Six and a half things I learned about myself in 2007

Alright my friends, I am not quite at the point of self actualization that I am able to put together my top 10 of anything. Or even my top 5 of anything. I can't even actualize the world around me really.
But, I have discovered some things about myself and I'm compiling a list for you.

6 1/2 Things I Learned About Myself In 2007

1. I need to be super vigilant in this age of digital photography and on line photo posting about how I pose for photos and who I let take them.
2007 was not a banner picture year for me. Lets examine the evidence shall we....

My advice is do NOT let well meaning people who are shorter than you are (whether they are 7 years old or not) take your photo.
Don't let ANYONE take close ups.
Repeat to yourself, "even Madonna has adult acne" and don't let it beat you down.
Keep your frigging eye(s) open.
And most importantly, get rid of, or at least camouflage, those hideous superfluous chins. Perhaps a jaunty turtleneck?
2007 - year of the bad photo op.

2. Just because you make a plan doesn't mean it will be easy to follow.
I love what Anderson Cooper said in his book last year...I forget the name....with regard to New Orleans hoping that the levies would hold in case of a Hurricane....
"Hope is not a plan".
He is totally absolutely right. Hope is not a plan. Even plans are aren't easy to follow and just because you HOPE shit will or will not happen- that doesn't mean ANYONE is out there listening to what is going on in your heart.
I hoped I wouldn't lose my job. I hoped that I wouldn't lose my friends and a place that I believed in. I hoped that the government would see sense and keep the place up and running.
But nothing I hoped for with regard to my job happened.
There was a feeling that I got when one of my clients found a job.
Even a stupid $8 an hour Tim Horton's job.
There was a bigger feeling when I helped my one eyed carny get a drug plan - and medication.
It was pride. I was proud of what I did. And just because I hoped that I could continue to be proud of what I did, that didn't mean it was going to happen.
I have a plan now. Its not as good a plan as my hope - but maybe if I keep hoping, it will get better.

3. Food and I are not Friends.
At the start of 2007 the Doctor told me I was 100 pounds fatter than Tyra Banks is when she is at her fattest. I was 100 pounds over weight.

At first I didn't believe him.
Then I did the math.
And he was right.
Alot - 100 = still alot.
Good God in heaven how did that happen?
I mean, I wasn't at my fattest but, I was giving my fattest a run for her money. She was running slowly and out of breath but she was running nonetheless!
So I was determined that I would lose 10 pounds a month. Just 10. No problem. I could be done in one year. 10. That's it. I can take a good crap some days and lose 5 - so how hard could 10 be?
And for the first few months it wasn't hard at all. I lost 20 pounds in 2 months. Yay me.
Then I got sick - and stressed - and lazy - and stressed - and lost my job - and unemployed - and stressed - and lazy......and finally here we have ourselves arrived in December. I have gone back to the 100+ point 3 times this year. There was one point where NOTHING fit me. NOTHING. Even my fat pants turned in to just regular pants! That was a bad day to be me!
But I end December 22 pounds less than I started January.
I HOPE - and again - hope is not a plan - have I taught you people nothing? - that I can change.
For 7 weeks I have been meat/chicken/fish free. I dropped eggs a few weeks ago - milk and yogurt and ice cream. I have had serious thoughts about cheese - but I'm not quite willing to let that go quite yet.
In January we will begin to examine our relationship with carbonation.
I'm trying to think about what I eat. I'm not on a diet, but I bought a belt for my new fatter fatpants the other day.
Sure, Tyra Banks will always look better than I do. But she hasn't had the pleasure of deep fried cheese stuffed olives now, has she?

4. Its not easy to make friends.
Sure, you've all read my previous blogs (you have haven't you?) about my year of the olive branch and how through the blind insistence of one friend I managed to find a tonne of great new friends but dammit - its hard.
I'm old. And some of my friendships seriously go back forever. I've had one friend for 33 years. Another two for 26 years. One for 23 years - and a bunch for 22.
That is amazing and I am truly truly lucky. I don't let people go once I find good ones.
But, having said that - I don't let people go once I find them even when the friendships are not so good anymore. Lets put that insight on the back burner for "resolutions 08".
This year was about busting out.
Making friends in new ways.
Using technology.
Changing my style.
Changing how I act in groups - how I assimilate and amalgamate who I am into a bunch of people. So no, not easy.
But good. Very very good and consider this my full two thumbs up recommendation for a 2008 resolution for yourself.

5. Cancer sucks ass.
Now, this could be where I give you the song and dance about how to never take your good health for granted. Live each day to the fullest. Be kind to others. Blah blah.
But, I won't - because you all know that.
It is the not knowing - the indecision - the imprecision - the unknown that is scary as fuck.
And that is what this year has been about.
My cancer is dormant.
Not gone.
Dormant. Sleeping.
And although my calm exterior may seem like all is good, inside my little head is a person running around screaming at the top of her lungs - "HOLYSHITHOLYSHITHOLYSHIT" on a constant loop.
I see another dermatological oncologist in January. I start the tests all over in January. And cancer, continues to suck ass.

6. I'm not a Mary. I'm a Rhoda.
I act like a Mary a lot.

But I'm not happy doing that.
In my best relationships - my favourites and the ones that I am most at ease, comfortable and happiest with myself in - I am the Rhoda.
I want to stand behind you.
I love to be the quirky, fun, brightly coloured one.
The paisley scarf-dress to your velvet pantsuit.
The perfectly coiffed and well liked Marys freak me out.
The fact that to someone - anyone - I may appear as a Mary is wildly disturbing. Almost upsetting to me.
If you need to ask why - then you don't know me very well at all.

6 1/2. I'm better than I think I am.
I've given this a half point because its something that I'm not so sure about at any given moment of any given day.
In my job, my marriage, with my kids, when I cook, when I eat, when I write, when I read, when I drive - I'm not as bad as I think I am.
I am way too hard on myself.
I judge myself ALL the time about everything.
I should stop that.
But I'm half sure that I'm half way there.

And that, my friends, is the truth.

Siiiiiiilent Night - Hooooooly Night

Today is Christmas. Yes it is. It comes every year whether you are ready or not. It brings with it an abundance of gift cards and too much food. Usually there is a family fight or two - just for good measure. This year at my house (and my Mother in Law's house) - no fights. All was calm. All was bright.
But, the day, for me at least, was not without controversy. In fact, I think I had a couple of major epiphanies. Silent ones that I kept to myself - but major nonetheless.
Our dinner conversation - and after dinner conversation this year centred on multicultural Canada and the celebration of religious holidays.
Now you see, the more I work with people who are new to Canada, it is my firm belief that Christmas as we know it is shyly disappearing all around us. The more we accept that Christianity is not the ONLY religion in this country, the less acceptable it is going to be that every last place in the universe save the Hasty Market is closed for 24 full hours.
Our whole retail system in the country is set up to encourage Christmas shopping by everyone far and wide whatever your religion and bargains bargains bargains know no secular prejudice.
To me this started with the shift to "happy holidays" and the disappearance of the Christmas tree. I don't disagree with respecting other cultures. Why should my religion dictate if you can buy KFC on a Tuesday. Okay - well, you shouldn't ever buy KFC but it was the first place that came to mind.
My husband thinks I'm insane. He said that it is a slippery slope and if we follow my point of view soon the insurance company will be insisting that he service insurance needs 24/7/365.
My Mother In Law (henceforth known as MIL) said that this country was formed on Christian beliefs and if you want to be here you better tow the line. Um - hello - did you not immigrate here lady? Um yeah. That's what I thought.
I pointed out that we are not a country of majority rule but one that accepts the faith of many. But in her mind it is he who yells loudest and the Christians have a mighty bellow.
My brother in law said nothing. That's his thing.
But - I walked away from the conversation (metaphorically of course) - MIL and husband continued to agree with each other for HOURS!
The epiphany in this gem - stubborn people don't listen. Not one bit. Don't even try.
Before that though - there was dinner itself!
I've been a vegetarian for what - a heartbeat - 2 months of my 41 1/2 years....barely anytime at all. Definitely not long enough to have established my vegetarian "rules".
Basically, I am fuelled by the righteous indignation of other vegetarians. I haven't established my "horror" points. Until, that is, tonight. Tonight, I, the only vegetarian in the house, was forced against her will to carve not only the turkey but the ham as well. UGH.
I know that I'm good at shit like that. I'm a fat girl who watches the food network. I can carve a turkey like a professional chef. But, just because you're good at something doesn't mean you have to do it.
I tried protesting. And again, this entered me into the great - "why are you a vegetarian anyway" debate.
I just am, I said. I just am.
Why is that never enough?
My husband says - "I am the one who suggested we eat less meat" "I am the one who said we should cut down on beef" "I don't understand why you think this is important NOW - all of the sudden" "I think its silly to have so many rules"
My MIL says "Are you doing this to lose weight - because it won't do you any favours" No. "But you still eat butter right?" No. "But eggs - right?" No. "Well you love ham - why not just try the ham?" No thanks.
And then both chime in on a lecture on MODERATION.
Why can't you just eat meat in moderation? Why can't you just try to cut back? If you just had a little of everything......?
I JUST DON'T EAT MEAT ANYMORE - THAT MEANS CHICKEN AND TURKEY AND HAM TOO AND NO I DON'T EAT EGGS AND I CAN'T THINK OF THE LAST TIME I HAD MILK AND OH MY GOD I DON'T EVEN WANT TO EAT CHEESE NOW - I JUST DON'T. NO I DON'T. PLEASE STOP TALKING TO ME ABOUT IT.
The Epiphany in this you ask?
My food. My business.
I will go to your house and eat what I want from what you serve. If there is nothing I can eat - I will eat nothing. End of.
This is not up for debate.
This is just how it is.
So what have we learned here today people on day that Santa throws Jesus a birthday party? We learned that people are who they are - can't change it - don't even try. That's the best way to keep that silent night silent and that holy night full of holes.
HO HO HO

