Stress Direction and the Time I Have To Do Things

So I haven’t posted anything here very recently–hell, last thing I posted was a picture of a goat (which I swear is more impressive than it sounds) I drew for one of my sister’s stories.

I don’t think I have quite the steady readership here, but I do write elsewhere (fanfiction, mostly, on Archive Of Our Own, and Fanfiction.net), and I do actually have regular visitors to many of my stories.

Hell, in a world of usernames mostly made or kept from your tweens or drunken haha-this-is-obviously-the-best-idea‘s, I recognize a rather astonishing amount of usernames and profile pictures that aren’t actually of people. (Hahaha, yes, so sayeth Doodled93 with a Halloween costumed selfie to the one side and a picture of my dog on the other. But my username is an adaption of a childhood nickname and the creative use of my birth year, so.)

But the thing is, I have a pretty steady readership in my fanfiction plunges, people I’m surprised to see reviewing/commenting on one story or another because they’re usually commenting on other fandoms I’ve written in, and usually it’s pretty nice. The thing I like about Ao3 (archive of our own, for those not in the know) is how friendly everyone is, and while part of that, I think, is because you have to join a usually quick waiting list to even get an account (whereas there are many dud ffn.net accounts), but also because people looking into fanfiction are generally pretty nice.

Actually care about what you post, the quality you crank out, and people will respond.

I think the most negative comments I get nowadays is from people reviewing for the first time a story I wrote nearly, gosh, 8 years ago now(02/14), and it’s mostly about the overuse of some punctuation.

But the negative comments I get aren’t the annoying ones, not really, and I think I’ve mentioned this before, but berating and shouting at me for not having updated one story in a while gets me stressed and annoyed and a bit spiteful. 

It’s the stressed part of that mix that I’m going to be focusing on today, but you should really pay attention to the fact that when I get annoyed I get spiteful.

If you’ve read anything of mine before this, of the non-fiction side of things, you’ll know that I’ve had a lot to say about stress. I’ve written about stressful situations, I’ve written about what stress is really like for me, I’ve even just tagged posts as ‘stress’ or ‘stressful’ simply because writing about it gets my anxiety up.

I don’t deal with stress well.

I think I’ve gotten better, in that instead of bottling it up I let it out in bursts to Lexy and internet and real life friends in short bursts, but I still have the avoid-it instinct…

Do you see why it is doubly unwise to yell at me and snark about when I’ll likely update?

Because I’m NOT a writer that can work within a certain deadline, I am simply one that can work within parameters. Hmm, should this story be 10k/chapter, or maybe 5k, or should this be every 7 pages, or… hmm. When should I be updating this, because otherwise the chapter will either go on forever or else never get worked on due to its open-ended-ness.

When I was in a bad way after Ottawa-related failings, I was stressed and unhappy and trying my best to avoid real life and all that comes with that, and so I got quite a bit of writing done.

Because when you’re avoiding real life, fiction is where it’s at.

Or just the internet in general.

I read and wrote a hell of a lot, and was unemployed so I had all the time I could possibly want and/or need, and basically turned all my attention towards plot, character development, 10k long chapters, and taking breaks in-between to finish whole seasons of TV shows. As uncomfortable as it may seem to you, I wallowed in unemployment and a feeling of failure but was 80% oblivious to it because 80% of my day was turned towards fictional drama, and a large part of the remaining 20% was eating and sleeping in.

Now, however, I’m in a bit of a better place, and I have a job.

Full-time even, and for a while I had TWO jobs, at least until current job was like “What would it take for you to quit working other job and come here full-time?”

Kudos to past put-on-the-spot me, because I responded with ‘benefits’, because that seemed more likely than ‘more than minimum wage’.

And now while I have stressy bits of work (working in the produce section of an organic foods store means there’s ALWAYS SOMETHING TO BE DONE, and also manager issues but whatever), I am working full-time.

I can no longer utilize my best writing time (between 10pm and 2am) because I either have work to get to at 7am, or I’ve returned from an exhausting shift that ended at 9:30pm.

So no, my writing is not happening at quite the same pace as it was last year, or even over the summer, but you know what?

Stress is usually the thing that gets me writing, because it is an escape.

Sometimes more than reading, because I am quite literally feeling like I’m in my characters head.

When I haven’t written in a long while, or am blanking on what–or how–to write in a particular story I have yet to update for a while, I experience a bit of anxiety, because I do want to write. I enjoy it. But I stress myself out in a minimal way when I haven’t updated something in a while, because I’m disappointing myself. Not in a ‘you could do better’ kind of way, but more like making plans, looking forward to it, and then finding out that either you or the person(s) you were going to hang out with and do that thing with can’t make it.

Oh, ok. Next time then. 

But when I get passive aggressive remarks and pressure from people who, while it’s flattering that they’re enjoying what I’ve written that much, don’t give a f*** what else I’m doing or how much pressure they and their unknowing compadre’s are putting on me, who would very likely feel a bit of camaraderie with the others if they knew (Hah, the author will have to update sooner than expected if we’re ALL shouting at the same time), well.

Stressed.

Annoyed.

Spiteful.

Let’s work our way up, shall we?

Spite, a desire to hurt, annoy, or offend someone.

Leads up to Annoy, irritate (someone); make (someone) a little angry.

And though it’s not in there, anger is part of this too.

I don’t like being angry, I don’t like the way it makes me feel, I don’t like experiencing that boiling in my gut, and I especially don’t like how hard it is to keep it focused on the intended recipient/aggressor. It’s like the difference between being a little peeved and being actually angry is like using two different types of weapons. Being peeved is like your emotions are turned into a laser, easy to point it at the thing that’s causing it.

Being angry is like having that laser pointer turned into some kind of gun that lets out a poisonous miasma. It’s scary, there’s kickback that can injure you, and as soon as it’s out, it’s up in the air. It could affect anyone. Could hurt anyone.

And you know what? If you let me get to know you for 48 hours, within that 48 hours I will have figured out what sort of thing I would have to say to you to actually hurt your feelings, the way that shouldn’t hurt because it’s a relative stranger saying it to you, but hits deep anyways. But I don’t say it. Ever. Because if hearing that it’s that easy to figure out how to hurt a stranger verbally puts you off from ever wanting to interact or even meet me, then maybe it’ll change your mind to hear that I don’t say any of it because I find it very easy to empathize, and I’m selfish enough to not want the emotional backlash of hurting your feelings.

But being actually angry makes that wall in my head of ‘no, you do not say this ever’ seem more like a line, and hey, isn’t it closer than I thought it was, and I bet I could walk right over it, easy as pie.

And that is stressful.

Stress, a state of mental or emotional strain or tension resulting from adverse or very demanding circumstances, makes me want to escape. I don’t like being angry because I don’t like confrontation, and I don’t like actually feeling stressed out because I don’t like feeling like I need to escape.

And I really don’t like feeling like I need to escape from my escape.

There are a few situations that I get into that translate into me not being able to write coherently/well.

Alcohol. I will never be that writer who sits down to write with a bottle of wine (i don’t drink wine but that’s besides the point), or with a beer, and a masterpiece will never have its rough draft written in a drunken haze.

