Scribing Life

Still wondering about my saucy marriage...

2012-01-26T18:58:00.000-08:00

An oldie but a goodie, so much I thought it deserved a second peek. 'Cause it's funny and I think I'm still in love with that nice piece of meat...

I'm quite enjoying the single life - being responsible for only my own well-being, coming and going freely save spending more time with Kao so he's not so lonely - so you can imagine my surprise when I considered entering into a union so delicious that I was aflush with excitement, drooling at the possibility of a rendez-vous with a piece of fresh meat.

It started this past Wednesday evening at a dinner held by an old co-worker. Her and her husband had invited me to break bread with them, perhaps taking pity on me cooking for one again. As I sat down to a barbecue dinner, I looked across the table and felt a pang, a flitter of my mending heart.

He was rich, full-bodied, red-blooded, and I couldn't wait to ravish him. I raised my glass and gave a slow wink and an even slower smile to show my interest. A flirt by nature, I had forgotten how fun it was to flutter my eyelashes and use my feminine wiles.

He was the perfect companion, the strong silent type but with an aroma that spoke volumes. He wore a suit of reddish-brown, with a spicy disposition that bordered on saucy.

Our initial rendez-vous was brief but I knew I had fallen in love and announced at the table our intention to marry. My fellow Cell Block C inmate was surprised but laughed, knowing I was serious but also realizing that the union would never hold up.

I tried to savour it, hold on and lovingly caress his flank. It had been a while since I had seen such a specimen, choosing others with a more refined, blander palette. It was sometimes easier that way - less temptation and a bit less guilt. But in this case I was done for. I had succumbed.

"I love this so much I think I want to marry it," I had announced as I slipped my knife in time and time again, stretching the culinary experience out for an hour or more. Sauteed mushrooms, summer salad with feta cheese and olive oil, corn on the cob, roasted potatoes... it was all good but nothing held my attention the way Mr. Sirloin did.

Now, three days later, I find myself yearning for him, calling him in the middle of the night as I remember how tender and loving he was - the way he fit perfectly on my fork and let me take from him time and time again with no questions, no requests and no strings.

Okay, so yes, I didn't have an encounter with a potential new partner - certainly not this soon after I'd managed to oust the Ex Man and take my house back - but it was intense nonetheless. And, it was a great break to the week, to visit with friends, talk over dinner and enjoy a piece of meat that I don't otherwise ingest. I'm sure we'll meet again, but I may have to wait. After all, I am in mourning for the last rendez-vous I had around the barbecue.

Too close for comfort

2012-01-25T22:19:00.000-08:00

I owe you an update. I know. It's been a long three months full of hope, optimism and more than a few "tears caught in the throat" situations.

I'm not one to cry. Just ask any of my friends. If the tears well, I take a deep breath and say "Suck it up. There are people who are worse off." And, there always are. There are weary cancer soldiers (and I include their families in that group). There are those with no support system. There are even those who do not know that some situations deserve laughter instead of worry. But, these past few months, I've cried. Not as openly as some friends and family would wish for me, but tears nonetheless. And, while I owe you an update, a "hey I'm still here" post, I owe you the truth as well.

Christmas has come and gone. It was harder than most because of the roller coaster of weeks prior. My dad - my fighter of monsters under the bed - was more victim than soldier. He was weak, pale and mortal. October and November brought a constant blur, of visits to the St. Catharines Hospital, of late night texts and a slew of ambulance rides - so many that my parents' neighbours were used to the swirling lights and the sirens. "Oh, there goes Joe" they said.

There he went time and time to the hospital, each time with worrying symptoms. Crohns, C. difficile, pneumonia, an irregular heartbeat, congestive heart failure and finally a mini-stroke. The doctors were baffled (or at least they never seemed to have an answer). It was daily and it was difficult. While I could focus on the day-to-day, the future was not yet determined. To see him shuffle from the gurney to the xray table and back to the bed was horrible. Rubbing his feet was the only solace and he put up with it. He also put up with the worried looks my mum and I would exchange when his memory failed and his feet, legs and hands swelled from the lack of circulation. The strong and vibrant character was failing. His larger-than-life stature seemed stunted, changed, and closer to the end of his journey rather than a hiatus.

But, there is a light - a glimpse of the soldier he has always been. It's been over a month since his mini-stroke, and thanks to a revamping of his medications - additions of one and decrease of another (10 in all, if you can believe it) - he has had no other symptoms, no other ambulance rides, and he's now gathering his strength at the local gym by walking the track (and taking lots of naps).

Christmas was low-key - gathering at my brother and sister-in-law's house to relieve some of the Christmas dinner stress from Mum. There were lots of hugs and I love you's. And there was lots of laughter and tears. I never miss a chance now to tell someone I love them because you never know when it will be your last chance.

Hello? Is it me you're looking for?

2011-11-13T00:31:00.000-08:00

Hello Blogosphere. It’s been a while and I’ve really missed you, missed you so much that I thought about you almost every day since I’ve been away.

In my time away from you, I’ve done a lot of thinking, a lot of working and a lot of living. I’ve rearranged my living room at least three times and it’s even now going under its latest transformation. I’ve moved couches, rescued an ottoman from the Goodwill for a meager $10 (I brought them down from $15) and offered new homes for things that no longer worked in my humble abode – things that no longer fit my existence. It’s been liberating and a little scary as I stumble to discover my new sense of self. My living room reflects that as I wonder what exactly my new sense of style and self entails. And, like myself, my home for the past eight years still feels unfinished despite the work that’s already taken place.

I will admit that I was stuck in limbo for a bit. It was like I was thinking “if it’s not broke, don’t fix it.” But it was. I was. Broken. Holding onto an image of what or who I was supposed to be. I can’t say I’m fully better now, but I’m definitely a little closer than I ever have been before.

So, in celebration of the changes I’ve made I am going to let you in on what has been happening since I last wrote, the places I’ve been and the new experiences that have popped up.

I got myself a new tenant this past September. He’s got a snake tattoo but I didn’t judge him for that. While he’s a little rough around the edges looks-wise, he’s kind, decent, honest and he loves Kao, proving it’s best not to judge a book by its cover. Oh, and he willingly shares in the chores. My floors, bathroom and kitchen have never been cleaner. I also laid down the rules of the house before he moved in and I’ve remained true to them and to myself.
I developed elephant ankles and claw hands in August from a serious infection. And while it was not fun and I don’t want to see the inside of an emergency room or my doctor for quite some time, I did discover just how awesome my friends are – bringing me smut magazines, soup and cleaning my house when I could barely manage to walk the stairs to my bedroom.
On that note, I’ve forged an awesome new friendship with an old acquaintance – one that I hope to have for a very long time.
I visited an antique market with another new friend where we unveiled a love of antiques and a genuine appreciation for each other.
I found that my decorating style is not traditional and not modern but rather transitional, sort of like me.
I started dating, not as a way to find my next relationship but more to have fun, meet new people and to realize that not every fork will match my spoon.
I made Anasatan insanely proud because both of us realized that the initial change of not accepting second best was not a one-time occurrence.
I got hired, or I should say re-hired, on a part-time contract with the safety association and learned that I am a good event planner. It’s also closer to where I want to be career-wise and that my skills transfer brilliantly.
While we did not manage to attend the taping of The Rick Mercer Report one Friday night as planned (we got stuck in downtown Toronto traffic), Anasatan and my extended family did enjoy an awesome dinner, a lot of laughs and a plethora of smoked meat at a downtown deli.
Mags, G-Girl and I attended a comedy night on Labour Day weekend that, unbeknown to us, was held above a sex club. We looked in, curious to see what it was all about. Judging from the patrons already there, it was not for us. So, instead we ventured off to see what other trouble we could get ourselves into on a Sunday night and ended up getting a three finger salute from a rather attractive exotic dancer at a local strip club.
My Cloak and Dagger Dad admitted that we’re more alike than we ever thought. He too had a doctor tell him he was full of shit (he had a blockage in his lower intestines)… UPDATE: Dad has just been diagnosed with Crohn’s and has spent the last two weeks in hospital fighting a myriad of illnesses, including potential pneumonia and a definite irregular heartbeat. We’re hoping he’s on the mend since he hates the meals hospitals pass off as real food. I’m trying to keep my hopes up and away from googling his symptoms. The potential diagnoses are just too much to process right now.

That’s not all but it’s late and my insomnia appears to be receding and I must catch that wave. Until next time, blogosphere. Oh, how much I have missed you!

Missing: myself

2011-08-10T23:02:00.000-07:00

The other day a friend of mine asked me how I was doing since The Ex Man had left my humble abode and my life. She asked if I missed him and if there was any chance that we would work things out.

It's been over a month so it was a fair question. I had time to be acclimatized to a bedroom without hitting my toe on a dresser that was too big for the space or sleep in the bed that kept mysteriously losing bolts (but only on my side - coincidence or murder plot... hmm...). I also had a full month of permanent garbage duty and poop patrol details, and a month of no cheesy lines or stories repeated verbatim ad nauseum.

The truth of the matter is that while I miss the companionship, the connection between two human beings I don't miss him as a partner. It was a partnership that never truly was. I don't miss the long silences and stares as he tried to guess how I would react before deliverying any news - from his dinner preference or weekend plans to his penchant for Money Mart loans. I miss laughing over Kao's antics or how he'd play hide and seek throughout the house and have Kao chase him up the stairs laughing (The Ex Man, not Kao - that's just ridiculous). I don't miss relying on someone who could not be relied upon.

Even though he was a quiet guy (and still is), the house is even quieter now. Kao has taken to grunting at me, constantly by my side to play, go out, romp, throw sticks, rubber chickens and pigs. He does let me sleep in and he hasn't tried to eat any more of my undergarments but I think even he feels the void. To say it's any one person, I can't say. He just senses the shift in dynamics, the table set for one. As I write this, he's grunting at me to go out or to give me a kiss. I sure wish he could use his words.

I miss words, conversation, a connection between two people who live in close quarters. I miss having my back scratched every night before sleep and someone to tell me how awesome, beautiful, sexy and smart I am. So now, I scratch my own back (don't use the spagetti strainer if ever you visit - it's not in the kitchen anymore). Every morning when I'm greeted with my image in the mirror, I tell myself exactly what I see: a strong, beautiful, sexy, smart and funny woman who stood her ground and refused to accept second best.

It's working, slowly but surely. But it's in these quiet times that I yearn for the hopes of days past when I believed in and was excited by the possibilities that lay ahead in the new relationship of four years past, and when I believed that there was a fork to match my spoon.

I know there will come a day when the quiet times and these feelings will slip away, and now, a month past, it is getting easier and easier. I may just have to keep the radio on 24-7 until I'm dancing joyously and missing nothing.

He's on a cougar hunt and he's found one...

2011-08-09T23:12:00.000-07:00

I should have known when he danced up to our table and announced he was a progressive house DJ who hoped he would get the part-time gig as a sandwich master at Subway for which he had interviewed last week.

It was our first full day in Charlottetown and Anasatan and I had secured a table on the patio, listening to the band du jour at Peake's Quay down by the Charlottetown waterfront. We were tying on a few rum and Diet Cokes and were just thankful and excited to be back at Peake's, the scene for many a fun night during our last visit five years ago. We knew there would be young'uns but there had been a good mix of people in the past and we were looking forward to letting loose.

Mr. DJ looked about 19 though he swore he was 25, hip-hopping his way over to our table with an Alpine beer (swill) and Rev in hand. Besides his very stylish and exhuberant dancing, what stood out the most was his inability to look away, taking in what he thought was our predator pheramones.

We may have just entered the 40-club, but neither myself or Anasatan are ready to enter Cougar-dom just yet. Besides our need for mid-day naps, we did not look nor feel any of our 40 years. And, I certainly wasn't into the young meat Mr. DJ was showcasing. He was impressed that we hailed from just around Toronto, thinking we had the inside scoop of the latest raves, lounges and clubs. What he didn't realize was we were both more Jesus of Surburbia than downtown hipster. He also didn't realize that the conversation would turn from friendly to downright strange. He should have known. We, on the other hand, had no idea how the conversation (and our stomachs) would turn.

Just one of the things I love about Anasatan is her awesome sense of humour (and also her great taste in best friends), so I wasn't surprised when she quipped in with one of her zingers. After inviting Mr. DJ to join us at the table for some stimulating conversation and finding that he clammed up instantly when in the presence of our awesomeness, I was trying to make conversation and had asked him what brought him out on that particular windy night. I had grown tired of his adoration and non-blinking stare and needed to fill in the air space in with something other than his deep breathing and drooling (Yes, it goes without saying that we were hawt).

"Well, Scribe, he's out on a cougar hunt and he's found one," joked Anasatan in her usual devilish attitude, laughing at Mr. DJ's shocked expression. I wasn't sure how he was going to answer or if he'd manage a retort at all. He wasn't exactly rating high on the wit scale. What we got was even more shocking (and a whole load more disturbing).

"I can't do anything," he confessed. "I've got genital warts."

Yes, genital warts. Not "well, really, you're not my type and while I'm enjoying this conversation I think I'm going to drink up some lemonade and dance with the hipsters in the corner." Genital warts. Herpes. An STD broadcast.

And, while I appreciated his blatant honesty, the fact that I had not even expressed an iota of interest had me second guessing as to what phrase had actually left his lips. So, I asked him to repeat it. My ears had heard correctly. Genital warts. I did not know what to say, and it's a rare occasion that I'm left speechless and automatically feeling the need to wash my hands, my eyes, my ears and generally any part of my body that may or may not have come into contact with DJ Penil Warts.

Copious amounts of alcohol followed more to kill any germs that may have congregated on his chair during his thankfully brief time with us but also to be able to process what had just occurred. And process we did, telling everyone from the young ladies waiting for a taxi out in front of the patio bar to the waitress and the cab drivers we would hire throughout the week.

It also became our phrase of the entire holiday: "Oh, I can't do the dishes - I've got genital warts," "Oh, I think I need to take a third shower today to ward off those genital warts," "Oh, Mr. Cab Driver, we can't possibly consider inviting you in for a drink - we've become afflicted with genital warts." You get the picture.

What a picture it is... having never seen or come into contact with anyone with genital warts I was curious. Rule to live by: never Google images of genital warts after ingesting a meal... or ever. In this case, it's better to remain curious than to be in the know. Unless you've got itching and your member looks like a roll of braille. Then it's time to go see a doctor and put that penis or vagina into hiatus, hiding or just chop it off.

There's not room enough for the both of us...

2011-07-24T23:43:00.000-07:00

I am under no delusions that real-life mice are like the little mice in Cinderella and all other Disney films - cute, friendly and more than likely to break out into song at every turn. I know that if I run into a crab it's not going to be the calypso singing crustacean from the Little Mermaid. I will not invite them into my house for a visit and I will not tell them to pull up a chair to share a meal with me.

I'm a lover of all creatures, despite recent reportings of a Thumper killing. That bunny had a death wish and a crazed look in his eyes; I was doing society a favour.

I love my boxer boy, I continue to love my soccer ball cat though she has left this world, I even love the robin who visits me every morning in the garden 'though I would never consider a parakeet, cockatoo or even a budgie within the confines of my home. What I do not love is the scurry of little feet across the ground, and that is why I want to crunch their little tiny brains under my feet, take a stiletto to the cranium and poison the feck out of the little varmints.

About three years ago, well before I started this blog, I learned that I can shriek like a girl when I come into contact with a mouse, especially if it runs across the counter right in front of me. And rats... forget about it. Bubonic plague, anyone?

I live in a townhouse complex. I like my neighbours, for the most part, and because we all share a common roofline it's often in the best interest to eradicate the critters. I haven't seen any in the past two years ('cause I poisoned the crap out of the last bunch), so imagine my surprise when one ran across my patio (thankfully still outside) a week ago. Two, three, four sightings followed on a daily basis. I'm not sure if it's the same mouse or its brothers or sisters but my first instinct (to scream) came to my lips immediately. And then I wanted to kill them. To poison them. To trap them and feed them to snakes, watching their round little bodies and tiny brains devoured, digested. Gone. Oh, and I dislike snakes even more.

So, to arm myself, I called in for reinforcements. Artillery. Nuclear weapons. While they are still outside, I know when the temperature drops and snow starts to fly, they will seek heat and that heat will be in my house. The pest control came the other day to place sticky traps underneath my hollow concrete stoop. I hadn't seen any activity for a few days, so I thought it was one and that we'd got him. Not the case.

I don't know how many there are, but tonight as I was sitting out enjoying the last few rays of sunlight, I heard it. The squeak. The call of Stuart Little (whose cuter than these backyard visitors 'cause he speaks English and wears a bow tie). And then I saw his friend sent in to haul his platoon mate off of the battlefield and away to safety. And then I heard a louder squeak as both (if not more) got their tiny feet and tails stuck down on the lacquered surface of the trap.

Kao's ears were doing double duty with him cocking his head to the left and right as he heard the screams of death and the scratching and munching as the mice tried to gnaw their legs off and execute their escape. I'm just thankful he has yet to notice the mice running into the hollowed out shell of the stoop or try to get into the mouse cemetary underneath the stoop.

I think I'm also becoming accustomed to sharing the backyard space for them as I now make sure Kao is far away from them instead of screaming like a banshee first. Don't get me wrong... if one runs across my foot I will not guarantee that I will not freak out. What will do it is if the mice start sewing buttons and doing my laundry as they deliver a very cute rendition of "It's a Small World." Now that would be freaky.

We're all full up here

2011-07-22T13:14:00.000-07:00

I have a confession to make... a lovely, guilty pleasure, sweet confession... I have spent the last two days in limbo, in a cozy space I created for myself with no ringing phones but welcome texts, hours spent in the full heat of summer with a hot dog and a garden hose. And, all I wore was a bathing suit and a cover-up as to not shock the neighbours.

My house is a bit of a mess, cereal box on the counter, bowl and spoon left suspended on the drying rack with no motion towards the cupboard. The books that I removed from my livingroom bookshelf for rearranging or packing up elsewhere still sit on the floor waiting for something - for movement, for a day out of limbo.

It's deliciously decadent. At a time when I should be scouring the job ads I've pointed my curser to other parts of the net, clicking on that site and that one over there and avoiding the sites that seem to bring disappointment, no movement.

There's another resident living with me in these days of limbo. It's a familiar face and one that comes back for visits time and time again. While familiar, it's not a welcome guest as it points out over and over again what I'm doing wrong, what I should be doing, the person I should be.

I don't know where he comes from or where he goes when he disappears from me, but each time Guilt visits it's like a constant barrage of fists in the gut. Equally timed and each jab a little bit harder than the next, Guilt pummels me until I doubt my very existence. I can't wait until he moves on.

I'm hoping I can get him to pack his bags a little longer by moving out of limbo, out of my yard, away from my garden hose and into the house where I can find a new home for my stack of books. Movement, I think, is the cure.

Just to be sure, I'm going to hang a no-vacancy sign on my door leading into my brain. There's no room for you here, I'd call. We're all full up.

9 Days...

2011-07-19T22:17:00.000-07:00

Christopher sitting in the red sands of the Atlantic Ocean.

Every day for the past two weeks, I've called my friend Anasatan or she's called me and said two words. Today it was "9 Days!" followed by a squeal. I used to get so excited when I was younger counting down the days and sometimes hours until an exciting event. I hadn't done that in a long time - until now.

We've been planning this trip since last year and in detail since January. As of 2:45 p.m. on July 28, we will be on our flight to what I believe to be the world's smallest airport - Charlottetown, PEI. I'm sure there will be many who would tell us there are smaller airports, but I loved the fact that you could, while standing in arrivals, wave to someone in the departures "lounge." If memory serves, there is one carousel for all flights. In short, it's lovely, it's quaint and I can't wait to get there.

Prince Edward Island, and Charlottetown in particular is a breath of fresh air when you're used to a city of smog. People are friendly - like really friendly - and you'll probably get the same taxi driver for every errand. A smile will get you a hello, a wave will get you a new best friend (don't worry, Anasatan, I'm not trading you in... yet).

Now, for something that we've both been looking forward to since January, the countdown is on. T -9 days, blogosphere. We've got tentative plans, which I hope will include whale watching, jewellery making, people watching and just relaxing in general, taking the slowed existence in stride and taking a deep breath. I've been yearning for such a deep breath, and while it's possible to breathe deeply here, the air is different, the outlook is different, I'm different.

Here's proof in point that Charlottetown is friendly (or the Charlottetown Tourist Board is on the ball): when I announced on Twitter that I'm looking forward to touching down at what I think is the world's smallest airport, someone on the tourist board pounced nay leapt to welcome us personally and to spread the love. Either they're really friendly or they're pretending. I think the former is true.

Other PEI experiences I'm looking forward to (and hoping it's still the case): pop in glass bottles (there's nothing like it), Cora's within walking distance, Peakes Quay and the array of stores, bars and restaurants, the bench outside of Linda's Coffee Shop at the most dangerous intersection in Charlottetown as no one obeys traffic laws or signs... it's amazing just to sit back and people and car watch.

