The 'T' Word

The ‘T’ word.

There is nothing more dreaded than TAX season. I think when my father set out with the vision to create a self-sustaining woman out of me, he hoped to achieve a good dowry or something by teaching me how to do my own taxes. And now that chickens are allowed in urban areas, maybe his dream will become a reality. How many chickens could a tax savvy woman go for? Side tracking.

Either that, or he suspected there may be a male armaggedon some day. And doing taxes is not a male job -- I might add, I'm just so used to my dad taking care of the books. It would seem natural to reserve that task for a male counterpart in my life. Alas, as there are in fact roughly 100,000 more women than men in Vancouver, I will just have to suck it up and do my own taxes for the time being.

Point is, when April dawns early every year, I always bemoan that weekend where I’ll scribble away and rattle through the cobwebs at the back of my brain to muster feeble attempts at basic arithmetic. I’m discovering that I am a rare breed. I do my taxes by scratch – no tax programs, and all by hand. Computers? What are those? It may be archaic but that’s how I was taught and that’s the way it will be. Plus me and math don’t get along so my cross-checking is better on paper. I’ll whine about what I have to go through and friends say, Oh, I get my accountant to do them. Really now? Are your finances just that complicated? It is valid for some, but not everyone. Granted it is circumstantial but still, I believe this season every year, builds my character somewhat. Maybe in an ogre-esque fashion but builds it nonetheless.

You get to a certain point when you view your return at the end and you know you made a huge error when the government wants to pay you money, as in large enough sums that you can vacation off of. I discovered that erroneous situation this year when I attempted to apply for the Working Income Tax Benefit. Yes, I am poor and I realized that I am on the higher end of a low tax bracket but I figured I would look into what poverty truly means by the Canadian standards. Inevitably, there was no really clear answer because it is a percentage basis. Easy? That would be just too straightforward but what I suddenly realized was that I must not qualify for it when the outcome = generosity from the government.

I have always received a return on my taxes. This year, however, I did not. I am crying slightly on the inside. I owe money sadly. Last year was the ending of a beautiful time in my life. That whopping cheque the year that a student only has one semester or less in school and yet works for the remainder of the time is glorious. You get school credits as well as impoverished worker credits resulting in a great return.

I am done, thankfully, and my eyes can uncross. I am blood-letted and poor -- but not in spirit. The word Revenue I’ve discovered will forever look weird to me but I am starting to blame that on bilingualism and categorize it as one of the many Anglophone words that looks French. Otherwise, I think we’re good. My i’s are crossed and my t’s are dotted.

How much thought makes the thought count? Good question.

When I first laid eyes on my cave of a basement suite, I knew that it would be home to me during this interim stage of my life. Being the footloose, carefree young adult that am I knew that the house was nestled in the midst of a neighbourhood that took me back to my favourite childhood memories in Ottawa, Ontario.

My greatest memories of living in Ottawa were having a ton of friends my age on my street. Melanie’s pool. The huge garden in our backyard where I would pick carrots right from the ground and eat them. Heading the warnings from my mother to wash the veggies and fruit before I ate it really didn’t matter much to me.

Picking the rhubarb from the back corner of the backyard where the creepy crawlies created underground metropolis settlements. Secretly grimasing the whole time knowing my mom would serve steamed rhubarb with dinner and then make enough strawberry rhubarb pie to last a lifetime. The bitterness of such a stalk still makes me shudder when I think of it. And yet, the is a very fond memory now.

The time my best friend Nicholas had a huge hives break out when I fed him green jello on our back stoop of our house. And my wonderment to his mother’s explanation to his absence in my life for well over a week. My friend Sarah and I visiting him while he looked like a swollen pillow with red blotches all over it.

The one surprise party anyone was ever really truly able to surprise me with. I went around for a week thinking that all my friends hated me because they all suddenly had plans when I wanted to hang out with them. Being the planner isn’t always in your best interest when it comes to having other people surprise you.