Exhaustion. I can write best when it’s late into the night, but I’m pretty antisocial, and interacting with people is exhausting. This is why I don’t really write well after work, because 1) I’m tired, and 2) writing how character a interacts with characters b-z around them is working socialization muscles that do not have the capabilities for this sort of work. I get steadily more anxiety ridden when I have to talk for a prolonged amount of time, and that makes me stressed, and makes me want to escape, and it’s hard to interact socially and also escape at the same time.

And I kind of just mentioned it within ‘exhaustion’, but Stress.

Because if you missed it,

It is hard to interact with anything when all you want to do is escape.

So yeah, this is 1700 words of unhappiness at how some strangers on the internet are making something I enjoy, something I like escaping to, into something I feel like I need to escape from.

Sometimes You Need a Break. Dealing with Stress.

Slightly more serious post than my other ones, but this one is something I think a good number of students (at least university/college students) may find important.

I am going to get this out of the way and say I don’t do stress well.

Or rather, I stress well, I don’t DEAL with stress well. Here’s how I think of my stress dealings:

I bottle it up, store it away since its so unpleasant to deal with. Later, when I once again get stressed, I bottle that up too, even as the aftershocks of the feeling shake up the last bottle of stress.

Unlike real life, the tremors of stress stay with me, though I ignore it, and so it slowly shakes the second, and eventually third, fourth, fifth bottles up as well, building up pressure that I also ignore (as I am so very good at it) until the bottles I use start having trouble containing it.

I feel like, at least right now, the bottles I use are plastic. Later, if I keep doing this, the bottles may be made of glass. I don’t know.

When, eventually, the bottles fizz and explode so that I have stress colouring everything, making everything sticky and gross and makes me feel like doing nothing else but clean up and throw away the stress, I do so. It is, after all, hard to focus on anything else when you have sticky, gross stress all over you.

I ignore everything else, I have trouble concentrating, I have this overwhelming urge to do nothing, to go do something else that will make me feel better, like maybe watch comedy skits, or watch shows I know I like and episodes I know are funny, or read something totally random, or something else entirely.

I’ve been working on this example and been trying to self-analyze in a realistic, objective way, and I know that I need to work on a better way of dealing with stress than bottling it up and storing it away.

The reason I say I believe my bottles to be plastic right now, is because when the bottles explode from stress overload, broken plastic doesn’t hurt or cut nearly as deeply as glass.

Wow, that sounded a bit dark, huh?

I’m just trying to say that this tendency of mine to put away stress could develop into a worse problem, or could cause me to ignore something important because it happens to be stressful.

To help counteract that, I’m doing a number of things.

I don’t quite bend over backwards to do it, but close enough

I’m trying to schedule myself better (made a schedule for the week, having classes, study times, break times, etc…). Hopefully by having something steady and schedule like in my life, I’ll have something to hold ono.

Yoga, once a week. Similar to the schedule, by having yoga, it’s consistent and, unlike the schedule, something physical. If I need to do something more exerting, I can get onto one of the exercise machines and go on for an hour.

Phone conversation with Mom at least once a week. I am used to having a support system on hand. I don’t like talking about stress to friends, because I don’t like making my friends

My family has more personality than this and my three roommates combined

feel uncomfortable. It isn’t like I’m going to be able to talk to my roommates after all. I hardly ever see them, and even if I did, I don’t particularly like them. As such, my support system is my family. I need to be able to talk with them. So I’m making sure that at least once a week, there will be a conversation. To just talk. About nothing in particular. About things happening at home, things happening in Ottawa, allowing Mom to complain about her school while I can talk about how wonderful it is to be skating. I think it’s helping. No guarantee though. Midterms are stressful.

Writing. I know it isn’t the best thing, but writing here, on a blog, is almost surprisingly stress-releasing. Even if I don’t talk about stress. To be able to put my thoughts out to an invisible crowd, it’s nice. I also still write fiction for my own, and fanfiction because I enjoy getting reviews. It helps that most reviews are positive and are very encouraging and you can’t feel useless when you get an enthusiastic review for one of your ideas. Hell, I have a number of people who review regularly for my story ‘It’s Green‘ (Harry Potter Fanfiction and yes I linked to my own story) and I can go on for endless replies in conversation with these people who I only know because they like something I’ve written enough to contact me. How awesome is that?

By the way, Mom doesn’t like that I write fanfiction, but it’s a stress reliever for me. I enjoy writing. I didn’t do NaNoWriMo this year because I promised I wouldn’t, but writing is one of my hobbies. I’m not giving it up. I’m glad my Mom understands that. Or at least I believe she does.

Aaah, stress, you give me such issues!

Boy do I need to work on this, and I believe that this IS helping, but i’s hard to be objective in things such as these. I’ve been thinking on this for so long that I could be imagining everything, and I’m sure that some invisible person out there reading this is thinking I am imagining everything, or explaining it unrealistically, or SOMETHING, but this is as close to the ‘truth’ of the matter as I can get to.

It’s very hard being objective when dealing with yourself.

I think that’s one reason why self-portraits are so hard to do. You try to make it better because you’re vain (don’t try to deny it) and want to look pretty.

Or cool, if you aren’t quite ready to admit that you think you’re pretty.

But, as I said before, I don’t do (dealing with) stress well.

But, because I’ve been able to recognize it well enough… I am also going to recognize that I need a break.

Not a full one, more like slowing down to a jog from a sprint, but a break none the less.

Next semester, my hesitant plan is to take a break from school, move back to Toronto, and (with the permission of uOttawa) take a course while in Toronto so that I’m not totally removed from doing class work.

It will be one semester, and a break from full-time class. This will be me working to get used to stress of university, while having my support system with me.

I don’t know if I would have done better having taken the first year off, but this is what I’m doing now.

I wish I had  my own time machine, to go back to the beginning of the school year, maybe then I could have done a better job, but since I don’t, I’m giving myself a chance to breathe.

 

Tired

It’s very easy to wallow in the feeling of sadness and the lack of any urge to do something. 

Very. Very easy.

Especially if you’re experiencing a sudden change in your day-to-day life. You lose some part of the ritual of your 24hr day.

Your pet dies, you lose your job, you move someplace new, you’re removed from someplace you’re comfortable in, you finish a long-term goal… something you’ve been working on is no longer an option, and it’s a weird, sad sort of feeling. 

It makes me tired. 

It seems like suddenly everything on depression has been popping up in videos, has been coming up in articles, in every social media and blog-ish type thing, so in my infinite wisdom, and knowledge of the subject, after noticing this tiredness soon after… a big change in my life, that took away a portion of what I did every day, I’m not quite up to talking/writing about it now, I was like, Ah, Yes, Depression. Hmm

I think the start of depression is enforced stagnation. Except that doesn’t quite get the right idea across, I think. Stagnation in general sounds bad, and, ike flat soda or water that’s been left out too long, it leaves a bad taste in your mouth. Enforced stagnation sounds a lot like you have no choice but to stagnate. 

Not what I was trying to get across. 

Enforced stagnation is when you’re stuck in a rut, stuck in a divot in your life that so far, no matter how many times you try to pull yourself away from it, you end up rolling back to where you were before. I think some people don’t even notice that it’s happening, which must be even more upsetting as you can look around your divot, see nothing wrong, but still feel unhappy. 

