Kiwi, Why Not?

I was fortunate to spend a long weekend in the Vancouver area recently.  And not only that, but I got to hang out with two of my friends who call the Pacific Northwest home: DeVi and Cathy.

We took a day trip to Whistler, which has skiing although very little snow when we were there.  We spent our time at the Olympic Sliding Centre and the spa.  As I've mentioned previously and as any of my friends could tell you, I'm a huge Olympics fan.  It is one of my biggest dreams to be in the Olympics but I know that like my dream of being a member of a pop girl group, it will never be realized as I just don't have the talent.  This doesn't stop me from loving both the Olympics and pop music ardently.

We discovered that we couldn't walk to the Sliding Centre from the village so stopped to ask for a taxi at a hotel.  While there, Cathy was telling the valets how we would like to do bobsled but there were only three of us so we'd need another person to join our team.  One of the valets asked for her name so she said "3 + 1."  This was a pretty good bobsled team name to come up with on the spot but he was actually asking for her name so he could call a taxi for her.

When we got to the Sliding Centre, we discovered you have to make reservations ahead of time.  Blast!  However, we got there in time to watch others do the skeleton which was still quite entertaining.  You pay 169 CAD, and get to do two runs on the skeleton.  Each run takes 32-33 seconds and most of the people get up to around 100 km/h.  Somehow, only two people screamed when they were sliding down; the rest were silent.  You know I would have made it three if I had been part of the group.

While watching the sliders, we made a couple of friends.  There was Scott, who had bought the experience for his wife, Christine, for her birthday.  He liked how we cheered on the sliders and asked us to cheer really loudly for her.  He even took a video of us cheering her on.  He told us while skeleton looks scarier than luge, it's actually easier.  He said when he tried the luge, he fell off the sled and then the sled ricocheted back and tried to get him again.

Then there was Graham who was photographing the sliders for work.  He evidently (you know I have to use that word C!) has superhuman patience because Cathy and I can be a lot to take in.  Basically, take me at my most energetic and crazy and multiply it by about 3.5 when we're together.  He mostly seemed entertained by us though as he laughed a lot.

We (Cathy & I, DeVi left the poor man alone) were peppering him with questions.  We couldn't place his accent, so he had us guess.  My response was, "Kiwi, why not?"  While this amused him, it was incorrect.  Turns out, he's from the UK.  And not only that, but London.  I don't know why this was so hard for us to guess.  Downton Abbey has clearly ruined my ability to pick up a London accent.

Other things that made him laugh...
He said he photographed extreme sports, so I said he should tell people he photographed "the X Games, you know."
We asked him if he liked Bastille (Cathy's plan was to ask him if he has Dan Smith's hair since his was under a hat) and he said he wasn't sure; he'd have to hear 3 songs.  I played him 3 songs and he said they were average.  We were a bit shocked and I said maybe they're average for the UK, but for us Americans, they're elevated.
Since he was British, we decided his last name was Shakespeare, of those Shakespeares.  Now you see how annoying we can be and still he didn't ask us to leave him alone so he could do his job in peace.

And finally, I met another Nebraskan!  I was wearing a Creighton shirt so he asked me if I was from Omaha.  He's from northeastern Nebraska but lives in Houston now.  The state has less than 2 million people but I meet Nebraskans nearly everywhere I go.

5 (more) Songs You Need To Hear

#1 

Bad Guy

Mindy Smith

For some reason, this song reminds me of my college boyfriend. Basically, Mindy Smith is singing in my language. Plus it's a weirdly cheery song for such depressing subject matter. I'm all about contradictions, so here you go...

 

#2 

C'est L'amour

Rosie Golan

"When I saw him, I felt the room divide into pieces. All the lights danced around us just like stars in the sky. One night in Paris with a man I barely knew. Lost in a moment, c'est la vie, c'est la chance, c'est l'amour." How cute? Bonus points for including some actual French.

#3 

Pitter Pat

Erin McCarley

This one is kind of a downer, but sometimes you need to listen to a downer. Because why not?

#4 

Afire Love

Ed Sheeran

What's that? You haven't cried yet today? Allow me to fix that for you. Normally Ed Sheeran doesn't really do it for me, but this song had me getting really weepy while I was harvesting sugar pea greens one day, so I had to include it. Any song that brings me to tears and isn't a country song about someone dying gets an automatic 5 stars from this girl. Wait, this song is sort of about someone dying. Whoops. Spoiler alert. Favorite lyric? "And my father and all of my family rise from their seats to sing 'Hallelujah'" The kicker? They're at a funeral. Aaaaaand now my eyes are leaking.

#5 

Talk About Love

My Friend the Chocolate Cake

Now that your eyes are good and lubricated, here's one of my all-time faves. Weirdly touching. Not what you'd call a "normal" song, but with a band name like that, you didn't think it would be, did you?

Perfectly Capable

I'm an anomaly.

I grew  up around and working on a farm. My full time job today? Farming. Where did I spend my day today? On a farm. And I'm a girl. Hence the anomaly.