Ho Ho Holy Crap

I am a good gift giver. Yep. Thoughtful and generous I always strive to get JUST the right thing.
Well, I try anyway. Lets see....
This year, I gave the mother in law slippers and gloves and a cookbook. Thoughtful? Sure it is because usually she complains that we all spend too much - this year - I obviously didn't! The slippers are the ugly ones she favours - and the gloves are old lady servicable isotoners - just the way god intended. As for the cook book? Well, if I didn't give her something to complain about she'd be disappointed - wouldn't she?
I gave the sitter a gift certificate for the only restaurant in town that doesn't make her "violently ill" or that she hasn't gotten food poisoning from. It was hard to find one but I, being a generous and thoughtful gift giver, did just that!
Other friends I will give their gifts in person. I will go to their house and I will let them belittle my house (they used to live next door). Then I will appropriately oooh and ahhhh when they show me all their new things. I will marvel at their giant tv. I will even say, just to be extra nice, "I wish I had one of those".
I will ignore the fact that their 17 year old is so stoned he can't speak properly. I will pretend that I've forgotten that their 14 year old daughter tried to commit suicide last month. And I'll even bring a pie.
The gift I give to them is that of feeling superior. It seems to make them REALLY happy. So, thoughtful and generous gift giver that I am - I will give that feeling to them freely and without asking for anything in return.
I don't normally give Christmas gifts to my friends. There are some exceptions but really - I just don't. I'm also bad with birthdays.
I tend to give gifts whenever I find them. Again - that's the thoughtful part.
So, having said that, if you are one of my friends and are waiting for me to give you a gift card from HMV - its unfortunate but you may be waiting for a terribly long time. Sorry.
To counteract this - I apparently am a very difficult person to buy for. Which I find just horrifying.
My Mother first told me this when I was a CHILD. What kid likes to be handed a wad of cash and told that they don't receive gifts well? Its disturbing.
My husband can't buy gifts - so he always asks me what I want. This has robbed me of my will to want stuff. I have learned just to be happy with what I get. Even the year that I ended up with slippers and a crock pot didn't suck that bad. Okay well it did. It really did.
Gifts are funny though - aren't they? - I think its all about the balance of power. The giver begs for approval - "oh I've tried so very hard to please you" and the getter gives or removes approval at will. Power struggles.
What does Shakespeare say?

for there is nothing either good or
bad, but thinking makes it so

Maybe I should just stop thinking so hard.
Generous and thoughtful my ass.

Crossing Over

As Christmas celebrations begin in earnest, I find myself sitting in the next room from my 9 year old son. He has sent himself to his room for what amounts to no reason at all and is reading and listening to music. Alone. Without the tv on. Or a video game attached to him.
This would not be remarkable in and of itself except that it is the very first time ever that this has happened.
I'm proud of him really!
Yay for having the wherewithal to entertain yourself when those around you have failed to entertain you.
Yay for not just sitting in front of the tv mindlessly which is what the rest of the family is doing.
Yay for being yourself.
Yay for escaping something that is bugging you and using music as your escape hatch.
But, this being Christmas time, I am reminded of holidays past and on how many occasions I escaped to the sanctity of my room.
Ah.
My room.
When I was a kid we had a house on the street where my cousins also lived. Which was good because our house was always full of family - but bad because our house was always full of someone.
I had a cool bedroom. TWO closets! But TINY. I wanted more space. So, I asked my younger brother with the bigger room that had NO closet to switch with me. Amazingly (and to this day I don't know why) he agreed. So, we switched rooms.
It was an older house and my new room had floral wallpaper - ugh - so I asked my parents to paint it before I moved in - which they did. Eventually.
This was in the summer before I started grade 10.
But it took them from the summer through to February to do it! Granted, there was about a dozen layers of ugly wallpaper and the walls were in rough shape - but I was homeless for months...or was I?
As a teenager I had the ultimate escape room. I had the family trailer - parked in the drive way of our house - that was my room for almost 6 months!
It was so cool - almost like having my own apartment. But without food or running water or a toilet.

In the winter I had a space heater on a timer and my dad would only allow me in my "room" when the heater was on (after 9) and it was cold as hell. But it was cool.
Now, if I'd had cool friends with booze and pot who wanted to come over and sneak in and have sex, I would have some kick ass stories to tell you wouldn't I? But I didn't.
I never had one - no not one - friend over to my bachelorette pad.
I never snuck anything illicit in or out of the trailer.
It didn't have a phone.
Or cable.
I had my 12" black and white tv with a metal coat hanger as an antennae and my turntable. They sat on the fold down kitchen table at the front.
I used to play Duran Duran's Rio over and over and over those six months. Sure, I know all the words to all of the songs now, but for the life of me, I can't think of why I liked it. I prefer to think at this point that it was peer pressure!
I liked Rio because a boy gave it to me. And I liked the boy. Boys give me a lot of my music in my life.
The only one that I truly compromised my principles for was the boy that was totally into Springsteen. God love him (and I was all kinds of fucked up over him) he was not very attractive, not particularly nice, not terribly bright, drove an awful car and had hideous taste in music. I don't even think he liked ME which is usually enough to sway me. But, I'm getting off track here...
So, there I am, in my 6 month trailer secondment. Sleeping cold. And I loved it. Because, like Ben, I could hide away. I could turn on music and escape into my head. I could read and be a million miles away. I didn't hate my life like a normal teenager - but, I needed to know that there were other lives out there for me. In my room is where I figured that out.
Sometimes you just need to be quiet to hear what you're telling yourself.
Good for him for figuring that out.

Really Now

Stop making ambiguous comments.
They are getting on my nerves.
Why won't you just come right out and say what the fuck you mean?
If you aren't careful - I'm just going to ask you what the hell it is that you mean.
Are you surprised by my boldness?
You can't deny that you're wasting my time.
I think that your inability to articulate what you really think is a sure sign that you aren't worth my patience or the time that I'm spending with you.
I need to move on - away from YOU and sooner rather than later.
Gr.
Of course I'm angry with you.
How can you even think that I wouldn't be?
You are the most self obsessed ego maniacal pain in the ass I have ever met.
You must be living right up the crack of your own ass not to notice what's going on with me.
Me.
Yes me.
When was the last time you paid attention to anyone but you?
Its about your fun. Your unhappiness. Your joy. Your family. Your friends. Your life. Your cock. Your tits. Your ass. Your problems.
You must stop thinking that everything is about you.
You probably think that THIS is about you - don't you?
My blog. My story. Not that you even give a flaming fuck enough to even read it.

Life skills

I am amazed at my natural ability to take any situation and use it to make myself feel like a hunk of shit. Piece of dirt. Loser. Nothing. Idiot. Pig. Moron.
I can take any innocent perfectly normal conversation and find offense.
I can take a complement and see the evil in it.
I can hear a question and twist it into an order.
I can take a statment and make it into an insult.
I'm not sure how I developed this amazing ability. I don't know what twisted warped thing happened to me, no doubt in my childhood, to make me feel this way. I don't even know that I want to know in case it makes me even more insanely sensitive.
The other day I drove through the Taco Bell drive thru, as obsessive compulsive eaters often do by the way, and the nice lady at the drive thru said "you look nice today". I took this as a sign that I go to Taco Bell too much and haven't been back. She was likely just being nice. But I can't deal with that. And her kind words cost her a customer.
Once when my husband and I were fighting he said something about the kids not taking a bath everyday. And I screamed "so now I'm a bad mother?" I knew that wasn't what he said - but it was what I heard.
I always purport to not be one of those fat chicks that has low self esteem. And if you know me well enough to know my secrets you know that I have a manic depressive state of self esteem. High when I need it and running on empty most other days. Its insane really.
Is it that constant waiver between feast or famine of I'm fantastic and I suck that sends me into tailspins when someone says something totally innocent to me? I don't know.
Just yesterday my sweet Auntie Lois told me that the family is proud of me. Proud. Of me. Because I have done so well for myself in spite of the fact that I have no one.
I was a fucking basket case afterwards. I cried - I think I had a panic attack. Is that where you can't breathe and feel like your heart is going to explode out of your chest? Yes? Then that's what I had. It was scary sobbing heaving crying. UGH.
I know what she said was nice.
And I also know that she's wrong. I don't have "no one". I have family and friends. I have people who like me and people who love me. I am well respected in my profession and hopefully give a lot of myself to people who need it. But at that moment - when I processed it - in my head - I had no one. I was totally alone in the world.
On my own.
By myself.
Why can't I see through the crap and take things as they are intended?
Why does it take me 24 hours to sort my shit out? Why, even now, is it making me cry?
Self aware.
I like to think so.
I know what I like and what I don't.
I love honestly and openly and say virtually all of what is on my mind.
I am not afraid to tell people what I think.
But I have regret and sadness and unfulfilled potential and fear. Why can't I just ask them to leave?
To tell you the honest truth - the reason this is so easy to write is because I don't want to talk about it. I don't want anyone to try to help me work this through and get over it. Its mine. I own it. I can fix it or not fix it as I like.
Should I? FUCK. Yes I should its making me crazy.
Will I? I really don't know. I hope so.
Until then, I would suggest keeping your complements to yourself!