And selling lemonade on the corner of Drainie Drive when I was 8 and selling Lemonade for a 1.00 a cup. Granted it was a gourmet glass of lemonade but a dollar nonetheless over 15 years ago.

These memories flooded my brain this weekend as I was approached by a freckly 7 year old in my new neighbourhood asking me if I wanted to bye a cup of KoolAid© for 25 cents. I was thinking that he was going to say it was a 1.50 with considerations for inflation etc. Instead, it was a mere 25 cents. Don’t tell me this recession is driving down the price of a glass of KoolAid©?

I stopped and pulled all of the spare change I could find in my spare change drawer. The boys looked ecstatic to see a tip. Although at such a bargain basement price I suspect that everyone gave them more than the asking price. I asked the boys what they were saving up to buy. They both gave me a very earnest answer: to buy flowers for their moms. They had 5 dollars at that point.

I did a quick calculation of how much it probably cost mom for the cartoon cups that were used for the KoolAid, plus the KoolAid as well.

It may just be a break even proposition where mom bought the KoolAid in exchange for some flowers. But really, only an adult would do this mental calculation. At the heart of it, it’s the most precious gift ever. Mom won't care when its all said and done. Because of the time, effort and thought she'll melt. I think we can all learn a lesson from these youngsters. How much thought makes it a gift where the thought counts? I suppose if you give it any thought and effort really.

Treading in Turds

Rarely do I find enough time to maintain the blog, but on rare occasion, I sneak in a couple minutes for more than one blog at a time. Especially when I read ludicrous things.

So I logged into my computer this morning to read this:

http://ca.lifestyle.yahoo.com/pets-dogs/blog/dogwhisperer/95/treadmills-a-lifesaver-for-busy-dog-owners

It’s an article about suggestions for busy dog owners fitting in their dog walk into their schedule. One of the proposed options is to put the dog on a treadmill if you can't find the time to walk your dog.

For the dog owners out there that are trying to surpress the laughter. Don’t. Be my guest. Laugh until you pee your pants.

Chances are, the author of the article is new to the paper and got the short end of the stick with this article. So he decided that he would have some fun with the article just to raise some attention.

The more likely alternative response is that he has no flying clue about raising pets. Which makes me wonder as to why he is writing for that section of the online publication.

The point of a walk is so that the dog will do their daily business somewhere other than within the house. Add a treadmill into the equation and if you can convince/train a dog that treadmills are fun (good luck) then finding the time to clean up flying poo is going to be more of a concern to you than actually taking the dog outside.

Let me guess, if I were to call the author on the issue, he would probably say that all dogs use the litter box and will eventually graduate to be potty trained, just like the rest of us.

The point of having a dog is to remind you to take time out of your day and go get fresh air, to take some time alone with your thoughts and to unwind. Yes, as much as it is one more thing to do in a very scheduled life, it is supposed to be a de-stressing thing. If you just can’t find enough time to spread some affection to a furry friend, then it’s time to give that furry friend up rather than having it fly across the room because the hills setting is too strenuous on the poor pooch.

the swiftest boot kick of my life

So Bootcamp. Exactly. I don’t really know how I get myself into these situations. It probably had something to do with watching this living breathing version of a weightloss commercial – my father -- and years of watching him slim down almost approximately a 3^rd of his body weight. At some point, I mumbled the words, bootcamp sounds like fun and the next thing I know, I am pushing an ex track star runner/personal trainer from Uganda up a hill in Mundy Park. Be careful what you wish for.

Before it all started.

I go for my assessment at a Seniors Citizens Recreation Centre. This does not bode well in the back of my mind. What are they trying to say about me? I find out later that they just rent space there.

They take my BMI and I find out that I’m 2% off of my target weight. Not bad. I thought I was way worse off. The irony in all of this is that my lean body mass is a 128 pounds. No wonder people thought I looked anorexic when I was 120 lbs. I was just skin and bones at that point.

As for the not so lean body mass, well we’ll leave that up to the imagination. I just imagine that it doesn’t exist.

