Bend It Like Vinny.

I've been a delinquent blogger lately. I blame this mostly on work. I'll admit, I haven't been handling the recent changes well and as the realization that I'm now a permanent fixture in this division set in, I guess it started to get to me a little... Okay, more than a little. In the end, however, it's just something I have to deal with and, if that doesn't work, I can always apply for a transfer to another division. However, since I'm not too eager to take a spin on that roulette wheel, I've been trying to make the best of things as they stand.

So, what have I been up to? Glad you asked. There have actually been a lot of stuff going on that I should have dedicated entire posts to but due to lack of motivation my busy schedule they all just sat in the dark corner of that one shelf in my brain where post ideas go until they reach their expiry date and have to be thrown out or get thrown together into one update stew in the hope that something palatable can be cooked up. Surprisingly enough, sometimes, in picking through those post ideas, I find one or two may actually have enough "meat" for consumption on their own or, as in this case, has a longer expiry date than others.

I think I've sufficiently picked that metaphor clean...

Anyway, let's get to the reason I gathered you all here. You see, a few weeks ago, it finally happened. It was finally suggested to me that I should work in porn (cue the random search results linking this blog to sexual deviance... again). It wasn't suggested because of my dazzling good looks or rock-hard abs, mind you. Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty but my abs (as well as most of the rest of me) are safely insulated under a generous coating of fat. For their own protection.

How the remark came about was as a result of my freakish flexibility. If I mentioned it before, I don't remember, but I can do all kinds of stuff like front and side splits, touching my palms together behind my back and things like "the bridge" with no trouble at all.

Like this. Only imagine, instead of a small child, a moderately overweight male in his late thirties... or not. Probably better if you don't.
Source

Combine this with my Thai-boxing and what you have is a short, fat guy who can kick guys much taller than himself in the head with little to no effort. Unless the other guys more than six feet tall. Then, I might need a running start.

Anyway, the other day I was showing off stretching (yes, I still have to stretch) and, when I do this, three things normally happen:

1. Most, if not all present will end up stopping what they're doing to watch (in horror).
2. This is followed by a few of them collectively shuddering as they imaging the pain involved in a normal human body bending the way I do.
3. Since we make fun of each other as much as we work out, someone always has something snarky to say and that'll usually draw my attention to the eyes that are on me.

The time in question, I was told I was wasting my "God-given talents" by not working in the adult entertainment industry and that there should have at least been a "Fifty Shades of Vinny" out by now (actually, the title of this post could work too). So, if nothing else, at least I've got that going for me.

Now, this is the place where I said you'd have to be a masochist to train. Added to that the fact that my nickname there is "Hentai" (Japanese for perverted). I'm not sure how I got that particular nickname. Maybe I shouldn't have explained to them the meaning of the phrase, "donkey punch"... so I guess a suggestion like this isn't totally outside the realm of possibility.

On a side note, since I am working out anyway, I decided to give weight loss a try (just to make it challenging). I've lost a few pounds. Nothing to make a big deal about and certainly nothing to religiously keep you updated on either.

You're welcome.

Truth be told, I've been apprehensive about losing weight. I have two working theories right now that against my losing weight:

1. Ever notice how people who have lost weight look like their heads got bigger? I know it's just that the rest of your body gets smaller while the head didn't have a lot in the way of fat storage to begin with but I don't want to look like my head got bigger.
2. If I'm this awesome when I'm overweight, then losing weight will release my true power and trigger a series of events that end up with me saving the world. That sounds like a lot of work, if you ask me.

All that aside, losing weight seems to be an unwanted side effect of consistent gym attendance and participation so I may have a pornstar physique someday soon after all. Maybe it's not too late to consider possible career options.

And Then Comes The Calm.

The ceasefire was declared and just like that, the noise and chaos that had constantly made itself a part of my every day stopped. For the first time in weeks, there was peace. But now there was this silence. It seemed so unfamiliar, so unnatural.

I squeeze myself from beneath the pile of rubble that was my post. In the weeks of seemingly endless battle I only dared venture from beneath it to find food or check on my comrades. During those long days and nights, I thought constantly of my friends and family. I have to admit, the idea of deserting my post came to my mind more than a few times, but in the end I stuck it out. Not out of some sense of duty, though. It was because my failure would come at too great a cost. To my loved ones and especially to myself. So I did my job. I held the line. Maybe my reasons were selfish, but sometimes doing the right thing for the wrong reason is good enough.

Now, it was over. At least, for now anyway. Those of us who took part in this war all knew this was only going to be a temporary respite. There would be only a little time to mourn those who had fallen, enjoy what time we could with our loved ones and prepare ourselves for when war was declared again. We prayed the next battle wouldn't be as brutal as this one. The next time we were called to arms, we hoped we'd be ready. But we knew we would have to fight again and sooner than we'd like.

I turn again and take a last look at my makeshift bunker. I hope the next one is stronger and better equipped, but this one managed to stand the test. This pile of books, scribbled notes from classes and printed handouts that had been my place of refuge these last few weeks.

This battle, this semester is over. And I survived.

I'm Not Sure Where This Is Going, But I'm Pretty Sure It's Nowhere.

Sometimes I write an entire post in my head before I sit down at the computer. Sometimes I start out with just the idea of what I want to write about and start writing, seeing where that leads me. But then I asked myself, what would happen if I just sat down and just began to write? Start with no topic, no plan and no direction, and just write and see what happens.

