Monkey Bars

Posted by Amanda on Monday Feb 8, 2010 | Classified as: Literary Debauchery | Sub-Classified as: fiction, the craft

N.B: I wrote this sometime in November when I supposed to be writing for Nanowrimo. There’s something about speculative fiction that makes me smile.

The past is my playground, where I’m free to ride the merry-go-round as many times as I please without being scared of the monsters beneath. I like the swings best. I’m poised to jump as I pump my legs to shoot myself higher and higher; I’m reaching a place where I used to be queen of the castle. Or, at the very least, a duchess with a lot of pull with the rest of the nobility. After the swings, I go to the slide and ride the slick surface to its end, raising my arms in the air. The slides are joy. It is the highest and lowest point in my life.

The future is the challenge of swinging myself up to the top of the monkey bars to perch and dangle my legs between the bars. At seven, I was limber, agile, and energetic. At twenty three, I am ponchy, cumbersome, and no less energetic. So I scramble, trying to reach the top of the bars so I can look over the other houses in the neighbourhood. My surburbia. My kingdom. I just know that somehow the top of the monkey bars is where all of dreams will come true. But, here I am, staring at the monkey bars, paralyzed by fear that I won’t be able to get up there. The pebbles pay the price as I scatter them with a flick of my ankle.

The present seems to be someone’s idea of a drunken one night stand: it seemed like a great idea when both parties were intoxicated but the morning after is always a bitch. So I drink a fifth of the vodka I had stashed in my purse in one tough swig. It burns going down. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I’m still afraid of those stupid fucking monkey bars. Another bunch of pebbles are punished for their insolence. I’m alone on the playground when my mom calls at me from across the street; it’s getting dark and she made me dinner.

But I can’t go in. Not yet. I need to best those monkey bars.

Another fifth of the vodka downed before I toss my purse unceremoniously to the side. The bars are low enough that I don’t have to jump to catch them. My arms always burn in protest.

Too much work, they moan. Let’s just go back down to the ground and the pebbles and our mom.

I won’t take no for an answer. I’m so sick and fucking tired of being on the ground when it seems like everyone else can get to the top of the monkey bars. I hate them for being better than me. I hate being second best. I hate waiting. I ignore the pain in my arms and attempt to swing my legs up to catch the other bars with my heels. Several tries later and I’m still swinging with my legs half bent.

I hate these monkey bars.

After another stiff swallow of vodka, I’m tipsy. Angry. Upset at my failures. I rode the merry-go-round four times without falling off. I even closed my eyes, in spite of my brain reminding me of the monsters beneath that steal and eat unlucky little girls who don’t pay attention. No monsters ate me. My past loved me, relished my presence. So why didn’t the future welcome me with the same reverence?

Fucking monkey bars.

I try a few more times, but am met with the same failures. When my mom finds me three hours later, I’m sopping drunk from polishing off the bottle of vodka and crying from not being able to get where I know I need to be. Those monkey bars will solve all my problems. I know they will. Mama, why can’t I get to the top of the stupid monkey bars? Why am I such a fucking failure?

She soothes me, placing a calming hand on my clammy forehead, and holds me close to her sweet smelling blouse. Oscar de la Renta swims through my senses and suddenly I don’t want to get to the top of the monkey bars, as long as I’m safe on the ground. I have so much to be thankful for on the ground: my pretty mother, the pebbles, the grass, the terrifying merry-go-round, and the simplicity of knowing that my feet would always find their way.

You can reach the top of those monkey bars, my sweet, she murmurs into my lank black hair. Just believe in yourself. Try something else. Don’t be stuck on one method. Do everything. Try everything. Be spontaneous. Attack them. You are the maker of your design. But don’t run too fast. The present is a gift.

Yeah, the sort of gift that a mean aunt would give me on Christmas, I retort, burying my head between my knees. It’s not spinning down there; this weird chasm between my legs.

But it is a gift all the same, she says, smoothing my hair with a wise hand. Do not be so quick to judge yourself or others. We can help you reach the top of the monkey bars, you know. We love you.

Just like so many times before, I shrug off her help and protest that I’m a big girl who can take care of herself. I don’t need anyone to help me. I got up there once. I can get up there again. You should see if Dad needs you. I’ll be in soon. I promise.

I had promised it before.

I hadn’t been home in five years. I slept on the playground, curled around my empty bottles as though I gave birth them. But I didn’t want to leave without reaching the top. I would take as many tries as I needed in order to get up there.

There are countless more attempts before I collapse on myself underneath the stars and clouds. I am alone in this, I think to myself as I weep bitter tears. I am alone. These stupid monkey bars are going to be the end of me. I can’t get where I need to be. What if this is all there is? What if I never reach the top? The monkey bars cast frightening shadows across the playground as I drift into an uneasy sleep, full of empty dreams and sad nightmares. My unconscious doesn’t bother trying to scare me anymore. The loneliness scares me enough.