And, seque of all segue’s, I think this is why tiredness goes hand in hand with depression. Because it is very, very easy to get tired of failing. 

Also failing is stressful, and wouldn’t you rather have a nap than deal with stress? I would. 

Because, as Lexy has so eloquently put it, my spirit animal is an ostrich. Avoidance is key. 

But I have a plan to get out of any kind of funk I may soon experience– because this change-in-life-and-daily-ritual of doom actually only happened earlier today, so kudos to myself for jumping on this writing opportunity while it’s still grumbly– but am feeling tired already. 

Like, I wanted to just go to sleep at 7pm. 

I’m 21, got up at about 9am, and was feeling exhausted enough to want to end the day at 7pm.

Fuck if I’m going to let that be my week. 

So, my game plan is to get the ball rolling again. Hard to do, as I think that just before The Change Of Doom the ball had been slowing down exponentially, but still doable. 

So I look at The Big Goal. 

What does it take to get there? Ah, yes, part A must first be completed. 

Want a certain job? What will it take to get there? Schooling? Need money first? Is there another job you can do to get money, or perhaps can you take a course or look for an apprenticeship program so that you can get yourself moving in the direction you want. 

The thing about having a Big Goal is that it’s a bit like a Gorgon. It’s the Medusa of your life. It’s much safer, less likely to freeze you to a standstill–less likely to turn you to stone–if you come at it sideways. Use a mirror and come at it from different angles. 

Or, if Greek Mythology isn’t your thing, how about mountain analogies? Everyone loves those. 

Big Goal is at the top. How do you get there? 

Well, you could climb straight up, but there’s no guarantee that you’ll have the right equipment for it. Much more dangerous, and what if you turn out to be afraid of heights? I’m not saying you shouldn’t face fears, or try something daring, but you should also be aware of your own limits. Push them, but don’t push yourself off the side of a cliff. Because you might just find  better path up the side of the mountain.

It may zig-zag, and hey–there might be parts where you can climb straight up to get to the next part of the path!–but you’ll find waypoints on the path up, you’ll build yourself up along the way, and should you slip…

well. Less of a drop straight down, and much less likely to cripple you. 

Wow I’m cheerful right now.

But now it’s 12 and I’ve challenged myself enough and NOW I can go to sleep.  

 

Oh Calvin.

So Lexy’s dog sitting right now…

He’s adorable, and chubby, and very different attitude-wise than Gwynn.

I’m not saying he’s unfriendly, no, but it’s mostly in body type.

And also commands, but that’s something else entirely.

He’s just short and stout… I actually think his ears are longer than his legs. (For visual, I’m pretty sure he’s some sort of Corgi mix. Pictures later perhaps.)

His People gave us his stuff for the time they’re gone, and included in that is his bed… That he apparently doesn’t really use as a bed.

Gwynn likes it.

Dis is my bed now. I love to curl up on and in things too small for me. It proves I *am* in fact a lap dog. Pet meh.

Dis is my bed now. I love to curl up on and in things too small for me. It proves I *am* in fact a lap dog. Pet meh.

But… The other night I had some friends over to bake and start watching Doctor Who… K has seen some of the series, but not enough to be a Whovian, form a mix of watching some scattered episodes and from the inevitable spoilers from Tumblr.

But I’m not certain that Doctors 9-11 will happen this summer, not sure if there’s going to be enough time for her to catch up in time for November, so we’re dealing with only 11 right now.

It’s good. We watched 1 episode. I was happy. my Dr Who merch at my side…

9th/10th sonic screwdriver (Left), TARDIS diary (Middle), 11th Sonic screwdriver (Right)

Yeah, but afterwards, when they left, I had some time to see Calvin and Gwynn interacting… here are my notes:

Adventures after hours.

  • Calvin apparently doesn’t sleep in his bed. Gwynn has taken advantage.
  • Gwynn eventually leaved Calvin’s bed when Calvin makes demon pig noises beside him.
  • Gwynn looks alarmed and offended when Calvin stalks to his crate, calms down to only being suspicious when Calvin drinks from water bowl instead.Gwynn is a hypocrite.
  • Calvin has apparently decided that his bed is good for sleeping after all
  • —No. No. Apparently bed is for staring soulfully at Gwynn and making demon pig noises.
  • Gwynn leaves.
  • Mosquitos let in from departure of friends keep after me. I fear blood loss problems
  • Demon Mosquito bites itch like a bugger.
  • Gwynn returns and curls himself under chair for comfort.
  • Calvin is heavy breather. Always sounds like vague growly demon pig noises.

I switched focus somewhat part way through, but it’s all good.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, baking this time was much less frustrating than last time. I did very little of the mixing and everything. I just put things on sheets, and provided the ingredients.

No stress. And then Dr Who, so it was all good.

All good.

Yes.

🙂

 

It’s One of Those Ages

I turned 19 on February third of last year (2012). And now I’m 20.

(SURPRISE!)

But…

19 is one of Those ages, I’ve figured out…

Those ages, in case you’re wondering, are usually ages in which it’s hard to multiply to get without 1 being one of the multiples.

You know, 1, 2, 3, 5, 7, 11, 13, 17, 19, 23 etc, etc, etc…? I’m probably missing a number in between that, but…

Well, from what I can figure out, most of these numbers are significant ages to be, either to parents or to society or to you, as you are at that (or before that) age. It is from these ages you compare yourself to your younger self.

A baby turning 1 year old is a landmark in aging. But, like with dogs and pets in general, it’ll probably be until that baby is close to or past the 2 year mark before your age will be measured by years consistently, rather than by months.

If you ask Lexy how old Gwynn is, she will respond with “Almost three” or “Three in March” but once, for a while, she used wild numbers like 13/14/15/… months old.

It was a strange time that made me have to think a moment as I subtracted 12 from that number, and then… wait no, that would make him…

Ah.

(You redevelop math skills like this when you get a pet, or a baby, by the way. You don’t realize how much simple math you’ve lost until this time comes)

Turning 3 seems like an important age to me, as it is the first year after you’re two, giving you one full year of being referred to by year-age rather than by month-age. I don’t have a baby, and Gwynn is not yet 3, so I wouldn’t be able to tell you any other significance, except that maybe at the 3 year mark Gwynn, and possibly babies in general, will have learned a few new tricks.

Perhaps he will have learned not to go ape-shit over cats.

Unlikely, but a hopeful possibility.

5 seems to be that age that you’re constantly hearing/reading/seeing children being thereabouts. They are either almost 5 or are corrected to that they are only 5, not six for a couple of months yet. Or, they “Justh turned thixth”(say with clear lisp) and have likely lost a tooth. 5 is that age that you just want to BE. You never hear about your inner 4-year-olds or 6-year-olds. That’s because 5 is infinitely better than either of those.

Because you’re FIVE.

Later in life you will find out that you like fives even better, especially when learning your times tables, and find out that multiplying 5 is even easier than multiplying by 2’s.

But enough about 5’s, let’s move onto 7.

7 is important for a number of reasons, and not just because Voldemort had 7 Horcruxes and you always forget the last one or two from the list you try to keep in your mind, and not just because it was one of the most important numbers I learned because Mom sat me down and had me learn the days of the week. This was when I once thought that it was the weekend on a Wednesday based wholly on the fact that the alarm hadn’t gone off. 7 is important because you can finally leave 5 behind.