I'll admit I'm cautious, but I'm not the "must have everything organised and planned out" type either. On the contrary, all I've even needed to get something done was a general direction and enough fare to pay for the ride. I don't need to have it all mapped out, but I still feel comfortable with having a general direction. This is the complete opposite to Mrs. C's personality. While she is the type to lunge headfirst and full speed into something, she needs a plan, even if it's after taking that first step. She needs to know how she's getting there, what route she'll take, what would be the best time to move to avoid traffic, if she should wear comfortable shoes and so on and so on. Yes, she's that neurotic anal (I wish) thorough.

But I digress... Where was I going with this? Oh yeah! Nowhere... Or somewhere... But I guess that's the point.

Wait, there's a point?

Anybody ever use Zemanta? It's this software that analyzes your posts as you type and helps you with pictures and related links and whatnot. It normally works pretty well but right now one of the things it's showing me is a picture of a man named Georg Lunge (I had to Google who he was). For those who didn't know (like myself) he's a German chemist who lived in the late 1800's to the early 1900's and he has nothing to do with anything I'm writing.

That's it?! You're just going to read the first sentence in my bio and leave it at that? I hope my name comes up in a pop-quiz or something someday.
source

From this I can only deduce that I've gone so far off the reservation with this post that I've confused the program. I can only imagine what I'm doing to everyone else.

Wow! Those are a lot more words than I expected for a post that's basically about nothing. I feel like I should apologize or something for making you read all this drivel, but then again, it isn't like I'm making you sit through this. It isn't like I'm secretly lurking in a shadowy corner, pointing a gun and expecting a three-page report (double-spaced, use serif typeface, citations where necessary) on a) your impression of this post and how it may or may not contribute adversely to climate change and the global economy, or b) how the work of Georg Lunge helped shape the face of modern chemistry (he's your problem now). No, it's nothing like that.

It's due by Thursday.

Hey! That reminds of a cartoon I saw on Facebook once:

Wait! No... that's not it...

Oh, I remember. It 's this one:

Nobody said anything about a coherent story. Did they?

So, yeah, I think it's safe to say that I've tested the limits of this exercise (and your patience) as much as I can for now. If you stuck with this all the way to the end you deserve a standing ovation.

Here you go.

Unfortunately, the answer is still no, you can't get those last few minutes of your life back. If you were expecting me to come to some kind of point, the only one you'll get is me pointing out that I warned you in the title.

No refunds!

The Five Stages of... Hope?

The first time I was ever fired from a job was when I lost my bank job three years ago. I lost a lot of things with the loss of that job. My nice, cushy income was gone. The credit cards, my self esteem, my reputation and sense of self worth, stability and security were a thing of the past. And, for a while, I lost hope too.

When the fallout from my mistakes first happened, I didn't want to believe things were as bad as they looked. I hoped for things to work out so I could keep my job. I was wrong. They didn't. Then when things went from bad to worse I hoped for things to turn around - that I could bounce back quickly and get something else that would provide the same level of income so we could keep up with our loans, credit cards, bills and the steep rent we were paying on our new apartment. But none of that happened either.


Hit after hit, life seemed content in grinding me into the ground, and with each blow, that hope that something would eventually go my way slowly faded away. Until I couldn't find any more hope in me.

It even got to the point where I began wishing. I wished for silly, impossible things. I wished I could wake up to find the entire thing was just a dream, or I could somehow go back and change what had happened. I guess we all do that when we're in a shitty situation. But I knew the reality of my situation couldn't simply be wished away.

Then came the anger. I decided that hope was just a waste of time and if I was going to get out of my mess, I was going to have to take matters into my own hands. Hope is for fools. It's something for people to cling to so they can sit idle and see if their problems work themselves out. If you want your situation to change, you have to get up and change it. At least, that's what I used to tell myself.

But even that was stupid.


I used to believe that things happened for a reason and I even thought if I learned from my situation and vowed not to make the same mistakes again, then things would turn around. Just like in those Saturday cartoons I saw growing up. I thought, "Okay, life, you got me. I've learned my lesson. I'll never do anything so stupid ever again. You can make everything alright now..."

"Please?"

But, in real life, there's no old mystic, or whatever, waiting to see if you learned and grew from your tragedy to then magically send you back to where you began. The cartoons lied! No one's waiting to hit the reset button for you. That's real life.


Some pretty dark days followed. I never knew what depression, real depression, was up until then. I was still trying to put on a brave face for Mrs. C, and I did my best not let my despair show, but on most days, after she left for work, I would spend the entire day curled up in bed, hating myself, my life, everything.

But, eventually, things got better. I wish I could say there was grand epiphany that helped me to realize this. In the end I guess I just accepted it.

But, out of all that, the strangest thing happened. Corny as it sounds, I found myself. Before then, I never really knew what I could truly say who I was or what defined me. I had long given up on any idea of having "talent" or "creativity" in anything and accepted a life of cubicles and staff meetings. But through this experience I discovered I was more than that. I have to admit, stumbling onto the world of blogging helped a lot.

Things haven't completely turned around for us. We're still buried under a mountain of debt and it doesn't help that I still seem to have trouble holding down a job. But we've both grown from this whole experience. Now I can safely say that I have hope that there will be a better day.


