I discovered sad scary things about the effects of living in suburbia this weekend.
The most horrific being that there are only 2 places to buy CDs in this town. Two. Yes two.
I wanted to buy Amy Winehouse - my husband thinks I'm insane, but I'm hoping to see her at Osheaga this fall and in spite of it taking a while for me to warm to her, I think I'm ready. But NO. Apparently here in Ajax, its not meant to be. For neither WalMart nor Futureshop have the CD. I'd like to think that they just sold out but, I'm not so sure. Nope. Not sure at all. It could be suburban conspiracy that is keeping out all negative influences. I did see an awful lot of Martina McBride. EW.
I also discovered that there is no place to just go for a drink in the middle of the day.
I'm having a particularly bad day people. One of those ones where something is wrong and I can't quite put my finger on it. I'm not sure if its because: my kids are sick and horrible today, or my husband is being an ass, my friends could care less because basically I haven't called any of them and they aren't psychic or anything, I see the doctor next week for next steps in the great cancer journey and everyone including me seems to have lost interest in my impending mortality and morbidity, I have no job and no prospects of said job, my EI hasn't kicked in yet, I have no money, I have no parents and no one to just reach in and tell me that its all okay.
I thought - good God - I'll just run away, hit some bar, have a couple of drinks and numb my senses for just a bit. Sure its a stupid idea - but what the fuck, I've done stupider stuff. But I couldn't even find a bar.
I live in the land of strip malls and superstores. We don't have bars or record stores, butchers or bakeries. We have assimilated all of these functions into one giant mastermall. If you go to the mall - you will see all of your neighbours and colleagues and friends there. Why? Because they have no where else to go either. There is zero anonymity here.
God, its so depressing.
So I came home, ate a bunch of good for me fruit, had a green tea and fell asleep watching "Pretty in Pink". I can't even self destruct properly. Probably I should have drank myself blind, ate chocolate bon bons and watched "Natural Born Killers".
I think its time to move.
ADDENDUM: I had a giant tequila, 3/4 of a bag of chips and some dip and ordered Amy Winehouse off Amazon.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
its been a long time
Yes, its been a long time since I've tried my hand at poetry so apologies if it sounds like it was written by an angst-ridden teenager.
She whines
like an asthmatic refridgerator
humming to herself
shuffling up and down
making the occasional
unintelligable murmur
(what was that?)
mulling it over
They said,
"Everyone has to have a home,
you don't always need to be alone."
In her home
with the tv on
and the sound turned off.
Impulsive forever
like a whim that never stops
(a good idea gone bad with time and neglect)
whims
she didn't know what they were
or why she had to have them
but she assumed she did and that was all she had to know.
She is this very instant
asleep at the wheel
its cold in there
with the key in the ignition and the lights off
- they smashed the windsheild-
and left shards everywhere
She has never now been more awake
setting her face against the elements
-frowning into the wind-
not knowing that nothing can stop it
from blowing right through her.
She whines
like an asthmatic refridgerator
humming to herself
shuffling up and down
making the occasional
unintelligable murmur
(what was that?)
mulling it over
They said,
"Everyone has to have a home,
you don't always need to be alone."
In her home
with the tv on
and the sound turned off.
Impulsive forever
like a whim that never stops
(a good idea gone bad with time and neglect)
whims
she didn't know what they were
or why she had to have them
but she assumed she did and that was all she had to know.
She is this very instant
asleep at the wheel
its cold in there
with the key in the ignition and the lights off
- they smashed the windsheild-
and left shards everywhere
She has never now been more awake
setting her face against the elements
-frowning into the wind-
not knowing that nothing can stop it
from blowing right through her.
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Serenity
I have a new friend. His name is Dan. Who what where why when how not important really. But he has described in his blog, our relationship as "a bubbly and serendipitous" one. I thought about that at the time that I read it and thought - yep - we are lucky to have met. But, I think its more than that. Serendipity, as I understand it, and you KNOW I looked it up, is being lucky enough to find something don't know that you need when you don't know you need it and aren't really looking for it.
I found a friend who I didn't think I needed. But that I want. He, likely, and I am speaking for him, doesn't need me around - he has his own friends. And that's just pretty cool to me.
I spend a lot of my life doing things out of obligation - whether real or imagined. I'm the kind of person who sends emails thanking people for coming to dinner parties that I give. I don't wait to be thanked - I thank in advance. I always write thank you cards for gifts. I always remember birthdays and Christmases, send presents for the kids teachers and live a life based upon polite obligation. Sometimes it can be a bit much but, at this point, 41 years down the road, its part of who I am.
Obligation to me is not an affectation either. I don't do it for attention or return of that duty but I do it the same way that I say bless you when someone sneezes - its automatic.
Those of us who live our lives in politeness tend to be the world's great givers. We LOVE to take, don't get me wrong, but it gives us far more pleasure to give. We are the world's volunteers, the designated drivers, the responsible ones, the ones to be relied upon.
Getting back to my new friend Dan....for the first time in my life I feel no responsibility or obligation to another person - just like for no reason or happenstance. Not in a mean "I don't care what you think or what your needs are" kind of way but in a really good way. In a " I honestly do - care what you think" kind of way. Its very freeing.