The memory of 5 is an immature phantom of a memory, filled with scuffed knees, grass stains, hair pullings and crying for no good reason. You have moved past the age of 6, even, with all the reminders of being 5 being brought up, and you are now free to luxuriate in your maturity and lording your advanced age over those stuck in the vortex that happens around 5.

Writing down your age becomes a skewed checkmark of age and maturity, writing it in letters gives you the chance to write a ‘V’ for something other than ‘GIVE’, and you take something from that and maybe think if there’s a number out there that has an ‘X’ in it, or maybe a ‘Z’ because you really don’t get to use those that often.

Of course, Lexy has a friend she’s known from childhood whose name is Aziza.

I doubt she had thoughts like these.

(I think I stopped having this wonder for the letter ‘Z’ when I realized fully that one of my middle names could be spelled with a ‘z’ and decided to spell it as such, and it was only in the past couple of years that I have confirmed that on my birth certificate the possible worry of being an Elisabeth Rose was left for the certainty of being an Elizabeth Rose. Because I’m trying to be as honest as I can be while on the Internet, I’m going to admit that for a while there I think I was overzealous and decided I was an Elizabeth Roze)

(It made sense at the time…)

While moving on to 11 I am going to stop for a moment and take away the notion that 9 or 10 are important figures.

9 is a multiple of 3 and while it may seem mysterious by being almost as hard as your 7 times tables, it is not. You are past the smaller vortex (in comparison to 5) of 7 and are next to the little ball that is 10.

10 is insecure but vicious. If 9 tries to pull weight, it simply rolls over and squashes 9 with the fact that 10 is better than 9. 10 has 2 numbers.

It’s Double Digits.

9 can’t get past that. If you’re 9 YOU can’t get past that.

You must remember here that I’m not making up personalities for numbers, this is how I half remember/half imagine a child’s mindset is like. I wrote a great deal of my Harry Potter fanfiction “It’s Green” going on this, and managed to get a number of reviews on my realistic and odd young Harry… Which is flattering, but also makes me think that I won’t be able to write the personality of anyone over the age of 11…

And that would suck.

Back to numbers.

10 is insecure because while it has lorded its double digits-ness over 9 and occasionally 8, it IS right next to 11.

As grand as entering the double digits of age is, it’s not nearly as awesome as moving past that pinnacle to a new height of age.

11.

10 has the misfortune of having a zero in it.

Zeroes, as we have been taught in school, means nothing.

10, as great as it is, is written down as a 1 and a 0, a something, and a nothing.

11 has the amazingness of being the first number in the double digits that doesn’t have a 0 in it. 11 is also when you leave all the 9’s behind, because you are beyond being 10 and have no time to play with babies. Because that is what anyone is if they are still stuck within the limitations of the single digit of age, at least compared to you.

12 year olds matter nothing unless you yourself are a 12-year-old with other 12 year olds, or you are a 12-year-old who knows or encounters a 13-year-old.

Because, a 13-year-old was once… not a teenager.

But is one for the next 7 years or so.

(it’s hard to shake that image from The Adult’s minds)

Yes, when you turn 13 you are experienced in the ways of the double-digit-age enough to be accepted into the ranks of teenagerhood.

I imagine it’s very much like being accepted into street gang. Or maybe the Mafia.

It’s dark, it’s dirty, you are going to be introduced to a whole slew of sights, experiences, smells that you would have liked to be spared from, you will meet people who you may not like but are now part of different rules, ones that will remember you if you report them to the authorities of the Parentals… the ones from their district or yours, it matters not, they will remember and do their best to repay in kind or else find some other way to return the favour.

They will shank you for your candy…

And give bald-faces lies to the Adults about what happened, and you can say nothing.

I know (for the most part) that that’s not how it works, not exactly, but if someone can come up with a better example of what you are getting yourself into by unknowingly agreeing to join this… group… well. Feel free to step forward with your own post, and link me 🙂

But, regardless of your newby status, Parents will expect just a bit more from you, as the Responsible Teen you are, perhaps playing on your sense of new duty and responsibility to get you to do more around the house, set a ‘good example’.

This is an important stage in your life.

The next is 17.

I think that people will think that 16 should be one of Those ages, but aside from “Sweet 16” what is there, really? You can now get your driver’s license… Wonderful.

Due to new laws (at least in Ontario) you must wait a full year after getting your G1 to get your G2. You will be 17 when you are even remotely close to getting your real license.

17 is important for more than this real license, though, and it’s the reason why, in Canada at least, 18 is only really important if you’re in (or, I guess, beside) Quebec.

17 is when you’re preparing yourself for the fact that you will soon have to take the consequences for things that may or may not get you into serious trouble.

18 is when you are putting to use all these thoughts or concepts of responsibility, but 17 is for where you can get paranoid.

It’s about this time when you also have to start thinking about the Future… about University and College, what your major will be, what you want to do with THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

It’s scary.

Feel free to feel paranoid.

Be afraid.

It’s be a whirlwind, gale forces of GRADESGRADESGRADES whipping around you, sharp rocks of EXPECTATIONSEXPECTATIONSEXPECTATIONS will give you shallow cuts that sting, and you’ll be desperately trying to stay near the eye of the storm.

You’ll be desperate to stay there, because there’s always that possibility that the winds and rocks will chuck you any which direction, and you could land anywhere.

It’s not likely it’s going to be a place you like.

A few will actually be able to stay in the eye of this storm… until they’re turning 18 that is.

Those who have been struggling to stay near the centre will have gained endurance, will have scouted were they could land, and will have calmed down some by this time, but those who were suddenly jolted from their place at the Eye…

Well shit it’s scary being plucked from your comfortable place, isn’t it?

17 is the slightly more significant time, I think, and if you think it’s actually 18…

Well, of course you’d think so.

17 is desperately gripping at 18 and trying to stay grounded in that shit-storm as drama and grades get thrown around in school, jobs and money problems biting at tender unprotected areas like vicious mosquitos, and 18 is freaking out.

17 has already screamed itself hoarse, why else would 18 be louder?

For those who have later birthdays, it IS 18 that’s scary, but I’m talking from my own experience, so stick with me okay?

19…

Well 19 is scary.

And fantastic if you happen to live somewhere that the drinking age is 19.

Like, perhaps… ONTARIO???? Or Canada… (I live there, whaddya know…)

I was in luck while in Ottawa in that Hull (sketchy part of Quebec, drinking age 18, sketchy party/club central for the underages of Ottawa), in that for the few months before my birthday I could get alcohol, and afterwards I could still go out drinking with my friends whose birthdays were in Oct-Dec, and so were less than legal in Ottawa.

(I’m not saying anything about having an apartment-style res and being legal in a group of under-aged friends. Also, yes, 2+2=4)

But yeah, 19 means first year uni/college, or else it means succeeding in surviving first year, or not.

(Me? Kind of not, but I’m working on getting back in that tipped canoe, it’s a bit hard, but I’m doing it)

It means you’re trying to find the friends you’ll likely be closest with for the next four-or-so years, making connections, keeping your head above water and clothes the least wet…

Stressful.

But a very important time.