The truth is we need a little hope. We can't control every situation and there are just some things we have to hope turn out for the best. We have to hope that things get better and there's some better tomorrow out there somewhere. Even if it isn't tomorrow.

********

This was part of the hope relay.

It was passed on to me by one of my adopted blog-sister, Marie of My Cyber House Rules (the adoption's still unofficial until all the paperwork is sorted out).

Now, as is the rule with relays, I pass the baton to a few others:

dbs of think.stew, Kathy of Bliss Habits, Nubian and Nari of narislife

The Last Assignment.

My photographer grunted in frustration as he forced the lever into second gear, "This old car fallin' apart! Ah tell them it can't make these kinda drives!"

To me, he always seemed apologetic about the condition of his old Nissan. At least, that's how he came across to me. The car was old - I'll give him that - but I didn't see the need for him to offer any explanations. This was the same car that got us to and from assignments in the Diego Martin hills and around the hairpin turns of the North Coast Road leading to Maracas. Now, we were weaving our way through the hills of Belmont on our way to a murder scene.

"Hmph..." was all I replied to his complaint. This was... IS my usual response to any statement I didn't feel warranted me actually thinking of something to say. Instead I focused my attention on the view outside my window. I had never been this far inside Belmont before and I wanted to take it in.

In most places, on either side of the road, the land sloped gently upward. There were few areas that were more built-up than others, but other than that, it was your typical hillside community with houses nestled against the sloping landscape, surrounded by trees and tall grass. It was still the dry season then and the sun was making it's presence felt, but since the season wasn't as harsh this year, there was still a lot of green everywhere. Many of the properties were unfenced, which I assume was mostly because they were squatter homes that had been regularized by some government or the other. Others either saw no need or didn't have the funds to put up fences.

Eventually, we managed to find our assignment, despite the crude directions the officer at the Belmont police station gave me. Of course, the row of police vehicles and the yellow tape cordoning the street where the shooting took place helped.

The entire street was taped off. About halfway in - I estimate about 20 feet - forensics officers were standing over something in the tall grass on the side of the road. That was our body. It was hard to make out, even through the zoomed-in view of my photographer's camera.

There were other reporters already on the scene and I asked one of them, Cee, a reporter I knew from previous assignments, what they found out. She nodded and shrugged and she pulled another cigarette from her bag. I wasn't actually expecting her to share any juicy info she might have picked up. I was new to the reporting gig but I wasn't an idiot. Fortunately, I knew one of the officers on the scene, so I waited until his superiors had moved off a bit and approached him.

"I already told Cee everything we know," he said.

"Yeah, okay, but just give me the short version. In case she "forgets" to tell me something. I prefer to get my info first hand anyway."

He looked at me for a few seconds and I, in turn, raised my eyebrows expectantly and put my pen to my notebook. He sighed...

The victim's identity wasn't verified but it look as if it was a gang-style execution. That, he assured me, was all they knew at that time. After I thanked him, I went over to my photographer to see what luck he was having in getting a good photo. He told me that unless they were done and ready to move the body he wasn't going to get a decent shot from our distance. So all we could do was wait.

Not good news. The day was hot and we had to rely on the what little shade an overhanging tree could provide us.

It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

It wasn't long before Cee and most of the others decided they'd had enough and it was time to leave. It didn't look like they planned on moving the body anytime soon so we left as well.

Not long after we pulled off, my photographer began groaning in frustration again as he struggled with his old Nissan's manual transmission and we talked about the problems he was having with the finance company to get a loan for his new car. Maybe it was because I was so new to journalism, but I found that even these morbid and seemingly wasted trips were still a little exhilarating.

Too bad they were already planning on firing me the next day...

The Obligatory "Writer's Block" Post.

I know! I know! I've been gone almost two weeks without a word. I think that's actually a new record for me. I blame it on that damn blinking cursor that greets me when I open up my 'Compose' screen. Pretentious little sonofabitch, huh? I just got tired of staring at that thing. I mean it just sits there, mocking me... blinking. Daring me and jeering me. It says, "Go ahead! Write something. Bet you can't. Bet you just sit there and do nothing."

I hate that cursor.

As you're well aware, it's an unofficial rule when you have a blog is that you should write on said blog from time to time. It's kind of expected, to be honest. Darn rules! I wish I could say it's because I've been sooo damn busy that I've barely had time to breath, let along write, but the truth of the matter is I've hardly been doing much of anything.

Besides staring at a blinking cursor, that is.

Actually, that's kind of the problem. It's hard to relay my new adventures when I haven't been having any. Sitting at home all day doesn't exactly provide much in the way of blog fodder.

I know what you're going to say, "But, Vinny, what about Sprocket Ink? You've still been writing over at Sprocket Ink."

Yes, I have. So, technically, I guess I don't really have writer's block... Wait! You guys have been checking out my posts over at Sprocket, have you?

Well?

I... I don't believe this. How..? Why..? Don't make me use my signature "Scowl of Disapproval".

GRRR!

There's still chance to redeem yourselves. I put in an extra post today (Sorry. Site's gone now). It's up right now and don't forget tomorrow's post too. Don't make me give you the other half of that scowl.

Anyway, I figure if I could waste your time with the last few paragraphs just writing about my inability to write then I'm full of it I can snap out of it. Expect me back... soon.

Maybe I'm Not A Writer.