Not that the rest of my friends, and you know who you are- should feel that I am dissing them for not being my serendips! No way! I truly believe that people in your life are there for a reason - each person that you meet has a part to play - and for that matter, as do I in their lives.
And I'm sure that there is someone out there saying - good God girl - do you really need more faggots in your life? Well, you know, unless I am going to put "must be fuckable" on my friend application, I don't see how it matters. I think for me, that too is just a happenstance.
What I'm trying to say is getting more complicated as I try to explain it. Every person you meet -every person you know has a place and serves a purpose - then someone comes along who doesn't fit - who doesn't know all your stories, doesn't already know your weaknesses, doesn't know who you really are already. And you get to re-tell your self and all the stories about yourself as you introduce your self to the new person. You get to be excite,d because someone likes you the way you came prepackaged with the label torn off and one corner missing. And its okay because you don't owe them anything. If they don't like it they can walk away - and so can you. No obligations.
It may be a stretch to bubbly serendipity but the reason that I feel so lucky is that I often feel so loved and just as often feel so unloved. This person - this friendship - it comes obligation free and purposeless and free of encumbrance - and for this I am grateful and excited.
Serendipity.
Turns out I am an excellent judge of character.
I found a friend who I didn't think I needed. But that I want. He, likely, and I am speaking for him, doesn't need me around - he has his own friends. And that's just pretty cool to me.
I spend a lot of my life doing things out of obligation - whether real or imagined. I'm the kind of person who sends emails thanking people for coming to dinner parties that I give. I don't wait to be thanked - I thank in advance. I always write thank you cards for gifts. I always remember birthdays and Christmases, send presents for the kids teachers and live a life based upon polite obligation. Sometimes it can be a bit much but, at this point, 41 years down the road, its part of who I am.
Obligation to me is not an affectation either. I don't do it for attention or return of that duty but I do it the same way that I say bless you when someone sneezes - its automatic.
Those of us who live our lives in politeness tend to be the world's great givers. We LOVE to take, don't get me wrong, but it gives us far more pleasure to give. We are the world's volunteers, the designated drivers, the responsible ones, the ones to be relied upon.
Getting back to my new friend Dan....for the first time in my life I feel no responsibility or obligation to another person - just like for no reason or happenstance. Not in a mean "I don't care what you think or what your needs are" kind of way but in a really good way. In a " I honestly do - care what you think" kind of way. Its very freeing.
Not that the rest of my friends, and you know who you are- should feel that I am dissing them for not being my serendips! No way! I truly believe that people in your life are there for a reason - each person that you meet has a part to play - and for that matter, as do I in their lives.
And I'm sure that there is someone out there saying - good God girl - do you really need more faggots in your life? Well, you know, unless I am going to put "must be fuckable" on my friend application, I don't see how it matters. I think for me, that too is just a happenstance.
What I'm trying to say is getting more complicated as I try to explain it. Every person you meet -every person you know has a place and serves a purpose - then someone comes along who doesn't fit - who doesn't know all your stories, doesn't already know your weaknesses, doesn't know who you really are already. And you get to re-tell your self and all the stories about yourself as you introduce your self to the new person. You get to be excite,d because someone likes you the way you came prepackaged with the label torn off and one corner missing. And its okay because you don't owe them anything. If they don't like it they can walk away - and so can you. No obligations.
It may be a stretch to bubbly serendipity but the reason that I feel so lucky is that I often feel so loved and just as often feel so unloved. This person - this friendship - it comes obligation free and purposeless and free of encumbrance - and for this I am grateful and excited.
Serendipity.
Turns out I am an excellent judge of character.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
Red Shoes
I finally found red shoes that walk that fine line between geeky girl who thinks red shoes remind her of the Wizard of Oz and a drunk drag queen dressing special! Its not as easy as one would think. I drove all over hell's half acre. And they are cute. Of course they are fucking huge - but cute.
Why is it when I gain weight my feet get bigger? Same bones. Discuss this amongst yourselves.
I tried on my dress and its cute too - except the bumps and bulges that by divine right shouldn't be there. I mean if I had eaten the chili cheese fries I would accept the blame but I still feel this weight in all the bumpy places belongs to my endocrinologist. The rest is mine - she can have 56 pounds and I'll take the rest!
Tonight my husband and I were watching some show about fat people...oh come on now...learning channel....big problems????medical hugeness???? I can't remember.
Anywho, they tell this woman who is eating 6000 calories a DAY that she has to go on a liquid diet and lose weight before they can do gastric bypass and save her life and she CHEATED - cheated on her TELEVISED liquid diet - hello bitch - see that thing - its a camera! - she's like 600 pounds and 5'4".
My husband turns to me and says "will you be able to stick to the liquid diet before your surgery?" "um - sure" - I say. Cause I have talked about surgery. But come on - that lady has 350 pounds on me - and I'm almost 7 inches taller than her..... But, I guess that's how people see me. It doesn't matter - 250 or 600 - its all the same. Fat is fat is fat no matter how you look at it.
My cute black dress and red shoes are just lipstick on a pig to some people. Sometimes even to me.
Why is it when I gain weight my feet get bigger? Same bones. Discuss this amongst yourselves.
I tried on my dress and its cute too - except the bumps and bulges that by divine right shouldn't be there. I mean if I had eaten the chili cheese fries I would accept the blame but I still feel this weight in all the bumpy places belongs to my endocrinologist. The rest is mine - she can have 56 pounds and I'll take the rest!
