Backyard shenanigans

You might think from the title of the post that I'm getting a little kinky sumthin' sumthin'. Yeah, not really. In the more literal definition, I decided last night after the air cooled that I would take on the Jurassic Park that is my backyard.

The weeds were up to my armpits - okay, an exaggeration - but they were really out of control, a definition of my current state of affairs at the moment. There was no time like the present so I grabbed the closest machete and went to chopping. The weeds are now at a more manageable level (not attacking my armpits), I've cleaned up the boxer's cesspool of feces (it rained and rained over the last couple weeks negating my poop patrol efforts), I spread topsoil, put up a barrier that could best be described as a chicken run and seeded, seeded and seeded some more.

Kao the mad boxer is now lying at my feet, staring at the enclosure and wondering when the chickens will appear, or the rabbits, and either one he's good with. What he is not happy about is that I've restricted his access to only a small swath of grass so he can no longer be craptastic over the entire backyard or roll in the mud. He can also not be Mr. Nosey Boxer and run at the fence doing his wiggle bum whenever someone passes outside of the fence. I think the neighbours are thankful since he's scared the crap out of some of them with his exhuberance.

He is, however, keeping patrol on the chicken/bunny run for brave birds who swoop down and steal his seed. One has already tried to dive down and do an airforce strike on his (and mine) but he's not deterred. I think I heard him mutter "Not on my watch, you damn birds." Or was it just my imagination?

Waiting for the SWAT takedown

Momma always knows... or at least in my case, Jesus Christ Margaret has some amazing powers of persuasion to extort information out of one Cloak and Dagger Dad. Or, it's because Joe just can't keep a secret for the life of him. I think it's the latter, but Marg has a way of weaseling information out of people when her suspicions are raised.

In short, my mother now knows that The Man and I are no longer. You may have already deduced that from the previous post. He's moving out at the end of June, and I'm a bundle of nerves. I know I've made the right decision for me. It doesn't mean that I'm not scared. In fact, I'm crapping my pants right now. (You're welcome for that unwanted visual...)

While my dad has been calling every few days to check in, Margaret's imagination has been running rampagnt, with visions of domestic disputes, police reports, SWAT takedowns and a stint in the witness protection program for the entire extended family. I may be exaggerating here, but not by much.

You would know this if you read previous posts about relentless phone calls, sending out the search party when told I was going for a walk around a few blocks (I live in a very safe neighbourhood and it was daylight) or phoning the cell and the house phone consistently until someone picks up.

My dad promised to keep her in check, however. It's a kind thing to do, but after all, he's the one who spilled the beans. Lesson learned: keep dad away from the cloak and dagger-like stuff. 'Cause he's pants at it.

An open letter to a passive-aggressive partner

I can't tell you how I hate you, how much, how little or even if I do.

There's a fine line between love and hate, and try as I might, I don't want to trip over that line.  I do hate the way you neglected to open up to me. I hate the way you used insincere words and a lack of action to control me. I hate that you neglected and took advantage of me because, in your words, "you could."

I hate the silence, the puppy dog eyes that follow me from room to room, from this life to the next. I despise the fact that you will never take responsibility for your part in this, only to say that "we tried, but we couldn't make it work."

There's a fine line between love and hate and I walk that line precariously, my feelings changing on a minute by minute, breath by breath basis, mourning for what could have been and relishing the thought of stomping out what it actually was.

I hate that you would never open up, taking my feelings and discounting or discrediting them. I hate your inability to really get close, connect, make love without thinking about your shortcomings. Control replaced love, insecurities replaced closeness and at the core, you blamed me.

I hate the way you made me feel when time after time I forgave you only to realize that it would happen again because you didn't want to change, you didn't want to own your mistakes. It was rare that words followed by legitimate action, only enough to appease me. Until the next time and there always a next time.

I hate that I believed we were entering into a partnership, one that was doomed from the start because you could no longer hide things from me but tried anyway. I hate that the mere definition of a passive-aggressive bears an uncanny resemblance to you. I hate that you held onto grudges for a year or more, or even for forever and that I would never know until you exploded from surpressing everything, stuffing everything down and sticking your head in the sand and pretending you didn't know that the world, our world was crumbling. I hated that you lied to me for three years or more, and that I had to find out from the police officer that pulled you over. I hated you for thinking you could get away with it. And, that you almost did. I hate that I had to take a final stand, and even then, you will not learn.