Maybe I'm not a writer. Maybe my words won't go down in history somewhere, or be quoted, or even published anywhere outside the blogosphere. Maybe the best I can hope for is just to be retweeted every now and again. Maybe I'm not as good as I like to think I am sometimes.

Maybe I'll never write a book. I admit, the thought of even starting one daunts me. I wouldn't even know where to start. What would I write about anyway? Maybe the countless stories that float around in my head are doomed to remain locked up in there, never to see the light of day. Then again... maybe that's for the best.

Maybe blogging won't make me rich and famous one day. Maybe it will never be more than a hobby. A way for me to express myself in ways I could never truly articulate in the real world. A way to come out of that shell I've developed over the years and interact with people I share such a  strong connection with, I've somehow grown to consider so many these people - people I've never met in real life - "friends".

But so what? I never set out to be or do any of those things. When I first started all this, it wasn't to become famous. I never had dreams of having hundreds or thousands of followers. But I'm glad for every one I do have. I was a goof. A guy who used humor to hide his insecurities. One who declared his love for coffee, breasts and video games without fear of being judged. One who read and commented on other blogs, not so that people would notice me and follow me home, but because I enjoyed them. Maybe I'm still that guy. Yeah! I'm definitely still that guy.

So maybe I'm not really a writer. Or maybe I am. I'm not the one to judge that for now. Maybe all I am is just goof who can string a few sentences together and hopefully make someone other than myself smile. Even if it's just a little smile. But you know what? Maybe I'm okay with that. Maybe that's all I need to be right now.

The Voices In My Head.

We all hear it. The voice that tell us we can be more, do more, be better, go further, push harder... That is the voice that drives us to go beyond our limitations and sometimes we can achieve greatness because it pushes when we think we don't have it in us to take that next step. Let's call that voice "Drive".

But then there is that voice that tells us the opposite. The voice of "Doubt". Doubt tries to convince us we can't go on. That whatever it is we're working towards isn't worth the effort. We'll hear it say, "Who are you fooling? You know you can't do this. Stop making a fool of yourself! Who are you trying to impress anyway?" He's an asshole.

Doubt is just as strong, sometimes even stronger than the Drive. Sometimes, all it takes is that that one split-second for it to whisper to you and all the strength and motivation you thought you had  when you first started seems to just vanish. Then everything falls apart. Unless Drive can come back and convince you to pick yourself back up again.

These two voices are forever warring inside my head. No matter what I'm doing, they're there. One example is when I'm at the gym. I'd be lifting weights when, all of a sudden...

Doubt: You can't make those last five. You know you can't! Look! You're doing it wrong. I'm sure you are. Hah! Three more? You aren't going to make it. Look how your are is shaking... Dude! Wait! I thing you pulled something!

Meanwhile, Drive is there too, screaming in the other ear.

Drive: C'mon! You can do it! You know you can! Just this last five, Vinny... now four... now three..!

They're both really annoying, to be honest, and sometimes I wish they'd just take it outside and settle things once and for all.

Then again, maybe not...

Nowadays, as I continue to deal with the harsh reality of once again being unemployed, I'm faced with not only the worry of mounting bills and the feeling of diminished self-worth, but their constant bickering as well.

Doubt will ask me why I'm still wasting my time with journalism after The Paper fired me, or tell me I'm a burden for not being able contributing to the finances. 

"Just sit there! Watch TV. Surf the web. What's the point of sending out all those applications? All you'll are more crickets!" Doubt will say. (He contradicts himself, I know. But, like I said, he's an asshole.)

At this point, the other guy, Drive, will then rebut with a, "Ignore him! You won't be a burden once you get out there and start working again. And you will start working again. Just keep trying." (It's even worse when he brings out his cheer squad to back him up.)

And those are just a few examples...

Still, as annoying as the voice of Doubt is, I can't totally ignore it. Left on its own, Drive can be pretty much an asshole too. He can push you to taking chances you shouldn't and going so far you end up going over the  proverbial (maybe even literal) edge. It might look good on one of those motivational quotes to say "throw caution to the wind", but that voice of Doubt can, on occasion, be a voice of reason that keeps you from crossing lines you know you shouldn't. The hard part is knowing just when he's right.

Nobody Cares!

Okay! Maaaybe I get a little rant-y today. But of course there's also that way funnier post I did over on Sprocket Ink today. Just click here. Otherwise, feel free to continue.

After you visit Sprocket that is...

In life we all go through some crap. Sometimes it can be petty annoying crap that messes up your day, sometimes that crap can be so craptastic it can even be life altering. I've been through both and if there's one thing I've learned from my experiences is this:

Nobody cares.

This took me a while to accept, but the pure and simple fact of it is, no matter how broken up you might be about your troubles, no matter how big a pity party you throw, at the end of the day, people have their own lives and their own crap to deal with. They don't have time to shoulder your burdens too.

Maybe you work for one of those "caring companies". Good for you! But you should know they don't actually "care" about their employees. I'll let you in a secret. It's still all about them. See, they figured that staff are more productive and are less likely to quit (or go on a homicidal rampage) if they feel their bosses "care" about them. Sorry to break it to you like this.

Or am I?

So let's say you had a bad relationship, or worked in a place that totally screwed you over. Do you think the next person or employer that comes along is looking for damaged goods? Maybe that new person or boss sees your potential and decides to give you a chance. Maybe they like fixing broken things and you're their next project. Those will be among the rare exceptions and will only be good up to a point. Eventually, they will expect to see some return on their efforts and you'll be expected to pick yourself up and dust yourself off. If not, they dump you too (WOOHOO! More to sulk about).