Tonight my husband and I were watching some show about fat people...oh come on now...learning channel....big problems????medical hugeness???? I can't remember.
Anywho, they tell this woman who is eating 6000 calories a DAY that she has to go on a liquid diet and lose weight before they can do gastric bypass and save her life and she CHEATED - cheated on her TELEVISED liquid diet - hello bitch - see that thing - its a camera! - she's like 600 pounds and 5'4".
My husband turns to me and says "will you be able to stick to the liquid diet before your surgery?" "um - sure" - I say. Cause I have talked about surgery. But come on - that lady has 350 pounds on me - and I'm almost 7 inches taller than her..... But, I guess that's how people see me. It doesn't matter - 250 or 600 - its all the same. Fat is fat is fat no matter how you look at it.
My cute black dress and red shoes are just lipstick on a pig to some people. Sometimes even to me.
Sunday, June 17, 2007
Father's Day
In honour of Father's Day I wanted to tell you all my favourite story starring my Dad.
A few things you probably don't need to know to appreciate the story....my Dad was a huge beer drinker in his day. Two-four of black label out in the garage - that was his thing. He was also a two pack a day man from the time he was 8 years old. That's when he left school to go work on the family farm. No one needed more than a grade 3 education in the 1950s.
Well, around 1985 all that changed. My dad still drank. But, black label was gone and he turned into a "social drinker" as opposed to the constant alcoholic that he was. He also stopped smoking. He said it only took a matter of weeks to get his taste buds back. And consequently, he found he loved food. He gained 160 pounds on his 5'6" frame. We started calling him "Little Budda". I will to the day I die believe he looked more like Mickey Rooney than Mickey Rooney does.
Anyway, back to the story. In about 1992, my now husband and I were spending the weekend at my parent's house. We did what we usually did when we were there for the weekend: we had a HUGE dinner, sat around watching tv and went to bed. Well, everyone went to bed but my Dad. See, Dad fell asleep as soon as he sat down. He was like one of those dolls - as soon as you tip it backwards (say in a Lay-z- boy) it closes its eyes....
Dad would be asleep and watching something horrific like the lion chasing the zebra to eat it - and you could sneak up to him, take the channel changer from where it perched on his belly and switch stations. He would immediately wake up and say - I was watching that! - but he wasn't - he was snoring.
That particular visit, we were all asleep when the tv started to get louder and louder and louder......and my Mom started yelling from her bedroom BOB! BOB! BOB! I rushed out to see what was the matter....
"He's asleep with his finger on the volume control button AGAIN!"
According to my Mom this was a frequent occurrance. Wayne went downstairs and turned the tv volume back to normal and put the channel changer back on his belly. Mom said sometimes it was worse when he fell asleep with his finger on the channel up or down buttons and she would hear station after station after station flipping for hours on end.
Years later we discovered that my Dad had sleep apnea and he likely was quasi awake through all of these episodes. But still. Makes me laugh.
A few things you probably don't need to know to appreciate the story....my Dad was a huge beer drinker in his day. Two-four of black label out in the garage - that was his thing. He was also a two pack a day man from the time he was 8 years old. That's when he left school to go work on the family farm. No one needed more than a grade 3 education in the 1950s.
Well, around 1985 all that changed. My dad still drank. But, black label was gone and he turned into a "social drinker" as opposed to the constant alcoholic that he was. He also stopped smoking. He said it only took a matter of weeks to get his taste buds back. And consequently, he found he loved food. He gained 160 pounds on his 5'6" frame. We started calling him "Little Budda". I will to the day I die believe he looked more like Mickey Rooney than Mickey Rooney does.
Anyway, back to the story. In about 1992, my now husband and I were spending the weekend at my parent's house. We did what we usually did when we were there for the weekend: we had a HUGE dinner, sat around watching tv and went to bed. Well, everyone went to bed but my Dad. See, Dad fell asleep as soon as he sat down. He was like one of those dolls - as soon as you tip it backwards (say in a Lay-z- boy) it closes its eyes....
Dad would be asleep and watching something horrific like the lion chasing the zebra to eat it - and you could sneak up to him, take the channel changer from where it perched on his belly and switch stations. He would immediately wake up and say - I was watching that! - but he wasn't - he was snoring.
That particular visit, we were all asleep when the tv started to get louder and louder and louder......and my Mom started yelling from her bedroom BOB! BOB! BOB! I rushed out to see what was the matter....
"He's asleep with his finger on the volume control button AGAIN!"
According to my Mom this was a frequent occurrance. Wayne went downstairs and turned the tv volume back to normal and put the channel changer back on his belly. Mom said sometimes it was worse when he fell asleep with his finger on the channel up or down buttons and she would hear station after station after station flipping for hours on end.
Years later we discovered that my Dad had sleep apnea and he likely was quasi awake through all of these episodes. But still. Makes me laugh.
Saturday, June 16, 2007
Seeing Double
I have always been a binge drinker. Not something to br proud of, I'm sure, but - hey - its what I do. I only drink when I'm with my friends and then I drink to wild excess.
