So, exactly one month ago today, I moved to BC.
A lot has happened.
I'm still at my sister's house, and still working in that small little pub, but now I am the bartender there, and not the chef.
I was fired, for a half a day, over nothing. Apparently when a co-worker told the office that by the summer the pub will be running amazingly. The very British owners took that as I wouldn't be trained UNTIL the summer. They sacked me, but called me back the same day to have me come in. No apology was given, but having a job is better than not having a job.
My sister is wanting me to fork up some cash if I stay any longer, but I just want to be in my own place. If I pay her, I'll be stuck at her house for even longer. Saving takes time, and takes even longer if I have to pay rent. However, even if I do get my own place, provided a landlord would let me pay damage deposit in installments, I'd have to figure out how to get my stuff here to the island from Vancouver... That's pricey and requires help. So I could get my own place, but have no stuff for it. "Get a furnished place," you might say... Sure, except my stuff is in storage currently, in Vancouver, at a price of $183.70/month including taxes. So $500 becomes $700 and then I'll never be able to afford to get into my own place with my own stuff, as I'd be house poor. Tricky tricky.
My sister seems to be struggling, due to her ex husband refusing to continue paying the mortgage on the two homes they own, and some other debts she acquired. So I feel like she'd like me to stay and pay some money to help out... I'd not mind that too much, if I had my own room, privacy, and proper transportation. Seeing as I have never had a drivers licence, the law here says I need to have a learners permit for a year first. My sister lives way out in the middle of nowhere, so without a ride I can be stuck here until she chooses to take me in to town. A few times I've had to stress to get to work, either arriving there 3-4 hours early, or mooching a ride from a co-worker... The co-worker had to drive from their town, past our pub, into my town, and then back to the pub. If a ride isn't available, I could lose my job. I can't see myself wanting to live somewhere that my employment is always on the fence because of it. Although, after being fired on a dime, I feel a lot less secure there too.
choices choices choises.
Tuesday 28 January 2014
Thursday 16 January 2014
Dates Require Dollar$ /or/ How To Marry A Millionaire
I returned to work today after 3 full days off.
My feet are killing me.
Somehow, this is the least of my thoughts.
My mind keeps churning the thoughts of lost love. My most recent, the one that got away. Mostly. I heard a voice that sounded just like his at work, so I snuck out, heart a-flutter, hoping to see his face. No such luck, instead it was a lanky white man, late 20's, glasses. Looked a bit like Steve Buscemmi and Michael Cera had a child. Basically the exact opposite of my cute ex love interest, being five foot six, well built, and so Latino he looked black.
When I texted him what had happened, he stated that he had good news, and then explained that he gt an internship, and would be headed to New York City to live for a while. When he said he had good news, I assumed it would be actual good news. Sure moving to new York is good for him... But I am not him. I am me. Selfishly so. I had butterflies with the hope that he would be moving back to his HOMETOWN of Vancouver. Meh, you win some, you lose some. I just maybe lose more than others... Or maybe I lose the same amount, on par, except my pie is bigger, as I move so quickly in and out of love...?
Either way, there's one I can cross off...
Ironically, I have a slight crush on yet another guy, in the same age bracket as the last, which I don't mind. They can drink in Vegas legally, so 22 is ok for a date or fling. True love knows no discrimination. Although, I am not sure I can call anything I have fallen into in the last 3 years "love," let alone true love.
The new crush lives on the island, smokes far too much pot, and is SURELY not on my team. It's something to flirt with, and it keeps my mind off of negative thoughts, so why not. I don't believe he would care if I had a crush, and that's fine by me.
I get paid my first cheque in just 2 days (for just three days of work, before cut-off), although I can't spend a dollar of it. Saving for a BC setup is going to take effort, and diligence. The following cheque as well, will go towards my rise to independence. A small weekly tip-out will have to keep me going until I am able to spend.
Dating will probably not be happening for quite a while. Dates require dollars. More importantly, housing, transportation, storage, moving costs, and food: also require dollars. Dollars I haven't even made yet. An alternate version of myself would seek out any date I could find, and after catching him like a fish, have him move me. But this isn't "How to marry a millionaire..." and I am not Marilyn. I'd rather work hard for the things I have, and the places I go. But the noted picture was fantastic, by the way. I just caught it on Netflix.
My feet are killing me.
Somehow, this is the least of my thoughts.
My mind keeps churning the thoughts of lost love. My most recent, the one that got away. Mostly. I heard a voice that sounded just like his at work, so I snuck out, heart a-flutter, hoping to see his face. No such luck, instead it was a lanky white man, late 20's, glasses. Looked a bit like Steve Buscemmi and Michael Cera had a child. Basically the exact opposite of my cute ex love interest, being five foot six, well built, and so Latino he looked black.