Nope. They don't care. They don't give a shit. They don't want deal with your issues. That's the hard truth, buddy.

Now, don't get me wrong, there are those who will care for a while. Close family, even friends will often lend a sympathetic ear or a shoulder to cry on. But they're only willing to put up with it for a while, and trust me, they get really tired of someone who keeps living in the past.

So all that being said, maybe you should think about actually getting over whatever it is that knocked you down and get on with your life. Maybe it's you who needs to stop caring. Just let go whatever "it" was that got you down. Learn whatever you can from it and move forward.

Or not. Whatever! I don't care.

Random Thoughts Of A Sleep Deprived Mind.

For those of you who have noticed my lack of posting this week, I've been in the midst of end of semester exams. For those of you who haven't, well... I haven't been posting this week... because of... exams.

I recently finished a final project for one of my classes which kept me up until 4:30am and I haven't had chance to get a full night's sleep since.

I think that is the reason I've had all kinds of random things bouncing around my head that I thought I could slap together were funny enough to make a post. Kinda like my old "Random Tuesday Thought" posts I used to do back in the day.

I blame sleep deprivation for what comes next...

- The other day I was folding a shirt when I realized it was inside out. The first thing I thought about was hitting the "Undo" button. That's when I realized I've probably been spending too much time at the computer. Then the next thing I thought of was to blog about it.

- We've been battling a serious ant infestation in our home. I think they're winning. The other morning they scored a victory by getting inside our electric kettle's wiring and rendering it useless. Don't ask me how.

- I learned the other day that two jumbo hot dogs are my limit. I know. I’m a total lightweight. I was able to figure this out very out soon after jumbo hot dog number four.



Not a good day.

- Up the street there's a yard with two really big dogs. I think one of is mixed with a smaller breed because his front legs are noticeably shorter than his back legs. I call him Dogosaurus Rex. He amuses me.

I miss those RTT days.


I'd say I need a nap but I'm actually about to leave for work. Plus, this is a six-day work week for me and I still have a Math assignment and two exams left.


Joy.

What Defines.

At some point we have had or will have that one pivotal moment or event in our lives that plays a major part in the direction our paths take. I've mentioned mine. When I lost my job at the bank more than two years ago. It changed my life irreversibly. I was set in a whole new direction that I never would have taken otherwise.

Recently I began to wonder. How many of us have had the rug pulled out from under us? How many of us have had our lives so completely upended by just one, singular event? It's so easy to let that one major triumph or defeat consume us. If we're not careful, that one life-changing event can become the thing that we use to define ourselves. Too often we get trapped in that moment. We let what we see as out biggest failure, or or even victory, define who we are. I know that was how it was for me for a while.

For a long time I let that one event define me. I let it cast a shadow over how I saw myself and dealt with others and with situations. I felt worthless, like everything I had accomplished up until that event was worthless. Worst of all, I felt like what had happened to me would be all I'd be known for. I just couldn't see past the mistakes I had made. At first, when my "big fall" happened, I hoped and prayed for some way to go back and fix the things that I did wrong. I knew it wasn't possible but if only I could only have a do over... But you can't go back.

After a while I became resentful. I blamed everyone, including myself, especially myself. I told myself I wanted nothing to do with that bank ever again. "Screw them!" I thought, "Banking isn't for me. I wasn't happy there, anyway." I know, sour grapes. But I meant it. I wasn't happy there. I would have preferred to have left under different circumstances, though.

I convinced myself that I was glad for it to be over. But, of course, it wasn't. I still have a loan and credit card there that I'm trying to pay off, so I have no choice but to go back from time to time. And for a while my stomach would turn every time I walked in the door. Even after months passed, I still felt pangs of guilt, shame and anger every single time I even passed in front of the building.

It took me a while to realize that that event wasn't all there was to me. I wasn't a loser or a failure because I failed at that one instance. Even if my mistake was a huge one, my life wasn't over because of it. It doesn't define who I am. I've realized that the only way it could do that was if I let every choice I continued to make was determined by that one incident. As long as I continued to live in that guilt, shame and anger I felt, then it would define me.

It wasn't the first time something bad had ever happened to me. More than likely, it wouldn't even be the biggest thing to ever happen in my life (even though one could hope that nothing worse could happen). Life has far too many ups, and even downs, to let just one event dictate who we are. The way I see it, you learn from it and do better the next time. Sure, shit happens, but as much as the situation may stink when it does, it will always stink if you just stay there and wallow in it.

I, for one, am tired of just wallowing in that shit.

[UPDATE] I didn't plan this but it fits. Check out Studio 30 Plus for other posts on this week's prompt "The Best Advice".

What I Didn't Expect To Hear Them Say.

I had no delusions when I started. I already knew that the hours would stink, the pay would suck and that it would be a lot of work. I knew all of that going in. I've accepted it as what comes with the territory in journalism and I'm okay with that. Even though a fat paycheck is nice I've always believed that, in the end, if it's what you really want to do and you enjoy doing it, then those things aren't supposed to what keeps you doing it. Of course, I say again, a fat paycheck wouldn't hurt.