I hate that you found it so easy to ask for one last favour even after admitting to taking advantage of me, and that my natural reaction was to acquiese despite proof that you were not to be trusted. I hate the fact that silence hangs in the house, accusations a blanket shrouding what is real. I hate that you were surprised when I told you I had considered looking elsewhere when you witheld from me for years with no explanation.

There is a fine line between love and hate. I'm not sure which side I now rest. I just know that it's more important to love rather than hate and I have to start with myself.

Wishing you all that you deserve,
Scribe

Cloak and Dagger Dad

My dad is the cutest thing ever. (and I'm not meaning in a reverse Freud way).

Last week, I confided to my dad a new development in the life of Scribe. It was a monumentous change and one that is coming at the most inopportune time. I also told him not to breathe a word of it to "Jesus Christ Margaret" a.k.a. June Cleaver. Some things are better left unsaid, under the cloak of secrecy. This is one of them, or at least for now. Otherwise, it's the Spanish inquisition and I don't need that right now.

Since then, he's been calling me almost every day to check in, to see if I'm still sane - or as sane as I've ever been - and he's been doing it all cloak-and-dagger-like, waiting until Margaret /June is out of earshot, out of the house, or busying herself dusting the table legs. He's also handing me money like it's crack. He says it's to tide me over and I say "no, I don't want it" even though I have Snake waiting on the corner ready to hand over the goods with an eye peeled for any po-po patrols. In actuality, he calls it an emergency fund and it's really not that much. So, you burglars reading this and getting ready to stake out my house, a bite on the ass from my boxer is just not worth it.

He called the other day since he's coming over to "fix" the kitchen tap he put in last week and wanted to firm up the details of when he should drop by. He lives near Niagara Falls and I live in Brampton, so it's a big deal to get the times right. As we were signing off, he heard a flurry of activity and realized it was Margaret/June seeing the red "busy" light on the phone and wondering with whom he was conversing. Perhaps it was the new retiree who had moved in down the street... and there was no way she was getting her hooks into my father's non-existent, flat (and saggy) ass (no offence, pops).

He whispered a veiled bye and quickly disconnected, hoping she wouldn't hear me breathing on the other side of the telephone wire. And while I asked only not to tell my mother that big piece of startling news, it's funny that he's taken it to the Watergate/Deep Throat extreme of checking for telephone line bugs, looking over his shoulder and changing his voice whenever he calls.

I'm expecting him to visit tomorrow with the promised tool to get my tap sitting flush to the kitchen counter. I just hope he leaves the trenchcoat and shades at home. Otherwise, my neighbours might just call the po-po and my grow-op/temporary meth lab/brothel will be discovered.

Christopher "Gus" Brockbank --- May 13, 2010

I don't have the words today, so instead I will rely on photos to say how much I miss hearing Gus' laugh and feeling his arms wrapped around me.

He was a handsome little man and I thank him every day for his love and honesty.

Little Bunny Fou-Fou frolicks no more

The Easter Bunny is no more. I killed him, little poopy eggs and all. I squished him with my tires and I'm sure the hangman will soon be down from the gallows to hang my sorry ass. But, on a positive note, I at least waited until after Easter to explode his innards all over the road and all over my usually clean tires. Vehicular Bunny-Slaughter.

I didn't mean to do it, really. It's not like he refused me chocolate eggs so I took up my weapon, in this case my car, Roxy, and mowed him down in cold blood. I was a little cold from the outdoor temps but my heart was in the right place. My tires, however, were not.

I was driving back from grabbing a coffee with a couple of friends - a bit hyped on the java - but clear-headed and reactive nonetheless. It was quick (the rabbit and the whole situation) and I'm pretty sure I saw his eyes glaze over as his life flashed or sprinted across his mind. Of the easter eggs he won't get to ever hide again, the carrots he left on the kitchen table for his return, or his millions of children that will now go parentless.

This is my story: I was traveling down an empty road when all of a sudden there was this white (actually tan) streak in the road, ears up and running across the road without looking both ways. Otherwise he would have seen my headlights and the tires that very quickly met with the head and the attached ears. It was hoppity-hop, hopitty-hop. The Oh-no-I-can-see-my dead-momma-waving-to-me look passed across his expressive face, and nothing. Lights out. Bunny down!