When I texted him what had happened, he stated that he had good news, and then explained that he gt an internship, and would be headed to New York City to live for a while. When he said he had good news, I assumed it would be actual good news. Sure moving to new York is good for him... But I am not him. I am me. Selfishly so. I had butterflies with the hope that he would be moving back to his HOMETOWN of Vancouver. Meh, you win some, you lose some. I just maybe lose more than others... Or maybe I lose the same amount, on par, except my pie is bigger, as I move so quickly in and out of love...?
Either way, there's one I can cross off...
Ironically, I have a slight crush on yet another guy, in the same age bracket as the last, which I don't mind. They can drink in Vegas legally, so 22 is ok for a date or fling. True love knows no discrimination. Although, I am not sure I can call anything I have fallen into in the last 3 years "love," let alone true love.
The new crush lives on the island, smokes far too much pot, and is SURELY not on my team. It's something to flirt with, and it keeps my mind off of negative thoughts, so why not. I don't believe he would care if I had a crush, and that's fine by me.
I get paid my first cheque in just 2 days (for just three days of work, before cut-off), although I can't spend a dollar of it. Saving for a BC setup is going to take effort, and diligence. The following cheque as well, will go towards my rise to independence. A small weekly tip-out will have to keep me going until I am able to spend.
Dating will probably not be happening for quite a while. Dates require dollars. More importantly, housing, transportation, storage, moving costs, and food: also require dollars. Dollars I haven't even made yet. An alternate version of myself would seek out any date I could find, and after catching him like a fish, have him move me. But this isn't "How to marry a millionaire..." and I am not Marilyn. I'd rather work hard for the things I have, and the places I go. But the noted picture was fantastic, by the way. I just caught it on Netflix.
Wednesday 15 January 2014
Sex and the city... well it's not exactly a city, and there isn't any sex. But Hey, you get the picture.
Van-fucking-couver.
the city of opportunity, the city of rain, the city of millions of sexy gay men, shirtless and oiled up and winking at you from every corner... or so I thought.
In reality, there are a lot of sexy gay men in Vancouver, it does indeed rain A LOT, and there is a wealth of opportunity if you just peel back the layers a bit. I however wasn't given a huge chance to peel back much of anything... But it's probably for the best.
2014 started out with a bang! A sharp, deafening, piercing, stinging, painful bang. Making bad decisions got me to Vancouver, via uhaul and crazy chauffer. When I say crazy, I truly mean fucking nuts. That being said, I got there, and that's what counts in the end.
While yes, I do daily wonder what the fuck I'm doing in another province; I don't for an instance wonder what I'm doing in Vancouver... Because I'm not in fucking Vancouver, I'm in Nanoose, a small village/town on the island, 2 hours away from Vancouver by boat. BOAT! BOOOOAAAT!
Now besides being on lake Winnipeg as a child, and steering my great uncle Joe Matheson's fishing boat (fun fact: Matheson Bay is named after him), I had never been on a big boat before. Hell, I'd never been to the ocean before. It was exciting, except it was at night-time. I wanted to see the water, but it was black. When I stood out on the deck, I looked into the horizon and nothing could be seen. No stars. No water, Nothing. I loved the feeling. Nothingness. I've always loved it. The only thing, in fact, that I will miss about the snow: is the sound of nothing. When you are insulated by snow, and you stand still to avoid the crunch of fluffy snow being compacted beneath your feet, all you have left is the sweet nighttime sound of nothing. Something so safe feeling about that. On the ferry deck I tried not to blink while I shoved a finger in each ear to just enjoy the void for a minute. True happiness.
But I digress.
I came by boat to Nanoose to stay with my sister after the shit show that was my Vancouver place to stay fell through. I was so upset leaving Vancouver, and was actually shaking. I didn't know what future I had in store for me, all I assumed was that I was dropping off my dog at my sisters home on the island, until I sorted things out for myself in Vancouver. Lucky for me, my sister was a bit more generous than to let me end up in god knows what situation. She extended an olive branch, and offered me a place to stay and work until I could afford independence. I accepted. I snagged the first job I applied for, as a chef in a small English style pub on the island, not too far from my sisters place.
I love the green of this island, it looks like either spring, or the start of fall around here, and I can't complain. My dog LOVES it. I checked out the ocean for the first time in daylight, saw some of the forests, and have spent a lot of quality time with my nephews... Guilt ridden or not.