When they said that, often, working well into the night was normal, I wasn't too surprised. When they disclosed the starting salary to me, I still took the job. I was a little daunted at first when they stressed how demanding the job would be, but I said yes anyway. In truth, I mostly expected all of this. What I didn't expect to hear however, when I submitted my first story was, "You write well... but you need to make it simpler. You're going to make the reader have to think too much."

Huh?

Correct me if I'm wrong, but that sounds like they're telling me to dumb my writing down. Right? When did I need to dumb things down? I've always thought of my "style" (if you want to call it that) as pretty simple. I'd even go so far as to call it juvenile at times. I'm confused, to say the least.

And another thing, when didn't we want people thinking? I've always believed that one of the problems today was that people didn't think enough. I say, make people think more. Get those cogs in their noggins turning, dammit!

But then again, I guess I should play it their way seeing at they're the ones paying me after all. This is going to take some adjustment. Thank goodness I blog! At least you guys get me, right?

Icebreaker.

 I just had my interview at the newspaper.

I got up at 3:32 this morning. I don't know why. Nerves, I guess. This was the day of my interview and all and I always had a habit of getting up early whenever there was a big event. Things like school trips back in the day, my wedding day, the first day at a new job, anything that could make me anxious did this to me.

I stayed in bed until 5AM when it was time to wake Mrs. C to get ready for work. Once she knew of my situation she then insisted that I do nothing but try to get back to sleep. I did, but try as I would, I couldn't fall asleep again.

This is gonna be fun...

Just like the rules say, I got there early (a minute and a half still counts). Fortunately I wasn't sweating as much as I normally do. Did I ever mention that I sweat? Like A LOT? Especially when I'm nervous. I know! Way to make an impression, right?! Anyway, I mopped what little was on my face and waited. To my surprise, I wasn't left to wait too long. In a few interviews in the past, even though I was early or on time I still ended up waiting for sometimes 20 minutes until they were ready. Well, let's just say this wasn't the first unusual thing to happen during the interview.

It started off (and basically ended) with an icebreaker question. One of the interviewers came in and handed me a sheet of paper with a single question on it I was told to answer it and they'd be with me shortly. Then he left. I looked at the question on the paper and the scenario presented didn't seem to make any sense. So I answered that I couldn't answer it. That is, not until some more information was provided and, instead, I wrote down my own questions that would provide me with some clarification.

Turns out that wasn't exactly what they were expecting. So, in a nutshell, we didn't get much further than that icebreaker. Sure, a few follow-up questions were asked. A formality, I suppose. But after I had answered they had already made up their minds.

To paraphrase, they basically said that my response wasn't what they were looking for but it proved that I thought outside the box and was able to dig deeper for more information. They said that these were important aspects for a journalist and that I had passed (what I was to learn was actually) the first half of the interview. Now I'm just to expect a call for interview number 2.

Holy crap! I pulled it off!?!

That's right! I didn't totally screw it up. I'm not hired (yet) but they definitely are interested. Nothing is confirmed yet other than they'll call me to set an appointment for the second interview, but things are looking good.

Plus... They gave me homework.

No kidding.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is the big day. Well, not the big day. It isn't like it's my wedding day (been there, done that), or the due date of my first child (that's for sometime later, I guess), or the day the world's governments sign over total control of the planet to me accepting me unquestionably as their new overlord for life (but one day perhaps). But it's a big day to me all the same. Tomorrow is the day of my job interview at the newspaper.

I started off pretty euphoric after I got the call. I thought, "Yes!!! Finally, someone called! Finally, I was going to get out of this situation". Then, of course, a few days later, reality stepped in as it dawned on me that I might not actually get the job. I'm a total idiot when talking to people face-to-face. Especially when I feel like they're judging me, studying me, looking for my flaws and measuring me on their scale of worthiness. *Shudder*

But then, what would happen even if I did pass the interview? (Is 'pass' the right word? It is like a test, right?) I'm a total noob at journalism. I only started my first classes in the field last month. I don't know if I'm ready for this. Sure, I've researched the job description, the company, yadda, yadda, yadda. The truth is, no amount of reading up on it can ever prepare you for the real thing. Right?

I have to stop thinking about tomorrow. Tomorrow is scary. There are too many variables to consider. Too many things of which I have no control over. If I think about it too much, I'd be a complete bundle of nerves, too afraid to step out the front door in the morning. I'm not going to do it any more for today. It's just too much to worry about.

I've done all I can do about tomorrow (I hope) and all I can really worry about right now is today. All I can do is calm myself and try to be as relaxed as I can be. So that's what I'll do. I'll relax for today and deal with tomorrow when it comes. And, also, as for today, all I can really say is...

There's a story about boobs on Sprocket Ink again. And I put it there. Just click here.

A Total Pain In The Neck.

Literally! That's my current affliction. I woke up at 2:39 this morning to a sharp, stabbing pain in the right side of my of my neck. At first I thought Mrs. C had finally had enough of me and was implementing the "til death do us part" clause of our marriage contract. She, however, was fast asleep and I wasn't bleeding, so I know she didn't try to stab me.

It has only gotten worse since then, which I think was compounded by the fact that I haven't been able to get back to sleep since. This, in turn is due to the pain I'm currently experiencing. It's a vicious cycle.

I've spent the majority of the day laid up on the couch bitching about it being consoled by some of you on Facebook and Twitter. Thanks. Even though it does hurt when I laugh (and turn my head, and lie down, and sit up and even breathe) I appreciate the you guys trying to make me feel better.