I'll just explain to the judge and jury that it could not be avoided. That he was all stealth-like until his very last second before impact. I'll say that his death was deserved, a mercy killing because he told me he was all stressed over the Easter-egg vs. Peeps debate. Chocolate vs. marshmallow. I see a clear winner. I will show some remorse for the situation but will not confess to knowingly taking out the Easter bunny.

I just hope he worked ahead and has already hidden my Easter eggs for next year. If not, his wife will get it next...

I really do need a life...



Blurry photo taken with Blackberry of the countless rubber chicken taunts. He's back again. Save me.


One Walmart special pink, bikini-clad rubber chicken with pink-painted toenails + one crazy 3-year old boxer named Kao...

= hours of uninterrupted fun, with chases, taunts and the occasional fling across the room.

I really do need a life. Or at least more rubberized farm animals.

Peeps: Not just for Easter

It's been three weeks or so since the Easter weekend, so you'd think the Peeps would be put away, forgotten on a high shelf. Apparently, some people still feel the need to bring them out and parade them around. Even on camera.

I'm not talking about the sickly sweet, marshmallow yellow chick-like treats. I'm talking peeps in the extreme voyeuristic sense. And, this past week, I was assaulted, nay my eyeballs raped by Peeps.

I shall call him Edgar, which is not his real name, but if I use it here his identity may be threatened and he may feel the need to wield his mighty sword and smite me down. Edgar is a MSN webcammer, a friend from way back in my scholastic days and I thought while he was off-colour, witty and harmless, his webcam and his use of it isn't.

It started out innocently. "Hey, how are you? What's new? What have you been up to lately.?" Nothing much was the answer. He asked if I had a webcam, and since I hadn't seen him in the flesh since we left our hallowed halls, I thought I'd like to see into which this new-age Edgar had morphed. We chatted, laughing, reminiscing and basically getting caught up. That is until he asked me if I liked Peeps.

I'm not one for the sweet and the sugary. I prefer my snacks to be more savoury and I said so. "Not those Peeps," he said, adding that he had to stretch his legs. "Okay," I said. "Go to town." And that was when my computer and my eyes, brain and all other senses exploded. And not in a good way.

"Peekaboo, I see you," he typed in caps as if yelling at me to look. "NOOOOO!" I screamed in cyber-talk, my cursor rushing to the minimize button. "Hey! Where'd ya go," he typed.

"I think I'm blind," I responded, clicking the maximize when I knew he had sat down, ready to type and to see my response to his little escapade.

"My eyes, my eyes, Edgar! They're burning. Oh, it hurts, it hurts. Make it stop."

"Did I do that," he asked ever-so innocently. Yes, yes, he did and I don't think I'll ever look at a webcam without that vision permanently burned into my retinas.

"I need to stretch again," he responded. "NOOOOOOOO! I typed, in caps and repetitive OOO's so he would know not to stand up, or at least pull on a pair of pants.

"Do you have insurance," I asked, thinking I may just have to sue him for affronting my senses.

I'm not a prude by any stretch of imagination. I speak about spotted dick, for heaven's sake. But, when you're expecting an innocent "hey, how ya doin' buddy" conversation with the person who used to steal your fries in the cafeteria line and instead you're subjected to a smorgasborg of beans and franks and those evil Peeps, then you take a step back to say "Whoa, Nelly!" or Edgar, or Gertrude or whoever is on the other side of that webcam. You reach for the first aid kit and rumage around for the eyewash station you know you packed in there thinking, oh, I'll never use this.

But you will, and especially if you ever come across those Peeps again. I pray to dog you don't. Unless you're into that sort of thing. And, if you are, I have someone who may just be willing.

Live by what you say...

Words are merely that... words... and they often lose their power if they're not followed up by action. It's not a new revelation but it's one that I have learned again and again, forgotten the lesson only to relearn it with feelings hurt.

I am one to take people at face value. You tell me one thing about yourself and I will believe it so vehemently that if anyone else disagrees I will take up a bat and beat them into submission for doubting this apparent truth. "It must be true because so-and-so said so. They haven't lied to me before, and I don't care that I've only known them for x-amount of time."

Actions, however, are where it's at. Actions prove intent and words followed up by the action set forth with those words are my new gold. My talisman.