The dawn breaks and I begin with making another attempt, falling on my back and knocking the wind out of me. Tears stream down my face as I curse the Divine for failing to notice that I was struggling. I gave everything I had for so many years, happy to feed the heartless, the soulless, and the aimless with my heart, soul, and ambition. All I asked for was to get to the top. So why am I still here at the bottom? Why am I, your raven daughter, the one to pay the price for mistakes I haven’t had the chance to make?

I throw more pebbles at the sky and curse the infernal Divine.

I sit on the swings, trying to be the queen, the duchess. A startling man wanders onto the playground and manages to catch up to my swinging, smiling warmly at me. He says his name is Michael. He has green eyes like spring leaves. I like him instantly. I ask him if he’d like to ride my merry-go-round and he says yes. The monsters raise their scary eyes above, curious about the man called Michael. Michael plays games with me and we are happy. Mama doesn’t call me inside this time, she just watches from the door to our house, smiling and content that someone is playing with me. I’ve had other boys play with me on the playground but they all left when it was time for dinner or when it got dark.

Michael stays with me and drinks the raspberry schnapps I buried underneath my slide a few years back. It is sweeter with company. He tells me that I’m pretty and that I should smile more. So I smile more to make him laugh. He laughs with every fiber of his being. He is a man and a child. I envy him his merriment but his smile is pretty, with the gaps between his teeth and a twinkle in his leaf-green eyes. I like him. He is pretty and handsome and perfect. I hope he stays with me forever.

The monkey bars loom in the growing dark.

Can you climb to the top of the monkey bars? I ask him, swigging the schnapps, feeling the alcohol warming my veins. I’ve been trying but I can’t get up.

Michael is very tall. Tall as a tree. Even taller than Dad.

When he stretches his arms, he can touch the clouds; he says that they tickle his fingers. He hops up to the top of the monkey bars and reaches for me but I can’t get up yet. I’m still stuck on the ground and in the pebbles.

I can’t make it, Michael, I sob, wracked with guilt and sadness. I want to come up.

I can lift you, he soothes. Lean on me. Let me save you.

I can’t.
I can’t.
I can’t.

It’s beautiful up here, he says as I sit on the ground, fists in my hair. Please let me help you.

I refuse. I want to be up where he is but I need to get up there myself. He doesn’t understand me. I am alone again. Michael is ahead of me. I am jealous of his ease. Why do I always struggle?

But he doesn’t want to be on top without me so, without another word, he lifts me on his shoulders. I protest loudly; I’m afraid of heights and of the monkey bars. I don’t want to go up, I tell him. It’s okay to be on the ground.

No, you belong up there, he grins. Go and I shall follow.

I grasp the top of the monkey bars and pull myself off his shoulders without a lot of fuss. He is so tall that I graze the clouds. They tickle my cheeks. Michael is so handsome and perfect. I love myself when we are together. I sit on the top of the monkey bars. The sky is peaceful. The neighbours wave as they walk their dogs. I am so happy that I wave back. But the great epiphany has not come and I find myself disappointed.

Michael sits with me and wraps his arms around me. I am still ponchy and cumbersome but he just squishes closer; he is unafraid of the external me. Smile more, he says as he rests his strong chin on the top of my head. We are on top.

We are together. Life is a miracle.

Mama calls to me from our front door. She is proud of me for reaching the top but she was proud of me no matter where I stood or sat or danced. The Divine still ignores me as I sit with Michael’s arms around me but it’s okay. I don’t need their approval or help anymore. I have Michael. He has me.

The monkey bars have been bested.

Now I’m eyeballing the clouds.

Three Dimes, a Couple of Pennies, and a Handful of Loonies

Posted by Amanda on Sunday Feb 7, 2010 | Classified as: thrifty shopping | Sub-Classified as: money, responsibility, style

This is the first post in my series on thrifty shopping. Read on if you’re interested in learning about achieving Thrifty Nirvana.

I’ve always been a thrifty shopper. I’ve mastered the art of shopping on a tight budget. I’m an expert at making ten bucks stretch for two weeks. It’s a rarity for me to pay full price for anything outside of restaurant food and video games (but let’s get real: if it’s a game, I trade-in my old games for it anyway).

I went to the local bookstore this evening, just looking to kill time before I met up with a friend of mine. After I’d paid for my purchases, the cashier looked at me and said, “You’re really thrifty. You got some great deals here.”

I smiled and agreed.

“I’m a sucker for a good deal.”

Smiling back, she handed me the bag and said, “I never buy anything on sale. I don’t have the self control. I just want it now.”

Immediacy: the affliction of our generation (especially).

Everything needs to be instantaneous or it’s not worth it. The web page must load immediately. If that skirt is fifty bucks, we try it on and just can’t wait. Or that book that we can’t live without? Just bought the hardcover for thirty dollars. Charge it, baby.

It’s become a badge of honour to be full price consumer.

Luxury is just that: a luxury.

Am I guilty of impulse buying? Damn straight. Happens to me all the time! The difference between my impulse buy and the girl ahead of me in line at The Bay is that I just dropped thirty dollars on an LBD while she dropped three hundred on a fashion forward dress that’s bound to be out of fashion by fall. But hell, if she can rock the dress well beyond its best before, good on her. Chances are that she’ll put the dress in her closet next to last season’s fashion forward dress and forget about it until she buys a new one for next season.