Added to that, a little sniffle I've been fighting off for the past few days seems like it's decided to take advantage of my weakened condition and I'm starting to feel a little feverish.

Resulting from all this, I've decided to take the afternoon off from class and sulk recuperate.

Well, I think I've griped enough for today. How are things on your end?

Invisible Fence.

The other day Mrs. C & I were out. I looked in a store window and saw a jacket I liked and immediately I thought up half a dozen reasons why I couldn't have it. Excuses like, "It was too expensive," or "I shouldn't even think about buying new cloths until I get another job," or "You already have a jacket! Sure, the zipper's broken but it could still do the job."

Then I walked away. Before I even pointed it out to my wife, I had already argued myself out of it and we continued on our way without her ever knowing. And the truth is, I was right. Any one of those reasons was valid. Money is tight right now and I can't be careless of selfish with my spending. I'd get those things when things got better. But then I realized that I had been saying that too for quite a few years.

"You can't have it now. You will when things are better."

How many opportunities have I passed up in my life because I kept waiting until the stars aligned and there were no consequences to worry about? Saying to myself that I'd get what I wanted "when the time was right" was like one of those invisible fences that your dog couldn't see, but just knew was there. Some imaginary barrier that he couldn't cross when, in fact, all he had to do was just walk right through it.

To be honest - depriving myself, waiting for 'the right time' - this has been my way of doing things for a very long time. I learned to have low expectations of certain things growing up. As a child, things started out pretty good for us at first. Poppa C was employed with the government in a supervisory capacity. Added to that, he had just started his own business on the side. He opened a video club - back when video cassettes were all the rage in home entertainment. And business was good.

We had money. What also helped was that we were living rent free in a relative's home while they lived in the US. We went to the malls to go shopping every weekend. We always got new clothes, a big colour TV (a big deal here in T&T back in the early 80's), furniture and endless toys for us kids. Our cupboards and fridge never went empty. Life was good.

Unfortunately, things took an about turn when he decided to leave his very secure government job to focus full-time on his booming business. Soon afterwards, it tanked. I was too young to really remember the reason it did but all I know is the entire thing came crashing down faster than any damage control could fix. After struggling for a few years trying to eek out an income from the remnants of the club, my father returned to his government job. Well, not exactly. He got a job. But he wasn't supervisory anymore. He had to take an entry level position with significant less pay and minimal benefits.

Then that relative in the US decided to return home soon after that so we had to find a place to live. Now there was rent to think about too.

And so, the tides turned. Children who were always accustomed to hearing 'Yes' had to learn to take 'No' and like it. Though I was still very young when all of this started happening, I was still the oldest. I understood the situation enough to know sacrifices would have to be made. I learned to deny myself for the greater good.

At least until things got better again someday...

Years later, I've allowed that same mentality to show up in my own adult life. So much so that, even when we were doing relatively well, I still had a tiny pang of guilt whenever I indulged in something. If something went wrong I would blame myself for not being more responsible. And if things didn't go wrong, then I'd tell myself that if I waited long enough, eventually it would. Because I took a chance. Because I couldn't wait until everything was perfect.

Now I know better, of course. Situations are never going to be 'perfect'. The right time can pass you by a million times over and you'd always miss it because you let that invisible fence of fear keep you from stepping forward. Sometimes, you just have to have faith.

I don't plan on becoming careless or reckless, but I think I'm going to say 'Yes' to myself a little bit more from now on. And try not to make myself regret it.

The First Day Back.

It's back! I knew it had to happen again eventually. I've been anticipating this day with both small amount of dread and excitement. Because today, after a three month hiatus, is the day I return to school (therein lies the dread). It is also the first semester as a journalism student (and there's where the excitement comes in).

What awaits me this semester? I can only guess. One thing I know for sure there's plenty o' blog fodder to be found within those halls so I'll try to stay awake long enough to to take notes (and maybe try to learn something while I'm at it).

Should be fun. Right?

Anyway, on to something a bit more interesting. If I'm reading this here calendar thingy right, it's Tuesday so don't forget to go over to Sprocket Ink for today's story. It involves a whole lotta women. Go ahead. You'll see what I mean (and probably wish you didn't after).

I guess I should also mention that I have kinda a big deal coming up this weekend. Sunday marks the one year anniversary of this little old blog. Woohoo!

To be honest, I can't believe I actually stuck to something for that long that doesn't provide the occasional payment, epic gear (players of WoW will know this one) or sexual gratification. So-uh-yay me... I guess. Maybe I'll do something special for that day. It's on the 11^th of September so I guess people may be too busy thinking of other things that happened that day to notice.

Okay that's it. I'm done rambling for today. Don't forget to go over to Sprocket.

I'm off to school now. Later.

Left On Your Own.

No matter who you are today, there will eventually come a point, be it through age or illness or something else, when you have to depend on others. There are times when those seeming to show us kindness are only using us to their own gain. What I feel is even worse is when the ones we expect to be there for us (friends and family) are the ones we can least depend on and a total stranger shows us more kindness than they do. This realization was brought home to Mrs. C and myself during the following encounter:

Note: (I decided to leave the dialogue in local dialect this time. It shouldn't be difficult to follow, though).

It's Friday afternoon. The end of Mrs. C's first week of working day shift. She calls me and tells me she had just finished doing a few errands and was about to head home. I, myself, had just left work (back when I was working, that is) when she called so we arrange to meet downtown and travel home together. She says she'll wait for me in a fast food restaurant that was close to the bus station.