I have fond memories, all be them hazy ones, of getting drunk on jello shots with Lindsay and Doug back somewhere between highschool and real life. My parents were away. We were at my house. And it was winter. At one point we ventured out into the snow and walked to the cenotaph - it was one of our fave places to go. And since it was Stratford, my memory is of snow up to my ass. At some point that night, if not another - again *HAZY* we put Doug in makeup like the pretty girl he is.
A few years later Lindsay and I were summer jobbing at A&W. No, it wasn't 1952, it was one of those retro things. And most nights - we would meet at Bentleys in downtown Stratford. We would then order double vodka tonics until closing and I would stumble home drunk because I only lived 3 blocks away from the bar. Lindsay would mo-ped home to Shakespeare on the back roads drunk out of his skull. (This was way before the whole push not to drive drunk.)
I have vague recollections of many drunken parties. One in particular, I got totally trashed and went up to some guy from work. I started saying "when we get married - what will we name our kids?" We went through all kinds of stupid names blending both of our cultures and ended up with stupid names like "Shenaynay-Jane" and "Harmetha-Sue". Many years later when we did get married and have kids, we amazingly didn't consider any of those names - perhaps its lucky we had boys.
I also remember one drunken pride day - trying to keep up to the boys - beer for beer - and I NEVER drink beer. I managed to keep up - however my vague memories for that day include taking my shirt off in the middle of the park to show everyone my kick ass bra and kissing many many strangers. My friend would approach a cute boy and say "hi I love you" and kiss them and then pass him to me and say "have you kissed my friend sandra?" and I would kiss them too. It was great. Later that day I was half carried from place to place and amazingly managed to subway and go train it back to the burbs.
It was following the collossal fight after that particular pride binge that I decided not to mix my binge-friends-drunk with my home-family-sober. But, lately, my home-sober is becoming my home-tipsy.
I'm sure it's the stress or the unemployment or the cancer or the constant ever present fear of disappointment and loathing but, whatever it is, I'm drinking more often. I'm not paralyic or anything but its odd for me.
Last week AND this, I emailed drunk. I think that is a BAD BAD SUPER BAD idea. I must write myself a post-it and stick it to the computer. "Are you drunk? Don't hit send!" But, I don't think it was a total disaster - yet! At least I didn't look up old boyfriends and say "you know what your problem is........?" And now, I am blogging drunk. Likely again, not a good idea. Whatever. I can always delete later. We'll get to the bottom of this shift in drunken patterns together I'm sure.
I have fond memories, all be them hazy ones, of getting drunk on jello shots with Lindsay and Doug back somewhere between highschool and real life. My parents were away. We were at my house. And it was winter. At one point we ventured out into the snow and walked to the cenotaph - it was one of our fave places to go. And since it was Stratford, my memory is of snow up to my ass. At some point that night, if not another - again *HAZY* we put Doug in makeup like the pretty girl he is.
A few years later Lindsay and I were summer jobbing at A&W. No, it wasn't 1952, it was one of those retro things. And most nights - we would meet at Bentleys in downtown Stratford. We would then order double vodka tonics until closing and I would stumble home drunk because I only lived 3 blocks away from the bar. Lindsay would mo-ped home to Shakespeare on the back roads drunk out of his skull. (This was way before the whole push not to drive drunk.)
I have vague recollections of many drunken parties. One in particular, I got totally trashed and went up to some guy from work. I started saying "when we get married - what will we name our kids?" We went through all kinds of stupid names blending both of our cultures and ended up with stupid names like "Shenaynay-Jane" and "Harmetha-Sue". Many years later when we did get married and have kids, we amazingly didn't consider any of those names - perhaps its lucky we had boys.
I also remember one drunken pride day - trying to keep up to the boys - beer for beer - and I NEVER drink beer. I managed to keep up - however my vague memories for that day include taking my shirt off in the middle of the park to show everyone my kick ass bra and kissing many many strangers. My friend would approach a cute boy and say "hi I love you" and kiss them and then pass him to me and say "have you kissed my friend sandra?" and I would kiss them too. It was great. Later that day I was half carried from place to place and amazingly managed to subway and go train it back to the burbs.
It was following the collossal fight after that particular pride binge that I decided not to mix my binge-friends-drunk with my home-family-sober. But, lately, my home-sober is becoming my home-tipsy.
I'm sure it's the stress or the unemployment or the cancer or the constant ever present fear of disappointment and loathing but, whatever it is, I'm drinking more often. I'm not paralyic or anything but its odd for me.
Last week AND this, I emailed drunk. I think that is a BAD BAD SUPER BAD idea. I must write myself a post-it and stick it to the computer. "Are you drunk? Don't hit send!" But, I don't think it was a total disaster - yet! At least I didn't look up old boyfriends and say "you know what your problem is........?" And now, I am blogging drunk. Likely again, not a good idea. Whatever. I can always delete later. We'll get to the bottom of this shift in drunken patterns together I'm sure.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
The pain of a good birthday
People have been doing all sorts of nice things for my birthday. I got dvds I wanted (duplicate copies even) and taken for lunch and dinner. My husband made me potato skins that will actually take years off of my life. Ben even made me a picture of a pineapple because apparently, unbeknownst to me, it is my favourite fruit!
My friend Lisa gave me the gift of massage - not just one but two.
I've never had an hour of massage before - half hour max - an hour is a lot. And its also for pleasure too - not to fix something that's wrong with me. Which was nice.