I might even kiss the ground, but more importantly I will breathe.

Who are ya?

2011-07-16T12:24:00.000-07:00

Blogger is at it again... it's hiding new followers so I can't say hello, check out their blogs or even comment since I don't know whose been reading and who wants to continue reading my blog.

So, if it's you and I've been remiss in saying hello, drop me a line with a link to your blog and I'll be sure to stop on by. It's not you, it's not me - it's Blogger.

I now pronounce you Mr. and Mrs. Sirloin

2011-07-15T23:45:00.000-07:00

I'm quite enjoying the single life - being responsible for only my own well-being, coming and going freely save spending more time with Kao so he's not so lonely - so you can imagine my surprise when I considered entering into a union so delicious that I was aflush with excitement, drooling at the possibility of a rendez-vous with a piece of fresh meat.

It started this past Wednesday evening at a dinner held by an old co-worker from Cell Block C. Her and her husband had invited me to break bread with them, perhaps taking pity on me cooking for one again. As I sat down to a barbecue dinner, I looked across the table and felt a pang, a flitter of my mending heart.

He was rich, full-bodied, red-blooded, and I couldn't wait to ravish him. I raised my glass and gave a slow wink and an even slower smile to show my interest. A flirt by nature, I had forgotten how fun it was to flutter my eyelashes and use my feminine wiles.

He was the perfect companion, the strong silent type but with an aroma that spoke volumes. He wore a suit of reddish-brown, with a spicy disposition that bordered on saucy.

Our initial rendez-vous was brief but I knew I had fallen in love and announced at the table our intention to marry. My fellow Cell Block C inmate was surprised but laughed, knowing I was serious but also realizing that the union would never hold up.

I tried to savour it, hold on and lovingly caress his flank. It had been a while since I had seen such a specimen, choosing others with a more refined, blander palette. It was sometimes easier that way - less temptation and a bit less guilt. But in this case I was done for. I had succumbed.

"I love this so much I think I want to marry it," I had announced as I slipped my knife in time and time again, stretching the culinary experience out for an hour or more. Sauteed mushrooms, summer salad with feta cheese and olive oil, corn on the cob, roasted potatoes... it was all good but nothing held my attention the way Mr. Sirloin did.

Now, three days later, I find myself yearning for him, calling him in the middle of the night as I remember how tender and loving he was - the way he fit perfectly on my fork and let me take from him time and time again with no questions, no requests and no strings.

Okay, so yes, I didn't have an encounter with a potential new partner - certainly not this soon after I'd managed to oust the Ex Man and take my house back - but it was intense nonetheless. And, it was a great break to the week, to visit with friends, talk over dinner and enjoy a piece of meat that I don't otherwise ingest. I'm sure we'll meet again, but I may have to wait. After all, I am in mourning for the last rendez-vous I had around the barbecue.

Goose crossing

2011-07-13T12:58:00.000-07:00

They may look cute, but don't cross them! Photo courtesy of Robin Lindsey

I ventured out of the house and away from the computer today to do some much needed facialscaping, namely my eyebrows and my upper lip. Waxed. Gone. Deforested. I was thinking it would be just a jaunt to my favourite esthetician, a mid-day break and about 20 minutes of me time. It was so much more.

It was only 20 minutes - a 5-minute drive and 15-minutes in the weedwacking chair. It was uneventful, save the momentary "Argh" moment as every follicle was ripped out of my forehead and moustache area. It was on the way home that the adventure and the laughter began.

If you live in Canada and are situated anywhere near a park or mass of water you will run into our national bird. In flight, they are beautiful. On land, they can chase, bite, honk, flap their wings, poop and can generally be a nusance. And, considering it is illegal to purposely or even accidentally kill these honking poop-machines, we have a huge population. About 15 or 20 of the population had decided they needed to cross the road - one of the busiest roads in Brampton and almost during rush hour.

There were adults, adolescents and babies - a nuclear family of Canada Geese - and amazingly traffic on both sides stopped, six lanes of traffic, to watch these majestic yet mean creatures cross. There was no honking - from the cars, that is. One I assume was the padre of the flock was on high alert, watching each of his family cross safely, honking at the stopped cars and with a glint in his eye (I could only see one) as if taunting the drivers Clint Eastwood/Dirty Harry-style to make his day. "Go ahead, I dare ya, and I'll fling my whole body into the front of your car. The cops will come and you'll be done for - shackled, read your rights, taken away to spend the night in the big house." Really, it was in his eye(s).

It took 10 minutes for each bird to cross, slowly, steadily and with not a fear in the world. It was just amazing to watch. I think others thought so too as they watched the procession, no one inching forward but just staring at these brazen birds.

A change in environment

2011-07-13T00:33:00.000-07:00

There's nothing like shedding skin, shirking off old robes and creating a look and space that is all your own. This is how I spent my weekend and subsequent days after.

I had mentioned briefly my intent to create a new living space after the Ex Man moved out. That was last week, and after looking at the empty space in the living room where his couch once sat, I got off my ass and started re-arranging - just like I'm re-arranging my life to suit my new reality.

While the paint and the tear up of the god-awful Peptol Bismol pink carpeting will have to wait, I set out to work on the changes I could make. The living room was first, and thanks to The Girl and my tremendous negotiating skills, I am now the proud owner of a new-to-me ottoman to match my sofa and to fill in the hole where the couch once sat. A re-arranging of the sofa, coffee table, tv and the addition of an already-owned bookcase and the living room has a different feel for a different kinda girl. Bookcases and china cabinets were dusted and decluttered. Books were given a new home (with some an exit out of the home), and next we were onto the bedroom.

Oh, the bedroom. The pink carpet was vacuumed within an inch of its life. The bed was moved, a new-by -my-standards dresser (thanks Anasatan, Passion Flakey and Bina) was granted residence and the leaning tower of a tall boy dresser was axed down and set out for the garbage. Clothes were sorted, folded and put away - whether in the drawers of the new dresser or in a Salvation Army bag. Everything was light, airy and fresh - just perfect for a new start.

It's amazing how uplifting it felt, a shirking off of old garments, useless armour. We grabbed the lunch we had originally forgotten to eat in our enthusiasm and splurged on an ice cream on a hot day before heading off to a birthday party with old friends. Sunday brought more purging and putting away, a well-deserved nap, a swim and barbecue, and while the day was a bit overcast, you'd never tell from the smiles on our faces.

"What a good weekend," we kept saying in between singing to the radio and laughing about how Kao had tried to attack the dreaded vacuum. And while we cleaned away the cobwebs and dust bunnies, we felt it was so much more - a move away from the old life and the opening of another better organized and intentioned life.

I've got a new spring in my step and a new place to rest my head. Things are definitely looking up.

You kiss your mother with that mouth?!?!

2011-07-11T19:32:00.000-07:00

Re-posted from Secure Woman... it's so good not to share...

It's 7:30 a.m. and Annaliese has just woken up to get ready for school. She is 8.

Looking in the mirror, she takes in her hair, her wide set eyes, her chin before concentrating on the rest of her reflection, wishing and hoping it would miraculously change. She equates everything she sees in her skewd mirror with her self-worth. It starts with the physical and then moves onward to her personality, her flaws. Aggravated and upset, she starts to berate herself in the mirror. "You're so ugly and stupid and fat and know one likes you," she cries at the mirror, clenching her fists and blinking away her tears. She's so engrossed in her tirade that she doesn't see the wrong in what she's saying. The fists come next, laying punches in the stomach she thinks is too big, the thighs she wishes were thinner and her head where these thoughts rage day-by-day, minute-by-minute.

It may sound extreme but it's not a new scenario although it's quite alarming when an 8-year-old utters the phrases that many women tell themselves daily. We look at our faults as a long list of should haves. We should have stayed two hours at the gym instead of one, we should have not had that donut at the morning meeting, we should have gone to another college, taken another course, or should have stayed longer or worked harder at the office today. The list is exhausting and customized for each woman, but what remains consistent is the length of that list and the fact that we look on it and add to it over and over again. At 8, at 18, 28, 38, 48 and so on until we break the cycle.

But where does this cycle of negative self-talk come from? It's not ingrained in our DNA, nor are we fed it while in the womb. We learn it from our environment, whether we listen to our parents talk negatively about themselves or they direct it at us. We learn it from society and its opinions on what is beautiful and worthy and what is not. And, often it's easier to look at what we think is missing in us than to list the attributes that make us unique individuals. And, it's exactly this practice of listing our pros that will break the cycle.

While many corporations still feed into our inner guilt, there are a few that step out of the box and into a way to inspire rather than tromple our psyche. It's an extreme example, but just look to the Maxwell House Optimism is Catching campaign, and in particular the commercial that shows a little girl standing in the mirror being her own cheerleader and telling everyone (and herself) exactly what she loves about herself and her life. Yes, it is extreme, but the message is dead on. Instead of berating yourself with all of the should haves and a supposed lists of negatives, be your own cheerleader and list daily the things you do like about yourself. It could be physical, but it also extends to the things you excel at - sports, school, music, art - whatever it is, celebrate it and celebrate you.

And even our faults are not as dire as you may think, and it may be what someone else thinks is endearing. That person should be you. Every foible, every asset adds up and makes us the unique individual, and that is definitely worth celebrating.

The process is hard - it's like a cult deprogramming. It takes time, practice, repetition, and sometimes you may slip. After all, you've been doing it for years. But when you do and you feel your fists clench and your teeth grind at something you don't like about yourself, remember that little girl and ask yourself if you would say the same thing to her as you would to your own mirror reflection. It's extremely easy to be a cheerleader for someone else. We can boost anyone up whose having a bad day and a barrage of bad thoughts. It's another thing to do the same for ourselves. It's about time we start.

I is a -changin'... on my own terms

2011-07-07T22:54:00.000-07:00

I've been asking a lot of questions over the last few weeks, mostly directed internally. I'm questioning my reactions, my future, my drive and what really makes me tick. And, I've discovered a few answers.

The biggest question weighing on my mind is "where do I go, what do I do next?" It's a particularly telling question since I've been in transition for the last two months with changes to my employment status and relationship, and it's forced me to turn inwards - far more than I have ever before.

Here's what I've learned so far:

1. I'm a lot stronger than I give myself credit. I've made a lot of changes in the last few months, some forced and some not. At a time when my career life was up in the air, I found myself taking a stand on a personal front and ending a relationship that was toxic to me. Whereas before I would wait for the best time or stick my head in the sand hoping for the other person to change, I chose to say goodbye to my partner and start afresh with no apologies. I had reached my limit and took my stand.

2. The only one I'm responsible for is myself. I can't be responsible for other people's issues. This came from the Ex Man and it was a long time coming. I realized that while I am responsible for myself, I was not put on this earth to "fix" other people. Just as the changes that I'm making must come from me, other people must too make the changes for themselves. It won't stick otherwise.

3. While I do have my issues (don't we all), for the most part I really like the person I've become. My sense of humour is off-colour and may not suit everyone but I can laugh at myself and find the funny in the everyday. I'm smart, pretty and kind to others, sometimes when they don't deserve it. My laugh can sometimes be too loud (yes, I've been told) and not everyone appreciates spotted dick jokes. To them I say "walk away."

4. To truly change, I must take ownership of my part in the conflict that rages in my head. While looking inward can be scary, it's even worse to stick your head in the sand and pretend the problem does not exist at all. And, if it's change you want, embrace it. Don't pay lip service to it and expect change to come to you. Change needs a forward motion and not just hot air.

5. It's okay to say no. It's okay to put yourself first. It's okay to listen to your gut instinct. We have it for a reason and often we ignore it in the name of the common good - of what everyone else wants or expects for us.

Despite these relevations, there are still difficulties - a nagging voice in my head left over from my childhood, of expectations I perceive whether they're based in the actual world or in my own grey matter. The overall goal, however, remains the same: to learn to accept myself, to revel in the supposed flaws that make me human, and to embrace and not avoid the changes I need to make for myself.

That's where the idea for Secure Woman came about - it's a new online forum and yes, I'm hawking it. My very dear friend Anasatan and I had discussed at length the many negative messages we receive on a daily basis telling us to change this, change that, that what we're doing is not right, that we can improve by following countless steps. 10 ways to get your man to notice you, lose 20 pounds in 10 days and get that perfect beach bod booty. You'll be better if you only did this (insert any activity here). What these step-by-step instructions fail to do is to celebrate the things that make you you, and that you as a person, as your authentic self, is a pretty neat package.

Sure, there are things we want to change. We all have our warts, but the underlying message we're trying to get across is that it's okay to love yourself - loud laugh, karaoke singing, off-colour humour and all.

Check us out at securewoman.blogspot.com. We'd love your input.

Visitation rights...

2011-06-27T01:51:00.000-07:00

Who the hell does he think he is?!?!

This is the question I yelled as I threw an oven mitt across the kitchen and against the wall early this evening as I realized another reason why The Ex Man and I are no longer. It's just lucky for the kitchen wall and the neighbours that I didn't choose something a little more smashy to throw, although the kitchen chair was my next obvious choice.

The Ex Man is leaving the abode in exactly 5 days, three hours and 55 minutes. I had invited a mutual friend over for dinner and asked if he wanted to partake in the chicken/shrimp/roasted vegetable combo that we would be ingesting for dinner. With an irritated look on his face and several minutes and a deer in a headlight look later, he said no, that he didn't feel like it. I took that as his answer, and although annoyed about the look on his face and the fact that it took over 10 minutes to answer, I headed out to pick up the chicken breast and roasted potatoes I was missing. I was gone less than 20 minutes. It is also important to note that the said friend was bringing her dog so Boyo and he could be introduced.

I learned two lessons tonight: 1. Do not go to the grocery store hungry, as my $100 bill will attest - I came in for chicken and mini potatoes; 2. When The Ex Man has an annoyed look on his face he will leave the house, taking the dog with him - the same dog that was to meet the dog of the mutual friend.

I'm not upset that he decided not to accept my invitation to share our dinner. I wasn't even really angry at the deer caught in the headlight look since I've gotten used to it over the past four years. What I am pissed about is that he was spiteful and Boyo was caught in the middle.

He took the dog to the park without any mention of his intention to take him. He took him while I was out, knowing that it was expected that the dogs would have a meet-up and potential play date. And, this is the big one - it was that he did it out of spite because for whatever reason he was unhappy that I invited this mutual friend over to share in the BBQ.

If you've read anything about passive-aggressive people it's that they express themselves and their feelings not in words but in little actions like this. For instance, if the Ex Man was mad that he had to launder the bedsheets, he would let me know by not ever my putting pillow cases on my pillows. If he was miffed that he emptied the dishwasher twice in a row he would express his dissatisfaction by boycotting dish duty for weeks at a time and then bring up the fact that I said I would empty the dishwasher three months ago and did it the next day instead of the day I had uttered those words. If we ended things and he stayed for two months longer, he would not do or help with any chores for that period of time. And, when asked why he had originally taken advantage of me one that fateful day in May, he said it was because he could.

On a one-on-one basis, these are petty complaints (except for the latter complaint). They are not relationship breakers. Oh, so he didn't put your pillow cases on your pillows... so what... And, I would tend to agree with you if this was an isolated incident. It's just a few examples in a myriad of incidents, including ignorning my request to crate Boyo whenever we were sleeping after the pup ate my sock and ended up almost dying. Did he listen to my concerns and follow my lead, knowing I had already lost five pairs of underwear and four socks because the dog can't control himself around my undergarments? The answer would be no, having on at least five occasions left the dog to amuse himself with my gotchies. This is despite the fact that I explained my reasoning the same five times and asked if he was just paying lip service to me.

He expects to visit Boyo after he moves out, perhaps having a sleepover at his new bachelor crib and taking him to the dog park - in short, he wants visitation rights and I would not be surprised if he brought up joint custody. The answer, especially after tonight, would be a resounding no. Just like he does not have access to the couch, coffee table, washer, dryer, fridge and stove that were all here before he moved in, the Boyo remains with me. He's not a possession, but i had adopted him before the common-law partnership and I intend to keep him. And while I had considered these visitation rights, I am now nervous that the Ex Man will show up and hoist the pooch into the back of his now licenced and insured car and take off on a cross-province, cross-country abduction run.

Again, I will say that it appears I'm making a mountain out of a molehill. This could be true, but judging from past experience, this little jaunt to the park is a wolf in sheep's clothing. On the outside, it's all fluffy white clouds and a frolic through a pastoral hillside. On the inside, the wolf is lying in wake, zipping up his wooly costume and licking his lips at his clever disguise.

Altering legal unions

2011-06-24T22:39:00.000-07:00

Twitter is all a-twitter with the news... same-sex couples in New York can now marry making it the sixth state in the United States of America to see the light. Or, at least, the New York State legislature gave its final nod for the bill that will see same-sex couples heading to the altar.

I've been married before in a male-female union. I've walked down the aisle surrounded by family and friends to stand in front of a minister and exchange vows. I had the big party with the numerous shots and Jesus Christ Margaret caught in the bushes smoking the same cigarettes she vowed she gave up. I even had two out of three bridesmaids sick with the flu but there nonetheless to lend support, stand up with me and even help me pee in a white flowy gown. We had a first dance, the cutting of the cake and many photographs to document the special day. I just believe that everyone should have the right to the wedding of their choice to the man or woman of his or her dreams regardless of whether they're straight, gay, lesbian or aliens. If you love someone enough to want to spend the rest of your life with them, then no one should stop you regardless of what others think the bible says.

I wrote a post a while back in my first days of blogging about my new religion - compassion. Compassion for everyone - man, woman, child, animal, mineral... you get the picture. I try not to judge anyone until I've walked in their shoes. Imagine my dismay when I wandered upon a Tweeter that not only spewed forth religious quotes but in the same breath called gays the one word in the English language that makes me shudder... fags.

I'm not going to give you the web page address of this hateful site. It's vulgar. What I will say is that while everyone is entitled to their opinion, the abhorrent hatred laid out on this site and others like it is the only thing about this gay marriage debate that I find offensive. I find it offensive that followers of what is supposed to be an all-loving god can throw such hatred to the winds, going as far as to say that god will deliver a fate worse than 9/11 simply because two people want to commit to each other, no matter their sex or sexual orientation.

I'm not centering on one religion, one denomination, but all that take this stance. I'm straight but I will not pass judgment on those who find the same sex worthy of their love. It's just too bad that sites like the one I stumbled across could not stay away from the hateful, mud-slinging narrow-mindedness that proves we're not as evolved as we'd like to think we are.

F-O-W-L

2011-06-23T14:11:00.000-07:00

I'm in a foul mood today and the only way I can describe it is with three letters. P.M.S.

It's a few days before the circus visits and the clowns start to come out of the really small Volkswagen Beetle juggling. My mood depends on how many clowns and if they hit any organs with those damn bowling pins they use in their act. I think they've got about 50 in there, judging from the scowl on my face and my urge to throw things against the wall. Luckily, I've stuck with jello, and while it doesn't seem to stick, it does leave a goopy mess, which I will have to clean up.

Speaking of which, I'm supposed to be cleaning. Instead, I'm surfing, watching a soap opera and thinking "I really should move my ass today." So far, my self-motivation hasn't worked. I'm thinking it's because on a unconscious level I am looking to sabotage myself. And, I don't know why.

I have two tenants coming by to look at my place as a potential head-resting place. I should be aiming to get it into showcase shape. I'm not. I have dishes to do, bathrooms to clean and a floor to mop. But I'm not. I'm thinking the bad mood has something to do with it. Or just sheer laziness. Whichever it is, it's not exactly inspiring, it's not putting my best foot forward. Instead, I want to put my foot up someone's ass.

So, beforewarned. Tread lightly. And when I'm feeling better I will feel horrid and apologize profusely. Until then, my blogosphere. Wish me luck (and say a prayer for the poor sucker who gets the foot).

Let there be... AIR!

2011-06-21T11:36:00.000-07:00

I know I needed some air... some breathing room, alone time, space... but what I truly missed most has now returned and just in time.

Last month, during one of the hottest days (it was 28 degrees in the house), I flipped on the AC that had not been used since the weather cooled down last year. I flipped from "Heat" to "Cool" on the newly installed thermostat and click... and then nothing. No fan. No air. And praise Darwin, how I needed that air.

It wasn't a new problem. I had to replace a couple of fuses last summer (again, during Heataggedon), and it seemed like the issue was resolved. That is, until I flipped the switch again a few weeks ago. Nothing. I turned on the ceiling fans to give some reprieve and stepped out to buy more fuses, changed the fuses, crossed my fingers and... Nothing.

Calls into the AC company garnered no results. "It's electrical," they said. "The AC should work. There's an issue with your wiring." $100 later and I still had no results, so I called in an electrician that had come recommended and with a reasonable price tag for a home visit. That was this morning.

By reasonable, I mean that the bill did not enter into the $300 mark for an hour-and-a-half visit. At $200, I expected some answers, and although the AC is now working and my electrical has received a full health check, I'm still wondering why the AC worked for the cologne-doused electrician and not for me.