It doesn't take long for me to get there. We greet each other and I help her with some of her load. She gets up and we head to the door. I was tired. This week was extremely stressful and I had a million and one things racing through my mind. I was looking forward to getting home. I didn't, at first notice when my wife stopped.

She was talking to a little old lady – possibly in her eighties – who had called out to her. She was sitting at one of the restaurant tables and I saw that she had her hand out. At first I thought she was begging for change, but then I heard my wife ask her if she wanted her to help her up and took her hand. I moved in closer and, without hesitation the elderly woman reached her other hand toward me. We helped her up out of the chair. She was small and frail and her back was bent from what was obviously osteoporosis. She had a wooden cane in her right hand. Her dress was simple and her gray was short and pinned back.

She'll be called Ms. Gray from here on in.

Ms. Gray asked us to help her to the door. As we were doing so, a man in about his late thirties, offered to assist and, together the three of us guided her to the door. As we reached it I couldn't help but get a little pissed off at the guy who insisted on barging in from off the street and pushing past us. He was tall, heavy-built and looked in his fifties. It seemed apparent that he was in such an urgent need for his fried chicken fix that he couldn't wait for us to get past.

When we were outside. Mrs. C asked her in which direction she was going and she pointed east. The guy who had joined us said he was going that way and he wouldn't mind helping her. Ms. Gray looked at him and then at us. Maybe it was because she she had asked for our assistance in the restaurant and not his. Maybe the years had made her cautious. But, whatever her reason, she reached for my hand again. I took it and Mrs. C held her other arm which held the cane. The other guy, sensing he wasn't needed, continued on his way.

Her destination the cathedral two blocks away. There she would get a ride home from someone who was attending afternoon mass.

Mrs. C: How far are you going? 

Ms. Gray: Mt. Hope.

This was a little past our destination and Mrs. C pointed out that we were headed to the bus station and we could see her home. However, she was insistent on going to the cathedral.

As we walked slowly along the cracked and uneven sidewalks, I could see that her ankles were severely swollen. Whenever we came to a dip in the sidewalk or any of the curbs, she had to stop and sum up her strength to negotiate it.

“You get ah good escort this time!” a street vendor called out to her as we passed by.

This confirmed what I had already guessed. This wasn't the first time she had been in this situation. Ms. Gray stopped to greet a friend, another street vendor.

Vendor Friend: “You need to get somebody to drop you to town, girl.”

Ms. Gray: “Yeah, but who go do it?”

Their exchange lasted a few more seconds and then she tugged my hand indicating she wished to continue onward. I also couldn't help but notice that, as we walked, no one, except for a small child, made even the slightest attempt to give way. Don't get me wrong. I'm not asking that the crowd part for us, or anything. It would be nice, though, if one or two of them would attempt to give us some room. The way people brushed past us, seemingly so caught up in their own lives, I thought they would start climbing over us if we slowed them down too much.

Mrs. C talked with her some more. We learned that she regularly came into city to do errands and get her regular check-up at the general hospital.

Me: You don't have anybody who could bring you to town?

Ms. Gray: My grandson does live with me but is like he don't live there. He hardly ever there and don't want nothing to do with me.

Mrs C: And nobody else could help?

Ms. Gray: I had a nephew who used to live with us. I put him out after he did steal my whole pension after I cash the cheque. And I raise him from since he was two.

Me: How old is he now?

Ms. Gray: Twenty-one.

My wife shook her head in disappointment. I decided not to ask about the boy's parents or anything else after that. I didn't want to seem like I was prying.

We were getting close to the cathedral. We crossed the street where we met some more of her acquaintances. Elderly women, themselves, they talked about their aches and pains. One of the women rifled through her bag and eventually found the name of a good over the counter painkiller that she guaranteed would help. She handed it to Mrs. C to give to Ms. Gray.

We continued and, almost to the cathedral, we met one more acquaintance. She watched Mrs. C and I sternly, “Remember that young girl who help you the other day and take the $3,000.00 from your bag?” She said to Ms. Gray and watched us again.

“And they still ain't catch she yet.” Ms. Gray lamented.

There wasn't much conversation here and we continued. Finally we reached the cathedral courtyard's front gate. As we walked through the courtyard she pointed to a gray sedan.

Ms. Gray: The driver of that car used to drop me home. I used to give him a $20. or whatever I had on me. His mother start complaining and make him stop.”

Mrs. C: Why?

Ms. Gray only shrugged in response.

Afternoon mass had just finished and people were starting to leave. Ms. Gray became worried that she would miss her ride and wanted to stand in the courtyard. We, on the other hand, were worried about the strain this would put on her legs and convinced her to keep going. The priest stood by the door waiting to greet those who exited. We called him and he immediately recognized Ms. Gray. He assured her – and us – that she'd be taken of and asked us to take her to one of the nearby pews, which we did. At first she wanted to kneel so she could pray but the pain in her legs was too much so we helped her sit up. When she was settled in, we said our goodbyes and left.

As we were leaving, my wife realized she still had the paper with the name of the painkiller in her hand. I ran back and gave it to her. On leaving the priest thanked me for helping her. I met Mrs. C outside the cathedral and we continued on our way. The whole thing made us both think about what we could do to not be so totally abandoned by our loved ones when we eventually grew old ourselves.