Even if you have millions to spend on clothes, shoes, and electronics, that doesn’t mean that you should. Celebrities go into debt trying to keep up their luxurious images. Many of them go bankrupt living a lifestyle that is well beyond their means. Regular, every day people go into debt and go bankrupt for the same reason. Debt is the condition of our culture. We’re all fighting to get the hell out of it, even Mike and me.

A little closer to home is the question I get asked fairly frequently:

“Amanda, can you teach me how to shop like you do?”

Take a knee, Padawan.

Five Steps to Your Thrifty Nirvana

That delightful woman I wrote about a little while ago (y’know, my mom) taught me everything I know about shopping on a budget. She gave me a discerning eye. I’d give my eyes to you but that’s kinda gross. Instead, let me share her wisdom with you.

One: Never, ever buy full price.

I was downtown Vancouver the other day, perusing my favourite shops on my way to the library. I came across three really beautiful blouses, all of which fit me amazingly (thank you, Urban Outfitters). Two of the blouses were new arrivals (read: not on sale) and the other was more than 50% off.

Guess which one I bought.

The other two went on my wish list. I wrote down the style and SKU in my BlackBerry so that I can keep an eye on the products over the coming months and wait to for a sale.

Two: Shop around for the best deal, especially on groceries.

That’s what those annoying flyers are for. Flip through the flyers to see who’s selling what and for how much. I know what you’re thinking:

“Amanda, I really don’t have the time to sit down and flip through flyers just to save thirty cents on a bag of frozen peas. Isn’t there an easier way?”

I’m glad you asked me, telepathic reader!

Head to the store and price check in the aisle. Honestly, that No Name rice is just as good as the expensive Basmati rice from the specialty shop down the street. Might even be tastier.

Goes the same for clothing, electronics, books, you name it. Get a second opinion from another store. Don’t be afraid to wait while you do your research.

Three: Exercise your waiting muscles.

I know the waiting game sucks. Buying the product right now is just as much fun as Hungry Hungry Hippos was is. Buying on a whim is a blast.

But, if everything you purchase is on a whim, you’re going to end up with stuff that you not only don’t need but you couldn’t really afford in the first place. Of course, some people see need fairly subjectively. For example, I really do need my computer(s). Other people could beg to differ that a computer is a need.

Four: Buy used. Trade-in. Swap.

Thrift stores are awesome for buying cheap, unique furniture that’s been gently used or restored.

If you’re a gamer like me, trade-in your old games in order to purchase new ones.

Trade-in your old consoles in order to buy new ones. Well, don’t trade in your NES or Sega. That’s just silly. But if you’re looking for a PS3, trade in your PS2; your XBox for an Xbox 360; your Gamecube for a Wii. Your new console is fairly backwards compatible.

Swap clothes, crafts/art supplies, and electronics with your friends. Tired of that blouse you bought last year? See if your best friend needs an addition to her wardrobe, as long as you’re the same size. See if you can snag that sweet dress she’s not wearing anymore.

Five: Figure out what a “good deal” is.

This was the most difficult part of learning how to shop. Originally, I thought that any kind of sale was a good deal. It must be, right? It’s on sale! All sales are made equal.

In fact, all sales are not made equal.

In British Columbia, a 15% off sale will pay for the taxes on the full price product.

Figure out what the mark-up is on the product you’re looking at. As an ex Best Buy sales associate, I knew which products were mostly mark-up and which ones were sold mostly at cost. Laptops and game consoles are sold barely above cost. DVDs, CDs, cables, and accessories are mostly mark-up; it’s where the store made its profit.

If you figure out what the mark-up is, you can determine whether or not the sale is a “good deal”.

Practice Makes Perfect (Sense)

This isn’t something that you’re going to be able to master in one shopping trip. It’s going to take discipline, patience, and dedication. These tips are the culmination of fifteen years of watching a Thrift Master at work.

What are your thrifty shopping tips?

A Simple Nod to the Extraordinary

Posted by Amanda on Thursday Feb 4, 2010 | Classified as: Everything Else | Sub-Classified as: love

You’re my world
The shelter from the rain
You’re the pills
That take away my pain
You’re the light
That helps me find my way
You’re the words
When I have nothing to say
And in this world
Where nothing else is true
Here I am
Still tangled up in you
I’m still tangled up in you
Still tangled up in you
You’re the fire
That warms me when I’m cold
You’re the hand
I have to hold as I grow old
You’re the shore
When I am lost at sea
You’re the only thing
That I like about me
And in this world
Where nothing else is true
Here I am
Still tangled up in you
I’m still tangled up in you
How long has it been
Since this storyline began
And I hope it never ends
And goes like this forever
In this world
Where nothing else is true
Here I am
Still tangled up in you
Tangled up in you
I’m still tangled up in you
Still tangled up in you

Tangled Up in You – Staind (The Illusion of Progress)

I found you in the most unlikely place, almost five years ago. This love thing; there’s nothing quite like it.

