Private Painter, a Painter for Money

Suddenly, I find myself a painter. A private painter. A painter for money. I'll paint what you want me to paint a la Tina Turner (but without the hot legs with restless leg syndrome).

What started out at painting something fun for a friend and being paid for supplies has suddenly become painting pet portraits and commissions.

Who saw this coming?  I didn't see this coming.  My dog probably did see it coming but got distracted by the red ball before he could give me the heads-up.

Now I have to figure out Paypal, buy supplies and get myself a shop on eBay.

Heaven preserve us. 

Note - I will not, under any circumstances - paint a velvet Elvis or flowery vulvas.

I'm not that kind of desperately out of work Gerontologist.

...And Lo, There Was Disorientation

How does that quote go?  "Sometimes you're the dog, sometimes you're the fire hydrant"? 

It's my turn to be the fire hydrant.

Two weeks ago this coming Monday, I was laid off from what I thought was my dream job.  A divine opportunity to develop as a professional.  A chance to really make a difference and create a niche for myself.  A chance to use all of the education and training I have gathered.

It really WAS that job.

Until it wasn't.

Now, I'm in that limbo.  That place of uncertainty where you question how you made yourself so expendable, so non-essential, so lay-offable.

It's in this limbo space that I find my self bruised and constantly checking out the corner of my eye for the next kick in the pants.  This experience has made me anxious - not just about now - but about the future.  I feel unsteady, like I'm standing on ground in the midst of a liquifaction.

With this unsteadiness, I find myself forced to look at pages where "experts" tell me how to buck up and suck it up and move on.  Sites which try to coach me.

Right now, I don't want a coach, I want a job.  I don't just want ANY job, I want a job where I use my education - all three degrees. 

I want a job where I count.  Where I make a difference.  Where I'm valued for my contribution.  Where I'm necessary.  Where I'm included.  Where I'm part of the future.

In the meantime, I'm hanging out with my dog.  He doesn't judge me.  To him, I count, make a difference, I'm valued, I'm necessary and I'm part of his future.

I'm no fire hydrant to my dog.

Adventures in Canine Joy

It has been a long, long time since I had a moment to add anything here.  My thoughts have been on the back burner while career and our big move have taken the front position in all things.

Three weeks before our big move we adopted a dog from the SPCA.  This dog, this canine ambassador for the SPCA is a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a condundrum.

We have the joy of being the adoptive family for a white German Shepherd that we have named Gunner.  He is approximately 4 years old.  He is a devout follower of the Red Ball religion. He has very clearly been loved at some point in his past because he came to us resplendent with "sit", "up" and "lie down" skills as well as a strong desire to retrieve and bring us the toy.  He's "too big", "too long" and the wrong colour to be a "good" German Shepherd if you read anything online.  I say phooey.



He's whip smart, I'll tell you that!  He escaped his crate on Thursday.  I came home, unlocked the door, opened it and was greeted with doggy nose and a full tail salute.  I have no idea how long he'd been free in the house but not a thing was out of place.  Nothing was chewed.  All was well...

Gunner isn't great with other dogs unless he's off-leash.  His hackles come up and he starts to hyperventilate.  I don't understand it, but that's how he is.  We have lots of dog politeness and socialization to work on but honestly, he's a joy.

I don't know if its us who are giving Gunner joy or the other way around...frankly I think it goes both ways.

We are eternally grateful to Charlotte at the Vancouver SPCA for choosing us as Gunner's adoptive family.

We love you Charlotte!!!

Hallalujah - Moved by Olympic Spirit

I have been moved.

In a completely unexpected and unforseen turn of events, I broke down and watched the opening ceremonies to the Vancouver 2010 Winter Olympic Games.

I have many conflicting thoughts and feelings about the cost of the games relative to the economic crisis much of the world is in and how many people have had to go without in order to make the games possible.

Its no secret that I resent the ownership of the games by corporate sponsors who have little to do with sport and much to do with product positioning.

That being said, I was moved.

I was moved by the place of importance the four host First Nations of B.C. took in welcoming the world's athletes to the games.  I was moved with the inclusion of representatives of Canada's First Nations covering the north, east, west and plains peoples and Metis.  It made me deeply proud to see First Nations art and imagery integrated into ceremonies in which they too took part - that the art and imagery wasn't just used because it would sell. 

I was moved when orcas slipped through the pacific ocean and spouted  right across the surface...

My heart swelled with pride and recognition when the poet Shane Koyczan recited his poem "We Are More".  He spoke thoughts and words right out of the hearts of millions of Canadians.  He got a rousing applause for "please and thank you" as well as "zed".  He hit the nail right on the Canadian pride head.

I had tears in my eyes when the Georgian team walked solemnly in to BC Place Stadium to a warm standing ovation, without Nodar, black arm bands and sadness all over their faces.  I was touched when he was honoured by Jacques Rogge before the official speeches and I was solemn when the minute of silence in Nodar Kumaritashvili's memory was marked.  In a building filled with 60,000 people and flags at half-mast, you could have heard a pin drop.

But when KD Lang stepped up on her platform and began her stirring, heart-calming rendition of "Hallallujah" written by Canadian song writer and artist, Leaonard Cohen, I just had to stop and watch.  She sang the heart right into that song.  The song came across as a prayer for Nodar AND a prayer for peace.  The simplicity of the setting for her barefoot performance made the song all the more poignant.  There was nothing to distract us from hearing every word.  She plucked at our heart's chords with a cheshire smile, a white suit, candle light and a voice that just curled around you and held you tight.

Romeo Dallaire, that amazing man with such a heavy soul walked in bearing the Olympic flag.  That was a "YES" moment.  That man deserves so much and he has done so much in the name of Canada.  