I'm thinking it was because the AC unit could smell him coming and wanted limited interaction. I personally don't mind a little scent here and there but not the Drakkar cloud at nine in the a.m. Or, the unit may have been in lust with the guy and his scent and was all set to impress.

Either way, the summer is now a little more bearable. It may also spur on The Ex Man's packing as the countdown is now on... T minus 10, people, before Scribe is officially on her own again.

I'm climbing that mountain when I get to it...

2011-06-17T23:27:00.000-07:00

The boots may have been for walking, but my wedge sandals were definitely not.

Tonight, I ventured into Burlington for The Sound of Music Festival. There were no Von Trapp Family Singers, no climbing every mountain but there was a hell of alot of walking and people watching as Anasatan and friends headed into the downtown core near the waterfront to listen to an array of music - from Dixieland jazz and Indie Rock to the classic stylings of The Nylons.

Now, if you don't know who The Nylons are, you're not alone. I don't know many of their songs but our friend Leenie loves them. Literally loves them. If she could have worked her way through the throngs of people, of all ages, and to the stage, I think she would have thrown a pair of undies at the guys and their drum machine. As it was, she had to settle for standing room only at the back of the crowd. I, however, opted for the less crowded area across the street, and that was okay by me especially for my favourite pasttime - people watching.

Of course, eye candy is always welcome but I'm talking more about the mix of people - the Abercrombie and Finch crowd, the motorcycle dudes, the nuclear families with 2.5 kids and a dog - they were all there and represented all age ranges.

It was a welcome reprieve from the sort-of bad news I received today. I attended a meeting at City Hall today to discuss an upcoming event in which the association willl be participating. The meeting went well - the officials were excited about our involvement and the whole theme of the city-wide event. The disappointment came a little later when talking to the executive director of the association who told me that unfortunately there is only eight weeks of funding left for the work I've been given instead of the end-of-September deadline as previously mentioned. We're working on finding sponsorships for the event, with a portion of the donation earmarked for the program itself, and hopefully, my continued involvement. Paid involvement.

And even though I knew that there was a chance that the funding would run out and my contract may not be permanent, I was still hoping. Hoping that they realize the worth I can bring, and at the same time, love the work I'm doing. I love working on the program and it allows me to work from home when needed. So, it's two months, and it's better than nothing, but I'm still panicking just a little. The Ex formerly known as The Man moves out and onward into his own apartment, out of the relationship and out of my life. With the move comes a lack of help on the mortgage front. I have not yet had any luck in securing tenants, and I'm not really sure why. The good thing is that further change is coming and instead of running from it, I'm trying to embrace it no matter how many demons spew forth from my mind.

I am happier - case in point, tonight. I was able to put the upcoming contract end in the back of my mind to enjoy the festival, the sights, the sounds and a pretty cool braclet and ring I picked up for a song and dance.

Oh, and how I did dance. In the crosswalk, the intersection, all through the festival locale. I think Anasatan was mortified, judging from the shaking of the head and the eye rolling. But, I'm used to that. She's just glad I didn't sing "Climb Every Mountain" or put on the puppet show with the lowly goats. Perhaps next year...

Shame, Vancouver, for shame...

2011-06-16T00:03:00.000-07:00

I know I'm going to get lynched for this but... "it's just a hockey game, people!"

Since when does a dismal loss in the Game 7 Stanley Cup Final become a catalyst for pushing, shoving, setting fires and utter unrest in a city that just a little while ago was so full of love, hope and friendship?

The city of Vancouver and certain Canucks fans showed a dismal side tonight, milling in the streets shouting obsenities, damaging properties and taking matches and accelerants to parking structures. And for what? A rather pitiful final hockey game.

Sure, I was disappointed that the Canucks did not want the Stanley Cup enough to tromple the Bruins as they and the city had predicted. Sure, I was frustrated when the judges allowed the third goal in the game, but I did not take to the streets with violence in my heart.

It's a hockey game for which tickets were dear. But that hardly condones the actions of the people who took to the streets and showed a very different side of our west coast brothers and sisters.

The Canucks lost. They lost big, and Luongo should have been replaced in the third period. They did not play well and Tim Thomas was unstoppable in the Bruins' net. End of story. End of the season.

And that, my friends, will be the last post about my nation's favourite sport. I tip my hat (if I was wearing one) to the Bruins. I'm sure there will be no such reaction on their streets when they bring the cup home. I am more than a little bit ashamed to be a Canadian tonight.

Hanky panty...

2011-06-08T11:51:00.000-07:00

I'm all into checking out my blog's stats - namely who visits and how they find me. Imagine my disturbance when I saw that someone visited my blog by typing in "ice skating panties." I just hope it was a misspelling...

I don't think I own a pair of ice skating panties and have no clue as to what they would look like. I know mine would be with a massive amount of padding as I would be falling on my ass the entire skate time. Kindergarteners would skate circles around me, laughing, pointing and taunting me because they can do the hockey stop and all I can do is stop with my face...

Psst... buddy, can ya hide this for me?

2011-06-08T00:14:00.000-07:00

It's official. I am now a contract worker for a community safety association in my hometown.

You know that media launch I was working on last month? Well, it was a resounding success. So much in fact, that I was personally recognized in the speeches and thanked profusely. It led to more work helping to organize a golf tournament, and today, I headed in to continue my work on the neighbourhood program I helped to launch to the masses. It's a good day, blogosphere.

Now in saying that, the gig is not full-time. Yet. There's pesky budgets and government funding to go through first, which can mean a lot of red tape. But, I'm in a unique position to market myself to government agencies, associations and the like. I'm gaining experience and confidence, sloughing off the asswipes and their negativity at Cell Block C.

Funny you should mention them... two of the wardens were at the golf tournament last week. And, as I figured it was ass-kissing time, but this time it was my ass being kissed. Guilt does a wonderous thing to people. I was professional at all times. I didn't take out the shiv I had prepared just in case. I also didn't ram their head into the putting contest billboard, though the bile still formed in my throat.

The best thing about being on this journey is the realization that I will be okay and that the job that had me in ulcers means nothing in the long-term. What matters is that I move forward, upward and onward with my head held high and a skip to my step. But, if you don't mind, I think I'll still hang onto the shiv just to keep my gangsta rep intact...

Chinese Water Torture

2011-06-07T09:55:00.000-07:00

Recently, I've gained four people who now follow my blog. Thank you for coming and checking me out. BUT, Blogger has not let me access my "follower" list in weeks so I don't know whose new and whose still there.

I'm always one to give a welcome to anyone new, visit their own blogs and comment on anything that has caught my interest. With Blogger's little guffaw, I can't and it sucks.

So for those who've recently joined me at Scribing Life, make yourself known and let me know how to access your blog and I'll be sure to connect.

Next step is to hang Blogger up by its fingernails and perhaps some Chinese water torture. 'Cause I'm evil like that.

Solitary

2011-06-03T22:46:00.000-07:00

When I woke up this morning, I had made a decision. I would do what I never do. It could have meant anything - brush my teeth with Preparation H, eat dessert for breakfast, take up yodelling or decide to roll in the mud pit that is my backyard. The point was I was to do something that I would not do normally.

So, I went to the movies. That in itself is not unusual. While I don't go often, I have on occasion picked up the phone and invited friends to go to a movie or stepped out with the now ex for a little popcorn and Hollywood. Today, I went by myself. And, it wasn't as awkward or weird as I thought it would be.

It did help that it was a matinee, so the theatre was a little emptier than normal. It also helped that I was a little late in getting there (no surprise for any of my close friends - watches and I do not mix). But, in a sense it was liberating - a step away from couplehood to the new single life that I will soon lead.

I am leading a single life at the moment - somewhat. The ex is moving out at the end of the month, having found a bachelor apartment to rest his head. It also means that I have less than a month to find new tenants to bear some of the load of running a household. That's not the daunting task - the hard part comes with opening the doors of my house to potential strangers, strangers with habits different than my own, habits that may irk me, and I must decide what can stay and what must go.

I am looking forward to a decluttering - of my house and my head. With the ex gone and his large, bulky furniture, I'm looking to make my bedroom light and airy - a fresh coat of paint, a fluffing of the duvet and perhaps some green apple sheets to put a little spring in my bed and my step.

Perhaps solitary won't be as daunting as I thought. And, I don't have to share the popcorn.

Backyard shenanigans

2011-05-31T07:45:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-25T13:34:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-23T21:14:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-16T22:12:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-13T23:09:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-10T23:37:00.000-07:00

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...

2011-05-07T10:01:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-06T21:19:00.000-07:00

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...

2011-05-04T15:33:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-02T21:55:00.000-07:00

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

2011-05-01T22:37:00.000-07:00

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."

Scribe and the Evil Skip-It

2011-04-25T22:06:00.000-07:00

It looks innocent. Don't let it fool you. It's evil in lemon packaging.

I may have mentioned my tousle with the evil skip-it but I don't think I've told the story with all of the gory details. The writing prompt for Studio 30 Plus suggested we talk about our family gatherings this past Easter Weekend. There were no skip-its this weekend, but the misshap did occur one fateful day after Easter Sunday.

It was an Easter Sunday like many other. I was with my parents having dinner at my brother's house. My neice and nephew were outside mucking about, riding their bikes and skipping. At 35, I felt still nimble and quick so I had a turn on the skipping rope and it went exceedingly well. It was like riding the bike and I demonstrated the skipping skills I had perfected in my childhood and through a few years of boxing. Even June Cleaver got in on the act and showed my neice how at 73, she could still wield a mean rope. The Skip-It came out next and I slayed it, jumping circles around my neice who still couldn't believe that her grandmother and aunt not only knew how to skip but had once owned both a skipping rope and a Skip-It (called a Lemon Twister in my day, but the premise was still the same).

Fastforward to the next day. Still confident from the previous day's experience, I grabbed my Skip-It out of the basement and had a few turns around the living room. It felt like a fun way to exercise and it was a nice day so outside I went. I set myself up for the first step, not looking at the uneven patio stones that had shifted during the winter months. One skip, two skip...

And then Scribe was down. For the count and for about four months after. I had landed wrong on one patio stone. Actually it was two patio stones with one of them being uneven. My ankle buckled, twisted, turned and it was over. Embarrassed and incredulous that I had forgotten I was indeed accident prone, I removed my shoe (mistake number 2, the first was actually touching the Skip-It again). It swelled instantly and I could no longer put my shoe back on. I was also very stoic and told myself to "suck it up Princess" and went about my day like nothing had happened.

Denial.

My denial caused me to think that it was the perfect time to continue with the housekeeping chores that I had already started. A sprained ankle couldn't keep me down, but apparently a chipped bone can.

As my doctor and subsequent x-ray revealed that my fifth lucky sprain on that ankle had also resulted in a chipped bone and four months of swelling. Purple, blue, black, yellow... my ankle went through many stages, and to this day, it still pains me when it rains.

I should have known it would end badly, as did the speed bump, roller skating evening and escalator. And, while those other things happened a long time ago (and still proves my landlubber's ineptness), the fact that I was 35 and playing with a Skip-It makes this one instance even more monumentous. Just ask Anasatan who keeps threatening to buy me lemons as a present. I just turn it around and make lemonade and I stay away from any Lemon Twisters. They're evil, you know.

Have you heard the truth?

2011-04-21T23:58:00.000-07:00

Truth... we all strive for it but when it comes up upon us we sometimes want to put our head in the sand and ignore it. The creators of Studio 30 Plus posed the question about what truth is and what it means to us as a potential jumping point for our own musings. I think it's a great question but one that scares the crap out of me.

Is it because I don't want to admit the truth to myself or is it because I haven't found my own truth yet? Both is true. I grew up in an environment in which I learned it's easier to please everyone rather than listen to what I want. I wasn't allowed to want. I was expected to do everything right according to someone else's rules. Don't rock the boat. Don't push the envelope. Conform. To do otherwise would mean silent treatments, disapproving looks, the tut-tuts when I lifted one finger out of place, stepped out of line. Or, it meant hearing how difficult, overly independent and unworthy I had become. After years of doing what is expected I'm struggling to find my authentic self. I'm learning bit by bit as I realize that my laugh is mine and not the unattractive guffaw I've been told. I realized that while I find the usual things amusing, it's the off-colour humour that really gets me going. I've discovered that it's okay to say no and to go about doing what I like with no apologies and without looking to others for confirmation that I'm doing things right, and according to whose rules.

Yet, I still have the urge to go with the flow. It's something I still fight with, day to day. I now take a few minutes not to think "what would Oprah do" but what it is I really want - out of life, work, my own self.

I was reminded today that it will be a long, hard haul. And, it's bound to be a journey of many regresses as I resist the urge to go with what is expected of me, always the agreeable little girl of my past. The truth of the matter is that I must stop questioning myself and looking to others for approval, to mother myself.

So, I've taken a lover... Myself. And, I vow to love myself warts and all and find my true, authentic self no matter the consequences to my existing relationships because the most important relationship is the one I have with me, whoever she may be.

That is my truth.

Yin and Yang

2011-04-19T23:27:00.000-07:00

I'm not feeling very original today, so much so that I'm actually borrowing (okay, stealing) words that only minutes before were uttered by someone else. I'm very disappointed in myself, I know. Me, a supposed writer, not coming up with my own witty copy, new dialogue so fresh and so full of perspective that you can not help but look on me in wonder.

We were talking about balance, in life, in relationships, in nature, I suppose, and I was at a loss for another word to describe this precarious walk of life, of finding a lid to fit your pot (yes, I also stole that too, but this time from a book and I'm not telling you which one so you'll spend all of your free time wondering how you can find your own gems - stolen gems, that is).

So, what did I use? Yin and yang, the traditional symbol of balance, of good and evil, light and dark. It fit, it was just too bad that those words had just left my friend's mouth. And yes, I was accused of stealing, and I looked on sheepishly and felt shame, but not so much that I would admit to outright stealing. After all, it's not copyrighted and who would be able to prove that such a daliance took place, a thievery of words and phrases. I sure as hell wouldn't own up to it - I have a rep to manage.

One could say that I was merely in agreement and wanting that person to feel accepted and understood. Imitation is supposed to be a form of flattery after all, and all I want is for people to know I understand them and empathize.

The yin and yang of it is that although I consider myself to be a good person, I sometimes slip up. Word Thievery is among my charges. The others may be too many to list completely but the top ones are (get ready for this):

Taking the last of the toilet paper and not changing the roll;
Idling my car as I wait in the line-up at the Tim Horton's drive-thru (I know it's probably faster to go inside the store but sometimes I don't feel like it);
Leaving packages in my car that I think I will take out next time or until I have to put someone in the back seat;
Getting sucked into really bad straight-to-TV (and not even video) sappy, chick flick movies;
Channel surfing - my dad did it and now I do it - I'm afraid I'm going to miss something (and I really detest commercials);
Leaving the popcorn bag and empty pop cup at my seat at the movies for others to clean up;
Emitting a huge burp and then giving myself the highest rating on the burp-o-meter;
Calling my mother June Cleaver (to her face and while calling into her office) because she always dressed up for Dad coming home and told me never to leave the house without lipstick;
Getting a fake nose ring while away on a trip to prepare the fam for the real thing;
Tying my nephew's and niece's socks together EVERY TIME I saw them;
Letting one rip as the waiter walked by and waiting as my friend blamed him;
Leaving just enough time to get anywhere and thinking that half an hour is really enough time to drive to Scarborough... or Burlington... or Ajax - you get the picture;
Forcing friends to watch said chick flicks, or better yet, musicals like West Side Story and then threatening to recreate them in the grocery store.

I think that's enough for now. Rest assured, there is the yin to yang. After all, I'm the most balanced person I know...

I stoled this...

2011-04-14T23:54:00.000-07:00

Yep, bad grammar and an admittance of thievery. Scribe is at her very best. And, since it's 2 a.m. in the goddamn morning and a late-night coffee has held my eyelids hostage, I thought there was no better way than to inspire you.

I was inspired tonight by an old college friend, Psychic Chick. After four years of no one-on-one, in yer face contact, we conspired to meet. To Swish. To chatter at each other. And then I was inspired to steal this gem from Lulu of Earwig Sandwich fame since it communicated how I feel about friendship.

"I want all my friends to come up like weeds,
and I want to be a weed myself,
spontaneous and unstoppable.
I don't want the kind of friends one has to cultivate."

I hadn't seen Psychic Chick in four years. We met for some chicken and convo at the Swish in Scarborough and as soon as I walked in, it was like we left each other only days, minutes, hours before. Everything picked up right where we left it, draining in the kitchen sink, resting on the stair, lingering on our lips. Four years and four hours later, we were refreshed yet a little stiff from sitting in a small booth. We didn't have to cultivate conversation. Segues sprouted, tangents were embraced and I left with a promise that it won't take another four years to find our way back. We were never really gone.

Now, do yourself a favour and take a trip to Earwig Sandwich and read the Chair Saga. You won't be disappointed. Lulu is a good weed, just like me.

Ma testicles...

2011-04-14T23:05:00.000-07:00

I really don't have a lot to write about, unless you want to know about the countless resumes I've sent out, the courses I'm considering taking to up my mad skillz, or the fact that even my volunteer efforts have garnered few results.

I'm in the position to volunteer my services. For free. To keep me relevant and away from the daytime television gods. I've done my work and will continue to plug away. Tomorrow, I'm headed to the Big Smoke to do some reading. Outloud. It's an audition for VoicePrint, the organization that provides voice recordings of news articles, textbooks and books to the visually impaired. It should pan out. After all, I did earn my balls on college radio.

So that's where I left my balls...

I'm not paid in balls, though Boyo the Boxer would like this. Forget about testicles too. I already have them. My radio instructor told me so. You may be aware that I used to be shy. Really. Seriously. I had a soft voice that would come out even softer when in the spotlight. Forget public speaking. Ears would strain to hear my vocals. That is until my second year of college when I had to take to the airwaves to deliver the news that I and my classmates re-wrote from the newspaper and wires for radio consumption. Every Friday afternoon one of us would take the stories written by our peers and deliver them to the masses. It didn't matter that it was Friday at 4:30 and most students were gone. We were the radio gods, or in my case a semi-god. After afternoon upon afternoon of soft speech and the radio techs turning my mic way up, something changed. It was my voice. It was clear, succinct, beautiful. And full of balls. Judy the instructor hugged me, and to commemorate, presented me with fuzzy balls to hang on the rear-view mirror of my non-existent car.

I have no fear tomorrow. I will read the news or whatever tomb they present to me and I will be clear, concise and testicle-strewn. Because once you've found your balls it's hard to misplace them again.

The Heathen gives it up for Lent

2011-03-30T23:16:00.000-07:00

The Man refers to me as The Heathen.

I should explain... My converted Catholic brother always makes comments when there's a family gathering that involves churches, communion, baptisms or weddings. He tells me, no matter what the time of year or the weather forecast, he expects impromptu lightning strikes wherever I may sit or stand. It happened at the MC's speech at his wedding (his very Catholic brother-in-law). It happened at my neice and nephew's baptisms. It happens whenever his in-laws say grace at a meal. Chairs close to me are pushed way back to give me a wide berth. I'd like to say it's because of my wide ass, but I know differently. They fear the wrath. They fear the lightning. They fear their association with The Heathen.

The Man has picked up the torch, especially since I do not go to church (if god is everywhere, then he'll hear me pray in the john). I also went to the Heathen School (public and very non-Catholic). I grew up with no set religion, no need to venture into a church every Sunday, no church choir, and that's okay with me. The Man is a non-practising Catholic. We don't go to church. We do not say grace at meals. So, it was much to his amusement that I announced that I was going to give up something for Lent.

So, I have not had more than four sips of pop (soda for those in the U.S.). No Diet Pepsi, no Coke Zero, no Diet Sprite or Gingerale. I've had small sips but I have yet to crack open a full can or bottle for myself. And, I'm jonesing.

But despite my ability roll someone for a Diet Pepsi, I have succeeded. I have not succumbed. And, I dragged The Man along for the ride. I figured since I was willing to go without, he should too. It is, after all, for his Catholic diety.

The Man figured it wouldn't last, or at least he hoped since I pursuaded him to give up peanut butter until Easter. It's his arch-nemesis. If it's in the house he will eat it every single day and sometimes twice a day. I think he's having peanut-butter inspired dreams and withdrawl. I heard him mutter in his sleep last night "I will smother it in peanut butter" with a licking of the lips. I think there was a dry hump in there too.

Employment schmoyplent...

2011-03-30T22:52:00.000-07:00

It's off to work I go... well, it's off to Employment Ontario tomorrow morning. I signed up with the government agency to see what new, mad skills I can learn and perhaps write a smashing new resume and cover letters since they've changed so much since I last pounded the payment. It seems I'm in the dark ages and, along with a snail-pace job market, may be the reason why I haven't had any luck to-date in securing an awesome, amazingly high paying job - my dream job or at least something that bears a resemblance to an ideal position.