On Code & Creativity

Posted by Amanda on Tuesday Feb 2, 2010 | Classified as: Development | Sub-Classified as: code, creativity, geekery

People are generally surprised to hear that first part of my post-secondary education was focused on software. Sure, these days I’m more into the front-end UI than the back-end DB, but my heart is in language.

When folks think of software developers, they think of a person that fits into one of these categories:

• Dude
• Dilbert
• Reclusive nerd with little to no sense of social skills
• Left-brainer with little to no sense of creativity
• All of the above

Stereotypes exist for a reason.

“…in order to be able to interact effectively, we must have some idea of what people are likely to be like, which behaviors will be considered acceptable, and which not.”

Heidi Burgess

Alright, I concede. Sometimes, I fall into the stereotype of the drooling nerd who does nothing but play video games for eight hours a day instead of getting my work done. It’s also fair to say that lots of software devs lack the social skills to be in sales or marketing. I can even admit that Dilbertisms exist for an equally important reason: all devs have had the dreaded PHB (Pointy Haired Boss) during their time in Cubicle Nation.

It’s the assumption – I’m a sometimes code monkey and that means that I can’t possibly be creative – that makes my nasty eye twitch come back.

Code Creates Things. Beautiful Things.

Look at your favourite piece of software. I’ve got mine running in the background while I write. Look at the way it’s laid out, the colours, how your eye moves across it, and even the mood it puts you in. UI experts put their souls into that. Designers lent their creative energies. But it was the developers that put all the pieces together.

It was the developers that flexed their fingers and made it all possible. The devs were the creators.

The best example of beautiful things created by code is: websites and web applications. Luscious layouts with exquisite typography that ooze creative juices. Don’t they make you want to crawl inside? Yeah, those are the product of a fellow code monkey taking the juicy Photoshop design and making it a reality for the web.

When I worked as an in-house software developer from 2006 to 2008, I was also the UI specialist. I took Excel spreadsheet mockups and made it scalable for both a handheld computer and a regular desktop in Photoshop and then implement the prototype in Visual Studio.

My job was to take the initial concepts and make them a reality; to create a product from scratch.

And yet, when I talked about my job to my friends, they would just chalk it up to another of my nerdy endeavours and ignore it. Software development didn’t affect them. Real software devs were science-fiction. After all, I didn’t work at Microsoft or IBM or Bioware. I worked for a 3PL warehousing company. I wasn’t creative; I was doing what I was told under my corporate leash.

Every project that I’ve worked on – both in-house and as an independent contractor/freelancer – has involved the combination of my right & left. My 1’s & 0’s. Working together. In tandem.

Code + Creativity = One Rockin’ Product

That’s what violetminded is all about: using both sides of the equation to balance the needs of  project by exposing the creativity in code and diving into the logic of creative projects. When it comes to creating any kind of software solution – be it web-based or not — you can’t have one without the other, even if it looks as simple as words on a website or a text-based editor.

You need the creative chutzpah to generate the ideas and the technical skills to make the magic.

So the next time you hear someone knocking a software dev’s creative skills, tell ‘em this: you can’t have the code (or the solution) without the creativity.

How to Rock Responsibility Without Being a Grown-Up

Posted by Amanda on Tuesday Jan 26, 2010 | Classified as: Personal Development | Sub-Classified as: money, responsibility

I suck at being a grown-up. I still watch Saturday Morning Cartoons, even on weekdays. I eat Reese Puffs cereal or Pop Tarts for breakfast sometimes. I love it when my nieces and young cousins come over because I secretly love to play pretend with them. I get lost in video games for hours and hours. I watch Disney movies in marathon sprints with April.

As a kid, I was Little Miss Responsible: conscientious of finances, attuned to the emotional well-being of my family, and especially mindful to the needs of my little brother. I desperately wanted to make everyone happy. It turned into a sort of complex for me.

When I moved out, I still wanted to make everyone happy but it was also the first time in my life that I had all the freedom I could ever ask for. (Take note: my parents were and are the most flexible individuals I know. I was not quashed under some totalitarian regime.) I had more money than I knew what to do with. I could go out all night and not have anyone worry about me.

In Which Responsibility (and Brains) Were Lost

I’ll be the first to admit it: I super failed at managing my money (and life) when I got out on my own. For all the life management I had when I was living at home, I didn’t apply any of it to the outside world. Poor money management led to bad eating habits, which led to weight gain, which led to depression, which led to worse money management, which led to worse eating habits, which led to more weight gain…

Damn it.

I was stuck.

At the time, I was just pissed off at myself for not paying more attention to my self destructive habits. I scared the people that loved me into thinking I was losing my mind. I scared myself into thinking that I was losing control. In actuality, I wasn’t out of control.

At eighteen, I rebelled against myself. I didn’t want to be responsible or strong anymore. I wanted to be a little kid. And yet, I had become the antithesis to my childhood self: self-indulgent, cranky, and manipulative. It was all about me, me, me and screw everyone else because Me, Myself, and I were pissed off at you. Something had triggered this response. It took a couple years of self pity and introspection to figure out why.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen, says my inner self. Time to pick yourself off the ground and stop having a bloody tantrum. There’s more to life than trying to be one or the other. Why not try being both?