Old Blog - New Home

I wrote this blog a year ago today and thought I'd share it with a new perspective.

Aint it good to have friends?
Current mood: nervous
Category: Life

Once I went to a party and buzzed the apartment buzzer - and a guy answered the buzzer. Gawd he was funny. So funny. I ran up the stairs to the apartment to see who it was and I haven't left his side since.
Its rare to find someone who you love who loves you back. Sure he's gay but frankly, who these days isn't?
My best friend tells me when I look like crap and when I'm being a bitch. Honest without hurting me. He also loves me unconditionally and always takes my side as any best friend should. He was my best man of honour or whatever we called it. They say if you leave your best friend behind at the alter you married the wrong person - I'm not sure that's true - cause this way Rick and I never argue about money or sex.
Rick will be my kids guardian should my husband and I ever be killed in a horrible accident. Cheery thought eh? But seriously - I hope my kids learn from him how to live a life without compromise. Do what makes you happy - always follow your heart - take joy where you find it.
Everyone should seriously be so lucky as to have a friend like mine.

I even remember where my head was the day I wrote this - a year ago. I wrote it because I felt alone. Like I had one friend in the whole world who loved me and cared about me. I felt rudderless except for my one person pulling me home and reminding me of who I actually am and where I was supposed to be.

I was afraid to make new friends and meet new people. I didn't think they would like me - I wouldn't fit in. I was so comforted and comfortable with who I knew liked me that I just didn't think I could cope with new folks.

Last year, I won the lottery, of a fashion. I brushed mortality as we walked in opposite directions down a narrow hallway. We, as Canadians, apologized as Canadians so often do. And we went our separate ways.

I collected a few things on that walk. Some healthier self esteem. And a mother load of new friends.

Now some people don't believe that friends you have only on line have the same value as "real" friends. And I disagree. I have a healthy mix of both - some crossovers and its worked very well.

As a matter of fact, I had lunch with a bunch of people I used to work with the other day. And while I wouldn't have ever called them friends a year ago in my semi-self indulgent ruderlessness, I don't know what I would do without them now. They love me for "the loser that wears flip flops with a suit if I can get away with it" that I am. And not a lot of people will accept shit like THAT! Then they tell me that I'm dead inside and we all hug.

These are friendships totally out of my comfort zone and character. But if you don't stretch - you don't grow.

I grew around the world this year. Virtual strangers helped me cope with my life as best as virtual strangers can.

I have a hard time getting to know people. I really do. No. Seriously. It is hard for me to just be myself. This year I forced it. I joined the PTA. I met Moms and Dads and didn't act like someone else. I just was myself. And I think they liked me. I made friends and I was proud of myself for - again - pushing out of my comfort zone - I am part of a group. Not the leader - not the boss - just part.

From rudderless loser with one friend to joiner - group member - cyber friend. And I lost nothing. What was I afraid of? Whatever it was - lets hope it passed. The blog still holds true - he is an amazing friend - my best friend - and I never would have busted out without him.

a kiss is just a kiss

I've been a friend to the gay man for a very long time. Its something that I've done for so long I doubt I'd know at this point in my life how NOT to be one. Being a FAG HAG is a badge of honour, a walk of shame, something I pride myself on and the bain of my existance.

I have acted as the reserve prom, wedding or family party guest for all of my homo friends at one time or another. If my straightening services are required I shall be there for you. If you need someone to go with you to buy you a suit, I will be there (especially YOU - and you know who you are!). If you require a date for the company Christmas party who won't spill your beans, its me. I've done it forever. I will keep your secrets if secrets need to be kept.

And in return what do I get as your hag (a term which most, including me find offensive)? I get the attention. I get the affection. I get to be the only girl in a gaggle of boys and sure - they don't want to fuck me but they want to BE with me - and in most cases, that's enough.

I get love-a-plenty and shopping advice. Someone will watch chick flicks with me.

Someone will tell me I'm pretty and smart - cause they believe it - not because they want to get some.

And yes, it is good for my self esteem - usually.

But there are those times - when your faggots drop you for an anonymous cock (or 4) in the alley or a boy with a promise of forever - and its destructive and it hurts like someone ripped your heart out through your nose with a spoon.

Sometimes the hags fall for their gays - cause like I say - fag hags are attracted to boys - sometimes our hearts get confused and hurt.

Its best, when your gays kiss you, to hold your breath and think of England. Do some complicated long division in your head. Don't - whatever you do - DO NOT let yourself buy into the kiss. No matter how long it lasts. No matter if there is tongue or not (cause sometimes these things slip in by accident). No matter if he makes your insides all gooey like jello. No matter how hard he holds it - or you do. No matter WHAT - don't let yourself enjoy it!

How many girls have said after that one stupid drunken or stoned kiss goodnight, "I really felt something - maybe....". Maybe will kill you.

Sure they look great. They feel great. They love you or at least like you a lot. They smell (usually) like you could eat them up - but its all a trick.

Not by the gay. He's totally innocent in this. He knows not what he does.

Its a trick that you are playing on yourself. Wishful thinking is a cruel mistress.

The other night - I was out - had a few drinks and met a few new people. I met a new cute boy - yum - who looked fantastic and smelled like heaven. When we left, I kissed him goodbye. It was a good one. Firm and soft and just a bit of tongue. One of those kisses that could go for hours if you left your head. But even drunk on double Gin and tonics and a promise, I stopped short. I pulled away before I let myself go. Smart girl.

Except later that day I found out he wasn't gay. He wasn't gay. Not gay. What the flaming fuck?

I have to stop assuming that everyone I meed is gay. It robbed me of good kisses. It robs me of adventure. It makes me a GIANT fag hag - and that is not always a good thing.

Sometimes a kiss is just a fucking hot wet warm really good kiss.

Fag Hag. My definition: A girl, usually a fat girl, who for one reason or another endears herself to one or more gays. Over time, the number of gays she gathers may expand and contract - usually though - there will be a primary gay. The role of the hag is to support, stroke egos, act as confident and overall BFF - to tag along, to follow and to become part of the entourage.
Out of her gay environment, the fag hag may appear just as a normal girl. Sometimes fag hags can marry and procreate although this is rare as the only men she usually meets are gay. She may be sad -deep down inside and full of wasted potential.

Image courtesy of damnstraight.oversampled.net

Where have you gone?

I am somebody's Mom.
Of course I am.
And normally, I'm quite good at it.
I know the right vitamins to feed them.
We have food charts with all 38 of the required food groups.
We use tupperware that is all recyclable for the perfect boomerang lunch.
We have chore charts and allowances.
I belong to the PTA.
We have activities and play dates.
We have a limit on computer time and age appropriate video games.
We have healthy snacks.
We check homework.
We have an "asthma plan".
We wear clean pjs every day.
I try so very hard.

But the kids are whiney. Super whiney.
I don't know how to fix it. I just don't know how.
Is the answer herbs?
Behaviour modification?
Councelling?
Change in diet?

I just don't know. What is the secret?
Do I need to read that Doctor Phil book? Could Dr. P help?
Don't tell me I have to call Super Nanny??!?!

My cousin Amy, who is 30 something now, was the whiniest child in the history of the world. She sucked her thumb until she was almost 12. She pouted for ever. She just breathed complaints. Until she hit her teens. She was the most agreeable person ever come age 16. Now, Amy has 2 kids of her own. She is one of my favourite people in the world.

So, Amy gives me hope. Hope that this is a phase that they will grow out of. I'm sure it is but, frankly, how do we all make it through ALIVE?

I see so many of my friends make bad horrible mistakes with their kids.

I see their kids go off the rails. Get in trouble with drugs and the law. Get kicked out of school or drop out of school. These people thought that they were good parents too.

I can't rely on the hope that my children are anti-social nerds to be the plan for the future.

There is nothing worse than seeing your child hurt. The boo boos hurt physical or mental or social. I can't even seem to handle my own social interactions and friendships let alone those of my kids.

I can't protect them.

I remember when Ben was 3. The little girl next door, Jodi, was 4. He always wanted to play with Jodi and be with Jodi. And Jodi held ALL the cards all the time. One day in particular, Ben asked Jodi if he could come and play and she SHUT HIM DOWN. NO. And Ben started to cry....Jodi won't let me play....and I tried to soothe him - its okay - another day - you'll be okay. Ben screamed "but I LOVE her!" In a voice that made me believe that he really truly did love her. And although his heart seemed broken, I can't tell you how it gutted me. His first rejection - his first unrequited love - and he was 3.

How do you mend a broken heart? Hell if I know.