So I went to meet Murray the not gay RMT and the Continuum Wellness Centre. Its one of those places painted in muted earth tones with the sound of tinkling waters in the background - uber classy really and super duper healthy. Made me feel a right schlub!
I carry my tension and my stress in my back right shoulder blade. If I was a bird (as Nellie Furtado sometimes is) it would be where my wing attached my body.
I remember before I got married being very stressed out and begging one of my bridesmaids to massage my back. She had me face down on the carpet at my parents house with her elbow in my "wing" and I was screaming in pain. She kept telling everyone to "feel the lump" - the lump of stress that was my personal pain!
Well, the wedding went away and so did the pain. From time to time I get tense and the lump comes back. It even came back when I switched from a PC to a laptop. At that point, Daisy Mae the RMT did theraputic massage and reciting 30 minute soliloques about her family. I felt is was pennance for something I did wrong in the past.
Yesterday Murray got his hands on my knot of tension - went directly to it and focused hard. He rubbed and rubbed - better to work it out rather than leave it he said - it will only get worse. At one point in the agony I heard something POP. And at another point I just asked him to stop. He used heat and oil and god knows what else but dammit that baby was going to go away!
I left feeling like a million dollars. My back was going to be fantastic. That tension knot was gone..
For about 3 hours.
Then it started to ache.
Today, I couldn't carry my purse on the right side. My back feels bruised. Battered perhaps. I feel as if I have been beaten hard with a stick! Beaten my a masseuse - who THEY say is not gay - named Murray. This cannot be.
My second massage isn't for two more weeks. I feel myself getting all tense about it - which is just going to make Murray angrier and more likely to want to get rid of it - and that just hurts.
Sometimes love hurts.
But I wish it didn't.
My friend Lisa gave me the gift of massage - not just one but two.
I've never had an hour of massage before - half hour max - an hour is a lot. And its also for pleasure too - not to fix something that's wrong with me. Which was nice.
So I went to meet Murray the not gay RMT and the Continuum Wellness Centre. Its one of those places painted in muted earth tones with the sound of tinkling waters in the background - uber classy really and super duper healthy. Made me feel a right schlub!
I carry my tension and my stress in my back right shoulder blade. If I was a bird (as Nellie Furtado sometimes is) it would be where my wing attached my body.
I remember before I got married being very stressed out and begging one of my bridesmaids to massage my back. She had me face down on the carpet at my parents house with her elbow in my "wing" and I was screaming in pain. She kept telling everyone to "feel the lump" - the lump of stress that was my personal pain!
Well, the wedding went away and so did the pain. From time to time I get tense and the lump comes back. It even came back when I switched from a PC to a laptop. At that point, Daisy Mae the RMT did theraputic massage and reciting 30 minute soliloques about her family. I felt is was pennance for something I did wrong in the past.
Yesterday Murray got his hands on my knot of tension - went directly to it and focused hard. He rubbed and rubbed - better to work it out rather than leave it he said - it will only get worse. At one point in the agony I heard something POP. And at another point I just asked him to stop. He used heat and oil and god knows what else but dammit that baby was going to go away!
I left feeling like a million dollars. My back was going to be fantastic. That tension knot was gone..
For about 3 hours.
Then it started to ache.
Today, I couldn't carry my purse on the right side. My back feels bruised. Battered perhaps. I feel as if I have been beaten hard with a stick! Beaten my a masseuse - who THEY say is not gay - named Murray. This cannot be.
My second massage isn't for two more weeks. I feel myself getting all tense about it - which is just going to make Murray angrier and more likely to want to get rid of it - and that just hurts.
Sometimes love hurts.
But I wish it didn't.
Monday, June 11, 2007
And now the end is near...
I can see the light at the end of the very dark and weird tunnel. Today, I got final confirmation from the Doctor that they got all of the skin cancer off my leg with the excision - which is amazing news. I'm really really grateful.
All of my tests so far have come back negative - I'm just waiting to meet with gyne at Sunnybrook to see if they want me referred to an oncologist for further tests.
Because its a rare cancer no one really knows what to do with me. Which is okay. I often don't know what to do with myself either!
So before Rick bips at me to not be such a whiney crying puke - I'm not by the way - I just want to thank the Canadian Universal Health Care system for my billion dollars in medical tests and my friends for not getting sick of me. Yay for Sandra's body!
All of my tests so far have come back negative - I'm just waiting to meet with gyne at Sunnybrook to see if they want me referred to an oncologist for further tests.
Because its a rare cancer no one really knows what to do with me. Which is okay. I often don't know what to do with myself either!
So before Rick bips at me to not be such a whiney crying puke - I'm not by the way - I just want to thank the Canadian Universal Health Care system for my billion dollars in medical tests and my friends for not getting sick of me. Yay for Sandra's body!
Sunday, June 10, 2007
I am finally done with that!
I worked in life insurance for the best part of 2 decades - and seriously - you learn some weird shit. For example, did you know that more deaths occur in January than any other month? Yes - its true. They say that people "hold on" to make it to the next year - for any significant event people miraculously can summon the will to live. Aren't we amazing?
And, did you know that the most dangerous age to be is 4? Yes. 4. More people are injured, maimed and die at the age of 4 than any other age. If you make it past 4, its all uphill from there. Aren't statistics amazing?