Responsibility: A Four Letter Word No More

It’s been five years since I moved out on my own. I’ve learned a lot since then. Re-learning how to manage my life has been one of the biggest – and most rewarding – challenges. I’ve determined that there is a way to maintain a childlike spirit while still rocking responsibility. And by I’ve determined, I mean that Mike (my husband) has determined.

Side note: Mike should seriously have his own blog. His ideas astound me. He pretty much always wins at life.

Responsibility implies respect: respect for yourself (and your partner), the life you’ve created, and the future that you’re creating. It doesn’t mean that you have to give up everything fun and whimsical in your life.

Responsibility can seem demanding, “You must do ABC in order to be an adult. Go sit in the corner and think about what you’re going to do with the rest of your life.” In actuality, responsibility is a whisper in the back of your head that asks politely, “Remember to talk with your husband about that purchase. No, not because you have to but because you’re a team.”

Responsibility provides peace, not chains.

Responsibility extends to every facet of your life: money, relationships, goal-setting, making cupcakes, etc. It’s more about common sense than anything else.

What About Being a Kid?

Children are guileless. Energetic. Wild. Fearless. Ready and able to try anything and everything, especially if it means they get to have fun and connect with the people they care about. The knowledge of responsibility shouldn’t change that. In fact, responsibility should enhance that. We should be teaching our children that responsibility and maturity doesn’t mean that you have to be a grown-up. You can – you should – retain the wonder and delight.

It’s time for a parity shift.

How Can I Rock This?

So, are you irresponsible? Or are you too responsible? Is it even possible to find the balance between the child and the grown-up?

Hell. Yes.

• Take time out for whimsy: read a fairy tale (but don’t let yourself get caught up in unrealistic expectations); take a walk in the park and pretend that you’re in a magical land, where nothing is what it seems; daydream.
• Find a budget that doesn’t suck and stick to it. And by doesn’t suck, I mean doesn’t suck the energy out of you forever and ever. Look at it as an exercise in funding your whimsy.
• Create something. Anything. It could be a macaroni Jerry Seinfeld, a poem, or cupcakes. If you bake cupcakes… screenshot. Srsly. I <3 cupcakes.
• Manage expectations in your life: other peoples’ expectations of you, expectations of yourself, and expectations of other people. Do this for your work and personal life. You’ll be less stressed.
• Watch a cartoon from your childhood. Trust me: it’ll be so bad, it’ll loop back around to good.
• Collaborate with the people in your life: on decision-making, projects, love, problem-solving, raising kids, anything. Don’t bury your head in the sand and refuse help.
• Deal with it. Deal with your problems. Deal with your hang-ups. But don’t deal with it alone. Talk openly. Be honest.
• Be wild.

Let’s be rockstars, children, and wild flowers and still pay our bills on time.

Confidence. Rates. Nothing up my sleeve. It’s all business, baby.

Posted by Amanda on Friday Jan 22, 2010 | Classified as: Freelancing, Personal Development | Sub-Classified as: confidence, web design

violetminded opened its eyes at the end of September 2009. I didn’t see much in the way of business until 2010 rolled around. Yesterday, I started to think about why that was.

I had a portfolio with some relatively decent pieces in it from my days in design school. I even included some sweet print designs I’d done up for April’s art show. I mean, I’m not screaming from the rooftops that I’m a genius but I’m certainly no neophyte.

“Dude, you’re doing it wrong” or How I Managed to Trip at the Starting Line

I did a number of things wrong right off the bat.

1. No blog. *gasp*
2. No rates had been set.
3. Not enough diversity to my portfolio.
4. violetminded had no real identity.

The blog was remedied easily enough, with a bit of elbow grease and decisiveness. I fail at loving my designs enough to keep them so I changed the look of violetminded five times before deciding on this incarnation. I need to exercise restraint in order to not run and change it again in February.

It was the setting of the rates that was the doozy.

You’d think that setting yourself up to start bringing in cash flow is easy and maybe even enjoyable. In actuality, it’s like listening to 80s pop and being forced to drink bad vodka. I avoided it as long as humanly possible. I’m adverse to 80s pop and bad vodka, you see.

And so, violetminded sat around until the middle of October when I approached Kelly on Facebook (no secret here, I’m madly in love with Kelly & Cleavage, even though I’m married… shh… don’t tell Mike). My first step was to work with her, brand her website anew, and design her a fancy new blog. It wasn’t all sunshine and lollipops but we had a beautiful product at the end of it.

When 2010 rolled around, I took it as the kick-in-the-ass that I required. It was time to buckle down, stop being just a freelancer, and start being a business. The buckle down required me to stop being such a pansy about rates. And then I realized what was keeping me from moving forward.

Rates & Confidence: BFFs in the worst way.

I confess.

Until recently, I had very little confidence in my own abilities. I’d spend countless hours perusing my favourite design websites and smack my head against the wall while muttering, “Why couldn’t I think of that first? ACK! Does this make me a sub-par designer? Maybe I am just a talentless hack.”

