than no writing.
So one part of my brain knows this, but the other part of my brain (the one attached to my fingers), is in denial.
And that's part of the reason I started this blog. I know that the readership is negligible and that means that it's a "safe" place for me to write...anything. Even if it's horrible.
And I'm also hoping that this blog will keep me from being lazy. If I remember that "Stephopolis" is sitting here, waiting for me, maybe I'll actually come and use it.
I want 2010 to be the start of a new, more loving relationship between me and my words.
I know I can write - I can string words together and form passable sentences and I know, vaguely, what a verb is.
And I love to write. I love to take the ideas that live and roam freely in my brain and watch them appear, in black and white, on paper or on a screen.
So why doesn't ability + love = writing?
I have a few theories.
One theory is that I am lazy. Very, very lazy. Also, I'm a procrastinator. The combination of the two make for a very unproductive writer.
Another theory is fear of failure. I have no lack of ideas, but for some reason I feel that when they come out of my brain, they'll be pure fail and I'll be so discouraged that I'll give up.
I know, intellectually, that this is ridiculous. I know that it's ok to write something that's horrible because it might be a precursor to something that's amazing. And writing, any writing, is better than no writing.
So one part of my brain knows this, but the other part of my brain (the one attached to my fingers), is in denial.
And that's part of the reason I started this blog. I know that the readership is negligible and that means that it's a "safe" place for me to write...anything. Even if it's horrible.
And I'm also hoping that this blog will keep me from being lazy. If I remember that "Stephopolis" is sitting here, waiting for me, maybe I'll actually come and use it.
I want 2010 to be the start of a new, more loving relationship between me and my words.
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