This lesson was actually taught to me years ago by the wonderful parental units. They counted to three and they said when they hit three and I was still doing the act that necessitated the counting then I was in for it. They reached three once. As sure as the skies are blue (at least for today), my father wound up and slapped me across the fanny. Wallop would have been a more appropos word. I got walloped. But they followed through with what they said and they never reached that scary number again.

Now I'm not saying we should revert to the old counting method or hit our children with belts, but a lesson can be gleaned by many from this story. Follow through with promises. Don't say it if you don't mean it. Don't tell half truths and if you don't really want to do something don't say you will. It's okay to say no. Say what you mean, mean what you say and live by it. And, if you agree to the promised action more than once, then you damn better stand by it. Otherwise, you'll force me to count to three and you don't want that.

In which I make progress

I had a temporary mind lapse today in that I forgot about mine.

I'm not sure if I announced this or not -probably for  fear of jinxing it - but I've signed on to organize a media launch for a new neighbourhood initiative in Brampton. I won't go into details, but it's a new program that promotes a journey back into the days of old where you knew your neighbours and  spoke up when something did not bode well in the neighbourhood, whether it be overall safety, community involvement or concerns about new programs or developments. It's a great initiative and I'm excited to be involved. It also lets me wear more than sweat or yoga pants during my day-to-day dealings. Sweatpants are comfortable but as an everyday uniform it can get quite depressing.

But I digress... so I was working  in the office today, creating the media invite and working out the details for potential press releases. I was in my element, so much so that I forgot about from which I came - namely my last position in which the life was sucked out of  me. I had been researching alternate news sources and was getting ready to post an event to a local web portal and noticed that a former client from Cell Block C had received a business award - an outstanding business award. My first thought was "Oh, I should call up Mr. Ass and let him know so he can send a gift, a note, a whatever." And then my hand went to the phone. I still have his cell phone number seared into my brain. It's probably because he's Belzebub and the flames of pergatory had flickered out and branded me with his evilness. Or, it's because I'm a chump.

Either way, the number was half dialed, my finger resting on the final digit when I thought WTF and immediately hung up the phone. He did me no favours in the almost four years I worked at Cell Block C. He was Sybil in the male form and would go from giddy to gastrointestinal ass-hat in 60 seconds or less. He was a condescending, little snivelly twit who would run to mommy and daddy to complain about anyone and then would kiss ass in the next minute to get you back on his side. You can tell we had a love-hate relationship, and while we got along swimmingly for two years before the psychosis became too evident, our parting could not have come too soon.

I really don't think I'm a chump. I actually think I have selective memory disorder and the little girl who asks how high to jump when asked tends to revert back to the known. I also think that I can't change my integral self. I like to help and will give you the shirt off off of my back if you have a need. It's been ingrained in me and most times it's one of my better attributes. Except for those times that I offer the assistance, the caring to the wrong people.

The good news is I didn't bite. I didn't dial that last number and I didn't have to subject myself to the Jeckyl and Hyde that is Mr. Asshat. I didn't need to put myself in the situation where I had to talk to someone who I knew would be all sweet and mired in bullshit one moment and backstabbing you the next. I'd seen it before and I'm not going back.

I may not be past the initial instinct to help, no matter who it is, but atleast I can realize who is worth the effort and go from there. It's onward and upward to a better me, but one that will still break out in song in the middle of the grocery store and offer to buy complete strangers a can of spotted dick - 'cause I kinda like that girl.

Moons on Jupiter

I've just finished my final week of art class - today, Sunday. I have no idea how many moons Jupiter has (I should look this up on Google search but it's late and I'm tired), but I'm pretty sure this would be what its inhabitants would see if they looked out of their window.

I didn't set out to paint Jupiter. I had an inspiration from a painting borrowed from my friend's bathroom wall, which she had purchased at Walmart. Yes, inspiration at Walmart. And, it's one in a series. So, tomorrow or the day after I am off to the art store as I've decided to paint the next in my series. It will have the same tone or feeling but with a different orientation and on a much larger scale.

This piece as all about the blending, which I've discovered just may be my forte. Me... a person trying not to blend in with the crowd and live a life outside of a neatly organized and labeled box. Perhaps it's by taking on the blending in this vein that I can make my mark, or at least one of many marks that will pepper the map of my life.

It certainly beats the Paint by Number paintings I started out "creating."