I have found the most peace of mind lately in just saying, “I have lots of time; I don’t have to get published fast.”  Maybe so.  And hopefully I’ll become a better and better writer while I’m waiting.  But what if that countdown ever did come unexpectedly and I’d spent so much time thinking I had time that nothing was done!  I’d probably die all the faster from the stress of unfinished novels and the fear of what someone else would or would not do with them.  Sometimes look at my notes that way: “what if they don’t make it to novel form and this is all anyone has to show for my intentions?  Not a recipe, not an instruction manual; no one can just pick it up and put it together the way it’s supposed to be…”  The closer I get to finishing a book, the more I get that crazy-alert thing at crosswalks; it’s a sort of subconscious newsflash that goes “I can’t get hit by a car today.”  I am against getting hit on typical days, too, so you know…good thing.  I think I should live every day like I just don’t die.

Gaining a daylight saving hour soon and I’m very excited about it.  Meanwhile, I have half an hour left in my soon-to-be-returned-to-me hour to blog happy elsewhere.

See you at http://rocketdust.blogspot.com/

Just my issues talking.  Don’t be poisoned by reading on.

Lightspeed Internet: since July, when my household switched internet providers, we have been trying to cancel my account along with the automatic monthly charge to my credit card. At the start of September when Lightspeed finally did cancel my account (or said that they did), they did two other things: refunded me for one of the months that I’d complained about AND charged me the next full month’s fee. I complained about being told, I quote “your account has been canceled and there will be no further charges to your account” and then being charged another month without being told. After ignoring my next few e-mails, they told me I was responsible for one more month because I didn’t give them enough cancellation notice. My roommates and I initially theorized that as a smaller company, Lightspeed would care more about earning customer loyalty. I now think not, and I don’t want to trust any company with my credit card number again.
I spent at least seven months last year tracking down my missing cheque from Apple Betty’s (where I worked in Abbotsford), but at least then I had Employment Standards to help me. I don’t know who I’m supposed to turn to about a small, untrustworthy company giving me a little helpless debt, and I don’t have the strength to find out. “Happy place, Jenny, go to your happy place!” – because if I don’t stop thinking about them, money issues rattle in my head until I can’t hear anything else. Price tags jump at my eyes, math mutters out my mouth; it’s yucky.

Another yucky trust issue: people I don’t know who have my phone number. Of late, it’s been my bank. Nothing against their actual services, but I don’t appreciate info dumps about said services over the phone. I admit I tried some of the ruder methods first. “Not now”; hang up. Say nothing; hang up. Recognize the caller ID; don’t pick up. When they persisted, I asked if they could e-mail me the information: “sorry, it’s not available in that format.” Of course not; e-mail would be far too easy for me to ignore which is exactly why I want it. No wonder I’m giving my cold callers trust issues! Even after I wrote down the information and said that I would look it up online, they called a week later to give me the same spiel. I may be driven to harsh honesty soon: “Not interested. Not going to look into it, so don’t bother checking.” I really wouldn’t know whether I should care about the service or not, because I’ve never been called in that magical moment. Maybe you’ve had that magic? It’s the moment in which a string of facts – unconnected with whatever you’re doing or thinking – flow through your brain and evaluate their relevance, providing your mouth with a well-informed response.

As a newly-hired cashier at a drugstore, I’ve been trying to show a little sensitivity to the various “no”s customers give to the question: “do you have an Aeroplan card?” Almost every “no” has a non-verbal “and…”
“No”  and does that mean you’re going to charge me more?
“No”  and I don’t have time to hear about it.
“No”  and I don’t want one whatever it is.
“No”  and it’s messing with my routine; I want to buy then go.
“No”  and it must be a scam, so I better not let you talk me into it.
I felt awful about the way I almost talked one young woman into getting the card, covering her every hesitant concern with reassuring words. She stopped me at the last second and said that something was just telling her ‘no’; she had a strong feeling she shouldn’t do it. I backed right off. She’d been feeling a lot more hesitant than I’d noticed. I’d been hearing: “I don’t want to get this until I understand it better, so tell me more.” I think I should have been hearing: “I don’t know how to get out of this without being rude, so I’ll listen to you explain and try to find a good reason to say no.”
Again, this is not about the service itself; it’s about the trust. People have plenty of reason to doubt promotions and advertising. I believe that distrust should be respected.
Until my next glorious build-up of mud, here are some closing muck flicks:

Most dismal quote: “We will sink like rocks in the ocean of experience” (said by you-know-who-you-are)

Most disturbing dream: a teenage girl held up the drug store while I was counting a till in the back. Suddenly, it was my own money and I was counting it at the front of the store with no one else around. The girl was smaller than me and had no weapon; yet, I handed over my bag. The manager commended me for having read the “always cooperate with the thief” bulletin and set to work drawing a cute but accurate picture of her for the police. Next day, a different teenage girl did the same thing; turned out she was part of a whole group of girls who called themselves “gunpoint.” Because of the name, everyone assumed they had guns. Then I was at home. I accidentally locked myself out of my room in an attempt to stop the thieves from getting my laptop.

Most hated excuse from people who don’t read: “I have no time.” Please, please, please, be honest and say “reading is not something I like to do in my spare time.” Because, guess what? All those other things you’re doing while not working or sleeping or eating or doing anything mandatory = time!

Speaking of bitter: don’t like coffee, but I’ve forced it down for my earlier-than-I-like-to-get-up temp jobs these past few weeks.  Can early to bed + early to rise + commute + coffee + full day’s work + commute = energy for doing something that makes you feel like you still have a life before you go to bed to start all over again?  I claimed to my mother in an e-mail that it can.  I think it can, I think it can!  But man, three days in a row that way feel like two straight weeks without weekends to me.  Am I just a wuss?  How do regular workers do it?  How does my mother?  And where the heck did those workaholic genes of hers get lost on their way down to me?  Just my luck: they fell past me and my younger sisters got them all.  I’m doomed a talented, but labour-lazy writer who will be resentfully supported by her hard-working siblings.  Okay, three years in fast food; I have worked hard.  But the novelty’s wearing off!  Aren’t twenty-one-year-olds still supposed to feel fresh and ready to take on the world?  Am I having my mid-life crisis already?  Nah, I don’t believe in that term.  Life crises occur a minimum of once every decade and it’s perfectly on schedule for me to still be in my twenties’ one.

So, that’s my head right now.  How’s everyone else’s?  This year’s gonna be tough, since I’m finally living off money I’m currently making, instead of money I made and saved while living at home.  But, you know, I’m developing this amazing body-fueling system using only one $0.68 can of soup per day…kidding!  Damn, my parents might read this.  What I meant was: I run on electricity now and plug into an outlet to recharge.  No, it’s brilliant!  Our landlady pays the electric bill.  Well, if you can’t handle it, go read my other blog.  To reinforce this one’s theme, here’s my rewrite of the cock-eyed optimist song from South Pacific:

When the sky has a dark and stormy feel,
I forget every rainbow that shines through,
So they call me a cross-eyed pessimist,
Mature and incurably blue.
I have heard people laugh and cheer and squeal,
That we’re carefree and might as well be kings,
But I’m only a cross-eyed pessimist
And I just can’t imagine such things.
I hear the human race
Dwells in a perfect place,
A spinning ball of paradise,
But every belching mill is selling me a bill,
And telling me it ain’t so nice.
I could say life is one big happy meal,
And appear more agreeable and light,
But I’m heavy as lead
With the thing called dread,
And I can’t get it out of my sight.
Not this sight…