The guilt comes from the murder of on of my nephews prized pet Charlie: a budgie. The budgie was turquoise and really sweet. Well I went to the bathroom, when I came out a few minutes later both my dog, and my sisters dog were in the hallway by the bathroom door. BOTH LOOKING HORRIBLY GUILTY for something. But what could it be? I walked into the kitchen and saw it instantly... The broken neck form of Charlie. A few small feathers here and there. Tragic. I'm not a bird person, but I'm also not a fucking monster, either. First reaction: Put the bird in a bag, take the bag outside, bury the bag. This plan seemed adequate to me, the ground doesn't freeze here, my sister would be out for at least a few more hours... So I picked up the bird, the way one picks up dog shit on a walk at the off leash park. Bag over the whole hand, retrieve the mess, pull the bag back the opposite direction. No mess, no fuss, nothing fucking disgusting on your hands. Well, as soon as I got the bird in that bag (a clear bag, no-less), I looked down at it. I CAN'T DO THIS!! It was once alive, everything alive deserves a proper death, and a proper remembrance, and a proper goodbye. What if this was my dog? What if this was my friend? Guilt. Pure guilt. I had done nothing yet, but I felt hot faced guilt. I put the bird on the table, and called my sister. If I didn't tell her, the whole thing would surely become worse. A search party, assumptions, the works. Plus, she needed to know. I recommended, however, that this weekend might not be the best to teach the boys about death. They were at their fathers house, giving my sister (whom was already out, in town) an opportunity to purchase a new bird. Which she did. The funny thing about birds is that no two are completely alike. They may look identical, but personalities are bound to be different...
My sisters children came home the next day, and within 4 minutes of stepping in the fucking door, the 10yr old inspected the god-damned bird. "Charlie looks different," he said. "He shed some feathers," my sister replied. This peaked the overly curious mind of my 10yr old nephew. He opened the cage and I scooted outside to smoke a cigarette, and watch the scene from behind a pane of glass. Within a second, that fucking bird was latched onto his hand by his beak, like a bird infected with some zombie virus. Apocalypse. Apocalypse-fucking-now. fuck. All you can now hear are the screams of my nephew "That's not my bird. where's my bird? you killed Charlie!!!!!!!!!!!" Even through the glass, I could feel the sound-wave. His bird was dead, and he clearly wanted even god to know just how upset he was. I slumped. Guilt. Pure guilt.
But as 10yr olds do, he became calm, as he realized "hey, there's a new bird." He still cried. Quieter tears. My sister told him the bird had gotten sick and died sadly at the vet's office. "They did everything they could." A few minutes later, after informing her several times how much he loved the bird, and that she should have told him, even if that meant calling him, he turned to me. The second I knew he was eyeing me up, the guilt again came. But he grabbed my hand and said "Uncle Kizmo, can I have a hug?" Shit. I do love the little guy. I picked him up off the ground and let him cry it out. Then, reminded him about how awesome the new bird would be, after a little training. He seemed to shake it off.
I found out that Charlie #2 was actually Charlie #3, as the first one that I hadn't met, flew into the ceiling fan. Poof. Charlie #2 was switched out and the kids didn't notice. Probably because, as I said before, Charlie number two was a much fucking nice bird than Charlie number three.
Now I keep a much closer eye on the bird and the dogs.
Lessons learned. Lots of lessons.
the city of opportunity, the city of rain, the city of millions of sexy gay men, shirtless and oiled up and winking at you from every corner... or so I thought.
In reality, there are a lot of sexy gay men in Vancouver, it does indeed rain A LOT, and there is a wealth of opportunity if you just peel back the layers a bit. I however wasn't given a huge chance to peel back much of anything... But it's probably for the best.
2014 started out with a bang! A sharp, deafening, piercing, stinging, painful bang. Making bad decisions got me to Vancouver, via uhaul and crazy chauffer. When I say crazy, I truly mean fucking nuts. That being said, I got there, and that's what counts in the end.
While yes, I do daily wonder what the fuck I'm doing in another province; I don't for an instance wonder what I'm doing in Vancouver... Because I'm not in fucking Vancouver, I'm in Nanoose, a small village/town on the island, 2 hours away from Vancouver by boat. BOAT! BOOOOAAAT!