Then, they shove some papers in front of me and tell me to sign my life away. I look down, and it states that we are to not “indulge” in treats while we’re in the programme. Something to do with getting the best results possible or something? Who knows? There are no guarantees.

The fact that I can’t have “treats” makes everything that I wouldn’t normally consume, that much more appealing. Don’t ask me why, but perhaps it has something to do with the nature of us: we always want what we can’t have. Instead my strategy is just to stuff my face with what I can have so I don't crave the junk.

1^st week:

1^st day. I get up exhilarated by the unknown workout I am about to experience. Sheer naivety and eagerness drive me to seize the day.

Get there. See a sea of faces. I’m the 2^nd youngest in this crowd. Start running. They all take off. My lungs and arse set something resembling a pace. Shortly thereafter I get lost in the woods. I make a shortcut through the field so that I’ll make it back on time. The coach is picking up pylons in the field. He sees me and tells me to run back to the picnic pavilion shelter where we work out. I take off like a bullet. Bad idea. Why? He watches your every move.

2^nd day: Body Screaming

Every muscle in my body is screaming obsanities as I roll out of bed and get to the field. Hassan, the trainer, decides that my sprint the previous day proves just how much harder he needs to work me. He gives me the same weights as all of the men in the program. Bad News Bears.

3^rd day: I sleep in.

There is no point to getting up at this point because I verbally wail every time I have to adjust in my chair at work. If I sit for too long, I get stiff. If I walk for too long, I have to sit. There is no such thing as a solution other than to make a bee line for the hot tub at the pool and just veg.

4^th day: My body is beginning to forgive me.

The pain is there. I just decided at this point I’m going to have to just deal. Go do the work out, feel surprisingly refreshed and muscles are in agreement that this might be a good thing to explore.

5^th day: It’s Friday. Need I say more.

Every part of me likes this. Plus, there are two days of rest coming up which I can really use. Plus, it’s casual Friday at work so I get to wear jeans rather than nylons. The cherry on top of the Ice cream Sundae that I cannot eat.

This first week is over and I have come to conclude that I need something to continue after this gruesome month is over. I refuse to return to a state of jell-o again. At any rate, this has all been a rather interesting wake up call. Literally and otherwise. Updates to come. Hopefully it includes an improvement to the point where my dad doesn't beat me at everything. That is the only embarassing part about this whole gongshow of an adventure.

Ripping Off the Band-Aid of Truth

Retract:

There is something to always be said about writing. It's a dangerous field to be in. I've had a lot of funny stories that have occurred in my life and I try to share the humour of it all. But at what cost?

Without further ado, I am retracting the last post I wrote for the sake of preserving specific friendships. The hardest part about writing is leaving everyone laughing and no one crying -- especially when it comes to drawing off of personal experiences -- which most writers do.

As usual, I acted before thinking, and for that I am truly sorry. Perhaps I need to find a new coping mechanism for dealing with life. I found the circumstances humorous, however, broadcasting them was perhaps not the wisest choice.

If you can't laugh it off what else have we got?

Point being that the subject posted perhaps needed time to heal before being able to be talked about.

On the other hand, I figure if we don't ever examine including self-examination, then we run the risk of repeating history in human behaviour. All to say that this public apology is extended to those that may have taken offense to what was written. My humblest apologies. What was said was in good humour and for communications evaluation.

This is precisely why most of the personal stories will most likely not make it on here even though time and time again, people have asked for it to be a relationships blog. Sorry folks. Time to water down the content.

Cheerio!

Chick Flicks: Emotional Porn for Women

So I am making an open clarification about a statement I made this week. As I should have explained to some friends of mine, my argument I made was rather brash and I need to preface it a bit.

I hold true to the conviction that chick flicks are like porn for women. Now if you are taking what I say on a literal sense, no it is not the exact same thing. However, on a figurative level there are some severe similarities.

For women, we aren’t as visually inclined creatures as men. (I say this as a rule. There is an exception to every rule.) What are we more inclined towards? Emotional connections.

Porn creates a sort of escapism; it creates a false sense of reality. As visual creatures, men will gravitate towards this.