Humbug Ho Hum

I don't HATE Christmas. The holiday itself doesn't offend me - but, quite seriously, there are so many things about the season that bug the shit out of me, it would almost seem that I do.
Today we went to the Santa Claus Parade in Toronto. I LOVE the Santa Claus Parade. When I was a kid, I watched it on tv. When I lived in Toronto to go to University, I went alone. When I lived in Toronto and had friends, I dragged them along. I even forced my parents to come and bring my cousins when I live right at Christie Pits. I love that parade.
I love that they use the same costumes and floats year after year after year. In person the colours are super human - super flourescent. If you watch on tv, it looks normal - but really, its not.
Pink pinker than pink.
And rightly so.
And who doesn't love the upside down clowns? In fact, this is the FIRST year that Ben noticed that the upside down clowns have eyeholes in their asses. At 9, its starting to lose its magic for him. I swear to you, it will come back!
The Christmas that I don't HATE didn't begin with the parade though. It began yesterday at Loblaws where I fought to get the last two carts available in the store apart for me and some old Papi. They were fused. I had to wait for some poor sap to unload his groceries into his car before I could get a cart. WTF? It is NOVEMBER?
Walmart was a zoo yesterday. People had carts full to overflowing with crap. Toys toys toys.
The kids have started their Christmas Whine. Gimme gimme gimme. And we encourage this by having them write letters to Santa asking for STUFF. Everyone at school, on tv, who calls wants to know what STUFF they want. Always. Gimme gimme gimme....
Bah Humbug!
Because we are SEASONED Parade go-ers, we knew to park and take TTC to the parade. BUT we had to walk through the mall to get to and from the car. The mall was INSANELY busy. We were all starving - and I wouldn't stop at the food court. Too many people too many lines too many too many too many.
I couldn't take my hands off of Sammy - paranoid as I was that I would lose him. In the subway, Sammy, who's had I did have, and I got on to the car. Wayne and Ben did not. We had to wait for them at Kennedy. Sammy sobbed uncontrollably on the super jammed subway car "we lost Ben and Daddy" the whole way there. I'm sure that made everyone else's trip as enjoyable as mine.
And don't even get me STARTED on the radio station that plays only Christmas music from November 1 to January! What the hell? Its like nails being driven not only into my ears but my psyche....I hate is so very very much. Mariah Carey has no place in a civilized society. Even worse - today I heard Rod Steward and Dolly Parton murder "Baby its cold outside". Make it stop.
But, Wayne loves this station. As soon as he gets in the car, on it comes. If I even try to change it he says "Why do you hate Christmas"?
I DON'T!
Wayne wants to buy a set of deer made out of lights for our front yard. This would be in addition to our two 3 foot high candles that say "NOEL", lit bushes, garland and bows and light up candy cane walkway. As I SCREECH "no way!" He says again, "Why do you HATE the holidays?"
I swear to you I don't!
Last year I had 6 parties in 7 days between Christmas and New Years. I was scheduled within an inch of my life. This year, only 5. Much better.
If I don't bake cookies, I stand the chance of being harrassed by both my mother in law and Wayne. Last year, I made 12 different kinds and made gift boxes of cookies for neighbours and friends. Do you think that any of them guess that they are cookies motivated not by love and good wishes but by guilt and intimidation?
My Mother was the Queen of Christmas. This year, I promise you all, I will NOT try to compete with her. I will NOT let Alan Jackson's version of "all I want for Christmas is my 2 front teeth" drive me to a homicidal rage. I will not pressure myself into making fudge. I will not buy my kids way too much out of a combination fo guilt and confusion. I will relax.
Breathe. Just Breathe.
I do not hate Christmas.

labels

I think it may indeed be unfortunate that my favourite thing about my new job is the Brother P-touch electronic label maker. It has 8 different fonts. I love labelling things. Files - that's a no brainer. My calculator. I wish I could stick labels on all my stuff. I have a lot of stuff at the new job
I am also enjoying the industrial strength shredder.
So far I'm only taking joy from the office equipment because I don't really know what the fuck I'm doing. When I know - you'll know.

Program Manager

As everyone in the free world knows, Monday I start my new job. New company. New culture. New responsibilities. Things are changing - not just for me but for my whole family.
So what is the job? Well, I'm going to be the program manager for the Scarborough Specialized Job Search Program. Its provided by my employer - and funded through the government of Canada. We will work with people who are either new to Canada or who have literacy issues. Its a 4 week intensive job search course. Or so they tell me. I don't really know anything for sure - seeing as I don't start until Monday.
Scarborough is on the outskirts of Toronto for those of you not in the know. The area I'm working in is stuffed to capacity with immigrant families. Its not the safest neighbourhood after dark - mental note to self - and is colourful and super populated. I can't wait!
It really is a tremendous opportunity, I think, to do some really good feel good give yourself a big hug kind of work for my fellow man/woman. Its also a HUGE challenge and I can only image what kinds of barriers we will come up against.
Its also the first time I've managed an office or other people in about 4 years. Which is kind of scary. Not that I'm worried - cause you all know how I LOVE to be in charge - but its still a challenge to be new to a company and new to an office and come in and just TAKE OVER.
A stupid yet HUGE challenge for me is the business formal dress code. I have fatted myself out of even my fattest of fat pants. This is not good. Everything I wear has to have a blazer with it - so I suppose I can cover up a multitude of flab with a jacket.
My husband wanted me to buy a girdle - ostensibly to "rein it all in". Screw that - I'm just going to let it all hang out - FIGURATIVELY of course. I am sure that pantyhose will be discomfort enough for all concerned!
And, Yes. I like to be in charge. I start this routine off by being physcially intimidating. I'm already pretty huge and 5'10" but I like to wear high high heels and tower over everyone - it makes people think you are the boss. Biggest person = highest rank: Amazonian Rules.
I will also keep to myself. Because as much as I like people to like me - hey, these people are strangers and I won't know who to trust for a while. Its that "I'm not here to make friends" mentality.
Dan suggested that I could be whomever I want to be in this new and strange place. Speak with an accent or create a whole life or background for myself from fiction - not from fact. And I guess, in a sense, I'm planning on doing just that. I will be aloof and focused. And for anyone that knows me - that's not who I am at all. Okay, maybe a little.
Routines change for the kids - the school - the sitter. We all get up HOURS earlier then we are currently. We have to have cook ahead - preprepared super mom meals. The kids need to get to bed earlier and SO DO I. So, if you are expecting to talk to me on MSN at 3am - lets hope I have to let you down. I don't want to insomniac my way through this job on diet pepsi and red bull.
So - wish me luck. Of course, I'll tell you all about it! I hope there isn't a Smallville fan there that makes me watch it everyday at lunch...or someone who refuses to wear shoes....or someone who shows her boobs to people at her desk...I've already done that!

Going down with the ship

The other night I fell asleep in the bath tub - no big deal really - I've been falling asleep in the bathtub for years. But it occurred to me after this nap, that its not a particularly safe thing to do.
I can remember back in the early 1980s when I had my first job at A&W there were two shifts you could work: 9am to 6pm or 6pm until 3am. The best weekends were when you had Friday closing, Saturday closing and Sunday day shift! Tonnes of hours and a full day's sleep on Saturday. And hey, I was working at A&W so it wasn't like I had a social life to worry about.
After these shifts I came home coated in the horrific stench of fried meat and bacon. Sometimes in a shift I had fried 10 pounds of bacon...it does wonders for your skin!
Anyway, on a closing shift, I would come home to a sleeping house. I didn't usually want to watch TV or talk to anyone - but I was usually too keyed up to sleep. I would take a bath. In the middle of the night, in total silence, I would take a bath.
I would go over the evening in my head. Replaying the conversations I'd had with the super nerdy greasy A&W dudes that I totally adored I would think of all the things I should have said but didn't. I would devise all sorts of plans to become my most beautiful me and woo the boys so everyone would love me for me - and not just because of the faint smell of maple bacon I always had.
I would float in the semi darkness of the bath tub - scented with my mother's bath beads - green and red and full of smelly oil. And in the total silence - tired from prepping burgers and making coney fries I would fall into a deep sleep.
And what woke me up? Often it was when the water turned cold - I'd have been asleep for hours - and I'd start shivering in the water - and it would wake me up.
Other times, I would wake up when my ears hit the water. The only sound I could hear was splashing - in my ears - and this was enough to wake me up.
As time went on and I moved from my parent's house to apartment after apartment, I always had a great bath tub for my night time baths.
One of the best bath tubs was in my apartment in London. Sure, the apartment had some problems in that my upstairs neighbour was a prostitute that worked from home and my back door neighbour was a recently released convicted murderer, but the bathroom rocked. It was in the basement - a seriously scary late night stumble down some seriously scary stairs. You couldn't stand totally upright in the bathroom but, what did I care, I sat down to pee. And it was a gorgeous old claw foot tub. Amazing for bathing - and once I caulked up the drainage valves, amazing for sleeping.
The only other claw foot tub I had was in the apartment on Maitland - that was 100+ years old. It was a great apartment until the roof over the tub collapsed because our upstairs neighbour, Bongo Jesus, had a problem shutting off this taps.
When we bought this place I wanted the super sunken tub - not whirlpool. Whirlpools make noise and are very distracting for sleep. Again, once I caulked up the drainage valves on the tub, I was in business. A dose of bath salts - a bath bomb or some bubbles and I can sleep like a baby....
But now, in addition to waking up when my ears hit the water or when the water goes cold, I also wake myself up snoring....you know you're getting old when.... But a nice hot - blazing hot scented bath - that is the way to sleep.
I'm sure one day, the bath will be my undoing - I will fail to wake up - I will go under and not come up. If that's true - I want that in my obituary....she went down with the ship!

on death and dying....