20…

Well, I’m only turning 20 now (Happy Feb 3rd everyone! Happy Birthday to me!), so I don’t know how it’ll pan out, but I have hopes.

I feel like I’m significantly more mature (Maybe… My mom would laugh, as would Lexy and maybe just about everyone who knows me), but it could just be because now I can say “I’m 20”

Because hell yes! I’m 20!

But on the other hand… I’m two decades old.

I feel like I should be whipping out cocktail dresses and be brushing off cobwebs at the same time.

This is said because of the two decades thing…

It’s not two centuries, no, but it’s a bulk unit of time.

Seconds, Minutes, Hours=Nothing.

Days, Weeks, Months= the make up of a year. So?

Decade= Impressive. That’s a bulk unit of time, the likes of which you haven’t been able to process by the time you’re 1 decade old. You have no idea.

Literally, for em, since i think I was still spelling ‘idea’ as ‘ida’ because I thought the ‘de’ in ‘idea’ was satisfied with just the letter.

No idea, I tell you.

(only Ida’s)

2 decades= 2 FREAKING DECADES! That seems like a lot! That’s MORE than ONE!

WOW!

Whoever can count their age by more than one decade is obviously super OLD!

And now I’m part of that group.

I’ve been kicked from the Teenager-Gang and have joined the Decade Group.

I don’t know what it’s going to mean for me, and I don’t know what it’s meant to other people…

I hope there are more cookies in this group though.

Happy February 3rd everyone!

 

Being Betrayed by Strangers: The Invisible Audience

I was going to work more on a couple of posts I’ve been writing for the past couple of days, one being a sort-of follow up to my last post on stress, and others more silly a something Lexy and I talked of, but here I am writing this.

I don’t know how many people go out and read unfinished or finished works by strangers on the internet–silly, I know, considering I’m currently writing to an invisible audience who may have already left for another site by now–but I’m going to assume that we all have people who we like to read from.

And it really is reading FROM.

It feels like Grammar will soon come up to me and give me a good smack for that, but you are reading what strangers have put out to the Invisible Audience, born from their imaginations.

How they put things, how they see things, how they cope with what has happened, we read it and we judge it and we decide if we like it or not, and if we read enough of it, we like enough of what we’ve read, like how they’ve written, we become fans.

We read more.

We like them more, FOR reading of their ideas.

We develop this faith in them, not like a religion, but like a childs’ faith that Santa exists, or their faith that Adults (particularly Parents) know pretty much everything and can always tell when you’ve done something You Shouldn’t Have Done.

This faith says that they will continue to write things you like.

They, this stranger you have put faith into, will continue producing this writing quality you enjoy.

I don’t know WHAT yo end up reading online, you could read news articles, you could read blogs, you could read published books that may have been put onto the internet with or without permission, you could read fanfiction, porn, ads, tweets, facebooks updates…

I really don’t know, but guaranteed you have a site that you go to regularly, or a writer you check up on often, or SOMETHING that keeps you coming back….

Because you have faith that they will continue putting something you find interesting and GOOD online.

The way it develops for most people, I believe, is that you read one thing from them, this Stranger, that you like.

So you check out other things of theirs that they’ve posted.

I find myself doing this the most on fanfiction.net

I read a story I like and check out what else the writer has posted on their profile.

I don’t read EVERYTHING of theirs, no, but if they have written something for a fandom that I like, and the plot summary or teaser interests me, I will read more of what they’ve written.

In some cases, like what prompted me to start writing this particular post, I like what I’ve read of what they’ve written that I decide to click on the stories that they’ve put up in a fandom I like that I don’t think seems particularly interesting.

I caught myself doing this for an author called esama (BETRAYAL! s/he’s moved all her fics and it’s taken me this long to find them HERE!) after reading a good deal of this Strangers Sherlock stories that I decided that I like how they portray the characters, I like how they’ve used certain crossovers, I like pretty much everything.

So I started reading one story that I didn’t think looked that interesting, and then decided it was really good. Went onto the next one that I thought didn’t look interesting, and decoded I really liked it.

On the third one, which is just now in another tab, waiting for me to get this thought out of my head before reading it, it crossed my mind that right now, I’m expecting this story to be good, I expect to be adding it to my ‘favourites’ list, and I expect that I will be extremely disappointed in this author if this doesn’t turn out to be awesome.

I mean, I already have this author on my subscriptions list, and on my favourites list, what if this turns out to be a BAD story? What if it’s total crap?

I don’t know that it’s crap at the moment, as I haven’t read it yet, but I feel like I would be feeling pretty betrayed if this author who I don’t know doesn’t live up to my expectations.

I know that betrayed may not be the right word, but disappointed may also work if you don’t want to admit that the inner 5-year-old inside of you that judges everything would feel betrayed–betrayed in the same way as I remember being when my Dad refused to tell me what something meant and directed me to a dictionary, the same way I know I felt betrayed when, in that last year of desperately believing in Santa Clause I decided to give him one last chance to prove he was real, and he failed. Because in my mind, if Santa was really as amazing as everyone said he was, he would get the letter I left out for him on Christmas night and produce whatever it was I put on that letter even on such short notice.

Of course Santa is real, but he has more of a business happening, wheer he reads your mind and puts gifts in stores for family members to buy.

But that’s a theory for another post.

But the faith that we all put into strangers still amazes me.

The following that some writers get is staggering…

Or, if you’re more of a YouTube person, consider the vloggers out there.

You hit that subscribe button figuring that they will continue giving you the entertainment you are looking for.

Sure, you get a sort of relationship with people over the internet, reviewing/commenting and giving your opinion on what they have displayed for the Invisible Audience, but they are still, essentially, strangers.

And yet, on YouTube I get excited when one of my comments gained 21 thumbs up…

Strangers are fun…

The internet is a wonderful place, I think…

I Miss My Dog

Because he is my dog. MINE.

Lexy may have first claim over him, because, you know, she bought him, she pays for his food, she goes on most walks with him (MORNING walks, even when it’s crap out)… all that stuff matters not.

Because he is also MY dog.

I miss him.

Of course I miss my family too, but there is something about the family animal that sort of sticks with you.

I want to crouch down and have him sit down between my knees for a cuddle.

Or, possibly, walk up to me and turn around in his ever so classy “Here is my bum” with implied “Scratch it” pose.

I want to see him do an all around stretch, starting with downward facing dog and moving on to cobra before finishing with a funny face and a shake. If this shake produces little fluffs of fur in the air, that is fine.


Hugs from my family are awesome, but giving a hug to my dog is an overall fluffier experience.

Recently, as broadcasted by my sister HERE, it was my birthday 😀

Very exciting, yes, and one of my friends gave me a particular gift.

She gave me a stuffed dog…

This looks nothing like my dog, so that’s not the point of this, but I have been very stressed lately, and it is the kind of stuffed animal that has been stuffed to fair solidness, and so it is a wonderful stress-hug-thing to hug, because it doesn’t feel like hugging a towel.

I do like squishy stuffed animals, by the way, but when you need a hug and you need it to feel solid…

Well.

I just really miss having Gwynn around.

Currently the only thing that’s living with me (roommates don’t count, it’s more like they’re living next to me) is my aloe plant, something I begged off of family because I needed SOMETHING around.