In the end, the opening ceremonies were moving.  They moved me for so many reasons, and I never saw it coming.

Is a Number a Value or A Symbol?

I have a friend...a friend I met through work, but we both work in the long term care industry.

My friend is afraid of a number. She's afraid of the number 30.

My friend is currently 28 years old and the mere IDEA of being 30 hypnotizes her with unparalleled fear.

To me, age is a number. Its a relatively arbitrary number. In Western culture we measure 1 year as one earth cycle around the sun. But in other cultures, time and age are measured differently.

I don't know what is so scary about the number 30.

I suspect it is not the age itself that is frightening the birthday cake out of my friend, but what it represents.

To me, 30 means leaving childhood behind and embracing adulthood. 30 is a rite of passage that is hard earned through enduring high school hell, first jobs, failed attempts at real relationships and learning to expect better.

I think 30 is the point at which you don't just learn to expect better, its the point at which you GO GET BETTER. You make it happen.

As a Gerontologist, I look at age from a different perspective. I look at age as a chronological marker of time and also as a subjective experience. I know lots of people, including myself, who "don't feel their age".

So my question is this: Is a number a value or a symbol? Is 30 a numerical time marker or is it a symbol.

If its one or the other or maybe even a combination of the two, why is 30 frightening?

30 has "empowering" written all over it in my books...

Do I Stay or Do I Go?

I find myself in a bit of a conundrum.

I have finished my M.A. in Gerontology and need to find work in my career field.

To be more specific, I need to find work related to my education, in my field AND work that contributes to, enhances and furthers my career path. As much as I appreciate having a job, I can't live as an admin assistant forever.

The problem is that I have been in school, busting my brain for several years. During those years I didn't gain any real experience in the working side of my field, save that gained during my 300 hours interning with the Provincial Government.

That internship seems now, to count for very little and the job market is more than a little depressed.

I feel like leaving to find opportunity and betterment anywhere but here. Yet I'm not alone. Any decision I make to stay or to leave must be made with consideration for my partner and his family as well as for mine.

Finding career opportunities for myself may be detrimental to my partner and visa versa.

I could go to Kamloops where he has a job opportunity, but I don't know if there will be anything there for a Gerontologist.

I could leave for Ottawa where careers for Gerontologists in public health are more fruitful, but there could be nothing for him.

We could move to Vancouver Island, be bound by the Ferries and perhaps neither one of us will find work.

Part of my conundrum is the lack of awareness in both private industry and in health care, as to how to utilize Gerontologists who are not nurses. It seems that the entire LTC industry is built around licensing and policy that has nurses at the core of practice.

Gerontologists aren't all nurses, its true. I most certainly am not. Part of the barrier I'm running into, is the lack of awareness that Gerontology is the scientific study of the biological, psychological and social aging process over the ENTIRE LIFESPAN. Take a gander at the diversity of research being conducted at the Simon Fraser University Gerontology Research Centre here.

Knowledge of aging and the aging process, healthy aging practices and age friendly planning is not only applicable to older adults! Aging happens to every human being from the moment they are born. One does not have to be a nurse to have a positive impact on the aging experience and quality of residents in long term care or living independently in the community.

Gerontology and gerontologists can contribute to ANY environment in which there are goals to enable people to be healthy, live well, die well, support themselves and maintain their independence and achieve quality of life not just quantity of years.

This applies to policy development, community planning, city planning, care facility and hospital design and planning, activity and recreation planning and health programming both at the community level and the home or facility level.

Where does aging happen? All over the world, wherever people live, all day long, every day.

So, my dilemma is - Do I stay or do I go?

Attention world: Gerontologist At Large.

Adventures in the Salty Deep End of French Cooking

 

We have been making our way through Laura Calder's French Food at Home cook book. So far, only victories.

That is, until last night.

Last night we decided to jump into the salty deep end of French cooking; by this I mean, dabbling in anchovies.

Whoa, whoa, whoa...I know...anchovies are not to be treated lightly. Anchovies are fishies that are either the source of gastronomic love or hate.

We were feeling adventurous and still riding high on our recent cooking and baking victory euphoria.

We decided to make Calder's version of Passaladiere, a southern French pizza style bread baked with an onion reduction, tomato slices, black olives and a lattice of anchovies.

Jump in, throw off the bow lines, sail away!!!

So we did. The passaladiere came out of the oven a veritable joy to the senses. It was visually stunning, smelled amazing, the crust was so pleasingly toasty and crunchy....mmmmmmm.

Then the first bite..............

Umm....errrr........

Salt. Salty salinity. So much salt. If you can get brain freeze due to salt content then that's what I had.

I ate two slices. My partner took one for the team and ate four slices. I love him. He loves me, and told me it tasted good. I marvelled at his tongue's tenacity in the wake of the saline rush.

This morning, I bought a used version of the Larousse Gastronomique. Within its multitude of pages, under A, I found a reference to anchovies - my new, fishy enemies. Deep within that reference to the hated fishies was a notation regarding "De-salted anchovies".

Wait.

WHAT?!

De-salted fishies.

A complete revelation. Anchovies may be in the deep, salty dark end of French cooking but there IS a lifeboat!

The lifeboat is filled with milk.

Merely soak the dreaded anchovies in milk for an hour to release the salt and proceed as normal.

Thanks to Larousse, anchovies have been saved from the back of the black book of banned food items.

Unfortunately, Laura Calder failed to include this little nugget of anchovy parlance in her recipe for Passaladiere.

If it were up to Calder, we would have written off those deadly salty little bastards for ever.

Because of Larousse, I may once again, dive into the briny deep.

Maybe.

I'm not sure.

I may just drink milk instead.