I have a confession to make today. Nothing earth shattering I'm afraid. Nor is it a deep seated confession of sexual perversion.....nor that I am really a man...nothing as cool as that.
I read the obituaries in the newspaper - every day. Sometimes I even read them on line. I have a consumptive interest in the death and life stories of other people. I figure if they took the time and trouble to live their life, the least I can do is read about it.
I started reading them back home - in Stratford - where the entire daily newspaper is less than 20 pages long most days. Usually there are half a dozen dead people - some days more or less. And, best of all, sometimes they run the obit for multiple days.
Sure, the obituary gives you all the facts - where they lived, how old they were when they died and where and when the funeral crap will be. It even tells you where you can make donations in memory of the deceased - which can sometimes give you an idea of what killed them. B
But to me, the important bit is the listing of family. Married to, predeceased by, meeting his parents in the great beyond...that's the information that lets you piece together the important bits of someone's life. That's what tells you what makes the man.
Its in the family list that you can find out all of the bits and pieces of a person's history that they may leave out if they were to tell you themselves. Like the child that they had that died at birth and the brothers and sisters they are estranged from - even the divorces and remarriages. If you were to have met the person while they lived it is likely they would never have told you so much about themselves - all the juicy bits and pieces.
If you are very very very lucky, you find obituaries in the newspaper that tell you about how that person lived. What they did for a living, where they worked, what their hobbies were, charities they worked with and things and people that were important to them. That is like discovering a gorgeous novel!
Always, the gold star for obits is a photo. An old photo is the pinnacle of newspaper obituaries. Not only do you create a history for the person - you can picture the actual person as well. Excellent.
Okay, well not really excellent - cause the person is still dead. My husband thinks its sick that I read them. But, hello, what the hell are they in the paper for?
I want people to read mine. I'm asking you right now, one of you write me a fantastic obituary (preferably AFTER I die) and the rest of you read it. Someone find a picture that doesn't make me look fat. Photoshop it if you have to.
Lisa recently wrote a blog asking how she would be remembered after she died (my suggestions are in the comments) and hypothesized that maybe it doesn't really matter how we are remembered after we die - cause, you know, we're dead. But, it matters to me to remember people.
Today in my troll through the star obits (2 full pages and lots of photos - yay!) I found someone I used to know. Someone I used to work with who beat me out for a Supervisory position once that I really really wanted. She got the job. She also got cancer, suffered for 10 years, and left a husband and child behind and died at 54. Given the choice, I'd rather be unemployed.
I called Wayne to tell him - Jennifer died - and he already knew. Oh no, he said, you're reading the obituaries again. I am. And I'm remembering Jennifer and thanking my lucky stars just to be here.

The Part

I went to a party last night. A party that sucked ass. Hard. And not in a good way. In a very bad very bad way. And I was bored and not amused. Wayne said I was objectionably bored.

I drove around today early waiting for the stores to open when they weren't. I bought meat and felt bad about myself for no reason. Letting down no one. Unfulfilling no promises I had made or not made.

I listened to the radio. I sang along and no one could hear me - or at least I hope they couldn't.

I yelled at my kid today. I said - stop crying or I'll smack you. Cause that makes it all better. And although I knew what I said was wrong, I didn't know what was right to say. It will only get worse - not better. I only make it worse.

I wanted to call you today - yes, you. But I couldn't because of your stupid rules. But more than wanting to call you, I wanted you - yes, you to want to call me. I don't suppose that ever happens, does it?

I imagined my life changing today. Squinting my eyes and praying to be able to visualize a new life a new place and new head and all I got was a headache.

I saw you on MSN today - yes, you - and I wanted to talk - but I didn't. I don't want to be the one to say hey first anymore. I want you to buzz me and then I want the right to be a bitch and ignore you - yes, you. I was hurt for no reason and alone for even less of one.

I felt bad saying that said I love you today - yes, you - and I'm not sure I do. I'm not sure I ever did. I'm not sure I want to.

I emailed you today - yes, you - and deleted it before hitting send. It was too easy. I didn't want to give you an out - give you an in - make it easy. You work this time - not me.

I took a shower today - and in it I had an imaginary conversation with you - yes, you. And you said - of course I miss you - of course we should spend more time together - of course I'm sorry - and I didn't believe you even in an imaginary conversation.

I felt bad today for what I wrote about you - yes, you again - all the mean things I said about you and how I hate you hate you hate you hate you. And although, they are true, every last word, I still feel bad.

I found spots on my leg today and wondered if it was a monster come back to haunt me and eat me from the inside. I showed my husband who said - are you just LOOKING for something to be wrong? And I guess that I am.

I cried a little today. Setting up the computer and I couldn't figure it out and I couldn't make it work. I felt old and useless and stupid and today that was enough to make me cry.

I hid today. From my family in rooms where they weren't. In the car. Just sitting and staring and singing to the radio so I wouldn't have to talk to people and yes, you. I shut myself off here in a blog that spits into the wind.

Puppy Love

I spent part of today bonding with the dog. Cause that's what everybody needs to spend a day doing every once in a while. Getting some love.
This morning when the wind was howling in the open window that I was too cold to get up and close, the dog crawled UNDER the comforter with me. I could hear her saying "although I am covered in fuzz (she doesn't really think of herself as particularly furry), it is considerably colder than it was the other day when the house smelled of meat. I feel the need to warm myself under the thing - I enjoy the thing as we are a similar colour. I understand that as a dog I am colour-blind and shouldn't know this." Then she snuggled up to me and slept until the alarm went off.
Later in the day, as I was making the same bed with the flannel sheets (Good Lord I love the cold!) we played an interesting game of "you can't see me" while she tried to pretend she was invisible and hide under the sheets as I made the bed. Always fun.
In the afternoon, while I was on line in the office, she layed right in the doorway - I assume she does this to protect me, should the cat decide to come in the area and attempt to give me love. Hershey's presence will prevent this. Hershey knows that the cat sleeps all day under my bed - right where she wants her.
When I'm not home, the dog stays in her crate in the living room. Usually I leave either the tv or the radio on for her - don't tell anyone - it seems weird.
It is in those times that I imagine the cat asserts her dominance over the dog. She does this by walking - back and forth - back and forth - in front of the crate the whole time we are gone. In her best prissy kitty voice she says to Hershey "you're in a cage - well, it looks like a cage....I get to walk anywhere I want - anytime I want. Do you know why? Cause they trust me. Its a matter of respect. The humans respect me. Do you know why? Cause I don't eat my own poop. Yep. Do you know why? Cause that's disgusting. You are a disgusting animal in a cage...." and she says this over and over again while Hershey silently weeps "I am not...I am not..."
Hershey only wants to love the cat. Its all she's ever wanted to do. She enivisions them running together in the field near the house - "here Pumpkin - come play with my frisbee!" and Pumpkin rolls up her nose and says "I despise you poop eater>>>harumph".
We drove Ben to karate tonight and Hershey rode in the passenger seat - where she feels she rightfully belongs. She sits primly and watches the cars out the front window. She's not the kind of stick your head out the window to feel nature kind of dog. She's a people watcher dog.
Not that she doesn't have a lot of dog friends. She has Pepper the little poodle we play ball with at the park. The black and white border collie who isn't really a friend but gets her all excited and agitated when he comes around. And the daschund and his brother the cockapoo (they have two daddies) and the little ball of fluff down the street named Charlie, the Rottweiller named Princess and the old Beagle from the park. Lots of doggie friends.
One of my favourite things she does is groom the children! After they get out of the tub or the shower, Hershey tries and tries to lick them dry - tries to comb their hair by licking it - it hard not to let her - she thinks they are her babies...but hey, she eats some gross stuff....
Now as I sit here, Hershey is back at her post, in front of the door. When I stop typing she turns around to look at me to check that I'm okay. I assume if I turn to her she'd come lick me. Just to see if I taste okay. So here's to Hershey. Cause everyonce in a while everyone needs some love from the dog.

Thanksgiving List

Every thanksgiving I think I should have a list of all the things that I am thankful for. I think that it comes from an old episode of some tv show - I want it to be the Brady Bunch, but, I don't think that it was. In this tv show, the family would sit around the table, hold hands and each one would say a little speech about what they were thankful for.
I am more of a list maker than a speech giver. Okay, well, that's strictly not true in that I'm both a list maker and a speech giver. But my obsessive compulsive listmaking is legendary. I rock the comprehensive multi-tasking list like only a woman can.
So, instead of my thanksgiving speech I give you my thanksgiving list 2007 in NO PARTICULAR ORDER:
I am thankful each day that my kids aren't hooligans or wierdos. I am thankful that they think burping and farting is hysterical and that they love cartoons, don't do crack and aren't giving or getting blow jobs behind the school. I think that its so wonderful that they are so incredibly normal.
I am thankful that my friends listen to me when all I have to say is something about nothing. Its a generous thing to do.
I am thankful that people don't think I'm as annoying as I think I am.
I am eternally thankful that I remember little stupid things about the past that I should likely have long forgotten. Like bendy-straws. I remember my grandfather saving up his bendy-straws when he was in the hospital when I was about 10 - and bringing them home to me because I loved them so. I was so excited to get a straw wrapped in paper. I'm thankful I can remember that.
I'm thankful to have my body. No matter how horribly ugly I often think it is. No matter how it betrays me by making my brain feel sick and my stomach turn. No matter how it takes normal things and makes them difficult. Its still all I've got. Perhaps if I was nicer to it and treated it better it would be better to me.
I'm thankful that I get to spill out all the thoughts that are in my head and very rarely does someone tell me how badly I suck.
I'm thankful that I have the time and abilty to think.
I'm thankful for silence. And music. And good movies.
I'm thankful that the dog just likes to sit with me. Sometimes she sits right up against me and just sighs. She loves me.