Whoa. Wait. Back up. Did I just think that out loud? Also, I didn’t actually hit my head against the wall. That would be potentially killing brain cells that I may need at some point. But I definitely have felt like it.

How can I possibly justify charging market value rates if I have no confidence in my own abilities? How can I market myself if I wasn’t entirely sure I would be interested in hiring me? More head-butting the walls in my head. More trembling before the mighty business model that I hadn’t really thought of.

Time to get a real job?

Hell. No.

Designing and coding Cleavage had opened my eyes: people actually loved what I could do. The site was all Kelly. It was a minimalistic beauty that came out of me; not out of one of my fellow designers. Just me. And Kelly. And a sexy design brief. We made sweet, sweet web design all night (and day) long.

Hot.

With my confidence boosted (thank you), I could see straight. Walls crumbled. Shoulders squared. Chin raised. Bring it.

… now what?

Rates. Oh snap. Almost forgot.

The rates. They gnawed on my brain, like wild Violet Zombies. The problem hadn’t gone away. It had only managed to seem like it had gone away. Sneaky.

At the beginning of the month, the business started rolling. I put away my confidence issues and started my research.

At first, I was astounded! I couldn’t afford to pay another designer $1800+ so how the hell did I expect people to want to pay me that kind of scratch for my services?

Everybody wants a killer design, especially after seeing one that they lust over. Problem is, nobody wants to pay for it.

Chris Pearson, Pearsonified

Nail. Head. Chris hit it.

It’s also why designers hate to set rates. It’s hell. What if nobody ends up wanting to pay us at all, let alone what we’re asking?

It’s a terrifying question. It almost made me want to give it all up for a “cushy” dev position at the company Mike works at (we make an awesome dev team, let me tell you).

Almost.

Company. Individual. Parity Shift!

Based on my experience, I have reason to believe that about 90% of you who just saw my prices thought, “Gosh, that’s awfully expensive!”

Well, you’re right, but actually, you’re wrong too.

You’re right because $1800 is a decent chunk of change – for an individual. You’re wrong because companies throw this kind of bread around all the time. They do so because they understand that crafting a brand holds a value that is oftentimes hard to measure in dollars and cents alone. On top of that, companies typically have a monetary objective behind the launch of a new design, so to them, there’s a foreseeable payoff.

Chris Pearson, Pearsonified

Dude.

DUDE.

DUDE!

I got it.

I can’t afford to pay that kind of scratch because I – not violetminded – am an individual. But my company could.

Pro tip: parity shifts are useful when figuring life out.

I sucked it up. I set my rates and then told my new clients that we should work together to make sure they won’t have to donate their liver to the black market in order to pay me. I’m under the impression that the liver is, y’know, important. So don’t let me bankrupt you or your growing business.

I just want to design for you.

Why? Because I love it.

It gives me warm, happy feelings of rainbows and lollipops and Alistair/Dragon Age. <3

Staring Down a Tunnel

Posted by Amanda on Saturday Jan 16, 2010 | Classified as: Everything Else | Sub-Classified as: family, health, love

Truly, she is the most wonderful woman I’ve ever known. Do you see her smile? Do you see mine (and yes, that’s me with long, blonde highlighted hair)? She does that to me every time I see her. A full-on guffaw, head thrown back and all.

I’m no stranger to death. I’m certainly well acquainted with chronic illness. For the twenty-three years that I’ve been alive, the woman in the picture – my mother – has fought to gain a foothold against her ever-growing list of illnesses: Cushings Syndrome, Nelson’s Syndrome, and Growth Hormone Deficiency are the longest standing.

I spent my childhood wrapped in tales of Middle Earth, trying desperately to escape from our tortured version of reality. It was fiction that brought us together, even when things looked bleakest; when the doctors told us that there was nothing they could do for her, short of experimental medical procedures (and thank the fates for Canada and our medical system).

Lesser people would have given up this fight. Lesser men would have left her to deal with her own problems. But my family – though flawed, just like everyone else’s – has proven that it takes more than illness, desperation, and sadness to tear us apart.

Family is the most important part of life. You fight to keep it together. Without it, life’s pretty much meaningless.

Chris Hoffman, my Dad

Standing at the Tunnel’s Mouth

Just before my wedding in the summer of 2008, her condition began to change. Her health had been relatively stable. But then her eyes began to tear up uncontrollably. She began to find it hard to breathe.

By the time November rolled around, she was diagnosed with a new disease: sarcoidosis. Sarcoid manifested itself in pronounced scar tissue on her legs and the formation of nodules in her lungs, which we thought was due to the plethora of medication she’s taken over the years. So, the doctors put her on corticosteroids, namely prednisone – a particularly nasty steroid that my niece was on to fight off infection during her chemotherapy.

We thought that by the time December 2009 rolled around, her lungs would have made considerable progress toward better health. Her neurologist in Vancouver had told her that if her lungs were under control by 2010, we could put her into Growth Hormone treatment, which had been a dream until now. In spite of our medical system, Growth Hormone is still considerably expensive.

However, much to our surprise, her lungs hadn’t changed at all. In fact, they’d gotten worse.