I've revamped my resume countless times now, taking advice from here, there and everywhere to beef it up and promote the hell out of myself. It's gotten to the point where I don't know what else to include and even how to start a cover letter. I'm hoping fresh, young eyes will help, one with more of a finger on the pulse of the job market.

I'm also looking into courses being offered by the government - retraining for this old ass. It's all part of a master plan to reinvigorate myself (and the job market openings available) since the last job had me through the ringer. My self-confidence took a real beating and my self-doubt was running rampagnt. I didn't even think I was worthy of velcro enclosures on my sneakers. I'm not as stressed as I was when I first left Cell Block C and I'm smiling more, but I find myself looking at job ads and wondering if I could handle the job. I apply for them anyway with what I hope is renewed hope and vigour. I hope it rubs off. I hope I can reinvent myself one more time.

My last reinvention was about 10 years ago. I'm due for another. Ten years ago, I was happy. I felt young and vibrant with endless possibilities on the horizon. I'm working on getting that feeling back.

A united voice

2011-03-29T00:06:00.000-07:00

I'm a regular follower of a really inspiring blog - Fickle Feline. Kat's sense of humour is what first hooked me. Since that introduction I've learned that she is a dedicated mom, great blogger/writer, photographer and quilter. She's also an advocate for autism. A long-time friend of mine has twins, a girl and a boy. His son is autistic. And he's a beautiful soul. Kat understands. Her son Max is also autistic, and through his parents' dedication, he's making great progress. It's amazing to see such dedication and hard work pay off. And for that reason, Fickle Feline the blog is one of the first blogs I visit when I log into Blogger.

Today, she posted a request and it's one that I wanted to share with you. There is a child who will no longer receive funding for treatment, a decision being made by the College of Psychologists in Toronto on April 4. Here is his story...

Date: April 4th 2011

Time: 10a.m. until noon (12)

Location: 151 Bloor Street West, 9th Floor, Toronto, Ontario

From Norrah W.:

This is an important case, because the college was simply going to dismiss it. It is my understanding that after appeal it has gone above the college to the Regulated Health Professions Board. The family is coming forward and sharing all the info regarding the case, and pleading for as many as possible to attend the hearing. This is an opportunity to show everyone; government, media and professionals that we still stand united in our advocacy and will not settle on second rate services and funding for our kids.

This is also an ELECTION year and this isn't just about autism, this is about people with disabilities being dismissed, ignored, discouraged from taking action by proper bodies to protect their well being and public interest. THAT is something that binds the ENTIRE disability community and we and the care takers of that community have enough numbers in Ontario to COMPLETELY decide the outcome of the next government.

So I ask who is showing up for two small hours and if you can't do you have media contacts have you contacted them?

Historically the village has not been large in numbers so send a family member if you can't go, a therapist, a friend close to your family who knows your beautiful child, if you want to sit and be passive then truthfully the worst will continue to happen to our children and people with disabilities in general. We are the bottom of the pole, yet largest in numbers when you factor in five of our care givers, just five votes for each person with a disability and we have a new government.

It takes a couple of hours and a voice, as well as the ability and want to pass it on. It takes a voice.

Dentist with huge digits hands down icy ultimatum

2011-03-24T23:29:00.000-07:00

It's a two-post day but I figured if I'm on the road curtailing the advances of one Willie Nelson co-pilot, I should leave you with a little something more than a sexy Willie Nelson pic. You're welcome.

In between picking lint out of my belly button and getting acquainted with the Jersey Shore crew (yes, daytime television sucks donkey balls), I actually got out of the house and away from all things electronic. So, why not pay a visit to my favourite demon dentist?

It wasn't by choice. Well, it was my choice to chew on an ice cube and potentially crack or break a tooth but that's neither here or there. The outcome was sharp, shooting pains out of one of my top molars into the central vortex of my brain. Cold water, hot water, tepid water, a soft whole wheat roll... it didn't matter what touched my tooth, it friggin' hurt. And, judging from my last visit to the dentist where drills whirled and my dentist's gargantuan hands threatened to get lodged in my small mouth, I thought it was adviseable to get the tooth checked out. It is, after all, an original and one I wanted to keep for the time being.

The good news first. An hour after calling to set up the appointment, the tooth miraculously stopped hurting. I mean there was no pain despite hours of poking and prodding when before a cool breeze would set it off. The even better news is that I didn't do any permanent damage from chewing ice. The tests proved the absensce of pain. He poked, he prodded, he made me bite down on what I thought was a silver bullet to see if I would writhe in pain. Nothing. Yay me. I even stepped up my brushing and flossing regime to impress the crap out of the dentist with the largest hands in the history of dentists.

The bad news is that there will be no more ice cubes. Sure, I can use them to cool down a drink but they must, MUST stay in the glass and melt naturally. I must resist the urge to chew. That's the hardest part since I've been chewing ice cubes almost my entire life - or for as long as I've had teeth and was able to put ice cubes in my drinks. The dentist thought I'd learned my lesson earlier on in my adolesence when I'd actually cracked the enamel, forcing him to paint a seal on my upper and lower molars. But, the temptation is always too much.

But resist, I must or it will result in monthly visits to the dentist's chair and a reintroduction of needles, drills and those damn dams. Besides, I think my family has already contributed enough to his Muskoka cottage, high profile cars and bi-monthly vacations. It's a small price to pay.

On the road again...

2011-03-24T22:23:00.000-07:00

Willie's too sexy for his overalls...

I think Willie Nelson has kidnapped my mind, body and soul with those four little words. While I find Willie Nelson cute in an old-overall-and-braids-on-a-guy sort of way, I don't think I ever dreamed of knocking boots with him (thankfully). But, I think I'm on his wave length when it comes to road trips.

The best thing about being sans work is the free time I have to visit with friends, and it's because of this free time that I can hop in the car and travel three hours across the province to the thriving metropolis that is Napanee, Ontario. So what's captured my attention to justify a fill-up of the tank and a Tim Horton's travel mug in my hand? My Japanese friends on the last leg of their Canadian visit.

Kaede is now registered to attend school in Belleville, a nice private school where she will finish up her high school credits. Her computer is set up and by now she's BBMing her friends on her new Blackberry. Joy will have visited Costco or Walmart to stock up on all of the gifts she's meant to bring back to family and friends.

On a side note, did you know if you're visiting from Japan it's considered ill will to leave ANYONE off of the list of touristy momentos. So, Joy must stock up on everything - from maple syrup to Canadian flags and figurines to give to everyone from the grocer to the mailman (mailperson?). Everyone who knows of your visit is to get a gift. To do otherwise is considered a slight.

Considering the state of affairs in Japan, I think Joy will be stocking up on basic supplies we in Canada take for granted. I know she can't take back fruits and vegetables or risk confiscation, fines and worse, she may take back packaged snacks - items she can easily hand out and ones that will fly under the radar of the Japanese equivalent to the Ministry of Agriculture, Food and Rural Affairs. So, it may be a visit marked by jaunts to the super stores in the area. All I know is I'll be happy to properly catch up, which we haven't been able to do with the fly-by visits we've had in the last five years. And, it gives me a chance to get to know the older Kaede and Emily so I have a different picture than the 10- and 5-year old versions I still have in my brain.

So, I'm on the road again and I will keep Willie Nelson as my co-pilot - just as long as he doesn't try to tickle me with his beard or his braids. I hope my overalls from 1983 will still fit...

Japan calling... well, sort of...

2011-03-21T21:34:00.000-07:00

Over the past two weeks there has been an influx of people leaving their homes in Tokyo and my dear friend was one of them, taking her half-tank of gas and heading to the Narita airport with her fingers crossed that her car would get them there. It did, and now she's staying in her friend's downtown Toronto condo. Leading up to her departure, however, Tokyo was not a tranquil place.

She says that reports here in Canada have been a little apocalyptic. I don't agree. I know that traditionally Japanese people are orderly. A 3 km lineup for gas here would see more than a few raised fingers, a curse word or two and revving engines. There, not so much. Everyone patiently waits in line for their turn at the gas pump, and if the pump runs out before they get their turn it's a jaunt to the next station promising petrol. I also think that the government are not telling them the full story about the danger of the nuclear reactor situation. Face masks or no, health risks are still high.

Joy flew into Canada with her two daughters. She left her husband, home and beloved dog behind - not on purpose - but because her husband is part of the search-and-rescue turned search-and-recovery in the areas hit by the tsunami and near the nuclear reactors spewing out radiation into the atmosphere. He takes his job very seriously so he stayed to help. Bless him.

It's also part of the plan. Joy had expected to fly into Toronto this past Friday. She was two days early and for that I am thankful. And although she was tired when her and the girls finally touched down, I think she was thankful to see a familiar face at the gate, holding up a welcome sign and a coffee. She's here until March 31 and then it's back to Japan, back into the arms of her husband and the aftermath. She's leaving behind a daughter, her oldest whose set to finish out her high school career in Canada.

I'll be taking the next couple of days and driving to see her and the girls in Napanee. I can't wait to properly catch up with her when jetlag and travel are a mere memory. What is not is the panic back home, with limited food, gas and much-needed infrastructure. It would be so much worse if the public on a whole was not so well-organized and stoic. My heart goes out to Japan and its people. I'm just glad most of my people managed to find their way to me.

Late Night TV does not agree with me

2011-03-20T23:23:00.000-07:00

I think Horatio Caine is stalking me. I'm used to stalkers, really - The Man was one in a former life. But late night television, more specifically re-runs of CSI Miami have me dreaming about Horatio and the fact that he reminds me of a childhood game. And besides, it's always on in one form or another.

Does anyone remember the oldie but goodie "What Time Is It Mr. Wolf"? I had to explain the premise of the game to The Man. Apparently pick-up hockey and baseball were the only games worth considering in Gaspe. But for me What Time Is It Mr. Wolf was the epitome of childhood games, up there with Red Rover and Hide and Seek since it was quick to organize in the 20 to 30 minutes of recess time we got at the local elementary school. It needed no props like Dodge Ball and it hinged on our personal level of fear. I was a level 10, apparently.

That level rose as I was watching yet another re-run of the sunglass-wielding Horatio Caine and his team of CSI specialists. Cue drama: Horatio looks across the water, raising his hand to his face to remove the sunglasses ever so slowly and deliberately to deliver one of his gems. "Someone's going to pay for this, Mr. Wolf..." And what time is it?

It could be 10 o'clock, 11 o'clock, 2 o'clock but it's the dreaded "Dinnertime, ARRRGH" that would have me screaming to get away since meal times did not follow the regular schedule. It could come at anytime and you could be Mr. Wolf's next meal if you had freakishly short arms and legs like good 'ol Scribe. It's true. Just ask Anasatan and Mags.

Horatio calls on Mr. Wolf a lot, I think for the power in the name and I'm fully expecting Greg Wolf to growl at Horatio "Well, Mr. Caine, it's dinner time" and kids, grannies, old men fishing on the pier would run willy nilly down to the board walk, arms flailing, fishing poles and bait forgotten, mothers and young children being pushed out of the way... in all, pandemonium.

It hasn't happened yet, but I'm on the lookout. It's always dinnertime somewhere in the world, and my legs need as much notice as possible.

Damn you, Oprah

2011-03-08T23:07:00.000-08:00

Last night, I was tired. Down to the bone tired. And then I turned on the TV.

I have recently discovered Oprah's new channel and with the Rogers' VIP package we get with our property maintenance fee, we get it. Yay me! Yeah, not really...

To steal a line from a film geared to the female demographic (I can almost hear The Man saying this in his generic female voice), I weep. I'm a weeper. Can you guess which movie star uttered those words? Okay, I'll give you a hint... he's English, he screwed his kids' nanny and starred with Robert Downey Jr. Yep. You guessed it - it's Jude Law.

But I'm not talking about Jude, Downey or any other actor. I'm talking about Oprah and her choice of running Tuesdays with Morrie at 1 a.m. and my inability to turn the television off even when I got uncomfortable with the subject matter. And I wept. I wept for Hank Azira's character when he visited his favourite professor. I wept for the ideals he lost after graduation. I wept when Jack Lemmon's character entered into his final days with ALS. I wept at the goodbye.

Like Mitch Ablom, I suck at goodbyes. I still remember my final words to my mother-in-law the day she died of pancreatic cancer. I wasn't ready to let her go. I wasn't ready to believe that it was hopeless. I wasn't ready to say goodbye. So, instead, I told her she was the best mother-in-law I've had. It was true. It was jokey and it made her laugh. I hope she knew just how much I loved her even though the words weren't there.

I've said goodbye since then to people older than my 46-year-old mother-in-law. Some were expected. Some weren't. But they were easier because I wasn't as close. I wasn't as invested. That changed this past May when I had to say goodbye to Christopher.

I thought that it was getting easier to accept. I thought I was moving on but then that damn movie came on and it all came rushing back - the waiting, the hoping and the final goodbyes. Morrie was old; Christopher was not. Morrie had a full life and touched many people; Christopher was not as lucky though he has and continues to touch people with the life he did manage to lead.

I know I've written about Christopher before. I just can't seem to stop. I still miss him every day and will often touch his picture posted on my fridge and smile. I don't think that will ever stop.

I'm a weeper. I wear my heart on my sleeve, and in Christopher's honour I won't change my caring nature. I will also remember to tell the people I love how I feel about them every chance I get so when it's the time for goodbyes there will be no doubt.

Winning

2011-03-04T13:47:00.000-08:00

Don't worry. I'm not about to write about Charlie Sheen. That kind of crazy has been seen enough over the last two weeks. There's nothing winning about it. He's spiraling and the amount of publicity over his demise is somewhat nauseating. The winning I'm talking about is the actual kind... receiving something you didn't have before for free or with proof of purchase.

Canadians take their coffee consumption very seriously, especially when that coffee comes from Tim Horton's. In certain areas of the country you could throw a cat and hit at least five of the establishments. Have you ever been to Hamilton, Ontario? Except, of course, the 10-minute drive I took to Cell Block C. It's the only stretch of road with nary a Tim Horton's in sight. There's not even a coffee shop. The horror. I've bought about five coffees since my escape from the joint. Considering I had at least one coffee a day six days a week, it's a considerable downsize. And, now that the Roll Up the Rim contest is on, I expected to win at least one coffee or doughnut in the contest's duration. Those ain't good odds. But this year is different. I've bought five coffees. To-date, I've "won" three coffees and one doughnut.

The Man has since threatened me with bodily harm and told me in no uncertain terms to shut the hell up. Not very hospitable, I know, especially since he's already benefited from at least one of my wins. So while he's plotting my murder and keeping my winning stash of Roll Up the Rim wins, I'm heading out to buy a lotto ticket. I'm figuring if on a roll (get it?) with my coffees, the lottery is the next obvious step.

I may be pushing my luck, but I now have it in writing if I end up pushing up daisies. If The Man is so vicious with just a winning coffee cup, can you imagine if my numbers are chosen over his? So to the detectives investigating my suspected murder case, it was the boyfriend. It always is. Especially if there's coffees involved.

When dads are wrong...

2011-03-02T22:38:00.000-08:00

Dennis De Young is pictured on the far left, looking more like
a painter in parachute pants than the lead singer of a band...

It doesn't happen very often. Dads can be wrong. At least my dad can.

When I was about 15 or 16, I fancied myself a singer. I had sung in choirs and operettas all the way through public school and I was quite good. That is, until I started listening and singing to songs not on my dad's preferred list. My father grew up in the 30s and 40s. He was born in 1932 and was exposed to some of the greatest music in the history of the world (his words, not mine). Big band... trumpets, clarinets, saxamaphones... you name it, he loved it. And, when I was younger I loved it too. I learned how to do the fox trot to the stylings of Count Bassie, Louis Armstrong. In the Mood was my favourite song, though Little Brown Jug was a close second.

Then I entered my teens and Count Bassie was replaced by Wham!, INXS, Depeche Mode, but my favours were reserved for one band and one band only... Styx. I was in much infatuation with one Dennis De Young. It would have been Tommy Shaw since he is the cuter one, but a friend of mine had already secured him as her boyfriend. Runner-up... Dennis De Young. I sang their songs every chance I could get. I played them over and over again, so much that my ghetto blaster ate two of cassettes that I had painstakenly recorded from the 33. Yes, people, an actual record that people spun on turntables. The cassette tape stretched, snapped and I felt the tears come on. How was I supposed to sing about Mr. Roboto and the fact that music as we knew it would disappear?

My father hoped and prayed for the demise of Mr. Roboto and any other song I chose to play at top volume on the ghetto blaster that he regretted buying me for Christmas. As he so lovingly and repeatedly pointed out: "Styx stinks. Count Bassie is King." I thought it was Elvis Presley but that was just me... his king was Big Band and that was the only music worth listening to.

He also thought it was his place to school me on my singing. Me, a regular choir member who won place after place in the choir, year after year, performing in as many operettas as I can recall. His reasoning: No one else was going to be so lovingly honest by telling me that I sounded like a dying cat. It was years before I sang in public again for fear of attracting a band of feral cats.

Years later, he now suffers from a selective memory and tells me he's always loved my singing and remembers fondly the times I would sing around the house (P.S. I'm always singing and will even sing to the dog if I'm inclined).

Friends of mine are regulars at karaoke and had invited me to come along. And, they convinced me to sing. It was my first time on stage in a long while (I had taken singing lessons back when my divorce first became final - it was a rebirth of sorts). Kenny had brought his new recorder (he'd bought one to capture his performances as part of a speed metal band) and turned it on for one of my performances. He played it back to me the other day and it took me a minute to realize it was me who was singing and it was actually good.

I sang "I will remember you." The notes were dead on, the tone was mellifulous and I thought "damn, now that is not what a dying cat sounds like." I wonder if I can manage a Styx song now and if I'd remember all the words. One thing is for certain: Dennis De Young is not the hot tamale I thought he was. And what's with those pants!?!?

It's March, people!

2011-03-01T14:08:00.000-08:00

There's nothing lion-like about this first day of March. While there is still a slight chill in the air, the sun is shining, the birds are chirping, the squirrels are running willy-nilly in front of my car... and Scribe has a bit of a spring in her step.

I'm sitting at the William's Coffee Pub with coffee in hand and laptop in front of me. I've got only 30 minutes left of battery life so it's my cue to begin to log off and pack up. The moral of this spring story for me is that I got out of the house, if only to sit amongst fellow coffee patrons and peruse the job ads on jeffgaulin.com, Workopolis, LinkedIn and other sites promising great jobs for great wages. Fingers crossed, friends...

Besides signing up for a free webinar on the secrets of getting hired by new-age employers, I also did something I should have done back in December... my Drive Clean test and my licence plate sticker renewal. I've been driving around town all illegal-like and it was doing a number on my psyche. It's not so much that I was scared of Big Brother and the Ministry, but I was getting a little nervous when I spotted the Po-Po, even if it was 500 metres away. What if this is my time.... when my luck runs out...

So, to give me better odds I bit the bullet and handed over the $120 for the test and the renewal stickers so Scribe can now say she's legal. It's a weight off of my shoulders, and I couldn't believe it was weighing me down.

Speaking of weight, tonight I will hit the gym again to get the cobwebs out of my head allow me to sleep soundly for the remainder of the week. It's my new routine: get up, look for work, get the frig out of the house and into the gym for a little head-space clearing.

At least now I don't have to worry about running into the very understanding policeman/woman on my way to lessen the weight, both literally and figuratively from my shoulders (and other areas too).

Happy March 1st, blogosphere.

Farewell February...

2011-02-27T23:05:00.000-08:00

February... the end is almost here. Finally.

It's the shortest month but it feels like the longest, like it will never end and it's a really bad, bad dream on a continuous loop. It's tiring, it's monotonous and I for one am glad to see its tail end.

This winter has been harder than most, especially given the fact that we had much more snow than we've had in the last few years. I know it's not over. The snow brush will remain in my car over the next two months, and for those who've seen my car, it will probably be there in July too. While my house and my desk may be tidy, my car is not. It's a flaw. It's a bad habit, and like February I'm sure there are a few people who wish this one habit will just go away.

That being said, if there's ever a freak snowstorm in August Scribe is prepared. And I will rent out the snowbrush on an as-needed basis 'cause I'm giving like that. Plus, I'm presently unemployed and I need as much cheddar as possible. I'm just being an entrepreneur, biatches. Deal with it. :)

Circus clowns and other assholes

2011-02-25T22:26:00.000-08:00

A half dozen circus clowns came into my town and they've set up residence in my home - my womb, that is. And they have just evacuated the Volkswagen Beetle and have set up to start the juggling any minute now.

Yes, the circus is in town and that means five days of no fucky fucky, bleedy bleedy and a rather horrendous bout of hormonal tears. That was today and my inner suck came out and I cried at everything, even Kim Cattrall as she searched for her dead-beat, polygamist grandfather. I guess it struck a chord. My grandfather may not have been a polygamist (as far as I know), but he was as dead-beat as they come.