Its not a comprehensive list. But its a start. Because, quite frankly, if I look at the nowhere place that my life is right now, I just get too scared to be too thankful for too many things in case someone says I have more than my share and takes anything away.

The Book

I've bought myself a journal. A paper one. To write stuff down.
Lately, I've found myself writing on the backs of envelopes I've got in my purse or bits of paper headed to recycling. Not prolific introductions for the GREAT CANADIAN NOVEL - but just thoughts and stuff and observations.
I know I have TWO blogs. One here - and one on myspace. And, I could most likely write stuff on facebook if I was so inclined. I also have a couple of friends through which email has become a wonderful exchange of ideas. But I have this obsessive need to write what no one can see but me.
And - to write it with a pen!
I medium blue ballpoint pen. Not a clicky pen, because I play with those. Not a fine pen because I tend to press too hard and wreck the paper. Just a plain old bic pen. On paper. And I will keep it to myself.
It feels like I'm doing something wrong in a "the kids are in bed lets have another gin and tonic" kind of way.
Do you keep a journal?
I wonder who does.
Did you keep one as a kid?
I always did. Up to my 20s really. Then I lost interest in recording what I felt as closely. I felt like I had to live life instead of write it down. I am the same way about pictures. Sometimes it feels more important to forget about making a photo essay about "family trip to the park" and just enjoy the park.
I have been writing a lot lately though. And I think I'm feeling a lot more confident with my stuff. I have a few great friends who helped me out a lot - said nice things - and some not nice things - and pushed me in a direction or two that I want to go.
I'm going to start writing grant proposals for my kid's school - to beg for money for little things like library books and air conditioning. I figure if all it does is improve my typing speed - I'm good. But its writing something.
But not on paper. Paper and pen I'm saving for myself.

The Actual Sound Track of the Movie of My Life

Dan's challenge to me from his comment on my last blog was this:

If you had to pick and compile the "Soundtrack to the Movie of your LIfe" album...and it COULD be a double...please specify the opening song and the closer-credits song.

I would start the Album out with "I think I love you" not the David Cassidy alone version - but the Partridge Family Version. Because so much of my early dealings with music came from tv - Donny & Marie, Captain & Tennille, Sonny & Cher - I would put in a nice 1970s sitcom theme song medley - there was rarely a time in our house when the tv was NOT on.

From there I would add in snippets from those K-tel albums - Brandy, you're a fine girl, When the lights all went out in Massachusetts...Maggie May - who doesn't love just a little Rod Stewart. And I have a love of Melissa Manchester and Barry Manilow that is both unexplainable and disturbing but must be acknowledged.

Next we would have the songs of high school - Rough Trade's High School Confidential, Romantic Traffic from the Spoons, Wham, Depeche Mode, Yaz, the Eurythmics and of course Duran Duran. And I'll always have a soft spot for Elton John's "I guess that's why they call it the blues" (particularly bad dumping by a boy who NEVER deserved me). I was never a metal fan - none of that crap. I used to say I didn't enjoy music that had guitars.

From the time when I started University we could add in Tears for Fears, Everybody wants to rule the world, Everything But the Girl and Small town boy - that was Bronski Beat - right? Intersperse some bits and pieces of British 80s invasion pop - Style Council, Housemartins, Boy George and Culture Club and Madness. Love, Love will tear us apart, again...

I developed a love of dancing and shook my groove thing to Divine - You think You're a Man - and Dead or Alive Spun me Right Round baby like a record baby right round round round. And I would have been a different person all together had Lisa and I not sung Janet Jackson's entire Control album into our curling irons - so we'll put on Control.

When I moved to Toronto I discovered the joy of live music and the soundtrack would contain live, in concert recordings from the long gone likes of the Razorbacks, the Skydiggers, the Waltons and the Lowest of the Low - Life's a bitch for the eternal fatalist....And since I saw Blue Rodeo in concert over 100 times (no - I am not kidding) I would have to add in a few of theirs: of course Try and maybe something from Tremolo.

Through my Blue Rodeo journey I discovered Barenaked Ladies - and I really do just love them - I'd be hard pressed to pick just a few songs - but I like their ballads - NOT the If I had a million dollars/chimpanzees stuff. Definitely "Any other guy", "in the car" and "half a heart"

From there I did a whole range of pop-y stuff from the Radio. I went through some angry sad girl rock - Allanis Morrisette screamed for me - and Jann Arden made me sad. I'd definitely have "Good Mother" on the soundtrack of my life.

One thing that is not ever no never on my CD is Jazz....I hate jazz in all its many forms - no jazz....never.

In the last couple of years I'd add quite a few things to the end of the CD (wow its a huge CD!):

• Cold Play - Fix You (because its a song about good friends and people who love you)
• Cry me a River - the Cliks (cause boys sometimes suck ass and that's good to remember)
• Calendar Girl - Stars (which I am sure was written expressly for me and speaks totally about my cancer journey)

The big album closer is this - its Barenaked Ladies - For You

"If I hide myself where ever I go

Am I ever really there"

I don't think its a song about me or one that is universally loved - but I know its a song that reflects how my insides feel when I'm alone. Its SO SO SO important for me to be myself - and as much as I know it - I constantly forget it. And I need to constantly remind myself to stay present - in the moment - enjoy what I have - and to not hide myself wherever I go.


P.S. I forgot Robbie Williams and the Philosopher Kings.

Soundtrack of my life

There is a soundtrack to all of our lives - music that plays in the background - songs that ultimately remind you of the times of your life. Whether you are listening or not, it's there.
Recently I watched a couple of old movies - and by old I mean - Less than Zero from 1987 and Pretty in Pink from even earlier than that. These were movies I watched as a young adult - and watching them again I noticed that I knew every word from every song - and that songs were all through the movies - every scene every moment had some sound behind it. It didn't seem artificial at all.
Everywhere I go - in the car, at home - there seems to be music. Not always music I like but music nonetheless. I think its part of the whole multi-tasking of our generation.
My kids don't have that same soundtrack - there is more of the electronic beeps and boops that they favour now adays. I can remember listening to albums on my Mom's giant console stereo with my head pressed up against the speakers. I had 2 albums when I was my son's age - 9 - both K-tel compilations. I used to listen to "Brandy - you're a fine girl" over and over and over again.
I used my babysitting money to buy singles and albums. An important boy gave me Duran Duran's first album and changed my life. Then when I put Rio on my stereo turntable (by that time I had my own) it didn't come off for MONTHS. It was my soundtrack for those years.
Near the end of high school I bought myself a Sony walkman - I converted to cassette and went everywhere plugged in to what today would be GI-NORMOUS headphones. It was through the headphones that I discovered the joys of 80s music. Its stuck with me through my whole life.
I started going to concerts when I moved to Toronto - the concert was an extension of the soundtrack - the soundtrack live if you will!
Even now, as I head heart first into the throes of middle age - I hear music everywhere I go - in behind every conversation, everything I read and all that I write. I don't know anymore if my musical taste is any good or ever remotely socially acceptable - nor do I care.
Its nice to hope that things won't change. But it did for my parents - those K-tel albums were replaced for them by horrid country music that rotted the core of my being! Please don't let me be THAT guy!
I sure hope that when they make the movie of my life - and they will - that the soundtrack kicks ass - is a cool blend of 80s and 90s good stuff - has plenty of Can-con and the music of people I love.

Rearranged

When I opened my email box today, there was email from someone I hadn't heard from in months. It wasn't a reply to an email I'd sent - it was honest to God unsolicited communication. And, my heart skipped a beat! I got that funny in my tummy oooooh hurry to get to the inbox feeling!
Do you get that too?
Like when someone you really like - who you hardly ever hear from signs in to MSN and the computer makes its little "DOOT" to tell you that they are there....and because you promise yourself NOT to be the girl that MSNs the second that other people sign in you suck in your breath just in case just in case they message you!
oOOOOOOOOOH and when they do - and MSN makes it heart churning "dootaldoo" to let you know that someone - this one - wants to talk to you - oh the excitement!
Its not the frequency or infrequency of contact that I have with the sender that makes me exctied for these emails and (usually) middle of the night e-conversations. I have that same "a cute boy likes me" lift to my spirits through the telephone as well. And, lord help me, of course they are all from boys - and not necessarily ones that LIKE like me if you know what I mean and you do.
Why are these particular communications so uplifting? They are from people that I like and people that make me happy. Not that everyone doesn't make me happy in some way (except THOSE people) its just some people make me that kind of special happy. The kind that makes your heart skip a beat. Not love or sex or romance happy - just regular old run of the mill special happy.
When I get email from my cousins it takes a dogs age for me to respond. Its hard to find the words to say and things to talk about - coming from me that's weird, eh? If blabbing was an Olympic sport I could talk for Canada! But those conversations take WORK. The special ones are not work at all - just stuff you want to say for the pure joy of saying it.
Some people are easy to write to - those people who hear you talk when you write - that's different. Even my friend from this morning - who so rarely writes back, is the easiest person in the world to email.
Back in the day, we would exchange email 5 times a day...not so much anymore as life wiggles its way in the middle of chats sometimes. When I would email him I would sign them all "love you, S". At one point, I sent out an email to a work colleague and signed it "love you, s" - and hit send - luckily it was a work colleague with a good sense of humour cause it was humiliating. To this day, I force myself to re-read even the smallest tiniest emails in case at some point, I have told the person somewhere in the email that I love them...cause that might be wrong!
So thank you to the people who make my tummy and my spirits flutter when I've got mail - it makes me shiver with anticipation.
love you,
S

The Price of Gas

So Dan insists that we talk about farts since he thinks he is the ONLY person who has ever farted in public ever in the entire world (see the comments on my last blog).