Now besides being on lake Winnipeg as a child, and steering my great uncle Joe Matheson's fishing boat (fun fact: Matheson Bay is named after him), I had never been on a big boat before. Hell, I'd never been to the ocean before. It was exciting, except it was at night-time. I wanted to see the water, but it was black. When I stood out on the deck, I looked into the horizon and nothing could be seen. No stars. No water, Nothing. I loved the feeling. Nothingness. I've always loved it. The only thing, in fact, that I will miss about the snow: is the sound of nothing. When you are insulated by snow, and you stand still to avoid the crunch of fluffy snow being compacted beneath your feet, all you have left is the sweet nighttime sound of nothing. Something so safe feeling about that. On the ferry deck I tried not to blink while I shoved a finger in each ear to just enjoy the void for a minute. True happiness.
But I digress.
I came by boat to Nanoose to stay with my sister after the shit show that was my Vancouver place to stay fell through. I was so upset leaving Vancouver, and was actually shaking. I didn't know what future I had in store for me, all I assumed was that I was dropping off my dog at my sisters home on the island, until I sorted things out for myself in Vancouver. Lucky for me, my sister was a bit more generous than to let me end up in god knows what situation. She extended an olive branch, and offered me a place to stay and work until I could afford independence. I accepted. I snagged the first job I applied for, as a chef in a small English style pub on the island, not too far from my sisters place.
I love the green of this island, it looks like either spring, or the start of fall around here, and I can't complain. My dog LOVES it. I checked out the ocean for the first time in daylight, saw some of the forests, and have spent a lot of quality time with my nephews... Guilt ridden or not.
The guilt comes from the murder of on of my nephews prized pet Charlie: a budgie. The budgie was turquoise and really sweet. Well I went to the bathroom, when I came out a few minutes later both my dog, and my sisters dog were in the hallway by the bathroom door. BOTH LOOKING HORRIBLY GUILTY for something. But what could it be? I walked into the kitchen and saw it instantly... The broken neck form of Charlie. A few small feathers here and there. Tragic. I'm not a bird person, but I'm also not a fucking monster, either. First reaction: Put the bird in a bag, take the bag outside, bury the bag. This plan seemed adequate to me, the ground doesn't freeze here, my sister would be out for at least a few more hours... So I picked up the bird, the way one picks up dog shit on a walk at the off leash park. Bag over the whole hand, retrieve the mess, pull the bag back the opposite direction. No mess, no fuss, nothing fucking disgusting on your hands. Well, as soon as I got the bird in that bag (a clear bag, no-less), I looked down at it. I CAN'T DO THIS!! It was once alive, everything alive deserves a proper death, and a proper remembrance, and a proper goodbye. What if this was my dog? What if this was my friend? Guilt. Pure guilt. I had done nothing yet, but I felt hot faced guilt. I put the bird on the table, and called my sister. If I didn't tell her, the whole thing would surely become worse. A search party, assumptions, the works. Plus, she needed to know. I recommended, however, that this weekend might not be the best to teach the boys about death. They were at their fathers house, giving my sister (whom was already out, in town) an opportunity to purchase a new bird. Which she did. The funny thing about birds is that no two are completely alike. They may look identical, but personalities are bound to be different...
My sisters children came home the next day, and within 4 minutes of stepping in the fucking door, the 10yr old inspected the god-damned bird. "Charlie looks different," he said. "He shed some feathers," my sister replied. This peaked the overly curious mind of my 10yr old nephew. He opened the cage and I scooted outside to smoke a cigarette, and watch the scene from behind a pane of glass. Within a second, that fucking bird was latched onto his hand by his beak, like a bird infected with some zombie virus. Apocalypse. Apocalypse-fucking-now. fuck. All you can now hear are the screams of my nephew "That's not my bird. where's my bird? you killed Charlie!!!!!!!!!!!" Even through the glass, I could feel the sound-wave. His bird was dead, and he clearly wanted even god to know just how upset he was. I slumped. Guilt. Pure guilt.
But as 10yr olds do, he became calm, as he realized "hey, there's a new bird." He still cried. Quieter tears. My sister told him the bird had gotten sick and died sadly at the vet's office. "They did everything they could." A few minutes later, after informing her several times how much he loved the bird, and that she should have told him, even if that meant calling him, he turned to me. The second I knew he was eyeing me up, the guilt again came. But he grabbed my hand and said "Uncle Kizmo, can I have a hug?" Shit. I do love the little guy. I picked him up off the ground and let him cry it out. Then, reminded him about how awesome the new bird would be, after a little training. He seemed to shake it off.
I found out that Charlie #2 was actually Charlie #3, as the first one that I hadn't met, flew into the ceiling fan. Poof. Charlie #2 was switched out and the kids didn't notice. Probably because, as I said before, Charlie number two was a much fucking nice bird than Charlie number three.
Now I keep a much closer eye on the bird and the dogs.
Lessons learned. Lots of lessons.
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