Adding Another to the List

I got the news last night that the worsening condition was due to a new disease on the block: pulmonary fibrosis, which means that the capillaries in her lungs are twisting and hardening. This can lead to lung failure, heart failure, and eventually death.

Last night, my heart was completely shattered by the news.

Today, it really sank in.

I did my research this morning. And then I broke down into uncontrollable tears. I’ve been faced with the notion of mortality many times before. On some small scale, I’ve even tried to accept it.

I really fail at accepting my parents’ mortality.

No child wants to accept the fact that, one day, her parents will die. In spite of overwhelming odds that she might not make it through the next surgery, she has lived. I’ve taken that as the rule, not the exception.

Every illness, including the new kids on the block, cannot be explained. We don’t know how she managed to get Cushings. We know that Cushings lead to Nelson’s. We’re not sure how Growth Hormone Deficiency played into it. And sarcoid is a mystery. Hell, even the pulmonary fibrosis is a variable to which there is no quantifiable answer.

Amor Vincit Omnia, Even Illness

Love conquers all.

When I was in school, the teachers would ask: “Amanda, who is your hero and why?”

I would say, without a hint of irony, “My mother. Because she doesn’t survive. She fights. She lives. She is my sunshine at the end of a dark tunnel.”

The kids would laugh at me. None of them understood the magnitude of her heroism. In response, I would tilt my chin defiantly and stand by my words. I knew her strength just as intrinsically as I knew my own. Her strength fed mine just as mine fed hers. We were are a team.

Today, when people ask me that question, the answer is still the same. It’s not a celebrity, or a historical figure, or even my beloved Shakespeare. No, it has been and always will be my mother.

Her heroism, as I’ve called it, can be defined as nothing short of superhuman. Others would have stopped living and only managed to survive.

Instead, she smiles. She laughs. She bakes marvelous cookies and sends them to us in Vancouver. She shops. She listens. She hears. She is concerned. She loves.

She isn’t prepared to give up without a fight.

Neither am I.

The Conqueror. No, not Conan.

Posted by Amanda on Saturday Jan 16, 2010 | Classified as: Personal Development | Sub-Classified as: geekery, independence, love

A few days back, I slipped out of my skin for a few minutes to share my trepidations with you. After a brief recovery period, I’ve decided to rip off the skin grafts (pleasant imagery, isn’t it? This is the problem with writing science fiction and horror: I thrive on the macabre and it sometimes *ahem* bleeds into my non-fiction).

Ronna got me thinking about Love today. Not the sappy kind of love that switches your brain off. Not even the frightening kind of love that makes you crazy with jealousy. She got me thinking about the kind of love where you’re sure you’ve got it but you’re not sure you’re willing to succumb to the Dark Side of Dependency.

The Battle Begins.

It would be easy to classify the Battlefield as a rivalry between the genders; I could draw upon old clichés and still make my argument work. In truth, the Battlefield is far more abstract and, by extension, far more complicated. Instead of this being a simple battle of the sexes, this is a war between love and independence.

Stay with me. It’s about to get geeky in here.

Love, the Dark Side of the Force, is passion wrapped in what appears to be chains. Independence – freedom from Love – is the detachment that the Jedi preach.

Love is the variable: wild, unpredictable, and constantly evolving. It thrives on our wild abandon but keeps its chains wrapped loosely around our waists. Independence – or, detachment within a relationship – is calmer but doesn’t press on us the way love does, especially at the beginning. Detachment is where we strive to be once we’ve found our Dark Lord waiting in the wing.

What do we do once the chains start tightening and we’re in danger of losing our individuality altogether? Refuse to submit to Love and lose out on all of its happy shiny qualities? Or submit, in spite of the creeping chains?

Submit and refuse the chains.

Once upon a time Every day, I struggle with this. I consider myself headstrong. Bold. Just a little on the wild side. I used to consider the bonds of love to be confining. I watched helplessly as the girls I knew were swallowed up by Love. They didn’t call anymore. It slipped their minds that we had a coffee date. They became an extension of their Love, instead of Love becoming an extension of their individual personalities.

The chains confused me.

After all, I’ve been in committed relationship after committed relationship for many years, until I stumbled into a dimly lit conference room and met my husband. During those relationships, I submitted, chains and all. The Dark Side may not be all that bad but be wary of losing yourself entirely; you’ll start looking like Darth Revan and that’s just not okay.

Through victory, my chains are broken.

- The Code of the Sith

I began to familiarize myself with the teachings of Independence – the Light Side. It was a long time coming. There’s no reason to smother oneself with imaginary chains when we’re the ones who put them there in the first place. We imagine that because we’re in love, we’re not allowed to retain our Self. But it is our Self that keeps us whole. Sane. Palatable to those outside our relationship. Just as the Light Side of the Force cannot exist without the Dark Side, Love cannot exist without Independence.

If we live inside Love entirely, we smother it.

If we refuse to submit to Love and seek only Independence, we are ultimately alone.

We must submit and refuse the chains. Find a way to keep our Love and our Self.