I live in a house FULL of testosterone. I have two sons and a husband and all have been blessed with the Fletcher Family Flatulence. In our house farts are funny.

But, those aren't the sort of funny fart stories I've decided to tell here today. My kids fart. My husband farts and yes - Dan, as he told us in his comments, also farts - I assume although I have not experienced his farts myself.

But my point is that girls fart. Girls fart just like boys - loud and proud - in public and in private - at home and at work. We do. I swear. All kinds: silent, smelly, loud and proud, wet and juicy - all kinds of gas.

A friend of my cousin Amy was getting married a few years ago. She and her future husband had been living together for years - and they had 2 kids already - marriage was just really a formality. She and Amy had the big "heart to heart" after the bride started to have second thoughts. How did she know that the two of them would stay together? How did she know that he would be a good Dad? How did she know that this was the right guy for her? Why, she couldn't even "pass wind" in front of him.....What? She couldn't what?

She had been with this guy for years - lived with him - had babies with him (so undoubtedly allowed his penis to enter her at LEAST twice!) but she couldn't/wouldn't fart in front of him. She told Amy that sometimes it was PAINFUL to hold it inside. She would rather live in pain than pass wind out her ass in front of a man who she had seen naked.

My point is - everyone farts - everyONE of us. But this strange girl saw farting as something exceedingly private - something to be kept to herself - or more than that - something to be kept AWAY from someone else. To what end??? Pain? Freedom from embarrassing sound.

Sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me - but will sounds? Gas? Wind? Smells?

She worked through her jitters - married the guy and had 2 more babies with him. I wonder every time I see them if she lets them rip now - surely to heaven she saw sense. She does seem very tense though...

My mother was a very proper person. She would NEVER ever ever have farted in front of strangers - she kept her farts especially for home and her family!

It's hard to describe really. My mother would pass gas - always tiny sharp sounds - we called them "toots" as kids. When she tooted she would laugh - "OH!" - like it was a surprise to her. When she laughed she would toot - and the whole process would repeat itself over and over again! I remember practically rolling on the floor in hilarity as my mother killed us with her powerful stink. Its still funny.

So there you have it - everybody farts. Some of us loud and proud wherever we are and some of us in secret to hide our humanity from our loved ones. Its just gas people - nothing earth shattering. Well, sometimes it is....

Who knew

Today I washed the walls in my house. I didn't think that they would be particularly dirty but they were. From what? Dirty children hands, the odd candle burning and time. My question today is this:
Does everyone wash their walls? Why have never heard of this practise??? I mean other than the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser commercials for when your kids draws on the wall with crayons, non erasable markers or paint with their own feces? (And by the way, that's what I used to wash the walls - thanks Mr. Clean - they truly are magical!)
I don't remember my mother EVER washing the walls of our house. She did laundry; sometimes washed the floor and occasionally bullied my brother or I to vacuum. But never, not once did I ever see her or hear of her washing the walls. To be fair, until I was in high school we had red velvet textured wallpaper all through the downstairs of our house -and that probably would have been a bitch to wash.
Did Mr. Clean revolutionize the world of cleaning or is washing the walls one of those things that we just don't talk about like: after you have surgery your wounds can pop open and what to do when you have diarrhea and are vomiting at the same time?
And, for that matter - why are there things that happen to ALL of us that we just don't ever talk about? Why don't we talk about wet farts, hiccuping and burping at the same time and day dreaming? We all do it. I'm sure we do.
So here: let the clean walls of my house be your inspiration - send me your stories about what people just don't talk about - sandra_fletcher@hotmail.com. Lets talk about them here. Clean walls and all.

Damn that Oprah

At one point this summer (it must have been a low point!) I found myself watching Oprah and listening to some cleaning expert tell me that a messy house means that you have a messy life. Whether your life is in abject chaos, your finances are in chaos, your mind is messed up, you are psychotic, your husband is a crossdressing lunatic and your children are addicted to crack - whatever the mess - it is reflected in how you keep your home.

Talk It Out
What's really causing your clutter?
Peter Walsh and Dr. Robin team up to get to the bottom of your
piles.

My home says that my life sucks ass.

I complain, and have done so here on this blog many a time, that I feel pressure from my husband to clean - because I am a slob. And my friends will often mock my slobby-ness. But, this summer, as I ran around playing in the park with the kids and walking thousands of miles at the zoo, something happened in my house - it was a transformer of sorts and turned from rusty pick up truck into a giant walking fire breathing dragon beast. No. Seriously. In a "there is crud stuck on the bottom of the fridge that is sticky and has been there since june" and "I'm afraid to turn the oven on in case it spontaneously combusts" kind of way. Yep. Its bad. Not that I'm going to invite anyone here to check it, you'll just have to take my word for it.

And, as irony would have it, I think that this Oprahexpert may be right. My House is a mess because My Life is a mess.

I have this thing that I say to myself all the time that makes me feel better and calms me down - I can only control what I can control - I can't control the world but I can control my reponse to it.

Apparently, I can't control anything. I don't honestly feel as if I've had any control over anything that has happened in my life in the last year (at least!) and so I feel (today) as if I've given up trying to take control of EVERYTHING AND ANYTHING.


Today I caught up on the laundry that was in the basement. Then I discovered that there were 6 more baskets of laudry waiting upstairs. I used to be able to get caught up every week. I can do that again I'm sure. But I think I need to take baby steps.


I'm going back to "work" tomorrow. I say work in quotations because its one hour a bloody day at the school watching kids NOT eat the food their parents send them and trying to make sure no one dies on the playground.

My assumption is that forcing myself to shower each day and wear a bra will also force back into my life some semblance of normality. I'm assuming that it will anyway. Who knows.


I NEED to go back to the gym. Badly. And I will. I swear. I have made a date with myself to go back Thursday. Yes. No more excuses. I feel as if I can't quite physically handle my life anymore and part of that I'm sure is the fact that I am a giant pile of cream and jelly. I don't mind if I'm a fat chick but I have to be a fit fat chick or its just not going to work. Back I go. I enjoy the eliptical trainer and the treadmill however, I don't like to sweat. Whatever.


Maybe if I can be more disciplined then shit will start to fall into place - in my life, in my house, in my relationships, with my job, inside my head....I wonder if Oprah when told that she messed with your head would send a team of experts to sort you out? Or is that a more Maury Povich kind of thing. Maybe all I need to do is watch more tv!

UPDATE: September 6th - only 3 loads of laundry (or so) left to be done and I just cleaned the refridgerator. Yep, even the crisper drawers. I made chicken meatballs in home made sauce for dinner and took out the composting. I'm getting there.

Eating Local

I recently read this article "10 Reasons to Eat Locally" and while most of the reasons make sense:
- tastes better
- reduces pollution from shipping
- reduces or eliminates preserving chemicals
- eliminates the possibility of bio-terrorism (that one is a bit of a stretch but given what happened with spinach and carrot juice last winter - who am I to judge!)
.....it wasn't until this morning that it all came together for me.

Today for breakfast I fancied a tomato sandwich. We don't have any tomatoes today - well - that's strictly not true - we have grape tomatoes (YUM) but I wasn't about to eat a sandwich with 15 grape tomatoes in it! WAIT - we are growing tomatoes in the yard! I looked outside and most were green. But on closer inspection, we found one orangey-red perfect tomato. So - we picked it. Took it from the backyard to the kitchen - like 15 feet - and cut it up onto toast.

Yum yum yum. That is the difference with local produce. That RIGHT there - a tomato that tastes like a tomato, isn't woody or gross.

What else do we have in the garden?

I'm making pasta salad for dinner. We added peas and carrots - FROM THE BACKYARD. I cut up one of our cucumbers with thin onion slices and I'm making quick pickles for dinner too! I feel like a freaking genius. MY family grew the food we are eating. Ben picked the carrots he planted. And while none of Sammy's jalapeno peppers are ready yet, I suspect that their arrival will coincide with the reddening of more tomatoes! We also have spinach coming out of our ying yang and herbs aplenty - anyone need any chives or mint?

This is the purpose to me of local produce. Its cool to have our own food - there is a sense of definite accomplishment for having things grow. Sure, we still need to buy bananas but hey, its kind of fun to not have to buy tomatoes.

Maybe next year we'll do zuchinni...garlic.....or eggplant....watermellon.....maybe even pumpkins!

Table for One

There was a Pity Party at my place tonight and everyone was invited! Woo hoo - although I didn't see any of you there.
I got dumped/dissed/practically stood up. And if any of you ever wonder why I don't have girl friends, this is why (and before you start bitching - you don't count - you know who you are)!