Chick Flicks offer a similar sense of escapism in that there is another false sense of reality in make believe.

Now, I am not against movies that promote love stories. This is where I apologize to the friends that I didn’t explain myself to. Here is where my blanket statement got me into trouble. Insert-foot-in-mouth here.

To extract the appendage from my sore jaw, I must then say well what is defined as a chick flick and the intentions of the viewer in watching the show.

I am all for love stories. In fact the greatest love stories of all times don’t necessarily fall under the chick flick genre in my opinion. True love stories come with heart ache, pain, growth in character, change in dynamic situations, lasting loyalties, and an overall heartiness to both personalities portrayed. A chick flick is something that has very little depth, is only about the surface, superficial side of life. This is where there is a danger for any fan of these movies.

If you watch these types of films in abundance, I have a strong conviction that it will be hard for any real man to ever measure up. This may sound harsh to many of a female friend who may now be foe, but it’s true.

I used to be someone that loved to turn a chick flick on to pass the time. Why did I watch them? Because I was dissatisfied with the fact that I didn’t have any boy drama in my life. Then one day when I was dating my last boyfriend it hit me – that the so called love that was being portrayed on the screen in front of me resembled very little of what I had experienced in real life. In fact – if you find out what love is really all about, what is portrayed in a chick flick pales in comparison. Granted, the 2 hour short fix comes with the added perk of being able to turn it off whenever you want to and with 100% less heart ache because there is no “real” attachment.

All in all, my argument of escapism and conclusion can be measured up to many a piece of crap made within the entertainment industry.

So the next time you turn on any movie just evaluate what you may take from the movie. Buyer beware of the female's emotional hole in a chick flick.

ReLent: No More Monkey Business

It is interesting the epiphanies you will encounter when taking on a challenge in life. For me I recently decided that I needed to give up something for Lent. Call it an act of recognition for all that I have been blessed with in life, a form of giving back through deprivation.

For years I tried to acknowledge Lent and give something up but more or less failed like a captured monkey.

Now, my reference may be attached to a fable or fact – so don’t quote me on this – but it has been relayed to me that in the wild, people will use a very simple shaft about the length of a monkey’s arm to catch monkies. Now the size of the shaft will vary depending on the type and size of the monkey one hopes to catch.

To entice the monkey, you dangle a shiny object from one end of the shaft. Now, in order to get at the object, the monkey must stick their arm through the shaft and grab ahold of the object at the other end. In doing so, this catches them in their own level (or lack) of intelligence. By creating a fist, they can’t retrieve the object from the end of the shaft.

As stubborn creatures often do, they refuse to let go of the object at hand.

Similarly, I never really was humbled enough to admit that there realistically was something to give up as a sign of sacrifice leading up to Easter and the recognition of the world’s most ultimate sacrifice on a cross.

Ironically, in this deep-seated recession, I was brought to my knees. Much had been taken away from me. I found myself without a job, sick for 3 months, I got hit by a car without any sort of insurance and without anything more to stubbornly cling to. Or so I thought.

I looked down at my nails one evening and realized that the one thing that I have never in my life given up, was my incessant need to bite my finger nails. I had never tried to make a concerted effort to stop because I had just succumbed to a weak excuse of justifying that it was just a part of who I was as a person.

The reason I started biting in the first place was because my dad did it. And from day one, I have always looked up to my dad in the highest esteem possible. As a child he would see my chewing and swat at my hand. Under his breath he would mutter how disgusting it was to bite nails. I thought, well you do it???

Although, like any stereotype, nail biters get a classification of their own. Hadn’t realized it until I stopped back around Ash Wednesday. They do. I always joked that my nail biting instinct was a natural form of nail clippers.

As much as I hold true to that archaic view in the event that if you’re caught in the middle of the jungle with nothing but your teeth, I also think that my logic was a bit backwards for many years.

And so as I embark on this new revelation and habit kicking blog series, (trust me, I'm not done,) I find myself strangely energized and ready to see this be a permanent sacrifice rather than a 40 day purge. No more monkey business!