By the time I finish this blog I will be 41. June 11th is my birthday. I read through my post birthday blog last year and I talked about how a friend had recommended potions and lotions and all sorts of stuff to help me clutch my way into the culture of renewed youth and how I had rejected her advice. Today that same person sent me an email saying that I should enjoy my day for tomorrow I will be 41 and its a slippery slope to 50 and it aint pretty. Again, I say, bah humbug.
I look fine. I don't think I look 40 - or for that matter 41. And even if I do - who the fuck cares? With people like Susan Sarrandon setting the bar so very very high and making 56 the new 35 how the flaming hell am I ever going to compete anyway?
Fourty was a suck ass year for me and I am happy to see the back end of it. My good job went crapola and then I lost it. My life of contentment turned slightly malcontent. And I have a good feeling most of this had to do with my ever wavering health.
My body constantly betrays me. Just when I think we are all in this together - in an
"all for one and one for all" kind of way, it does something stupid for me or to me.
I started 40 out getting on board with the endocrinologist and admitting that my pancreas after 25 years of diabetes had bit the biscuit. I decided of my own free will to try insulin - and went straight to 4 shots a day. One of the two types caused me to suffer extreme insulin edema (super swelling) and I gained 56 pounds in 8 weeks. That, my friends, sucked ass. I still have only lost 12 of the 56. My body, completely composed of cream and jelly, is not kind to me in the weight loss department.
From there I moved to potential blindness as we discovered that both of my eyes had retinopathy - burst blood vessles causing spots in my vision. I took 6 months but they healed themselves. Good eyes. Very very good.
In the midst of this nightmare, I found the infamous and now cut-out spot. I am grateful always to the nag that made me get my mutated freckle checked. Its gone now, and they think they have gotten the whole thing - so woo hoo - skin cancer is done. Lets hope for good.
As for the underlying primary cancer that they continue to search for - I have tried to convince myself that there is no other cancer - there just isn't. But the doctor says if we can't find anything the first time through - we'll just keep looking. Thorough yes - but also invasive and troubling.
Then my feet started to pain with heel spurs - which I am going to continue to ignore. And to end the year with a bang, I broke my toe on Thursday. I even walked home with it broken black and purple. Why? Because I don't even care at this point. The body is just plastic coating at this point - the crispy candy coating. Who even cares what it looks like or how it hurts - mind over matter at this point really.
Fourty One is about Karma for me. I'm still not buying into Lisa's notions of lotions and potions. I'm still not going to read the sensible magazines for those in peri-menopause. I'm going to continue to think that everything is going to be fine. I have a great family and good friends and people who love me.
I mean, I made it past 4 - I can certainly make it past the 40s - how hard can it be?
And, did you know that the most dangerous age to be is 4? Yes. 4. More people are injured, maimed and die at the age of 4 than any other age. If you make it past 4, its all uphill from there. Aren't statistics amazing?
By the time I finish this blog I will be 41. June 11th is my birthday. I read through my post birthday blog last year and I talked about how a friend had recommended potions and lotions and all sorts of stuff to help me clutch my way into the culture of renewed youth and how I had rejected her advice. Today that same person sent me an email saying that I should enjoy my day for tomorrow I will be 41 and its a slippery slope to 50 and it aint pretty. Again, I say, bah humbug.
I look fine. I don't think I look 40 - or for that matter 41. And even if I do - who the fuck cares? With people like Susan Sarrandon setting the bar so very very high and making 56 the new 35 how the flaming hell am I ever going to compete anyway?
Fourty was a suck ass year for me and I am happy to see the back end of it. My good job went crapola and then I lost it. My life of contentment turned slightly malcontent. And I have a good feeling most of this had to do with my ever wavering health.
My body constantly betrays me. Just when I think we are all in this together - in an
"all for one and one for all" kind of way, it does something stupid for me or to me.
I started 40 out getting on board with the endocrinologist and admitting that my pancreas after 25 years of diabetes had bit the biscuit. I decided of my own free will to try insulin - and went straight to 4 shots a day. One of the two types caused me to suffer extreme insulin edema (super swelling) and I gained 56 pounds in 8 weeks. That, my friends, sucked ass. I still have only lost 12 of the 56. My body, completely composed of cream and jelly, is not kind to me in the weight loss department.
From there I moved to potential blindness as we discovered that both of my eyes had retinopathy - burst blood vessles causing spots in my vision. I took 6 months but they healed themselves. Good eyes. Very very good.
In the midst of this nightmare, I found the infamous and now cut-out spot. I am grateful always to the nag that made me get my mutated freckle checked. Its gone now, and they think they have gotten the whole thing - so woo hoo - skin cancer is done. Lets hope for good.
As for the underlying primary cancer that they continue to search for - I have tried to convince myself that there is no other cancer - there just isn't. But the doctor says if we can't find anything the first time through - we'll just keep looking. Thorough yes - but also invasive and troubling.
Then my feet started to pain with heel spurs - which I am going to continue to ignore. And to end the year with a bang, I broke my toe on Thursday. I even walked home with it broken black and purple. Why? Because I don't even care at this point. The body is just plastic coating at this point - the crispy candy coating. Who even cares what it looks like or how it hurts - mind over matter at this point really.