It’s grown some since I got it.

I think I should name it as well...

But because I’m happy that I’m able to get some stress off by squeezing the air from the stuffing of my dog (currently nameless, but a boy for his manly image), I’m going to post some pictures.

Manly pattern means manly dog... And his eyes and nose are so soft!

If you have a name suggestion for my dear, manly pooch, I’d love to hear it!

I love my new poochie, but I still Miss Gwynn

Thank you!

P.S. Lexy, please send me family and dog pictures. I see you in a week or so, but I would like them regardless.

I miss you all! Give puppy a rub down for me!

Gone, Gone, Going…? Now? No. … Now?

I am currently waiting for laundry to be done, and feeling alternating feelings (no duh) of chest constricting stress and  fluttery anxiety, and chest constricting anticipation and fluttery excitement.

I leave for Grundy Park tomorrow, probably at the crack of dawn should I ask Dad now, and I am starting and finishing my packing today.

Yes I’m late, but I’m a procrastinator almost by nature. I’m procrastinating waiting for laundry to be done, because a while ago, I had my laundry waiting for me to bring it upstairs, and it was sitting in front of our freezer, which was left open, and it leaked.

I moved my stuff after it got wet, and left it down there to be done again when the washer was next free.

Mold grew.

I washed it twice.

I am washing it again, to get the sour-ish smell from it before I go.

I am not packing my stuff into a suitcase, because my Mom says that it’d be easier to pack in the car if it were in these huge, 3fx1fx2f ish plastic bins, so I have a plastic bin in my room, in the hall outside of my room, one downstairs by my nearly-done laundry, and one in the front room of my house.

Scratch that, I have TWO (Three) in the front room, because I need one separate for sleeping things such as sheets and pj’s.

It feels very much so as if I should be going right now, but then the chest crushing gets tighter with the feeling of Holy-I’m-Not-DONE-PACKING! untill I reassure myself and my insane part that no, we aren’t leaving right yet.

And then the sane part of me thinks of something.

What if I forget something!!!

Insane hears this as well, and slaps Sane on the head.

It’s because we’re not done PACKING! Get to work we’ve got like an hour to get everything together and in the car!

 Sane runs into a wall.

DOOM!

No, we aren’t leaving untill tomorrow, I reassure myself. And Laundry cannot be rushed.

And so I stand in front of the Door of Panic with my trusty Gandalf Wizard Staff solidly blocking the way.

From myself.

*sigh* Am I sure that there is actually an insane side, and it’s not just me?

Yes. I just happen to be strongly influenced by myInsane side when writing. Every writer has this part of them, it just so happens that mine feels the need to talk to me occassionally.

Insane people are in Sane people, and neither part are going past me to the Panic Room, because a)nothing gets done there, and b) NONE SHALL PASS!

All LOTR Gandalf the Grey jokes and references aside, I shall finish the Laundry of Impending Doom, cut it down to be hidden away in the Boxes of Plastic Containment, sealed away untill they are needed to fight the foe called Nakedness.

Shoot I gotta find myself some nail clippers, and perhaps a few more pairs of wool work socks.

Did you know that Costco has awesome underwear on sale? You wouldn’t think so, but they are comfortable.

A while ago, how many days ago matters not, Mum brought me to Costco to stock up on food items that will help in my quest of survival for the coming 2 months.

Working at a park is different from working as a Ranger in many ways, and one of which is that we don’t have chefs to cook and buy our food.

 For the last couple of weeks Dad has been storing away chili and stew and hamburger patties in the freezer, either in sealed plastic bags or in Tupperware , so that for at least the first two weeks of no-trips-into-town-to-buy-food I might be able to survive. I am extremely thankful that we get a lot of freezer space at Grundy (everyone, not just me, though I’d like to believe I AM that special).

I will also be leaving with print out and digital recipes of such things as stew, easy stroganoff (which is not a loose, sexually active Swedish general), salsa-couscous chicken, and many-layered salads.

We bought juice, meat, some veggies, cookies (the important things), underwear (they’re nice 😀 Sane: Don’t SAY that! Insane: BWAHAHA!) , and a whole slew of bread for me to make my main source of sustenance for during the day: Sandwiches.

To the sound of Pocahontas’ “Savages”:

Sandwiches! Sandwiches! Hardly ever Eaten! Sandwiches! Sandwiches! Where is my Mayonnaise?!

Credited to my friends (from rangers) sister. Google Map Delta. It’s a place. They live there.      😀

WE ARE RUNNING OUT OF TIME!

No.

Food is packed away, and I think that I’ll go through the plastic bins tha I have already and sort out the mixes of shirts, sweaters, pants, and shorts from in them.

I will probably have way more than I need, but…

Rather have more than I need than not enough.

Right.

 BUT WHAT IF SOMETHING IS FORGOTTEN???!!!

No. Grundy is 4 hours or so away, and the Parents will be visiting fairly regularly! Back!!! Back from the gates of Panic!

YOU SHALL NOT PASS!

 So tomorrow I’m gone, or going, or whatever, and I’ll probably be freaking out.

By the end of the first week I’ll likely be fine, but then I’ll start being paranoid about what, exactly I’ll have forgotten.

Because I will have forgotten SOMETHING.

But that is edging around my Gandalf staff, (BWAHA!), so we shall move on.

I was procrastinating a bit earlier, reading one of the books I liberated from my Mom’s school (they have a better library, and because she’s a teacher there, she can take them out over the summer), called “The Book of Lost Things” by John Connolly. The link will bring you to his site on it.

It’s good.

Like, Really good.

Most times I can predict what will happen at the end of the book by the time I get through the first 3-5 chapters, and I had a bit of a feeling about what would happen, but so many things happened that promised a slightly different outcome, I couldn’t put it down.

Of course, since Lexy probably won’t be reading this untill I’m long gone, I can freely admit that instead of folding laundry a bit earlier, i was reading this. I put it away any time someone came down to the basement, and started fiddling with laundry.

I still got a lot done, even while reading it.

…Weird.

The dryer just made it’s “I’m-done” jingle noise (sounds a bit like a small part of an ice-cream truck’s jingle), and this is getting kind of long, so I’ll bid you all goodbye for now. Whether I post small segments about my work for the next 2 months depends on if the claim to internet access is true or not.

Ciao!

~Doodled93~

Insane: THERE’S NO MORE TIME!

P.S. Afterthought: It is now about 10:28 pm, and I pretty much have everything packed, but I look at my 2 bins of clothing, my 1/4 bin of work clothes, and my slightly bursting bin of sleeping stuff (it has a sleeping bag and pillow in it), and I feel I am missing a lot. Clothing-wise. I know I am not anywhere done my toiletries packing, as i currently have only JUST put the all-important nail clippers in my tinier toiletries bin, and I have no swim towel, no shower towel, and all of my electronics (including an EXTREMELY IMPORTANT digital alarm clock) are scattered around my house. Mostly uncharged too. Anyone else finish packing and look at your stuff and thing “nope. Not done.”? Also, pj’s is underlined in red, as well as bin. That is rediculous!

Preparing for Parkage Part I; Driving Boots

Okay, as I mentioned in one of my previous posts, I have a job this summer at Grundy Park, working maintenance for the Park.