I also realized today that even two weeks after being released from my job at Cell Block C just talking about the still existent drama still gets my stress level rising. The more things change, the more they stay the same. Even though I'm not there any longer it's status quo at the prison, with the prison guards and the garrison manager having screaming matches in front of their employees.

I miss working with some of the people in Cell Block C. What I don't miss is the stress inducers such as above. Today was one of my down days. I was told I was bound to have them though I've been trying to keep the glass half full. What I realized is how much worse it would be if I was still subjected to a toxic environment in which everyone is yelling and no one is happy. It was bound to have affected my health even further if I had stayed. Praise Darwin for small mercies. Now to get rid of the clowns...

Show me the money... please?

2011-02-24T22:32:00.000-08:00

I bought a ticket today for the Lotto Max. I bought one last week and was disappointed I didn't win the $43 million. My disappointment was short-lived as I realized that no one claimed the jackpot, raising the stakes to a sweet $50 mill. What I would do with that kind of money...

My temporary money woes would be no longer. Not only that, but I wouldn't have to worry about any subsequent pay cheques and the companies that may or may not be forking over the dough for my work. I visited my brother this evening and was not surprised that he had the same hopes and dreams for the potential cheddar. Paying off the house and doing some much-needed reno work was on the list. So was paying for an around-the-world dream trip for our parents. It was like our lists were mirrored.

And that's not all. Tonight I discovered we shared another dream - buying our grandmother's house in Markdale, our father's hometown, the house that bore all of our initials and the names (and dates) of our ancestors. He has a better memory of the house than I do. He remembered which way to turn to get to the bathroom, our grandmother's bedroom and the walk-through to the larger than life bedroom situated at the front of the house. He also remembered the porch that held residence on the top bedroom window, a porch that was no longer there. Structurally, it was probably the one thing that should have been removed. As far as I could remember no one went out onto it. No coffee on the porch, no rapunzel like visits. Besides, my hair has never been long enough for that.

"I've always wanted to go back and buy the house," he said. "How much do you think it would go for today?" It was like he had reached into my brain and tethered himself to my exact thoughts. With the $50 million, it wouldn't matter how much it would go for on today's market. We'd have enough, and then some.

Other items were on the list too: the same around-the-world trip for the parental units, trust funds for his kids' (my neice and nephew's) education, putting away exactly half for good, solid, sound investments and a major trip for the family and perhaps a new car or two. I would also set up a charity for kids with Christopher's rare form of brain cancer, funding research and new initiatives and money earmarked to help these kids realize once-in-a-lifetime dreams. During Christopher's journey, he stayed at the Darling House in Milton, a home away from home for kids with a full-time medical staff and very caring social workers who were there to give parents a break and give kids all the hugs, kisses and laughs they could bear. There's always a need for those, and Christopher was notorious for melting my heart with his laugh, hugs and kisses. He is still my own personal darling and I would love to give back to the people who made his days a little more bearable, even if he did steal all of the cookies from the kitchen.

I think most of us have similar lists. What would you do with your sweet mill or 50?

Scribe crossed the border and they spit her back...

2011-02-22T19:15:00.000-08:00

This past Monday (Family Day yo!), I ventured across the Canadian-U.S. border with one goal - to rake in the good deals in Buffalo. And, I found them. Purses, people. Purses. I'm a purse whore and if I knew anything about the Burlington Coat Factory it's they hock amazing purses. I's gots me some bling, bloggers. Green aligator purses, huge luggage-like handbags - they're my drug and I went willingly into the abyss.

I went along just for the drive, or so I told myself. Across the border, I entered my first store and scored. Two purses, a pair of yoga pants and (get this) a Rubbermaid veggie peeler in acid green... It got worse from there. I was on target in Tarjay, picking up a long louffa brush and a new wallet to match my snazzy green aligator purse, designed by Beyonce's mom. I got replacement underwear, socks and footless tights in Walmart and an amazing look-like-handmade quilt for the guest bed. And then they spit me back across the border where thankfully the friendly border cops accepted my total for the day and didn't tear the car apart for more purses. And there would have been if I had a paycheque coming in!

It wasn't the ideal time to go crossborder shopping, but it was therapeutic. I spent the day with two cool gals and got my retail therapy in a relatively cheap atmosphere. There were deals and I had them. In all, it was a great way to start the week. Now it's time to buckle down and start the job search again, but not before I test out the alligator green bag. After all, I still have to keep up my style quota while I hock my wares...

Happy Family Day, Happy Presidents' Day, Happy February people!

A little faith and hope

2011-02-18T00:49:00.000-08:00

I had complained... well more lamented than complained about my lack of human interaction. What I failed to mention is the outpouring of help I've received in the seven to eight days I've been on the lam from Cell Block C. Lose a job, post a blog entry and make a few dozen phone calls and you'll be amazed at how many responses you get. Everyone understands. Others have been in the same boat. I'm told there is a light at the end of the tunnel. It's not all doom and gloom, which is sometimes hard to see when you think you're mired in shit.

I had a little ESP going on before the axe dropped on my head last week, and I've been very proactive, so much that I had already set up a meeting with one of the execs at my old college. He met with me on Monday for what I thought was a potential freelance job. It was... sort of. While he does not make the final decisions, he said he wanted to meet with me, discuss my qualifications and look through my work so he could personally recommend me to the people who do make the final decision.

I was disappointed for a minute until I realized the ramifications: to have the vice president of academics of a major, ground-breaking college on your side and willing to back you is big. Universe big. And while I still crave human interaction, that act of contacting me and setting up a meeting, let alone backing me is huge. It makes me feel like I have a heavyweight in my corner looking out for me.

He's not the only one. The Man's brother has mentioned a contract position. I'm not sure if it's in communications or even the duties it entails but again hope is there. I can count on my fingers, toes and other body parts the friends who have passed onto me information on potential jobs and offered to hand my resume to potential bosses. My mentor Nancy continues to feed me details on upcoming jobs and my first college instructor has offered to look over my resume and feed me a list of his contacts who may or may not be hiring. Every little bit helps and I'm thankful to everyone for their advice, feedback and well wishes.

I would be lying to say that I'm always this hopeful. It changes every day, every hour and sometimes in minutes. I'm trying to take it one step at a time and I've devoted about five hours every day to searching and applying for positions. At times, I'm working blind and operating on blind faith that all of my little blocks will fall into place, and when I least expect it. At least that's what I'm hoping.

A friend of mine has said to sit back and enjoy the time now, to work on finding myself, on reworking my resume and discovering where I'd like to be rather than to panic and accept the first job that comes my way. I'm taking this advice too and I'm still nervous.

Tomorrow will see me search again but I'll also take time to visit friends, to take my mind off of my search and the fact that I don't have to get up and go into work at Cell Block C. I don't miss the place. I don't miss the owners' attitudes. I do miss the person I used to be before I started work there - the confident person who laughed at my own jokes and looked at each duty as a chance to prove myself, to myself. It's amazing to see how many people in my corner still have that faith when mine has wandered off.

Hankering down

2011-02-15T23:22:00.000-08:00

I crave human interaction. After only four days away from the office and two days of networking and job searching online, I need to hear a human voice. It's become so dire that I would even settle for a telemarketer. At dinner time.

I've worked steadily since I got my first babysitting gig at the tender age of 12 where my neighbour's kid decided to shock me by walking around the house naked with a sock hanging off of his dick. He thought I would be embarrassed but with an older brother nothing fazed me. I wonder if he would think it was so cool now, at 30, to be reminded how I whipped off the sock and told him it was nothing I hadn't seen before. Boy, I was brazen at 12!

I'm less brazen now, four days in from my escape from Cell Block C, knowing I'm set to cash my last pay cheque on Thursday, weeks before my pogey kicks in. I have never been without a pay cheque. I put myself through school on three days a week of work at the gym. After graduation, I held three part-time jobs and continued to work a part-time and a full-time job until a few years ago. In my head, I know I'll be okay. I have money saved and pogey coming. And, I know it's my time to buckle down and finally secure my dream job (or as close to my dream as possible today). I'm on the cusp of the unknown, of new possibilities, and it's all on my terms. I'm nervous of the unknown.

So, I take a deep breath and hanker down for long haul.

February 9th -- a good mental health day

2011-02-15T01:56:00.000-08:00

It's been all over the airwaves, microwaves, all waves... February 9th was the day to talk openly about mental health. My own mental health has been in question for a while. For those who don't know, I have battled depression for the past 10 years. It comes and goes like those waves. Ebb and flow. In and out. Down but not out. Some days are good, some days not so good, but the fact that I am aware of how easy the downfall comes is a positive. I constantly remind myself that I am good enough, that I am worth the fight, that I deserve happiness.

This year, this February 9th was a mixed blessing. The afternoon of February 9th, when I should have been talking about mental health and perhaps my own depression story, I was called into the office at Cell Block C and told that I would no longer be working there. There was a portion of me that was relieved - my out. The other side was embarrassed. While there was a work shortage, with two salespeople down and sales dismal, the fact is that they did not want me anymore. And I didn't want them. It was a toxic relationship and no matter how hard I tried, it was a relationship that was unsalvagable.

I am not going to point fingers. I think a read through my blog would unearth the reasons for the dysfunction. It was a relationship that was not getting any better. There was no ebb and flow, just the flow of energy from me into an environment in which my efforts were not appreciated. My talents lay elsewhere.

So, I gathered my things and my pride and I bid farewell to the people I met there. I went through my orders with my office manager, cleaning up tasks and leaving as few waves as possible in my wake. And while the environment in the office was often negative, I made sure that my name was not associated with the negativity. The Cell Block C wardens were hospitable in the end. While I was told I was stupid while an employee, now that I "enjoyed" a layoff status I was told that it was not personal and that I should come away from the experience with a positive outlook - a new beginnings outlook.

I agree. It's time for a new beginning. I was trying it the old-fashioned way - to find another position and then give notice. They played their hand before I had a chance to organize my own. The hand was dealt and I'm not sure if there was one true winner. I would like to think we both are - Cell Block C no longer has to deal with me and I no longer have to dread waking up each morning to enter an environment that was no longer mentally or physically healthy.

Many of my friends would say I'm being politically correct here. "They're the assholes," they've already said. "You're better off." Both are true. The wardens are pricks. They're pricks that do not think of themselves as pricks. They think they are justified for their often inappropriate actions and interactions. I just no that job or no job, I'm 10 times happier having the day to myself to look onward and upward, for jobs nay career choices that are more in line with my happiness.

February 9th for mental health. Who would have figured it would be my own that would be saved that day.

The other Linda

2011-01-28T23:58:00.000-08:00

I was surprised at my reaction this past week after visiting my alma matter. I'm naturally sappy and cry at commercials and everything from made-for-tv movies to Undercover Boss. If there's a sad story, a happy ending or a message of hope I weep. I'm a weeper. So, it should have been no surprise that I found a few tears after visiting my girl crush, Nancy Burt. In case you didn't know, I heart her.

After getting my bearings about me, having not been inside for oh so many years, I found my feet knew the way to the same hallways that I spent three years of my academic career. I touched the locker where I stored the heavy audio visual equipment I used to do mock interviews. I visited my old newsroom where we laid out the weekly newspaper by hand, only to find that the semester after I left they upgraded to Mac computers. Mac for everyone! I also got caught up with Nancy and picked her brain for what my next step and the step after I should take. So, now with continuing education brochures and a thought to attaining my Masters, I'm hyped. Hepped. Inspired. Giddy really. There is a light and I'm running towards it.

My friend Anasatan reminded me of something today. She reminded me to walk before I run. To realize that Rome wasn't built in a day and I shouldn't expect everything to fall into place at once. She's right. But I'm still giddy. I was even giddier when I got an email today, a response from an email inquiry I sent in hopes of securing employment with the college. It's for freelance right now and I have to offer examples of my photography skills, which have been non-existent lately, but I'm still excited. And nervous. And I have butterflies trapped in my gut that may make me spew.

It reminded me of the time, way back in the day, in my second year when I got trapped in the bathroom with a psychopath. Her name was Linda and she was in my class. She was also drunk, having admitted to being on the bottle for about a day and a half, and she was upset over something. Her temper was known. She was much older and had seen a lot of life, even then. Life had not been good, and although she was trying to turn her life around (she was in college as a mature student, after all) but she had inner demons. I don't know exactly what they were (I couldn't understand her slurring), but I knew she was in the throws of a meltdown and I was in her path.

I have the same feeling in my gut as I had that day. I wanted to help Linda but I didn't know how. I didn't know the right thing to say and no matter what I did - comfort her, offer her water, offer to take her home to sleep it off, nothing worked. Instead, I called in an instructor for help. Just like I called Nancy, and Terri, and Carey and Judy. Just like I sent emails to a college dean and former instructor now editor for any job opportunities. I felt myself sinking further and I reached past my comfort zone for help. And, I'm getting it unlike Linda who ended up dropping out.

I'm not sure where she is right now. I actually hadn't thought of her in years, not since I had heard rumours of her ultimate demise... death. I'm not sure if it's true. I hope not. But, I also realize that I have started to take the steps to shake my own demons without going down the same road - to harness the butterflies in my stomach and quiet my feelings of self-doubt.

I used to look at Linda and see a crazy person. Now as I recall her I see myself, just another person trying to fight off her inner demons. Bless you Linda, wherever you ended up.

The times they are a changin'

2011-01-25T22:08:00.000-08:00

(Cue Bob Dylan...)

These past few weeks, Scribe has started to make a lot of decisions. A lot. She's got a lot to change. The mindset is one of them and even though it's been a battle, it's going to continue.

Perhaps one decision would be to stop talking in the third person. I don't know why I do it. Sometimes it's funny. Sometimes it's to deflect some sort of responsibility. It's not like I'm talking about ME... but I am. These changes are not a New Year's Resolution. It just happened to coincide. I had decided in December that I will NOT go through another birthday in tears over my suck-ass job at Cell Block C. I'm working to make that a reality.

More importantly, I'm getting off my ass and realizing that the real work is ahead of me, and honestly, I'm a little frightened. They say a little fear is healthy. I hope I'm on my way to a healthy outlook and a healthy future.

So here it is - the list of what I'm changing:

My inability to speak up when I'm upset, hurt or insulted.
My career away from Cell Block C and the steps I need to take to get there, which one of them is to go back to school... at 40.
My current financial/fiscal situation.
My level of honesty with myself.
My fitness level and overall health... yes, I've been going to the gym, thanks to inspiration from my gym rat friends.
My all or nothing attitude. It's one step at a time, and it's constant. Every day. Every minute.

I find what scares me the most at this moment is the thought of going back to school. It's not that I didn't finish college. I did. With flying colours. But, technology and techniques have changed and I've been out of the media world for a few years, skirting along the edges by writing this blog and taking on freelance positions here and there. Now I need xhtml training, more Photoshop, Illustrator, Dreamweaver... arghh! I'm also no longer offering the skills I do already possess for free - I'm willing to help anyone but if it means missing out on a fee for services rendered and keeping the credit sharks at bay, I'm sorry but it will be a no, thank you. Go find another sucker.

Back in August, I signed up to do the editorial content for a new website portal venture that was supposed to take my city by storm. What I didn't know was that it meant all the responsibility and work would fall on my shoulders and my "partner" would not even live up to his promise of setting up the bank accounts, organizing the literature or business cards and recruiting sales agents. I also offered my editing services for his book. That was in July/August and despite an agreement on a fee and payment schedule, I received payment in full last week. In the middle of January.

I heard all the excuses: my pay cheque didn't clear; I didn't get a chance to go to the bank; I don't have any cheques; I've been up all day/night and need to sleep so I can't meet you for five minutes. I served the ultimatum steaming hot - "I need full payment tomorrow or I can't make my mortgage payment and the bank will foreclose. I'll lose my house." I wouldn't have lost it - I'm too responsible for that. I am just tired of carrying people and their financial woes when they have no concern for mine.

I don't want to forgo on a haircut or hold off on taking that course because someone else couldn't pay up. I'm tired of looking at my bank account every day and accounting for every penny, for wondering if I should buy that Tim Horton's coffee or will it put me into a deficit balance on my bank account. I'm tired of being responsible for everything.

I know responsibility is part of life, my adult one. I get that. What I don't get is why I have to sacrifice so someone else doesn't have to. I'm looking to go back to school and to earn more money, I first have to spend it... on tuition, on books and the like. It's part-time for now, but I've decided that my ultimate goal is to give back to the school that gave me my start, my inspiration, my training, and for that I will need to get my Master's degree. It's three years of courses. It's putting myself out there and learning when I haven't been in some semblance of school for 20 years. Times have changed and I must change with them.

It's time for me to think about me and my aspirations. It's time to think about my feelings instead of everyone else. It's time to put me first. And that, my friends, scares the crap out of me.

This little piggy went to market...

2011-01-20T20:34:00.000-08:00

Last night, I did a bread and milk run on my way home from Cell Block C. While I ended up getting the provisions for the morning, I did put another item in my cart and it got me oinking, laughing and causing at least one cashier and a patron to blush.

As usual, I was multitasking, talking to Anasatan on the phone, perusing the aisles and calculating my potential bill in my head. That's when I spotted it. It was full and pink with flowers on its belly. It was the perfect replacement for the rubber chicken.

The Shoppers' Drug Mart by my house put in a new section geared to the new generation of pet owners who treat their canines and felines like their own children. I know I do. I approached with pure giddiness. I wanted to touch it and squeeze it. I was overcome and let out a laugh when Anasatan asked if there were any ducks in the store. There weren't. Only pigs, in particular, one pink rubber pig. I squeezed it over and over again, and I laughed. Anasatan laughed and called me out on my freakishness. I thought it was all sorts of awesome and quickly put the said pig into the basket.

Anasatan, exasperated with all of the oinking (mine and the pigs), had hung up, so I made my way to the checkout reveling in my find. "Isn't this awesome," I asked the cashier, pointing to the pig.

"Oh, it's for a dog..." he answered. Why else would I buy a rubber pig, I thought. And then, before thinking how it might sound to the other patrons, I said something that would be considered a little risque in any other situation... "You can squeeze it if you like..."

The man behind me in the line took a double-take and started to laugh. I started to laugh, making it hard to see the numbers I was attempting to punch into the debit card machine. I laughed louder as the cashier (a male cashier at that) reached over and squeezed. The pig must have liked it too since he didn't oink as loud for me when I squeezed him.

So my house is now a barnyard as Boyo the Boxer goes between the pig and chicken. I just hope the goat is available soon to make our farm complete.

He's lucky he's cute...

2011-01-17T14:46:00.000-08:00

Am I talking about the canine or the Man? Or both?

Boyo wearing the Cone of Shame... Feel shame, Kao, feel shame...

If I'm lucky and win a massive lottery (or a massive stroke), I may find myself living in a van down by the river (cue Deliverance music). I was handed an estimate, not even a full bill, for what potentially could be a life-threatening situation for the Boyo. Was it pancreatitis? Poisoning? Consumption? None of the above. Two days and one night of puking (vomit and blood intermixed), two hours of sleep in between cleaning up random spots all over the house, a nervous ride to the vet and an estimate to end all estimates, and I checked Kao into the animal hospital not sure if I would see him again in his alive state.

There were blood tests, IVs, x-rays and an overnight stay. And a $900+ vet bill ('cause they never include the tax) only to discover that Boyo has not yet and probably never will outgrow his fetish... socks. Mine. And this time, it almost cost him his life.

He was so dehydrated from hurling, trying with all his might to get the trouser sock (no, it's not a code name) out of his gut and onto the floor. I was so tired from keeping my one eye open and one hand on the Swiffer Wet Jet to ensure the floors were quickly cleaned and he was out in the backyard to cool off. I was emotionally and fiscally drained. And while my emotions are now bordering on normal (I said bordering, people, I know my limitations!), my wallet is feeling it.

I keep telling the Boyo that while I spent only $300 in his initial purchase, he's now up to full price and he's got to start earning his keep. He's also got to make up for the socks and underwear he's eaten and purged to-date. And I don't care if I get them back.... he ate them, he pays for them 'cause I'm not touching those again without a set of tongs.

I heart Nancy Burt

2011-01-16T22:38:00.000-08:00

I have a girl crush. I've had it since I entered my first "The art of newspaper reporting" at the mere age of 19 and it remains to this day, and today even more so.

I've been trying to break out of Cell Block C. A file in a loaf of bread didn't cut it. I managed the first layer of concrete only to be pulled back by my incessant need to eat, breath and live with a roof over my head. A universal call-out to the heavens didn't work either. Perhaps it's because I'm a dyslexic atheist (apologies to dyslexics and atheists alike). I do suffer from dyslexia on occasion and these last few months have left me wondering about god and my connection to him/her.

So last week, I called out to my mentor, my girl crush: Nancy Burt. And, she answered. If my arms could reach through the cell phone I would have given her the biggest squeeze and a "Squeee," as she took the time, not only to call me back after a long-winded, unabashed devoted message, but because she remembered me and the last meeting we had outside of the subway on Bloor Street West. She remembered I had married my college classmate. She remembered where I used to work. She remembered my enthusiasm. She also remembered the article I submitted to the school's magazine. She remembered to call me.