I love my husband – my Mike – entirely. We’re content to be together without having to acknowledge each other every moment of every day. We are happy being in the same apartment: I create, he games. We game together. We create armies of miniatures to take over the galaxy. It’s a beautiful, geeky thing.

I’m eager to know how you discovered the balance of Love & Independence in your life.

The Books that Sold Me on Design

Posted by Amanda on Friday Jan 15, 2010 | Classified as: Design | Sub-Classified as: books, scanner personality type

I read. A lot. Like, many books at a time. Might have something to do with my Scanner-ness. For me, there was never a time before design. As soon as I discovered how to make a website, I was hooked. The problem was that all I knew was the code. I didn’t get design at all. Blame it on my youth, as Jamie Cullum would say. When I started design school, I knew that I liked what good design felt like. I wanted to replicate that. I wanted people to feel fan-freaking-tastic when they looked at/interacted with my designs.

The problem: I didn’t know how to get from “Damn, I really love this” to “This is why I love this and this is how I can reproduce it”.

That’s when I started reading design books.

Oh. My.

Everything started clicking. Design wasn’t about making things look pretty. It was about so much more. There was a logic, rationale, and beautiful mathematical precision to design that I didn’t realize existed. My perception of design was irrevocably shifted. My zeroes were now ones. I couldn’t stop smiling. It might’ve freaked my husband out a bit.

The Five Essential Design Books on my Desk

The Elements of Typographic Style by Robert Bringhurst

Before Bringhurt poured his knowledge into my brain, typography was a mystery that I sought to unravel. Why is proper kerning so important? Why should we care about the Golden Ratio? I consumed this book in the course of a week. And then I read it again. Nom.

The New Typography by Jan Tschichold

This is less of a “omg learn typography here!” and more of a “omg delicious history!”. It’s a bit of a dry read but totally worth it for the typography enthusiast in you.

Grid Systems: Principles of Organizing Type by Kimberly Elam

There’s a way to ORGANIZE TEXT? It’s not mystery?As it turns out: no mystery, only awesome guidelines. This book gave me the tools to recognize and understand why text should be laid out in a certain way, depending on tension, visual hierarchy, other design elements within the body of text.

Thinking with Type: A Critical Guide by Ellen Lupton

When I was brand new to design school, I read this book first. It was fascinating. I devoured it in one sitting. It was the precursor to Bringhurst’s text but it gives me pictures to fall back on if I can’t seem to get in the groove.

The Design of Everyday Things by Donald Norman

DOET, as it’s referred to as by the author, is more about usability than it is about design principles. It talks about doors and why we can never seem to figure out how to open them. I liked that part. I always walk into doors. And walls. And anything else that’s supposedly stationary. DOET told me why. I’m still a klutz.

Bonus: 2000 Color Combinations by Garth Lewis

Okay, this is number six because it’s not really strictly a design book but it’s my inspiration. I get many colour combinations out of this book that I find surprising and beautiful. It’s worth the look, just for that.

_________________________

While books and tools are essential to any web/graphic designer’s job, it does not mean that those tools make a great designer. Time, energy, education (whether it’s self-directed or in an academic setting), and creativity work synchronize to fuel the design engine. The best designers have managed to piece it all together. It’s why you shouldn’t pay your friendly neighbourhood designer $5 to make a logo. I’m still trying to piece it all together. There’s always more to learn. Always better techniques. Always better ways to do one’s job.

“Find something you’re passionate about and keep tremendously interested in it.” – Julia Child

If you’re looking for another read, check out A Pattern Language by Christopher Alexander. It will change the way you see the world.

The Help Haiti Blog Challenge

Posted by Amanda on Thursday Jan 14, 2010 | Classified as: Everything Else | Sub-Classified as: #haitiblogchallenge

Kelly lit a fire under my ass tonight about Haiti.

I’m going to light a fire under yours.

I will donate the value of my Bad-Ass Design Package ($300 value) to the Red Cross on behalf of the next person who talks to me about it. Email me for more details.

How To Join the Help Haiti Blog Challenge. What You Can DO.

Remember Gwen Bell’s Best of 2009 Blog Challenge? It brought a LOT (700+) of people together. Which got me thinking…a blog challenge is a way to rally together and have a big impact through a lot of little actions.

Hence: The Help Haiti Blog Challenge. Let’s do it.

Here’s how we can share, together, so we can give, together, to our people who need and deserve help in Haiti.

1. Sign up for the Help Haiti Blog Challenge (below). Write about it on your blog and tag it “Help Haiti Blog Challenge“. Ask your people to join you and do the same.
2. Add the Help Haiti Blog Challenge badge to your blog.
3. Make your offer: I will donate ________ dollars to _________ on behalf of the next person who buys _________ from me.
4. Make your donation and tell us how much you donated.
5. Tweet about it using the hashtag #haitiblogchallenge. Update your facebook status with a request to pass on the message and the call to action. Send e-mails. Everywhere you are, online, talk about the Help Haiti Blog Challenge, tag it, and call your friends, family, colleagues – your people –  to action.

Let’s gather our online people to help our real-life people.

You can do this. We can do this. And it will be bigger than anything we could have done alone.

Pass it on.