There are a couple of things that I generally have to have for the job to be open to me (as I said before, most of it was obvious like I

I got a surprising amount of help from the driving instructor...

must be a Canadian resident and suchlike), but it was mainly that I needed to have certain forms filled out before I got there (the acceptance to the job for one, and the staff house I-agree-to-the-rules agreement that they sent to me about a week ago), certified steel-toed work boots, and, oh, my G2 license.

The license that I didn’t get until Tuesday (Mark it, Tuesday June 14, 2011, Doodled93 got her G2 License!)…

No, I wouldn't have let this happen. Don't be a dink, don't drive and drink...

Yay I got my License!

So happy! XD *hugs*

It was only 15 minutes or so, and it was pretty easy. They made me do left and right turns, parallel parking, uphill parking, and a 3-point turn on a road that I could have easily done a U-turn on.

The guys talked more than I thought he would (I thought it would be limited to directions, but he told me [among other things] that I should be less cautious about my turns), but was really nice.

And I passed 😀

Don’t worry, despite the picture I don’t drive drunk, I’m underage…. But when I’m 19, ho ho, look out world…

Joking! Don’t arrest me!

Ahem.

Yay for that it of stressfullness being gone.

So I’ve been born and raised in Canada, I have filled out and sent the forms, I got my License, and from last summer I have my certified steel-toed boots!

Yay!

But wait, what does it mean to have Certified Steel-Toed boots?

The Green Triangle of Certified-ness

Besides the fact that you can drop heavy things on your toes when wearing them without worry of injury, your steel-toed boots are certified if they have a little green triangle on the side of them.

Yeah, it’s that simple.

My boots do not look like my sample picture though. Well, they have the little green patch, but they aren’t brown, and they’re entirely leather. And dirty.

We (my sisters and I) wore our boots to this huge dog walk thing out in the woods, and it was rainy and wet (MUD) when we went out.

My boots were kind of scuffed up as well…

So Dad brought out his dad’s old shoe-polishing kit, gave me some saddle soap, and told me to wash the boots (including Lexy and Emma’s).

Well…

Of course I hadn’t even thought about taking pictures of the before they were cleaned, and only of the next stage, but whatever.

The bottom one is what you use to put and rub in the polish, you just dab it into the polish and rub like a fiend. the top brush is what you use to make it shiny and cool looking. You rub it over the polish after t's dried to take off the excess.

Hot water and a cloth took off the worst of the dirt, and then using that cloth on the saddle soap took off a

This is a slightly blurry picture of the polish (not people from Poland!)

great deal more, and quickly dunking the boots into the bucket of slightly+ murky water took off the saddle soap.

And then we waited for them to dry.

A couple of hours later Dad gave me two long brushes, and this odd-looking jar of what liked to me like someone had scraped off all the dark sticky stuff from a grill and stuck it into a jar. It wasn’t, in case that wasn’t obvious. It was a jar of Polish. (not people)

He showed me how to do my own boots by demonstrating on the grayish looking scuff on the toe, and mumbo presto the scuff was gone!

This is the after picture, of my pretty unscuffed (looking) boots!

Hah, Microsoft Word hasn’t underlined mumbo presto in red. (wp did though)

Yes… because I am right! It’s gone!

Bwahaha!

 Yes, yes, First Mine and Lexy’s boots, Next THE WORLD!

EVERYTHING SHALL BE POLISHED!

 Not really, that would use up all fo Dads polish…

Moving on.

I did the little that was to do on my own boots (they had one summers wear on them) and moved onto the colossal task that was Lexy’s boots (which had TWO summers + Construction site use + More regular use).

Had to unlace the boots to get at every part of it....

Sadly we couldn’t find Emma’s boots in order for my newfound ability to polish to be abused more, and the boots that she used on that walk weren’t the right kind of leather and weren’t steel-toed. We really need to find them… You don’t realise it untill you have to find it, but Size 5 Steel-toed boots are hard to come by.

I didn’t have to do it for mine, but her boots tongue had to be done as well, so I had to take out her old, taped-at-the-end laces too.

 Her boots took a significantly longer time to polish up…

And she wasn’t around when I was polishing Boots, so I was worried that she’d get home and tell me that she REALLY DIDN”T WANT TO HAVE HER BOOTS POLISHED, and that Dad was wrong in saying that it’s be a NICE surprise for her.

Was honestly worried about that, yeah.

Thought that her boots were almost like this from the beginning, and that she would be upset at me for changing their look… untill she came home, seemed pleasantly surprised, and I remembered that no, she didn’t buy the boots looking like this, they were just well used and haven’t been polished for 5-6 years.

This is the difference before and after I finished using the polish on Lexy's boots... Left= Done, Right= Not Done

There was definitely a bit of stress for those few minutes of I-haven’t-finished-polishing-these-and-she-isn’t-home-yet…

So I scrubbed and polished untill I was done, noticing that this was much easier on my back than scrubbing the dirt off of them was, and had a nice time outside talking with Dad while I worked.

Still scuffed, but now pretty 🙂

It’s interesting to see that, though I’m polishing them and making them look all (kinda) new and shiny, you can still see that they’re scuffed. Well, that seems kind of obvious, but from far away they just look mildly used, rather than constantly used like Lexy’s boots have been.

And then they were done.

My boots (left) and Lexy's boots (right), looking all prim and polished...

Now I just have to finish spraying the boots with this suff that’ll make the leather a bit more water proof, and i’ll be done prepping my boots for the summer! I still ended up taking my laces out to spray them down, and after another coat of the stuff I’ll put them back in.

Yay for Part 1 done!

Woofstock 2011 Toronto Part 1

Woofstock 2011

Hi guys, my sisters and I did a totally doggy darkish thing this last weekend!

YEAH! We went to the equivalent of a dog convention!

Yes I went to Woofstock... TORONTO!

Pretty much all of the booths were for dogs. There were lots of dogs underfoot, and I was taking pictured of it like a fiend!

We got Gwynn a bunch of things, many of which were on a slight discount (does no tax added count? Yes, when it adds 3 dollars), and we gushed and acted like mild Bieber fans at his concert at some of the dogs (HOMIGOD I SAW LIKE 6 GREAT DANES!) [P.S. Microsoft tells me by way of squiggly red line that Bieber is WRONG. Thank you Microsoft for confirming that for me :D]. There were a lot of contests that we could win as well, and that was exciting too…

Omigod, 4kg of chicken patties/week??? For a YEAR? *faints*

One of the things that we saw lots of were “Save ___!!” booths, the ones that tell people about a certain breed, and that they have shelters that are specifically for the protection and adoption of that breed. There were a few booths that were for shelters that take in animals in general, and I say All the Power to You for it.

One of the things that I notice about Specialized Shelters vs General Shelters is that it attracts different kinds of people. Some reading this are shaking their heads, either in ‘no duh’ or in ‘as if’ mentality, and some others don’t  bother with outwardly showing their thoughts on what they’re reading, and still more are reading this going ‘really? Now move on already…’

Moving on.

The difference is that people who already have an idea of what kind of dog that they’d like, and possibly already have that kind of dog will gravitate towards the specialized booths.  This includes the people who (like me) are allergic to fur, and have already done research for what kind of dog has hair, or are known to be hypoallergenic.