I get it. "Female empowerment, girls can do anything boys can," etc etc. You don't have to tell me. It's the other farmers' daughters who didn't get the memo. I can count on one hand the number of women who serve as more than seasonal labor on their farms. Growing up, we were supposed to be impressed when one of the girls drove the pipe trailer when it was time to lay out irrigation pipe. I, like many of my peers, learned how to drive the pipe trailer around age 5. That's how we roll in rural Nebraska. But the difference between me and the other girls is that I graduated from driving the pipe trailer to bigger things. I mean that literally. When I was 12, my dad decided that I needed something to occupy my time during summer vacation. So, like any loving father, he put me on an open tractor with a rake behind it, and I spent days at a time raking alfalfa hay on a Farmall Super M.

Source

Interesting fact #1, when you sing at the top of your lungs on a tractor like my Super M, people can literally hear you for about a mile around. Interesting fact #2, no one will tell you this until years after you've stopped using that tractor.

But I digress.

I learned how to operate a machine. Like one with a clutch. And a throttle. And hydraulic...bits. I'm still not good with terminology. The point is, I kept being "promoted" to bigger and more powerful machines. It was terrifying. But I did it. Because whenever I said, "I can't," my dad replied, "You're perfectly capable." Turns out he was right. That doesn't mean I was happy about it.

Because, you see, I was raised in a world where the damsel in distress is still the ideal. Women "need" men to reach high shelves, open stuck jar lids, and lift heavy things. We're supposed to be like that, because that means we don't disrupt the natural order of things, wherein men are strong and capable and burly and brawny...like this stud:

Source

And women are weak and helpless. Except during harvest, when women are inexplicably acknowledged as being capable of operating the MANchines that are "too scary" or "too big" for the remaining 10 months of the year.

So here I was, a girl of all things, doing men's work. [Collective gasp] And I basically knew what I was doing (I just didn't know what to call it...terminology again). I mean, I had my share of problems. I ran into a bale with the rake once when I was about 13. That was awkward and fun to explain to my dad. But by and large, I figured stuff out. And if I broke something, I was expected to at least make an effort to fix it. And the weird thing is, I DID. I COULD. I WAS CAPABLE, just like my dad told me. It was really annoying. Because it is SO MUCH EASIER to be helpless in some ways.

What happened, more and more, was I was forced to, you know, do things. Instead of standing by and watching, or bringing the menfolk a jug of cold iced tea like all the girls do in country songs, I was forced to become an active participant.

The result? I know how to do things. When I needed to switch the direction that my dryer door opened, I didn't call my dad. I just did it. Me and my screwdriver. And when I had to patch a hole in my drywall, I looked up a tutorial and made that shit happen. Because I knew I could. Because I am capable. Because I was told I was.

My dad comes from a proud tradition of feminist male farmers. Lol. J/k. He would probably shake his head if I said that to his face. But I'm being real with you here. My great great grandfather amassed a significant amount of land in the time he farmed in this country (he came over from Germany when he was young). When he died, he had 4 half sections (that's basically 2 square miles) of farm ground. So he split it equally between his four children, THREE OF WHOM WERE WOMEN. No misogyny here, kids. Just a whole lot of equality.

My great grandfather married a woman who wasn't afraid of a wrench. Need proof?

Just because you're doing dirty work doesn't mean you can't look cute doing it.

So who was my dad to fight the flow of women's lib? No one, that's who.

The problem is that most people haven't been informed that farming doesn't require one to have cajones, as it were.

For instance, whenever a mechanic comes out to work on a tractor, my dad sends me to "help" said mechanic. Which is basically like giving me a break from work, because--almost without exception--when I ask if I can help, they always say "no." I don't really mind, because if they want to make their job harder, far be it from me to tell them that they're being silly. Plus I can catch up on my facebooking.

Other examples, and some of my faves, involve truckers. Now, truckers are a different breed of cat. Not bad, necessarily. Just different. Part of my job is to load out grain from our bins into trucks to be transported to places like chicken farms. This involves putting a sweep auger into the bin towards the end and shoveling/sweeping as it goes around.

Source

So one day, I get to the bin, and get ready to start, and the trucker says to me, "All the hired men are busy today, eh?"

So, naturally, I mentally kicked him in the nuts and went about my job.

Once when I had to trade out with my brother and leave in the middle of a load, a trucker told me that he was bummed because "I don't usually get to see girls do this kind of thing." I realize that trucking can be a lonely job, but I am not your entertainment. This is not a show. Stop staring at me while I shovel corn. It's weird.

Then there was the time a trucker took the grain vac I was using from my hand to "show me how it was done." I let him. I disagreed with his methods, what with my having a basic knowledge of how vacuums work and all, but I let him do his thing. After all, the "guys who did this back on [some random farm somewhere else]" probably DO know better. They are, after all, male. After he was done, the trucker says to me, "Can I give you a compliment?"

I say, "Sure."

"You don't see many women doing this kind of work. Most farmers' daughters stay at home with their mothers."

I nodded at him. What I was thinking was this: "That was not a compliment. That was a statement of fact. And my mom works on the farm, too, so I'll be sure to tell her she's also abnormal."

Dang. I really do love truckers. I mean that. They are delightful. And usually nice guys. Except the ones who touch my sweep auger. I mean it, truckers, if you're reading this. You may use the broom if you must participate. But the sweep auger is mine. I know what I'm doing. I am perfectly capable.

I am a woman. I am a farmer. I paint my toenails and I love dangly earrings and sparkly things and lace. I also know the correct way to put a tire back on after it's been repaired. And if you ask me to put the clevis on the 8110, I know what to do and how to do it. I am an anomaly. But I am also perfectly capable.

But then again, dear ladies of the world, so are you.