Fourty One is about Karma for me. I'm still not buying into Lisa's notions of lotions and potions. I'm still not going to read the sensible magazines for those in peri-menopause. I'm going to continue to think that everything is going to be fine. I have a great family and good friends and people who love me.
I mean, I made it past 4 - I can certainly make it past the 40s - how hard can it be?
Saturday, June 9, 2007
The ugly truth about dresses
The Christmas after I left University for the first time, and yes, I left 3 times, was one that just lately has come to make a lot of sense to me.
That year, I was working my very first full time job. I was rocking it working at Pennington's (a clothing store for fat ladies) in the Toronto Eaton Centre. Premier mall in the biggest city in all of Canada and I was selling mumus to all the best fat chicks in town. I was working my ass of for $278 every two weeks - and that's full time hours brothers and sisters - it was a LONG time ago. And I was only 20.
I had my own apartment - $275 a month - right beside the train tracks in one of the worst neighbourhoods in town. The entire apartment could fit inside my kitchen in my tiny townhouse now but I thought it was amazing.
Back to Christmas - I saved up and bought my mom a dress for Christmas. This was no small feat - finding a dress that would suit my Mom. My Mom had a weird body. She was big on top and also had a HUGE ass - the kind that we called a "shelf bum" - like you could sit trinkets and ornaments on to display them.... She also had a uniform that she rarely strayed from. She wore gabardine stretch pants in either brown, black or navy - a brightly coloured sleeveless shirt and a co-ordinating overblouse that covered her bum. We were all to check that the bum and gut were always covered over....
So, I thought I was stepping my mom out. My mom thought she had her own style - and in retrospect, although it horrified me - I guess she really did.
This dress I bought her was a two peice = short sleeved longish top and elastic waist A-line skirt. All in a tasteful black and white and green pattern that if I close my eyes I can still see although I find it quite impossible to describe without having it sound hideous.
My mom seemed happy enough when she opened it. I forced her to try it on because I wanted to see how wonderful it would look on her. Now, I had bought a size 28. For those of you not in the know, that's about as big as it got at the time - there was no where but smaller to go from there in the land of larges.
My mom tried it on and it didn't fit. The top was too small and the bottom wouldn't go around her.
I was sure that there was something wrong - I checked the tags - I kept saying that there must be some mistake.
And my mom broke down. She cried. I'm sure NOW that she was upset with herself - like I am when my "fat pants" turn out to be just "pants". But she started screaming... How could I do this to her. How could I ruin Christmas for her - for everyone. I am so selfish - everything has to be about Sandra. We all have to be impressed that Sandra can afford big gifts now that she has her big city job...how could I do this to her?
I spent Christmas day in my room. I couldn't even talk I was so ashamed. Why. What had I done this for? Why did I want to hurt her?
At one point during the day, my cousin Janice came up to my room - we're close now, we weren't then - and said to me that not only had I hurt my mother with my thoughtless gift, I had ruined christmas for her and everyone else.
My mom didn't speak to me for the rest of the day. I left the next morning for Toronto to be back to work on boxing day sales.
I took the dress with me. Turns out, it was a 22 mislabelled as a 28. I exchange it for the 28, mailed it to my mom and we never talked about that dress, that fight or that Christmas again.
I try not to think about that Christmas ever.
Christmas was my mom's favourite holiday. She spent 2 months preparing for it and a month cleaning up after it. Now that she's gone, I've tried to recreate the Christmas that she use to - but I just can't. Rick tells me every year that the Christmas I long for no longer exists. I almost think that it was the one horrific Christmas - the one that I inadvertently ruined by being an underacheiving over-acheiver that stops me from being able to.
I have this paralyzing fear that at any time as I try to make everyone love me (or at the very very least really like me) by giving anything and everything I've got to make sure that everyone is happy every minute of every day that at any second any one of them is going to turn to me and say "you ruined it all". And all I was trying to do was help.
That year, I was working my very first full time job. I was rocking it working at Pennington's (a clothing store for fat ladies) in the Toronto Eaton Centre. Premier mall in the biggest city in all of Canada and I was selling mumus to all the best fat chicks in town. I was working my ass of for $278 every two weeks - and that's full time hours brothers and sisters - it was a LONG time ago. And I was only 20.
I had my own apartment - $275 a month - right beside the train tracks in one of the worst neighbourhoods in town. The entire apartment could fit inside my kitchen in my tiny townhouse now but I thought it was amazing.
Back to Christmas - I saved up and bought my mom a dress for Christmas. This was no small feat - finding a dress that would suit my Mom. My Mom had a weird body. She was big on top and also had a HUGE ass - the kind that we called a "shelf bum" - like you could sit trinkets and ornaments on to display them.... She also had a uniform that she rarely strayed from. She wore gabardine stretch pants in either brown, black or navy - a brightly coloured sleeveless shirt and a co-ordinating overblouse that covered her bum. We were all to check that the bum and gut were always covered over....
So, I thought I was stepping my mom out. My mom thought she had her own style - and in retrospect, although it horrified me - I guess she really did.
This dress I bought her was a two peice = short sleeved longish top and elastic waist A-line skirt. All in a tasteful black and white and green pattern that if I close my eyes I can still see although I find it quite impossible to describe without having it sound hideous.