Also for big dogs, but they get put down quicker than small dogs while in shelters.

People who gravitate towards the general shelter booths are those who (also like me) like the idea of getting a mutt (I say this with affection, I have nothing against Mutts except for their tendency to make me allergic), and helping give a dog who perhaps has had a bad time of it up until then a good home, and are willing to be surprised at which kind of temper their new puppy/dog/demon will have.

There is no real contrast with either, except for the difference in mentality.

One mentality is that they’ve researched the breed and/or have a soft spot for the breed and/or need a breed that fits into your allergy restrictions.

The other is that you want to help out a dog and/or are looking for a nice surprise that may or may not be exempt from some breeding issues (inbreeding stupidness, hip dysplasia, etc…) and/or would like a dog in general, and would like to have some variety.

I would get myself a cat.... if I wasn't allergic. Did you know they have mutant hypoallergenic cats now?

There are also people who like cats, and they generally go to the general shelters… (don’t quite understand why they don’t go the specialty dog shelters… hmm…)

I have no issue with either of them, and understand a lot of the mentality that starts both, and would like to help out any way that I can.

—–

 More Dog breed info at http://www.dogbreedinfo.com/ 

Save Toto!

** First link is where I get my info on them. **

Westies are very intelligent and definitely not “laid back”. They are happy, playful and affectionate but they are also tough, hardy, independent and tenacious.They are also possessed of no small amount of self-esteem.

 They can be assertive and demanding.This makes them a wonderful companion for those who appreciate and are charmed by the terrier temperament but a disaster for the person who wants a gentle-natured little dog bred primarily for cuddling.

If you are not prepared to provide structure, leadership and training for your Westies, this is not the breed for you.

My sister has a lot of experience with Westies, and this is her favourite Breed. Emma/Peanut, has had to walk two very different Westies, one who is a very energetic (and wired) dog, and one who is more laid back.

General Shelter, RESCUE DOGS!

This dog (to the right) was awesome, and I love the breed (whatever it is

This dog was in a kennel next to the Westoies in Need booth...

(possibly some kind of greyhound or whippet)). It’s probably fur, but I love its face! >>

Yay for Rescue Dogs! You can get such a variety in what dog you get!
 <<
Coat type/colour, personality, breed (s), you can even get lucky some times and get a hypoallergenic dog, regardless of the breed (It’s true).
 
Dogs from Shelters are great companions, and are always uniquely special.
 
 
With a nickname like “American Gentleman,” you can expect your Boston Terrier to be good-natured, intelligent, and polite with a

Save the Tiny Alien dogs! They're too cute!

sense of humor. But like many American gentlemen, they embody a little bit of spunk and spirit that makes them unique.This poster promotes my idea that, like superman, Boston Terriers are aliens come down to earth

Breeders and fanciers describe Boston Terriers as gentle, alert, and well-mannered. The dogs can be rambunctious, harkening back to their terrier ancestors. But that same energy can be redirected into rousing games of fetch, flyball, or agility.

This poster promotes my idea that, like superman, Boston Terriers are aliens come down to earth

Not known to be barkers, Boston Terriers don’t make the best guard dogs — especially because they’re too friendly to strangers! They adore children and senior citizens, making a properly socialized Boston an ideal pet for a young family or an empty-nester. Me- I like them because if there were doggie aliens, this would probably be what they would look like, possibly in rainbow colours 😀 See above picture to see that the shelter people agree!

Golden Retrievers are probably one of the top five breeds that combine an eagerness to please, playfulness, gentleness and devotion.  There is a downside to this however – because they crave so much attention and wanting to be around their owners – these traits can be annoying to some.

As opposed to the bronze or silver rescue 😀

Rankings for:

— Stress when left alone: Average; left alone too much develops into behavioral issues

— Used for personal protection: Medium to high; more of an alert dog than protection

— Used as a guard dog: Poor and extremely low in this role            

 — Barking: Usually alerting more than anything else
— Level of aggressiveness: Very low (hey, this is where Air Bud came from :D)
— Child friendly: Very high – too active & rowdy for infants or toddlers though; excessive licking and/or ‘mouthing’ can be an issue if not addressed
— Socializing with other animals: Usually very well, love to play and will often roll over first unless you have a poorly bred Golden

Don't worry, despite what this picture kind of looks like, Beagles aren't from the underworld

Beagles are energetic, active, alert and even tempered. They are very social dogs and like the company of people and other dogs. They do not like to be left alone for long periods and if so, will get into mischief. Their soulful and pleading eyes will convince you to give them treats and table food which, if you give in to them, will eventually lead to obesity, something that should be monitored carefully because spinal problems are common in overweight beagles.

PLEASE NOTE that the one beagle I know (who Lexy may have mentioned, or may mention in the future) got bit by another aggressive dog as a puppy, and as a result is not a dog friendly dog. If you do hear more stories from Lexy or I in the future about him, do not hold up his personality against Beagles in general. He is a very people-friendly dog, but has issues with most other dogs. This is not normal beagle behaviour, and any dog bitten at a young age has the possibility of becoming dog weary/aggressive.ALL dogs have this possibility, at any stage in life. I have regularly had to pull Gwynn away from tiny dogs because their owners say that poor Mupsy’s uncomfortable with larger dogs because one pushed him down once. Please please PLEASE ask, when you are going for a walk with your dog and see another dog walker, if their dog is friendly or not BEFOREyour own dog is within interacting distance.

Bulldogs are what you make them. And their faces are just so SQUISHY!

 Not talking about actual Bullies, talking about Bulldogs!

Many people do not consider Bulldogs for pets mostly because of its stocky stature and seemingly mean appearance. However, this breed is actually known to make good family pets.

It is actually quite gentle and not too hyperactive. In fact, it is known to be quite the lazy dog which is the reason why it is perfect for small homes or apartments. Even families with small children will do well with Bulldogs. Some are very playful when they are puppies and tend to be a little bit restless. However, it often becomes calm and composed as it grows to become a full adult.

You can get Cats here 😀

Organization for the Rescue of Animals!

 
Yet another General Adoption and Rescue Dog shelter.
 
This seems like it would be a lot more of these around, but there were only three, and I could only get pictures (to help my memory) for two.
 
If you are not planning on adopting a dog, then try donating to any of these places, or any shelter near you.
 
There are all kind of specialized dog shelters, and even a few specialized cat shelters.
 
One place which I thought was a good investment was one that specialized in dark animals. In general, when you go looking for dogs, most families and a good percentage of non-families will avoid darker looking animals, cats perhaps because of that stupid superstition, and dogs perhaps because it makes them look dangerous.
 
On the side, The superstition about black cats and crossing paths was made up by Catholics in an attempt to attract others from their religions. By taking black cats and making them unlucky, they are directly opposing Egyptian mythology, as one of their favourite goddesses has the head of a black cat, and black cats are the guardians to the underworld.
The only explanation for the black/dark coloured dogs (that I can think of) would be that in most movies with guard dogs, the dogs are really dark, and also, when you think of something scary, you think of something dark.
 
The sites in the pictures are as follows:
Otherwise google the names of the shelters or for an organization near you to find a shelter to contact for adoption or for donations.
 
Thank you for reading this first part of Woofstock, the second part will be put up within the next couple of days.