Nancy also suggested potential steps for me to take to speed up my escape from Cell Block C. She offered a hammer in the form of a contact at the only profitable newspaper in Canada. She offered me a shovel by offering to act as a reference. She loaned me a set of clothes for the outside world in the mention of a potential writing opportunity at my alma matter. Nancy offered me hope.

I still heart Nancy Burt and now the girl crush is ten-fold. We're supposed to be meeting up for coffee at some point to catch up. I can't wait. I just hope she doesn't mind too much when I start humping her leg.

December who?

2010-12-20T08:51:00.000-08:00

Do you remember when things took so long to happen? When school vacations were eons away but in reality the three months until "no more pencils, no more books" could be shouted at the top of our young lungs? It's no longer the case.

Maybe it's because I turned a milestone birthday this past week. Yes, Scribe can no longer claim to be in her 30s. It's a new decade baby, and with it comes an acceleration in time. One month seems like yesterday. So imagine my dismay when I realized I had neglected you again. For a whole month. To make up for it, I will do a synopsis of the last month and everything that has gone into it.

Balloons for the Gusafus
There are a surprising number of birthdays to be had this past month (mine included). We know what certain parents were doing nine months before... and yes, that includes mine but they did it only twice. Once with my brother and once with me. Tell me any different and I will stick my fingers in my ears and start singing at the top of my lungs.

You may have noticed an influx of green balloons on December 7th. Hulk Green to be exact, to recognize a certain young man's birthday. He may have passed, but I sure hope the balloons reached my buddy Christopher and reminded him that he still has big fans in all of us. Friends, family, teachers... we were all there in the cold to send our message across Ontario and hopefully beyond. Boyo the Boxer, however, was happy they were out of his house and not taunting him any longer.

'Tis the season, mothafuckas
I hate malls, the crowds, the recycled air, the attempt to spend less and appreciate more, so Christmas is a hard time for me and I try to spend as little time as possible in the mall. This year, I managed to never set foot in the mall, opting for online purchases of hockey tickets to the local OHA team, books and spa gift certificates. The Man and I have opted out of gifts this year, instead putting our money away to collect dust and hopefully interest as we save for our first vacation together. I did put a stocking together for him and I'm hoping he took the hint when my stocking continues to lay empty (I sure do hope he's reading this. HINT.)

I even purchased my Christmas cards online and I will send them out IF the kind people at Zazzle get them to me soon. I'm quite excited about these cards, you see, because it features one James Garfield courtesy of the Bloggess, who, I learned, will be donating the funds generated from the Xmas cards to presents for those in need. So even though I may receive the cards in February it's okay since it's going to such a good cause. Besides James Garfield would have wanted it that way.

The greatest moment in history
Mark this on your calendars people! December 17th. It may not be the epiphany but it should have been. Scribe was born, and this year, she turned 40. Why is she talking in third person all of a sudden? Damned if know. It's annoying so I'm compelling her to stop.

I think it was the vat of wine I consumed on Saturday, the day after the big day when the world could start turning again. In all, the day was good, owing to the fact that I had the day away from Cell Block C (and I needed it). I was also saying goodbye to our house guest: one slightly untrained, definitely sweet 10-month-old boxer pup who, in three days managed to eat a pair of my pants and mascara, rearrange all of my shoes from my shoe cupboard to various locations throughout the house (I'm still searching for a flip-flop) and give Kao a taste of his own medicine by constantly following, jumping on and kissing him every minute of the time he was in our care. A jaunt to the fave sushi restaurant and Yuk Yuk's followed, where I laughed until I almost wet my pants with the deadpan delivery. A wedding and a day of recovery followed by finishing up Christmas shopping and that is my weekend and month to-date.

I wish everyone a happy holiday season. May the malls be open, may your pocketbooks be limitless and may you spend as much time with your family and friends.

Tits up, Mother!

2010-11-29T14:27:00.000-08:00

You might often be tempted to ask the question: when is it okay, kosher if you will, to talk about tits with your mother – or more specifically for her to push her tits up.

Picture a 74-year-old woman who never leaves the house without her lipstick on and a general rub of colour on her cheeks, whose hair has been many colours but not yet blue.

The answer might surprise or shock you. It certainly shocked me since I was the one asking the question and I didn’t get the expected shot upside the head. Well, she was too far away and her knee has been acting up lately so there’s that. That, and she was too busy laughing.

My family is an anomaly, with generations upon generations either having babies later in life or having an “oops” baby 16 years after the first. My brother and I were the later in life babies, though I continually call my bro the “mailman’s child” since he’s got blond hair, blue eyes and longest goddamn eyelashes I’ve ever seen on a guy.

What does that mean besides a lot of tired mothers and kids frustrated with the number of walkers and wheelchairs in the living room? It means having a 40-year difference between sets of cousins. And it means that your Uncle Jimmy (he’s actually a cousin but so old we call him Uncle) will talk about his morning routine of putting his teeth in and straightening out his back before kissing your aunt or how life was during World War II. It also means that your less-than-colourful mother (save the lipstick she insists should never be missed) will be a little more easy-going with the off-colour humour than if she was shushing you after you ask if she fancies a little spotted dick. But that’s only IF Uncle Jimmy is around. I swear he’s an elixir. Either that or he bathes in the stuff.

And so it went this past weekend where the cousins got together to remember Uncle Billy and his positive outlook, his perfectly sliced turkey and stuffing and the times he tried on his wife’s bathing suit, complete with grapefruits for the bits he couldn’t fill. There’s proof in pictures and we saw them too.

After delivering eulogies and tributes, remembering all of the good times we shared together, it was time for a few pictures of the cousins. The younger generation first – thankfully I was included in that (a debate since I’m in between an intergenerational member) – and then the oldies.

I don’t know what possessed me – perhaps after being regaled with stories of how vulgar and amazing my family can be – but as my aunt, uncle, father and mother were standing, posing with prim and proper smiles on their face, I opted for the less traditional call… “Okay, everyone! Make this count! Tits up, ass out.” Jesus Christ Margaret choked on her wine. My uncle was buckled over laughing and with tears in his eyes, and my dad and aunt bravely lifted their chest, pushed out their ass and grinned.

I think this may be the only time I will get away with saying “tits” to my mother. I can’t even fathom how she’d react if I called her “Hootie McBoob” or my moniker “Chesty LaRue.” Even better: her new name… Tits McGrath. I can’t wait until her memorial service. Really. There's going to be spotted dick for everyone!

Espresso love/hate

2010-11-24T01:31:00.000-08:00

Espresso is my enemy. It lulls me into a deliciously fragrant and strong psuedo-reality that this time I won't be affected by its grasp on my now wide-awake brain. So many thoughts in my head, so many ideas fluttering about and I can't seem to keep still for one minute so one will alight on me and I can savour it for a minute or five.

Espresso is my drug; sleep its victim, and it's my morning-after sanity that pays. In spades. My fingers fly across the keyboard, clicking and clacking, making big words come to life and melding thought streams into other streams and it takes a map to unravel my travels.

Tomorrow is a work day. Tomorrow, I have to venture into the office and order vests, clocks, awards and holiday chocolate - wares to promote, to announce a message, a mantra - and I hope I don't leave keyboard creases on my cheeks as my head hits the desk.

Espresso, you are my frenemy.

Uncle Billy

2010-11-15T22:31:00.000-08:00

Looking up at my Uncle Bill always reminded me of looking way up at a very tall tree, the tallest in the forest, and you could imagine climbing limbs to reach the sun.

Always quick with a hug, a laugh, a smile or a kind word, he gave selflessly. His smile could brighten any day and I always looked forward to every family gathering to see him and my Aunt Kay. This past Saturday, the sunshine dimmed, the clouds drew and the earth stopped turning for a time as we held our breath and bid farewell to a favourite person in so many of our lives.

I hadn't seen him for a few years, but my most treasured memory of him was what I always associated with him - a warm embrace - as I stepped off of an airplane to spend the weekend at his Calgary home. He and my Aunt Kay had opened up their home to me when I managed to land an interview at one of the city's thriving magazines. They had great plans for me. I was to move there and offered up their basement as my temporary home base for as long as it took to find my permanent place in Calgary. It was all set and they were excited for me and looking forward to having me in their home. That's how both my aunt and uncle were - unassuming people quick to lend a hand to anyone in need.

We spoke about my Aunt Ann, his mother, who he doted on, ever a loving son. We spoke about how my life might change with this new opportunity. We spoke about the past and the times we got together at our house and theirs for Boxing Day and summer pool parties, or the ever-popular euchre nights in which all of the cousins tried to trump the others. We spoke about his golf games and his quest to one-up his cousin and favourite duffer, my Uncle Jimmy. He helped me map my way to my potential office building, teaching me about the landmarks in the city, and I spent a wonderful day with him, my aunt and cousins Carol, David, Meaghan and Leigh to celebrate Mother's Day. It made for great memories and I'm upset to know it will be my last of him.

In two weeks, the cousins will get together to celebrate his life, share stories and open a bottle of three of wine to toast him - one Celebration of Life in Calgary and another in Toronto - with pictures and memories shared between the two to celebrate him and the impact he's had on us all.

I can't remember a time when Uncle Bill wasn't planted firmly in our lives, the roots stretching across the miles and tethered to our heart strings. Toronto, Calgary and abroad, the strength of his love will be firmly entrenched and his smile engraved in our lives.

Inspired by the CBC? Hell yeah!

2010-11-11T00:36:00.000-08:00

Okay, one more post before my head hits the pillow. I had to get this out. It was too good not to share, and you'll never guess where I got it from... CBC.

I have a guilty pleasure. Yes, just one of them. I try to watch CBC's Being Erica every week. It's a novel concept - time traveling to fix or learn from your mistakes - a bucket list of regrets and potential do-overs. And in tonight's episode, I heard this gem:

"Your past mistakes and bad decisions are in the past... your future is spotless."

Gotta love it!

Amber in the bramble bush

2010-11-11T00:23:00.000-08:00

I'm searching for a title for my latest artistic creation. Again, my abstract landscape took a turn and this time it ran into a forest of texture, vines and undergrowth. Not to mention, the whole process inspired me to dip both hands into a can of white paint and take some gauze and cobwebs along for the ride.

So, without further ado, here it is.

It was really an experimentation in texture and colour, with many layers of paint and gloss... sort of like me. Many layers and a lover of gloss. Just look in my makeup bag.

Happy Thursday, bloggers. It's a mini-Friday and that's all right by me.

Remembering to remember... where Scribe goes silent

2010-11-11T00:15:00.000-08:00

I'm amazed at how much I continue to learn about my parents over the years. Just a few months ago, my dad and I were talking about his somewhat nomadic life, moving from the family homestead in Markdale, Ontario out to Ajax, Mildmay and Toronto. It was during the Depression so my grandfather went where there was work and that meant renting out the family home and renting digs in some remote city.

Remote is relative when you come from a small Ontario town, population 999, where everyone knows what you've done or not done even before you reach your back porch. My grandmother was a telephone switchboard operator; my grandfather worked in many jobs - co-owner of a hardware store and civil servant among them. He also worked at the artillery plant in Ajax, Ontario during World War II where he, my grandfather and my then-young father worked in a munitions factory.

He spoke about doing odd jobs in the munitions factory and making sure he wasn't caught bringing in any matches or lighters as he snuck a smoke with his buddies. One spark, he said, and we were all goners, forget about our Axis enemies. He spoke about living in rented digs where the only heat would come from a grate in the floor - war-time houses that probably still stand to this day. I'm not sure if they've upgraded to central heat or even central air, but I sure hope so.

I never knew about this direct relation to the war effort, and now as we sit on the evening prior to Remembrance Day, I'm remiss if I don't think of the people, men and women who fought and continue to fight in wars around the world, but also of the people left behind to pick up the slack - my father included.

I didn't think I had an immediate connection to any veterans save my uncle who was in the RAF stationed in Egypt. The only proof is a picture that used to sit on the bookshelf in my aunt and uncle's house in Gorebridge, Scotland. My aunt did her part too, but because my family was so far removed from them, thousands of miles across the ocean, it didn't occur to me that I should remember their sacrifice too.

This year, I am. I'm offering up two full minutes of silence, which for me, is a feat. I will remember the sacrifices of the soldiers of the past and save a smile and a salute for the men and women serving today.

Tests to prove I'm not a numpty

2010-11-09T17:38:00.000-08:00

It’s obviously been a while since I’ve been in the market for a new job – four years to be exact – and my how things have changed!

It’s still who you know and not what you know. Networking is still god and thanks to Facebook, Twitter and blogs like this (!), it’s reached a new height of social networking. But what I didn’t expect was to revert back to my pre-pubescent, sweating over a test with a time limit days.

I got my foot in the door for this job at The Man’s company (thankfully not the same location). It’s not in writing, marketing or public relations – well, sort of. It’s in customer service, which I’m sooo used to doing even though I sometimes want to throw ninja stars at them through the phone. Being a biatch? Here’s a burst eardrum from the ninja star coming point blank through the phone and into your ear canal. Kiss your teeth at me? Even though I can’t see it, I can hear it, and for that my frenemy, you will get the ultimate kiss-off – a personal visit and coffee date with my friend Uzi.

I don’t do well with stupid and I also don’t do well with looking stupid, so imagine my surprise when, in the first interview, I was told there would be a timed aptitude test. It was 12 minutes of sheer panic since The Man hadn’t warned me I would be tested on my smarts. Thank goodness, I have them!

Most of the questions weren’t bad – it tested recollection, discerning between numbers if you’re apt to have numeric dyslexia on a regular basis. But, it also had Sesame Street-like questions:

“One of these is not like the other…” Fork, spoon, knife, blood splatter…

You could see my confusion. I chose spoon.

It also had math questions – the kind that has the train leaving the station at a certain time going at a speed of 216 mph and it meets another train about 12 minutes after leaving the station…my eyes glazed over and I almost wrote “who the hell cares” as my answer.

I must have done something right since I had the second interview yesterday, but this interviewer was harder to read than the other. And, you guessed it, I had another test, this time about my computer knowledge.

“What is a port? Do you know if hardware and software are the same thing? Do you know they have the internet on computers now?” They had me describe the way I would search out files on the C drive. Sophmoric really, but I guess it's a way to weed out the inexperienced.

And the ultimate test? The criminal record check that came at the end of the interview. I guess it's a positive that I was given that test, and because I have yet to be arrested, I think this is one test I will pass with flying colours.

That, and the fact that I am not a numpty, I hope the whole interview will go in my favour. Fingers crossed.

Spell check would have come in handy

2010-10-27T22:00:00.000-07:00

I'm the type who reads newspapers, magazines and books and laughs hysterically when I come across a blatant spelling mistake, so imagine my reaction when I saw this sign in Brampton.

Do you think the "Y" is silent? Yeah, me too. Or at least I hope so!

Chesty LaRue on canvas

2010-10-27T14:26:00.000-07:00

Do you see the forest for the breasts?

Time flows quickly, distracted intermittently with ringing telephones, the click of the keyboard keys as my fingers fly across them, and I realize that I’ve written only three posts to-date for October.

I’d like to apologize but I have a feeling that a lot of you understand. Time is fleeting and before you blink, it’s three weeks later and you’ve written all of 10 words and most of that is on the grocery list you’ve tucked into your purse only to forget that too.

I understand. October has been crazy and boring in the very same breath. I can say I’ve been busy with my job but it’s actually boring, monotonous and soul-sucking. I can say my artwork has exploded but I have only one-and-a-half pieces to lay claim. And I can say that I’ve done nothing to rectify the situation but sit on my ass.

One of those art pieces (the only complete one) went to Jesus Christ Margaret to commemorate my parents’ golden wedding anniversary. In hindsight, it went to the wrong person and for the wrong occasion as even as we speak it’s sitting on the floor because Margaret doesn’t quite get it. She finds the colours wrong, the landscape too non-conformist, so unlike her. She doesn’t realize that it’s her daughter giving her a gift – a little piece of herself.

I’ve been rebelling a bit, checking my call display and walking away when I see it’s her. I don’t want to hear her “Dear” me that and “But honey” this. I don’t want her to forget the niceties that come with receiving a gift, that a thank-you is enough of a comment especially when 8 hours of work has been invested. Art is personal and emotional, and I believe a little more couth could have been used in this circumstance.

Regardless of the reaction, I am furiously proud of my painting no matter if or where it hangs. The fact that my tree line looks like a tree line in all its fall glory and that the sky has a beautiful hue to it – I’m proud. I’m even proud of my fire trees, conical trees that look like flames with its vibrant red/orange fall foliage. It’s my best work and the one I felt most free, like I knew it would turn out well.

At least Jesus Christ Margaret did not hint at the fact that the fields on either side of the river looked like lopsided breasts and the fire trees like tassels, as two friends did. I told them they were perverted. They are, so I’m telling the truth. And, the truth is, after looking at it for a few minutes, I saw Chesty LaRue in a striptease, spinning the tassels and taking the eyes out of the patrons in the front row.

At least she didn’t say that.

Through the woods to Grandma's house...

2010-10-19T19:36:00.000-07:00

For the past two weeks I've been staring at my computer background, halfway between smiling and tearing up.

It's not your traditional computer backdrop. It's a photo from the Thanksgiving Monday and a sojourn to the north, two hours to be exact, to my grandmother's home town of Markdale. It's the home of Chapman's Ice Cream, Steven's BBQ and the quaintest town you've ever seen.

The main street hosts a few choice shops, my favourite "Peek Thru My Window," in existence for over 20 years and that is the last time I spent any time in the place. There's the old firehall, now an information centre, a Food Town where Gramma did all of her shopping and two churches just steps from each other, like there's hope that religious entities can co-exist in a small space.

It's also where my grandmother lived, my father's mother, and where my brother and I spent many happy a summer picking raspberries in the back garden and yelling down the heat grates from the bedroom upstairs to see what was on the breakfast menu. I know that tonka trucks and cars were also dropped down the grates, often narrowily missing the porridge pot on the stove.

I still have the memories but it's also the house that I miss, the insatiable need to slide down the bannister, complete with large wooden ball at the end. There's the country kitchen that seems so much smaller than I remember, the back bedroom where the daddy long legs always seemed to be in abundance.

I paid my respects to the house on this Monday, taking The Man and Boyo the Boxer to meet it. And, I was a little nervous to mount the front steps and introduce myself to the now-owners. The house was sold in the mid-80s, out of the family that had been its caretakers since the late 1800s. It had proven too much to maintain. The pipes always froze in the winter, the roof was needing replaced and it was too big for my diminutive grandmother who was starting to forget to eat, forget to throw out spoiled food and even how to cook her famous meals of salmon sandwiches, chili and roast beef. Porridge was almost never on the menu anymore.

The owners were really gracious, recognizing the last name that had been permanently etched a hundred times over in the brick wall of the side porch. My great uncle, grandfather, brother and a slew of other family members too long gone from memory. They're all still there, watching over the homestead.

I was very upset way back when my grandmother was considering selling the house. It was my home away from home, my place to yell down the heating grates that once had pipes running through from the wood burning stove in the kitchen.

My grandmother died in 1989 from emphysema, from years of smoking and bouts of asthma. She was 78. And it was back in 1989 that I had even stepped foot in the town where my grandmother lived. It was comforting to see that it hadn't changed that much - a few changes in businesses, new lines painted on the road but the same small town feel was intact. I felt instantly comforted. The fact that the new owners offered me a beer helped too.

What touched me the most as I walked up to the door with a whole bunch of Nervous Nellies floating around in my belly was that my grandmother's door knocker, full of brass and very lion-like was still there - a testament of who came before. The door had been given a new paint job, red with passion, and the old green indoor-outdoor carpet had given way to a concrete landing, but the door knocker remained.

I knocked on the door with that door knocker, a lion's share of memories still intact and I was instantly transported to my five-year-old self playing Nicky Nine Doors with my grandma. I only wish she would have answered the door.

** Photos finally posted. Procrastination strikes again!

I got nothing...

2010-10-09T17:28:00.000-07:00

Nada, Zilch, Zero. But I have sore legs and a somewhat tidy house.

Over the last two weeks I've hosted and helped with two garage sales or yard sales without a garage. I collected, organized, carried and eventually sold other people their new treasures. Would I do it again? Maybe not for another eight years or so 'cause people are cheap and rude.

It was a 7 a.m. start last week, with the hours running from 8 a.m. to 12 p.m., plenty enough time to hock my wares. I had the makings of a whole kitchen, complete with pots and pans, rice cookers, veggie steamers and enough coffee makers to make coffee for the whole city. Really, what did I need with three coffee makers when there is a Tim Horton's steps away from my house? Don't get me wrong... I love a good coffee and I'm known to grind my own coffee beans but when I'm in a hurry, it's the drive-thru I go. Anyways, back to the cheapskates.... but first a question.