My mom seemed happy enough when she opened it. I forced her to try it on because I wanted to see how wonderful it would look on her. Now, I had bought a size 28. For those of you not in the know, that's about as big as it got at the time - there was no where but smaller to go from there in the land of larges.
My mom tried it on and it didn't fit. The top was too small and the bottom wouldn't go around her.
I was sure that there was something wrong - I checked the tags - I kept saying that there must be some mistake.
And my mom broke down. She cried. I'm sure NOW that she was upset with herself - like I am when my "fat pants" turn out to be just "pants". But she started screaming... How could I do this to her. How could I ruin Christmas for her - for everyone. I am so selfish - everything has to be about Sandra. We all have to be impressed that Sandra can afford big gifts now that she has her big city job...how could I do this to her?
I spent Christmas day in my room. I couldn't even talk I was so ashamed. Why. What had I done this for? Why did I want to hurt her?
At one point during the day, my cousin Janice came up to my room - we're close now, we weren't then - and said to me that not only had I hurt my mother with my thoughtless gift, I had ruined christmas for her and everyone else.
My mom didn't speak to me for the rest of the day. I left the next morning for Toronto to be back to work on boxing day sales.
I took the dress with me. Turns out, it was a 22 mislabelled as a 28. I exchange it for the 28, mailed it to my mom and we never talked about that dress, that fight or that Christmas again.
I try not to think about that Christmas ever.
Christmas was my mom's favourite holiday. She spent 2 months preparing for it and a month cleaning up after it. Now that she's gone, I've tried to recreate the Christmas that she use to - but I just can't. Rick tells me every year that the Christmas I long for no longer exists. I almost think that it was the one horrific Christmas - the one that I inadvertently ruined by being an underacheiving over-acheiver that stops me from being able to.
I have this paralyzing fear that at any time as I try to make everyone love me (or at the very very least really like me) by giving anything and everything I've got to make sure that everyone is happy every minute of every day that at any second any one of them is going to turn to me and say "you ruined it all". And all I was trying to do was help.
Saturday, June 2, 2007
**worryworryworryworry**
When I was a baby my Mother taught me, as she did all other babies before and after me, to say "worryworryworryworryworry". She'd hold her hands up in front of the baby's face (think jazz hands...) and repeat it over and over, "worryworryworryworryworry". Very monotone and in her deepest of deep lady voice. The babies would stare transfixed at her and eventually hold up their hands and we too would repeat "wooywooywooywooywooy".
So, I guess you can say I came by it honestly - my love of worrying.
I suppose its not so much of a love of worry but an obsession really. I've spent most of my life trying to control the worry with plattitudes. "Don't worry, it might never happen"...as much as I've tried to convince myself that the worst will never happen - some times bad shit happens to people. Sometimes we are all going to be that guy: your house will burn down, you parents will die, your husband will leave you, your kid will fall off the monkey bars and break their arm, you will get cancer, you will grow a big hair right in the centre of your chin and you will not get the job/man/girl/house/car/life that you want. Shit just sometimes happens. Of course, it also might never happen.
I think that the book "the secret" is good AND bad. I read someone's blog the other day touting its power to bring you stuff that you want. I respect that it works for her. I really really do. But, in essence, isn't the secret just a self fulfilling prophesy? If I believe it then it must be true/will be true. I'm not sure and I don't want to doubt anything that Oprah likes because I am convinced the blog police monitor blogs for anti-Oprah sentiments and if you speak against her - oooooh bad shit can happen to you. Perhaps that is where that chin hair came from?
I generally am full of piss and vinegar. On a good day I think I'm great and smart and funny and should likely rule the world - if I told you all how to live your life - how happy you would all be! It is the times when I'm alone and its too quiet that I let the self doubt creep in and allow my mother's mantra to infiltrate my tiny mind. I really MUST stop doing that. Does everyone do that? Did my mother teach you all? Damn she was good.
So, I guess you can say I came by it honestly - my love of worrying.
I suppose its not so much of a love of worry but an obsession really. I've spent most of my life trying to control the worry with plattitudes. "Don't worry, it might never happen"...as much as I've tried to convince myself that the worst will never happen - some times bad shit happens to people. Sometimes we are all going to be that guy: your house will burn down, you parents will die, your husband will leave you, your kid will fall off the monkey bars and break their arm, you will get cancer, you will grow a big hair right in the centre of your chin and you will not get the job/man/girl/house/car/life that you want. Shit just sometimes happens. Of course, it also might never happen.
I think that the book "the secret" is good AND bad. I read someone's blog the other day touting its power to bring you stuff that you want. I respect that it works for her. I really really do. But, in essence, isn't the secret just a self fulfilling prophesy? If I believe it then it must be true/will be true. I'm not sure and I don't want to doubt anything that Oprah likes because I am convinced the blog police monitor blogs for anti-Oprah sentiments and if you speak against her - oooooh bad shit can happen to you. Perhaps that is where that chin hair came from?
I generally am full of piss and vinegar. On a good day I think I'm great and smart and funny and should likely rule the world - if I told you all how to live your life - how happy you would all be! It is the times when I'm alone and its too quiet that I let the self doubt creep in and allow my mother's mantra to infiltrate my tiny mind. I really MUST stop doing that. Does everyone do that? Did my mother teach you all? Damn she was good.
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