I was supposed to meet the girls from work - well, technically where I used to work - at 7pm tonight. Massive amounts of emails had been exchanged as had messages on MSN and Facebook. Much to-do had been made. Then one cancelled on Wednesday. There's always one.

So today in the afternoon, I took as shower and blew my hair dry, which frankly, nowadays, is a rare occurance. Not the shower, but the blow dry - what am I blowing my hair dry for when I have no where to go? I put on makeup, brushed my teeth and used the rarely used mouthwash (again, not that I'm a pig, I just hate mouthwash).

I put on pants - full lenght pants, not capris (again - tres rare nowadays) and put on shoes that were neither flip flops nor crocs. I wore jewellery. Okay, well, I always wear jewellery - but I wore jewellery that matched my outfit. I looked quite presentable as a matter of fact.

So 6pm rolls around and I still don't know where, specifically we are meeting. I text. Nothing. 6:15 rolls around and I call - voicemail. If I am to be two towns over by 7pm I need to leave at 6:30. At 6:25pm I get a call - "yes well, can we reschedule - see we both have other stuff to do and well another time would be better...you understand - okay great."

No. Not okay. Not great. I don't go out much. Ever. And I was really looking forward to grown up drinks in a bar with people I like who aren't my family. And no, I'm not okay. I'm sad. Really desperately so.

So, I decided since I was all dressed up I should go out. My husband refused to go with me. You see, he had already started making taco meat and he wanted to watch Family Guy re-runs. I was refused for cartoon reruns and ground turkey.

I will go to the movies then - cause I like the movies and I will go alone. I used to go alone all the time before I was married. Why not? I'll tell you why not. Because I live in suburbia and no one does anything alone. The megaplex was packed with couples and groups.

I chose a particularly depressing movie on purpose so that I could cry. And I did. I cried like the lonely loser I am into my giant bucket of salty popcorn and jumbo diet coke. Oh yes I did.

I don't want to be a loner. I don't want to not fit in with the other Moms. I don't want to have, as Rick says, 4 best friends, none of which live in the same area code as me. I don't want to have relationships by email and fax and phone and text message that leave me feeling cared for and appreciated but more than just a little empty and alone. I want people who love me and enjoy my company and want to be with me. I don't want to be less important than reruns.

So yes. Pity Party. One night only.

The lodger

I used to have this roommate named Margaret....that's how I used to start my stories, and you all know how I love a good story, about Margaret. But, as I began this, I realized that Margaret was more than a collection of humourous anecdotes. Oh yes, she was insane. And a bit of a bitchy cow, but that chick had some major league problems too.

Margaret and I met when she began working at Addition Elle, a clothing store for fat chicks, back in the 1980s. To tell you the truth, there was no skill involved in working in fat lady fashion in the 80s - we were all just so grateful to not be wearing men's husky lee jeans and cords with a big oversize tshirt that we would have paid any price at all for the bit of panache that these stores offered. Which, in a way is good because while I had style - oh yes I did - Margaret had zero and while she could sell anything, I could NOT. (If that ever comes up, make a mental note, I cannot sell anything - if I attempt to sound sincere it sounds fake and if I am sincere it sounds more fake. Its best to have me run the place or go fetch stuff.)

Margaret and I became friends because we were constantly thrown together on the night shift. At the time, I was working and going to school and she was doing the same. We both worked as many nights and weekends as we could muster. She was an Admin Assistant at an Insurance company. She had gone to college - to study admin stuff and fancied herself an accomplished typist and short hand taker person - who was I to argue?

At that time, she was living in a rented house and I was living with evil roommate number 2. Soon the situation with E.R.#2 became unbearable and I was forced out essentially on to the street. Margaret, god bless her heart, took me in. Not only me, but also my cat, Nab.

It was clear from the start that although I was living with Margaret we were not roommates in her eyes - she considered me a lodger. Which to me was fine because it meant I didn't have to share in all the unpleasantness that was hydro and heating bills and the crap that was mowing the lawn and shovelling sidewalks....or so she lead me to believe.

Nab and I settled nicely into our super-lavender tiny little bedroom in the 2 bedroom bungalow at Glencairn and the Allen. Nab got along nicely with Margaret's dog, Mandy but did not get along well at all with her cat, Fluffy.

Fluffy was anything but fluffy. She was scrawny and bony and didn't have an ounce of kindness or compassion in her at all. She was also one of the first disagreements that Margaret and I had. You see, every morning, Margaret would open a can of food for Fluffy and set in on the dining room table and Fluffy would eat straight out of the can. When did she pick up the can and put it in the recycling/garbage you ask? NEVER. When I finally broke down and cleaned up (which royally pissed her off) there must have been nearly 100 empty cat food cans - oooh little but of throw up.....it was so icky I can't even tell you but, I was a lodger....remember? Not my deal. Nab ate in my room.

Margaret didn't like to clean the litter box either. She preferred to let Fluffy, and as time wore on, Mandy, just pee where they wanted and crap when they had to. The WHOLE basement was full of well, full of crap. It was a horror - an absolute horror.

But, like I said Margaret had problems. She was the youngest in a big family by about 15 years. (Again, if you are making mental notes, I'm going to say don't try for one last baby when your next youngest is 15....) Her father died when she was a kid so she and her mother were super close. Until her mother had a stroke when Margaret was 25. Of course, she still lived at home. She'd never been on a date, had a boyfriend or been kissed - she lived a sheltered life.

As the siblings stood around Mom's hospital bed, they had to decide - pull the plug or let her go on indefinitely on the machines. Margaret said - let her fight - but, she was alone. They pulled the plug - the doctors said it would only be hours - but she lived for days - lingered and died. Margaret stayed the whole time - and watched her poor mother die. It was horrible for her.

But, it got worse. Everything that Mom owned was left to all the siblings equally - so one week after the funeral, the siblings put the house up for sale and kicked Margaret's ass to the curb. That's how she ended up in the rental. She had a nice nest egg, some lovely old furniture, an inferiority complex the size of a house and a woe is me the world hates me attitude she carried everywhere she went. To be fair, she came about her sadness honestly, as do the rest of us.

Life with Margaret was always interesting. You could never know when she was going to go off on one of her weird tyrannical screaming fits. Well, and she had the funniest haircut I've ever seen. She had a bad fat lady haircut.

Now, anyone out there who says they don't know what I mean when I say fat lady haircut is full of shit. You all do. Its kind of a modified Dorothy Hamill cut from the 70s....only in a way unattractive way. Longish short hair at the front and shaved sides and shaved at the back. If you have any neck fat you are fucked - it looks ridiculous. She had that hair all frosted and tipped within and inch of its life.

She was also cursed with the fat lady back fat phenomenon. Its horrid when it happens - and it happens to the best of us. But the combination of fat lady hair with a neck fat roll and fat lady back fat phenomenon is unfortunate - add into that extremely low self esteem, a bad attitude and the misfortune of wearing nothing but pink and floral patterns and you are in for one hell of a bad time.

Margaret and I used to take road trips in her HUGE car that she inherited from her Mom - in my head its a K-car...We would always call them "fat chick road trips" and each began with a trip to 7-eleven for snacks. Sweet teeth indulged, we would head out to Southwestern Ontario where she would mostly hang with my Mom. Although attempts were made to socialize her into her own age group, with peers and introduce her to people (read: men) she was hesitant to do this and again, add in her bristly nature and out attempts were few!

Time went on and Margaret eventually got me a job at the insurance company where she worked (which if you are keeping track is where I met my husband so its not all bad!). Each day we would leave the house in its semblance of chaotic disorder. When we returned home at night, the tv would ALWAYS be on, with a cat (hers or mine) perched on top of the cable box having turned it on with a wayward paw and the dog sitting there watching it. The dog was insane and sat with its dog-ass on the couch and its paws on the floor. I think Mandy thought she was people.

It became harder and harder to live with Margaret. She didn't like me going out. She didn't like me staying in. She hated it when I cleaned up. She hated it when the house was a mess. She was getting more and more unpredictable and weird. My thought was often that she just needed to get laid. Maybe that would have solved a multitude of problems.

In fact, she took a trip to England once over Christmas vacation to stay with her aunt. She met a nice English guy in his late 40s, single, who lived with his mom. And she fancied him rotten. So much so, she arranged to go back to England in the spring - just to see him again - but this time he ignored her. Thus making it the least successful and second most expensive second date in history (I'll tell you about the most expensive second date some other time!).

Near the end of our time together, her dog barfed in the front hallway near the door and she simply threw down a newspaper and walked around it for weeks and weeks and weeks. The smell was obscene. I had to leave - I had to.

I decided to bid a hasty exit. She was not impressed. She yelled and screamed. I was cheating her and treating her mean - AFTER ALL SHE HAD DONE FOR ME! But I moved anyway - in with roommate number 4 across town. She all but threw things at me as we loaded up my stuff. I don't think I'd ever seen my cat so very happy!

Years later Wayne and I were walking in the Eaton Centre and we heard someone calling my name from miles away.....faintly - "Sandra - Sandra St. Clair....". Who was it but insane Margaret! She chased me through the mall until Wayne and I got out on to Yonge street and lost her in a crowd our hearts beating with a combination of relief and hillarity.

I was never quite sure she was all that stable. And while I don't really blame her for being unstable - I have a healthy fear/respect for the instability.