If you're at a garage sale and you see a great set of pots and pans, do you assume that they've never been used? Remember you're at a garage sale and the said pots and pans are priced ridiculously cheap at $4 for the set of three. A woman came up to the table all interested and itching to get her hands on these pots and then she asked the price. $4 for all three, I said, knowing I wanted to sell them but knew a good deal when I ~~made~~ saw one. And her counter offer? $.50 each. Yes, 50 cents. I bargained down to $3.50 since there's always some haggling involved. Her answer: "But lady, it's used." And mine: "You're at a feckin' garage sale. Yes, it's used. Get off of my my friend's lawn."

Despite the haggling and the attempts at walking away without paying, I did end up making $80 that day and that was in the rain. Today's efforts were much better weather-wise, but I was still unable to unload a computer. For $50 all in - hard drive, 17 in. monitor, keyboard and mouse. And did I mention the CD burner? No? Well it had that too. It was an older model, but still.

And I still got the cheapskates. One man, after working me down from $3 to $2 to a never-been-used fondue pot and burner tried to hand me $1.50. You're cheaping me down for $.50? Get off of my my friend's driveway. I got the toonie in the end.

Will I do it again? Perhaps not. But I did like the feeling of accomplishment that came from clearing out the clutter and ridding myself of what I didn't need or want. It's a paring down and what will remain will be truly wanted, used and cherished.

One item I was a little sad to see go: a corkscrew and wine top made from a grapevine. Until I was told that it indeed looked like a turd. I could not disagree but it became a topic of conversation for the lovely couple who bought it, and they laughed as I shouted out my goodbye: "Enjoy your wine turd." They raised the turds in the air and did a mock salute and it was a good day after all.

Paranoia raises its head

2010-09-28T17:19:00.000-07:00

I am slowly going crazy... I, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 Switch. Crazy going slowly am I, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1 Switch...

I used to sing this repetitively since I thought it was funny to speak backwards or jumbled up. I was good at it. But now I truly believe I am going crazy and I blame the characters in Cell Block C.

I've worked there for the past four years and when I started I was confident, funny, loyal and meticulous. I wore my rep and my skin with pride. Now, I am more paranoia than perky, proof in point a conversation I had with myself today.

A co-worker has invited me to join her for lunch, not an uncommon thing in the workforce. We work with people day in, day out for 8 or 9 hours a day. You're bound to make friendships. Except on Cell Block C. Everyone seems to be out for themselves and will throw you under the bus on a moment's notice. No, I'm not being paranoid, though you may be apt to think so. I've seen it happen and I've had it happen to me. So, when the newest charge asked me what I was doing for lunch this Wednesday, I stopped and thought: "I wonder what she has to tell me. I wonder what her motives are."

Yes, those were my initial thoughts and how sad is that state of affairs that people can't bond over lunch, over coffee in the cafeteria or a stopover at a desk to say hello and discuss the weekend's happenings? After much debate, I've come to the conclusion that she doesn't seem to have any ulterior motives, save grabbing a coffee and sandwich outside of work hours. It will be a nice break to the day, and for someone who takes only 15 minutes to feed my Tim Horton's addiction, it will be different, nice and strangely comforting to see perhaps the atmosphere is changing for the better.

That's not to say that I will push any warning signs to the back of my mind. I'm not that naive. But until then, I will enjoy the change of scenery away from the Negative Nellies in Cell Block C - and yes, my boss is the leader. I will also enjoy a bit of the camaraderie no matter how short the lunch.

Perhaps I will dazzle my new co-worker with my ability to put the po-po under my spell with my "Occifer, Occifer, I am not under the alkafluence of inkahol as some thinkel peep I know."

It was cuter when I was five and my dad was coaching me. Now it may lead to a night in the slammer. Oh well. At least it will be a day (or five) off.

Don't phone Hoarders just yet...

2010-09-27T23:47:00.000-07:00

I may have been a little too quick to jump on the hoarders' bandwagon. Tonight, I actually sat down and watched a full episode. Between cringing about a cockroach infestation and gasping in awe of how much stuff can actually "fit" into a home, I've decided that while I may keep things a little too long, at least you can walk through my house without having to call in a search party to get out.

What disturbed me the most was that the parents featured on the program thought nothing of placing the spillover from the rest of the house into their children's rooms, so much that there was no available space to sleep.

Oh, and don't forget the cockroaches. Yes, cockroaches. Everywhere. My skin is still crawling and I thank my lucky stars that I have the odd spider or two and a rogue moth to contend with and not the scurrying of cockroaches of all sizes and ages as soon as the lights go on.

Not too many things make me queasy. I can handle spiders, earwigs and even mice, but I draw the line at cockroaches. I've been traumatized more than once by those disgusting creatures. The first time had me running down an aisle trying to make an escape from a flying cockroach that, I swear, followed me throughout the store as I tried to leave. A second time, it was a cockroach falling onto my hand as I tried to make a purchase at the checkout counter. And, it was not even the same store. I made even more acquaitances on vacation, and while I was expecting them since it was the tropics, I was still all heeby-jeeby about them.

So, in short: you can see my floors, I'm working on clearing the clutter and making money in the process and I am cockroach-free. All in all, I think I'm winning.

Hello, my name is Scribe and I am a hoarder

2010-09-27T17:51:00.000-07:00

Can you say procrastination? Do you call it procrastination when, instead of finishing an editing job, I'm listening to the Gary Gnu Show from the Great Space Coaster show of the 80s? Or checking out recipes for Red Velvet Cake? Or how about reading about hairless cats and their oil secretions? Yeah, I thought so too.

It's not that I don't have a lot of stuff to do tonight. Finishing the editing of my friend's book is top on the list, or so it should be. The same goes for prepping for this weekend's garage sale, sifting through my ~~shite~~ treasures and choosing which ones would be a great addition to someone else's home.

There is some good crap here, like two or three televisions that now take up residence in my home. I told The Man before he brought in the latest entertainment device (high-def television) that he we would have to re-gift at least two of the televisions that are in storage. I guess I wasn't as "Terminator" as I should have been since we now have a television for every room, including the small main floor powder room.

I've also got a Houdini-like dog crate and a futon frame minus the mattress. Boyo the Boxer (my high-IQ canine who is now staring at the china cabinet willing it to move) discovered he could escape from his crate by pulling the back into the body of the crate and stepping over what I thought was a locked metal panel. He then proceeded to have his run through the house unattended, shredded tissue boxes and their contents strewn throughout the house and a make-shift potty on the futon mattress.

I've also got lots and lots of coffee mugs, a rice cooker/veggie steamer, a stand-up, life-size poster of Mel Gibson pre-crazy in Braveheart, a almost-complete family tree poster of the Royal Family (minus Camilla) and a few donations left behind by old tenants. No forwarding address? Then say goodbye to your picture of two well-trained German Shepherds, plug-in Jesus and Mary "paintings" and array of Glade Plug-ins. There's a limit to re-gifts, my friends.

Ahhh, the re-gifts... thankfully my mother took back the pukey purple sweatshirt with the big, honking, yellow sunflower. The sunflower didn't actually honk, but you could see me coming a mile away if I ever put it on. I didn't. She did, and that's one re-gift I didn't have to worry about. I've got candles, candle holders and picture frames coming out of my... closets... and those too will make a move to a front lawn near you!

I know that one man's trash is another's treasure, or at least that's what I'm hoping comes my way this weekend. While the cash I'd get for these treasures is tempting, what is more welcome is a cleaning up and a move away from my approaching hoarder status.

I don't even know how have of this stuff ended up in my house. Oh wait. As The Man has pointed out on too many occasions: "I am my mother's daughter," and that explains it all.

Words that should not be in my vocabulary

2010-09-25T11:49:00.000-07:00

As most of you already know, I cringe at non-words - those words that have made their way into the modern-day dictionary that have no business being in the word business. Last night during a quick jaunt to Port Credit to drop off Happy MacGyver at a shiatsu appointment, The Girl and I were lamenting the downfall of the English language, especially when grown adults use the word "irregardless" in a sentence.

Her son, having been present for many a discussion, decided to pull one over on The Girl. With a grin on his face, he said "Irregardless, Mom..." He didn't even finish the sentence before he broke out laughing for having pulled a funny and for the look on The Girl's face. It was a cringe really, followed by a look of shock. Last night, after practising our dance moves in a store window and laughing the whole drive home, she reminded me of another word that did not get its beginning in the dictionary: Can't.

It's not a word and it should not be in anyone's repertoire, she said, not to mention the damaging ramifications it has when uttered. The Girl is right. "I can't" is damaging, it's defeatist and it sets you up for failure as soon as it forms in your head. You don't even have to say it. It's there and it automatically deflates any idea or possible situation you can imagine.

If you want to go back to school and take a course not in your usual realm, a little off your present path, and you say "I can't" a list instantly starts to form. "I can't" because of a) finances; b) I'm too old to go back to school; c) it doesn't fit in with the idea I already have of myself; d) the homework would be too much.

Wanting to change your present relationship status? You may say "I can't" because of the financial ramifications, because you would be alone, because even though the relationship is not working and you're not as invested you stay because it's comfortable or status quo. Say "I can" and the world of possibilities opens up.

When I ended my first marriage and moved back with the parental units to regroup, my mother Margaret (the same Jesus Christ Margaret) uttered a phrase that has stuck with me to this day and makes me revolt and work to prove the exact opposite. "You can't survive on your own without us," she said. And I cried because at that time, I believed it. I'd just taken a step back and moved into my childhood home. True, I had walked from a bad relationship and was starting anew (and that had a host of new possibilities and opportunities), but I was in a place where I blamed myself. I had screwed up. I had disappointed people and that didn't jive well.

This is something I've carried around for a long time, until recently. I've forgiven myself for a lot of things and am slowly making steps to eradicate the "I can't" from my vocabulary. It's all about the positive and the silver lining I can spin. A day of closed doors and veiled whispers at the office may cause a little upset ('cause I think they're whispering about me) will now garner a look back at my work performance and the personalities of the people doing the whispering. It's not me, it's you," I would whisper back. "I did nothing wrong. I'm doing my work and to the very best of my ability." This was not always the thought process.

Sure, I still get overwhelmed but I think I've learned to relax with certain things out of my control. I can control only myself and by sweeping away the words "I can't," I'm living a more positive life. Two positive steps forward and one step back still puts me one step ahead of where I've been.

Last night, as I was learning the step, shuffle, step in the store window, I never thought "I can't." Instead I thought: "I'll get that eventually, with consistency and practice." And, that is my new philosophy.

Where Scribe is oblivious

2010-09-22T21:18:00.000-07:00

My right driver's side taillight is out. Broken. Not lit up. I've known about it for a bit but haven't gone into the garage to get it fixed. The plan is to do just that next week once I get another pay cheque, money that hasn't been allocated to the bills. I've had two people point out that the taillight is out. They're good samaritans really, since I can easily be pulled over by the po-po. But, most are not that aware or just haven't been bothered to let me know. That changed, or so I thought, last night and this morning while I was driving in to work.

The first time was last night not far from the gas station. I had stopped to fill the tank, hoping that the $25 gas card I had was still valid. I figured it was free gas, so why not. A car had pulled up behind me at the intersection. The light was red and I was waiting for it to change when I noticed the girl in the car behind me was trying to tell me something. "I know, my taillight is out. I'm getting it fixed. Thanks," I motioned to her. This morning, it was the same thing, only this time the guy beside me was yelling something from the other lane. I mouthed thanks and was on my way.

It wasn't until the next red light and the guy behind me, again motioning, got out of his car and walked up to my car. WTF, I wondered. With a twist and a tap, my gas tank was closed and he was walking back to his car just in time for the light to turn green. It wasn't my taillight at all.

I have never forgotten to close a gas tank before on any of my cars. I'm meticulous, really. I turn the cap until I hear three clicks. It's the same every time. Except for last night.

I think it was because I was so intent with paying for the gas with the gas card. I'd never used one before and had a bit of a difficult time at the pump. After realizing I had to pay inside and the card was indeed valid, I was counting myself as lucky. I'm not broke, but with the mortgage coming out today (Thursday) and a few bills scheduled for payment, I wanted to leave enough disposable income to get by until next week. And besides, free gas is free gas and I will take it when I can. Besides, I had a broken taillight to fix before the po-po realize I'm in violation of traffic laws.

I do count myself as lucky. I'm lucky to have a good sense of humour and was able to shake my head at myself and laugh. I laughed all the way to work at how oblivious I was and the fact that while people do not notice a burnt out taillight, they most certainly notice an open gas tank.

When three channels are better than one

2010-09-20T20:24:00.000-07:00

I'm not a channel surfer by nature. If there is a show on I usually leave it until the entire show plays out, including the credits. After all, the crew deserves recognition too. But, lately I've become really frustrated. A 30-hour show is in actuality only about 15 minutes. Half of our time is wasted on commercials, and most of them are shite. So, I flip.

I don't like flipping channels, especially since my father used to watch an average of four shows at a time. Golf, The History Channel, Law and Order... you get the picture. I'm sure he still does flip between shows but I don't know anymore since I refuse to watch TV with him anymore. So imagine my surprise when I found myself flipping between three channels. That's my limit. Three. But, it seems the networks have it in for me. It's my own personal conspiracy theory since all channels seem to play their commercials at the same bloody time.

Don't they know about us flippers? Channel surfers who don't want to watch their commercials, their pleas for our disposable incomes? My disposable income is anything but and I don't want to know about the latest no-pulp juice, paper towels with sponge pockets and those inane people who look like a gigantic snowball and fight for position to clean up our spills.

I've taken to watching Rogers On Demand because, guess what, most of them don't have commercials. Praise be. And, you can usually fastforward those 2 to 5 minutes to get back to the show at hand. Except. Except for the networks who have figured us out again and have taken the control away again by disabling the fastforward feature.

Right now, I'm watching live TV - Little People, Big World since it's in its final season. So far I've learned about probiotic whatchamacallits, Glade plug-ins with Febreeze, those damn sponge pockets and pizza pockets - all things I don't use. Well, except for that probiotic crap. I dig that 'cause it's good for you and it tastes good and I eat it for both. Damn! Those commercials are good!

Now it's back to channel surfing as the next batch of commercials are on and I don't want to hear about the spin brush, the magic eraser or the germs that are left on my teeth after brushing, flossing and using Listerine. I have had enough of the dentist or any conversations about teeth.

Happy Monday, bloggers, and happy flipping. I'm off to surf again.

Finger painting is not just for little kids

2010-09-19T22:07:00.000-07:00

I wish I still had the carefree abandon I had as a child. You know the kind: twirling until your feet get caught up and you can't stand because the world is still spinning and you admit you like the feeling. Or, when you fancied yourself a chef, or as good a cook as your mother, and you made concoctions of all the ingredients in the cupboards and fridge because you were creating. I had that feeling for about two hours today, and it was delicious.

My inspiration piece from the fabulous Tina Palmer. Click here to view her other amazing works.

Today, Sunday, was the second class in my month-long artistic experiment. I'm working on perspective and today's lesson was colour, in particular the choosing and the blending of the colours to create a certain mood. Despite other art classes and finished paintings, I was still in the primary colour stage, choosing colours but not mucking around with the hue. If it was a colour it was in its primal form. A red was a red. A green was a green and there was no mixing of the two to create that two-dimensional feel. But not today. Today, I blended, I finessed and I manipulated a static outline of a horizon, river and river banks with hues of teal, white, umber and ocre. I recreated a two-dimensional scene and it looked legit.

I took my first class two years ago. The outcome is perched high up on a bookshelf. It's visible but you have to look up, way up to see it. Three other attempts have spots on my walls because with each class, I'm improving and it shows on my walls. Two paintings have spots in friends' homes as gifts, and both of them have been hung proving a) that they love me and support me; and b) that my progress isn't in my head. It's hanging on their walls.

Next week, it's more blending, the adding of more ocre and umber (the sky and river are done). It's also more finger painting as I move to other subtle tones for the trees on the horizon before tackling my arch-nemesis in this whole art world: trees. It means more control and less finger play. It can also mean more apprehension and nerves. But, with a paint brush in my hand and my trusty art instructor at my shoulder, I'm sure I'll rise to the challenge.

I just wish the finger painting aspect would stick around for a little longer.

A pick-up or a spit-up? You decide.

2010-09-19T15:51:00.000-07:00

What has two thumbs and gets hit on at a speed metal CD release party? This bitch right here, that's who!

First, I really don't have any business being in a speed metal bar or any bar with metal of any kind. I'm more of the house/grunge/jazz bar type where snazzy drinks with sparkly straws are ordered up by the dozen. I don't have long, frizzy, never seen a pair of scissors grunge hair. I don't own a leather jacket with fringes, and I don't even own a black concert t-shirt of any genre or any decade. I do, however, have an appreciation for all types of music and friends who just released their second CD, and that's what I was doing in a metal bar on a Friday night pretending to head-bang to Knuckle Sandwich. Well, I wasn't pretending. I was banging and screaming the lyrics since I wanted to pay homage to the Spewer, Shredder and Pounders of the Gore.

And that, my friends, is when he made his move. I was caught unawares. I came up from one of the more powerful head bangs, singing with my friend The Girl and I met his gaze. He smiled, adjusting his glasses and pulling on the sleeves of his corduroy jacket (I didn't notice if they had the elbow patches but it would fit the whole image. He certainly stood out in the line of leather wallpapering the walls). I smiled back 'cause I'm friendly like that, and he went in for the kill.

I was flattered. Don't get me wrong. I've been off the market for over three years, co-habitating with The Man and leaving the perfume and make-up for special occasions - like taking out the trash and trimming the bramble bush. We chatted for a bit. He complimented my outfit and headbanger hair and asked what I did for a living and did I do it in Toronto. I answered him politely, inching my way over to The Girl and the Spewgore fans (they are a swarthy but friendly bunch). He asked me if I'd like to get together this week. I said no thank you and that I was in a relationship. He asked why that mattered and did I like to have fun. "Not that kind of fun," I countered. You don't like fun? he asked. I shot him a look and said that I was committed to The Man and would appreciate that he back down before I had to deliver the beat down. Actually, I said thank you but no and left it at that. It also didn't help that I had the entire conversation logged in spit running down my neck.

I went back to singing along with the speed metal version of The Rodeo Song and started to search for a tissue, a rogue napkin or anything to wipe away the remanents. And while he was a more than little distasteful in insisting that a weekly meet-up was in order and acceptable to all parties, I decided it was also a little flattering. If only for the spittle.

Common thievery comes in fives...

2010-09-14T19:09:00.000-07:00

The Bandit is at it again, stealing ideas from other people's blogs 'cause they rock and he/she/it (yes, me) wants to share TMI. This post comes courtesy of Fickle Feline - you should really check out her blog, not only because she's got shit that's worth thieving, but because she's an inspiration.

So, without further ado, here's my FIVE. It's not Roger's Five (the five people who wish you'd delete their number from their favourites...) or the Fab Five... wait, that's the Fab Four... oh never mind. Here's a list of five things you wish I had kept to myself. But, since I like to share and I don't have an internal sensor... you're welcome.

Things I Don't Do Anymore:

1. Fancy myself an expert at the dreaded Lemon Twister or that new-fandangled Skip-It. Scribe's an old bitch now. Well, I've always been a bitch but now I'm just old, apparently accident-prone and with weak ankles and a chipped bone.

2. Drink milk straight from the milk bag. Yes, I said milk "bag" and no, I'm not referring to the breasteses. My brother taught me that glasses are just a suggestion and it's more direct to put mouth to the bag and guzzle. And I wonder why I don't drink milk at other people's houses. I know where their milk bag has been.

3. Burn ants and rip the legs off of grasshoppers, but I still reserve the right to cut worms in two and sell them for double. I am an entrepreneur, after all.

4. Clean knives with my tongue. Now if there's any peanut butter left it usually ends up on my toast. I learned my lessbon, yesh I did!

5. Show everyone my double jointed fingers and wrists... Wait, scratch that. I still do that. And, I've discovered that people get freaked out over my rubber finger. Oh, how fun.

The Most Disgusting Things I Ever Ate:

1. Liver. Since I don't live with my Mommy anymore, I don't have to eat what's on my plate and liver will never be on it (ask me about the first time meeting The Man's brother and the special "dinner they said I would enjoy).

2. Tomato juice. My gag reflex kicks in every time.

3. Lima beans. 'Nuff said.

4. Powdered skim milk. I can afford the real shit now.

5. Bourbon and sparkling wine. Bad memories. Very bad memories, and not just for me.

Favourite Words With Double Vowels In Them Such As AA, OO, or UU:

vacuum

vavoom

varoom. you get the picture.

kanoodle

Things Which Are Clear Indications That Your Boss Is a Freak and You Should Seek New Employment:

1. Your boss argues with you whether you did or did not tell her about an ice cream joint (Marble Slab Creamery) that may or may not have opened in a mall that you've never been to.

2. Your boss asks you if you used to do a lot of puzzles when you were little and maybe you should get back to them to nurture your problem-solving skills.

3. Your boss tells you that bathroom breaks are from 8:45 and 8:50 a.m. and that you should use your vacation time to book any doctor or dentist appointments regardless if you need an emergency root canal.

4. Your boss informs you that even though you're still with the company after 3 years you should have been fired in the first week because you breathe too loudly.

5. Your boss decides to dock you a day's pay because you were a little too upset to come into work after a close family member has died that day. He/she then decides to donate $10 to a charity of your choice because they are employers that "care."

People of the Internet Who Never Fail to Make Me Feel Good:

Ange of Signed by Ange
Aunt Juicebox for her love of all things bacon
The Bloggess
The Earwig's delightful Lulu
Wow that was Awkward

Oh, and Fickle Feline... but that makes six. Oh well, I don't usually abide by the rules anyways, so...

Zombie dentists like tongue electrocutions

2010-09-13T22:28:00.000-07:00

I've never had a fear of the dentist until now. I'm headed out tomorrow for another dentist appointment, my third in matter of a month. After over five years of "look Ma, no cavities," I have two and a repair to a chipped filling circa 1999. And even though I asked why the guarantee was no longer valid and I made the only dentist I've ever known to laugh until he almost passed out, I'm back for another, my final to fill cavity number two.

To say I'm nervous is an understatement, especially considering the last time my dentist electrocuted my tongue. Twice. I don't know what happened but I think Dr. Dentisto's body, mind and soul was taken over by zombies. Zombies with drills and gargantuan needles, not to mention the largest sausage fingers known to don a white jacket.

He also loves dams. You know, that green rubber torture device that zombie dentists use to stifle screams and keep you wide-mouthed and tied to the chair while he drills and drills and drills until you have hollow stumps where there were molars? Where the phlegm sucker gets attached the hangy-ball thing at the back of your throat rendering you useless, unable to swallow, to scream or to call your lawyer? It's happened. Trust me.

Tomorrow it's drill time. And needle time. And while I have a pretty good tolerance for pain (ever wax your mustache!?!?), I'm now having flashbacks to the tongue electrocution and the fact that I couldn't feel my face for about 10 hours, causing me not to notice when my Diet Pepsi was running down my chin and onto my keyboard in Cell Block C cubicle, while the boss was standing by my desk and asked if I was an epileptic or if I was suffering a stroke.

"Stop mocking me," I said, channeling Peter Griffin in that one Family Guy episode when his face melted. He didn't get the reference. He sucks. And so does that phlegm sucker. And my dentist 'cause he's obviously now a zombie who charges $150 for a teeth cleaning and $300 to murder me. What a rip-off. He can't guarantee a filling but he can guarantee pain, and a large bill.

I wonder if dental floss makes a good weapon.

Four months

2010-09-12T23:40:00.000-07:00

It's 2 a.m. on Monday, September 13th. Four months ago today, Christopher William Brockbank would have only five hours left with us. He died at about 7:15 a.m. on a sunny Thursday morning with his family by his side, as he would have wanted it.

It's not that he wanted to die. He really didn't know he was. But we did and each day was a blessing. Having lived for over two years with a brain tumour, Christopher's was a life on loan, to him, to us.

Four months ago seems like yesterday. The tears, still fresh, are shed less each day. It's not that it's getting easier but we're working hard on keeping his memory alive and living the life we would want for him.

Four months, Gus. Four months and I love you more each and every day.

Hello, my name is Simon

2010-09-12T22:45:00.000-07:00

Well you know my name is Simon,
and the things I draw come true
Take me
take me
take me
Over
Climb the ladder with you

At least I think that's how the song goes for Simon in the Land of Chalk Drawings.

I think I stopped drawing in Grade 8 where my pictures still included big, fluffy clouds, rainbows and hills. I was also good at drawing eyes - one eye only - cause the other eye always came out a little lopsided and certainly not the mirror image of the other. Today was my first day in the next set of art classes given by my friend Sir Robert of Norval. I was nervous because a) I didn't know the theme of the class and b) it may mean that my secret of being able to draw only rainbows and fluffy clouds badly may be revealed.

This is one of Robbie's latest pieces and incorporates the texture and "run" techniques I've learned in his class.
Isn't he great?

I can't draw a straight line, and even with a ruler I'm a bit off-centre. I think that's just a reflection of me really - off-centre, a little skewd from the norm. But today it was all about perspective, learning the two-point perspective of why things in the foreground appear larger, more substantial, foreboding and things in the background appear smaller. They're still there but just a little out of reach and smaller. Today I learned that I can draw, if only I give myself a little perspective.

So here it is: my perspective. I get weighed down in the little details, sometimes too focused on the whole picture to see what's right in front of my face, the first steps I have to make to instil change. Change in me, change to my present situation, no matter what it is, it's all about looking at the perspective and the flow of the walk, of the road, of the river I have to navigate to end up on the horizon and just a little closer to my goal.

I'm being cryptic but that's just because I'm not certain about my whole goal, the reality of where I want to end up. A new job? Definitely. A career in writing or communications? Probably. Living a life closer to my real self? Most certainly. So, I will deal with the things in the foreground first, the painting in of the trees before taking on the river at the widest point.

I've mapped out my travels and put pencil to canvas to sketch out the outline. Next it's onto colour, the painting in of the sky, river and rolling hills before I carve out the trees, the larger ones first and then smudging in of the details.

All I know is I'm excited about getting into the paints, feeling the softness on my fingertips and the texture of the canvas. I'm excited about the journey and getting my hands full of paint in the process.

Some things are better left in the vault

2010-09-09T23:57:00.000-07:00

Just last year, I upgraded my cable for the Rogers special HD package since The Man and I were lucky enough to inherit a gently used high-def television. It didn't fall off a truck but it came in one - a pick-up truck from The Man's brother. Since it's introduction into the house and the joining of the five televisions we now have in residence, I have developed a bad habit... addiction to chick TV.

Our channel changer (yes, I've called the remote a channel changer since my early teens since that's exactly what they do) rotates between sports, sports and more sports and... get this... Cosmo TV. I get my daily fix of SATC (I think I've successfully seen all of the episodes now three times over). I also watch the ultimate chick show - Oh So Cosmo - where I learn all about the perfect date, the perfect orgasm and the outfits we should wear while experiencing them. I was scratching my chick itch this evening before I took Boyo to the dog park and I almost choked on my early evening coffee. An "expert" on the It show for fashion was sporting a throw-back to the 80's.

It wasn't a scrunchie. It was worse. Two words, people. Banana Clip. In. vibrant. green. Don't the researchers at Cosmo TV and Oh So Cosmo screen their "experts" before putting them in front of the camera? If it's not to find out what they are going to say or recommend and how they're going to say it, they should at least have the last word on accessories.

It's confession time, bloggers. Scribe has sported a scrunchie, but in my defense, I was 15 or 16. And while I may have had the Facts of Life big, poofy hair, I have never considered bringing a banana clip into the equation. Maybe it's coming back into style, as it seems most of the 80s fashions have experienced a resurrection of sorts. But, I think banana clips should be put in the same vault as leg warmers, shoulder pads and headbands. I had all three and I will never repeat that particular piece of history. It's in the vault, man. It's in the vault.

Doesn't it look like Headband Bruce is passing a kidney stone?

I thought headbands were in the vault but I learned they had made an escape during my little tryst with one Billie Joe Armstrong about a month ago. He couldn't have been more than 19. Sitting just a drunken step away from our little circle of awesomeness was a man and his son. The parent was respectful enough, dressed in the uniform of dadness. The son, however, thought he was the reincarnation of Bruce Springsteen a la Dancing in the Dark. Poofy hair, military-style shirt, ripped jeans and a navy blue and white bandana rolled ever so carefully and tied around his forehead. He wasn't working out, he wasn't in a sweat shop and he wasn't on a construction crew. He was at a damn amazing concert, watching my secret boyfriend gyrate on stage. In a bandana. Oh, the horror. Perhaps his first girlfriend will rock the banana clip and they can both be lost in the 80s. I'm sure they can rock out to Duran Duran, Cyndi Lauper and Dexy's Midnight Runners. Better yet, they can make their little love nest in the vault so the world will be a safer, happier place.

* Please note that I do not wish to offend any Bruce Springsteen fans. While he's not my fave, he has had a long-spanning career. His headwear, however, should not.

Did you ever know that you're my hero...

2010-09-08T21:39:00.000-07:00

Cheesy, I know, but when I was 18 or 19 I had a hero, a true-to-life, in-the-flesh hero. There were no capes or tingly spidey senses but I swear, my hero could jump tall buildings in a single bound.

Heidi was six years older than me and a traffic engineer, having graduated top of her class at U of T. She worked for a downtown firm, had a great apartment in the city and could make THE best fettucine alfredo. Oh, and did I mention she drove a BMW and drove stick? She was originally my brother's friend from summer lifeguarding but she soon saw my potential and took me under her wing. She's since moved to Australia, got married, had three kids and has climbed in her career down under. In short, she's still my hero.

She left a few days ago to go back to Australia, having visited family and friends, including moi. I hadn't seen her in 14 years. We kept in contact through Facebook, the occasional email and word-of-mouth from other friends. But, as we agreed to meet up at the corner of Bay and Bloor for a Friday night of cocktails and catch-up, I was nervous. What if we, now 14 years later, had nothing in common. We hadn't really communicated that much in the 14 years she'd been in Australia. We'd gone from a friendship of hanging out every weekend to almost no or little contact.

I worried for nothing. I'd taken the subway, leaving the car at Yorkdale (I didn't fancy maneuvering through congested and construction-strewn streets). She had taken the streetcar. I was 10 minutes late and worried that she'd been waiting on the corner outside of The Gap forever. She was 30 minutes late and totally apologetic in between hugs. My hero was here and in the flesh. And, it was like we had never been apart.

That's what true friendships are like, she replied, as I noted that our conversation, our friendship had picked up right where we had left it so many years previous. We may not see each other but that doesn't mean our friendship has ended. Our in-person conversations were just on hiatus. She had put into words exactly what I had been thinking and it was truly amazing.

So, we explored the city she had left behind, stopping to pick up clothes for her Miranda, Toby and Jeremy at Kids' Gap, window-shopping in Yorkville and relaxing over glasses of wine, an amazing gorganzola gnochi and a range of appetizers, both healthy and hearty. We looked at all the buildings and commented on which buildings were still there and which ones had cropped up over the years. We even stopped in at a downtown hotel and had our picture taken on its rooftop patio bar, the CN Tower standing in the distance and the whole city lit up and on display just for us. A sweet man (I use the term man, but he was 15 years younger and yes, I would be a cougar) offered to take our picture and stay for a martini. It was tempting but I had to catch the last subway and she had to catch a cab.

This re-meeting also reminded me of other long friendships I've maintained over the years - the ones that just pick up where you leave them, like a good dog-eared book that you've read over and over again, always discovering something new when you pick it up again. Isn't that what friendship is all about?

Heidi is still my hero, now back in Australia but I know I will always have her heart here in Toronto. My god, I'm a sap!

No prolific post here

2010-09-08T18:01:00.000-07:00

I meant to start this blog about an hour ago but I got distractumacated. Distractulated. I was whisked away to other worlds as I visited other blogs, learning about patience, creating a home studio while undertaking home schooling and the much-needed packing for a wonderful trip.

Tonight, I was the procrastinator as I set out to write a prolific blog on.. what, I do not yet know. I've got a million of ideas and when I sit down to hammer them out (I'm trying to work ahead) the ideas, the words flow away from the computer and into thin air. What to write? Let's visit others for inspiration. And now it's time to take the Boyo out for a walk. He's getting antsy and so am I. I've got a blog to write, a book to edit and a bathroom to clean but all I want to do is go and visit a good friend. I think I may take the boy and turn two activities into one. It's just too bad I can't type, walk, talk, wax poetic and drink coffee at the same time. Did I ever mention that I need a clone?

I will be back. It's a threat and a promise. I promise a blog by the end of the evening or at least by the early hours of tomorrow. I know... tomorrow never comes but in this instance it may just have to work.

A bientot, bloggers.

Because llamas are cool

2010-09-07T21:22:00.000-07:00

... especially when they wear hats and go on cruise vacations... I couldn't resist. Here's Carl and Paul back with another wonderful episode.

I promise I'll give you a Scribe original tomorrow.

mmmm... boat nectar -- click here!

I like llamas, especially if they wear hats

2010-09-07T21:17:00.000-07:00

I just discovered there is a third video in my favourite series, Llamas with Hats, and I would be remiss if I didn't share, so I've included a link. You may be offended, you may laugh but rest assured, you will never hear the name "Carl" without remembering this psychotic llama. Yes, llamas can be psychotic. Just Carl.

Click here, you'll never be the same again!

Shhhh... it's the sound of forgiveness

2010-09-07T20:52:00.000-07:00

Every work day I have an insatiable need to vacate my office, even for 20 minutes, to get outside, hop in my car and either go to the bank, run some errands or grab my one-a-day Tim Horton's coffee. I may have brought lunch that day and have no need to go out and grab sandwich but I find that small break away from the computer, my desk and the ever-watchful eyes of the Cell Block C warden reinvigorates me for the next half of the day. And it is never at the same time every day but no matter the time I always have a companion.

Now I should qualify this: I hardly ever go out with a co-worker. A long established rule of only have one to two of the account coordinators out of the office at any given time dissuades this. The companion to whom I refer is the owner of the small panel van I park beside every single day. Some days he's taking a power nap inside the van. But today, he was sprawled out siesta-style on the small expanse of grass bordering the parking lot.

It's an ideal place really. There's a slow moving creek metres away, a few well-placed trees and more often than not, a really nice cross breeze blowing in between the strip mall-like buildings. It's the perfect place for a siesta. And that is why I almost joined him this afternoon.

After a weekend of unseasonally cold weather, the sun was out, the heat was up and the birds were chirping - even the seagulls seemed idyllic. Instead, I opted for the coffee, which was probably the more evil of the two choices.

This past Sunday, I headed out to the movies with my friend The Girl. I coerced her into seeing Eat, Pray, Love with me. My treat, popcorn and all. I know I didn't really have to bribe her but with The Man quite vocal that he wouldn't see this chick flick (oh sorry, the term he used was a movie geared to the female demographic, in his generic female voice), I felt that I owed her something for stepping up to the challenge to meet me for a movie that was not her first choice.

I had read the book so I knew the premise and communicated the basis of the movie to her. A woman who, just after her divorce, put everything into storage and traveled for a year to Italy, India and Bali to eat, pray and love. While it was an adventure of sorts, what came across to me was our avoidance in our busy lives to stop, listen, pray and rest. In Italy, Liz Gilbert (Julia Roberts' character) learned to slow down and appreciate the sights, smell and taste of Italy. In India, she learned to slow herself down to still the voices in her head to let divinity in, and in Bali, she realized that balance between work, prayer and love.

Today, the siesta guy brought all of that out of the theatre and into my real life: taking a break away from work to stop, listen and lay in nature while unaware of the traffic around him. I realized that taking a break is not laziness but sometimes a necessity. I used to work a full-time and part-time job and did freelance jobs on the side. My whole life was a motion, moving from one place to another, one mode to another, often with no breaks in between. These duties would often meld into each other. I was the best multi-tasker but I often left one task out: to breathe.

Tonight, I am putting myself to bed early. The rest of my editing work can wait until tomorrow. What can't wait is my latest book that I've been putting off because there was always something else that needed doing. There are some things that can be put off, broken down into smaller tasks so they don't seem insurmountable or all-consuming. What I can't put off is investing time in myself.

Kemptville Population plus 2.5

2010-09-05T16:53:00.000-07:00

Kemptville's population numbers may be climbing, especially since I just got approved for Phase 1 from one Captain Dan of Westerra Way.

It was a four-hour drive with a farting dog in the back seat and the windows open hoping to air us out before visiting our friends for a surprise birthday party for Old Git aka Gay-vin aka Vagin aka Gavin. We arrived just in time for the first beer and the first whiff of the barbecue. Kao got along well with Capone and Charlie, and we got along with all the neighbours. So well that we were given the unofficial approval from one of the street residents to build on the lakefront property just across the street.

I use the term "lakefront" though the only water source seemed to be the large hole dug in the center of our potentially new property in which the day's rain had seemed to congregate. A few coolers, beers and Jager-Bombs later and we were planning the details of the home - floor-to-ceiling windows, a large porch and of course, a fire pit for those late night parties.

My friend's daughter (and my honourary niece) Bina had an instant frown on her face and told me in no uncertain terms that she would kill me if I moved four hours away. She wants me to move to Burlington - just a 10-minute walk from her. The girl loves me, what can I say.

Captain Dan loves me too, especially because we sealed the deal with a hug and a high-five, and his promise to cover the down payment. Thanks Captain Dan! Do you think he'll remember since it was post-many beers and a Jager-Bomb or 5... I sure hope so. I am planning the hardwood floors and kitchen island already.

Godamn It Ina and other pet names

2010-09-03T23:51:00.000-07:00

You know you're in the presence of true love, the everlasting 50 years married kind when you can finish each others' sentences. Or better yet, when your pet name for your spouse includes curse words.

I was reminded of this the other day when my aunt and uncle paid an impromptu visit with my parents to my office. Yes, Cell Block C was the location for this epiphany. As we stood out in the parking lot with Mags and Joe and my beloved Aunt Ina and Uncle John, I was reminded how the occasional godamn it Ina could come from a place of love. I learned my first swear words at a small back-split on Aberdeen Cres. where I would hear my uncle, also my next door neighbour, yell from the kitchen "Godamn it Ina, you did it again." For years, I thought that was her name. For some reason, I knew enough not to call her that. She was Aunt Ina, my mum's best friend and our excitable neighbour and later one of my swimming teachers as she watched and coached me as my dad threw me in her pool. "Godamn it Ina, you shouldn't condone that," my uncle would yell.

Both Aunt Ina and Uncle John and my parents have been married for over 50 years. My parents will celebrate their golden anniversary this October. It's been longer for my aunt and uncle, and to this day, he still calls her Godamn It Ina, and she laughs.

"I bet you thought that was my name," she said to me. And I agreed. And she laughed and hugged my uncle.

My mother's name is Jesus Christ Margaret. My mother is a damn sight better than my father. Maybe it's from her upbringing in a rather rigid home, but I've heard my mother swear about five times, and never the big words that would bring fire and brimstone. Bitch. Asshole. Damn it. And that is it. But she has been known to smack my father upside the head and he always deserved it. Not full-out of course, but just with enough impact to appear like teasing but with a bit of a sting so he gets the point. He usually gets a "Joe-seph!" before impact.

I don't condone hitting, especially between spouses but sometimes it's the only thing that gets the point across - a well-timed pinch, a light spank - never set out to hurt or maim.

The Man doesn't understand the importance of choosing a pet name and always insists on creating these sappy, over the top gestures. "My Angel of Devotion" is not my favourite but he giggles as he says it. I call him Bumfluff and Honey Bunches of Creamed Corn. I don't know where they came from but they formed instantly and I can't seem to break myself of them. I also can't seem to break away from the gentle love-tap upside of the head.

He thinks I'm weird and violent. I tell him it's from years of Godamn It Ina and Jesus Christ Margaret. I think I've come a long way. Baby. And don't get me started on the spanking... I know... some of you just threw up in your mouth. Me too.

Welcome to the Phoque (Fuck) Show

2010-08-28T22:49:00.000-07:00

I promised you a story, a story about Phoques and the great show they put on in Quebec City.

When I first got to the aquarium situated on the banks of the St. Lawrence River I had no idea what a phoque was. All I knew was it sounded dirty and more than a little like an English word that got my mouth washed out with soap the first time I said it. That's right. Fuck. Phoque and Fuck. They couldn't be any different but in the seats of the aquarium during Marjorie and Sandy's cocktail hour it was fuck this and fuck that and I thought it was totally inappropriate for the occasion.

You'd think that I knew what a phoque was given our seats at the upcoming show. A phoque is a seal and while it sounded a lot like a curse word, it was the cutest curse word I had ever seen in the flesh. There was Cleo and Nikki, Dalia and another two that I can't remember their names. Five seals were part of the hour's entertainment before dinner. Wine glass in hand, the guests sat in the stands and watched as the phoques danced and clapped, swam and jumped, and it was amazing. They were the cutest fucks I had ever seen.

They also smelled like mackerel. They were smelly fucks. Marjorie and Sandy and a dozen of the wedding guests got so up close and personal that they would know what the phoques had for dinner. Mackerel. A lot of mackerel.

All of the phoques had been born into captivity. That is to say that they had never seen an actual ocean, let alone swam in one. While they were incredibly cute and I imagined swimming with them, I was saddened to realize that they would never leave the aquarium. The trainer and host of the show, who spoke only a smattering of English, told us that while they were captive, they were happy as this was the only life they had known or would ever know. I guess ignorance is bliss and they did seem happy to give kisses for mackerel and swimming in a safe environment with no known enemies.

It was time for dinner and as The Man and I searched for our table, I broke out laughing when I realized which table we were assigned: the Phoque Table. We were the friendly, cute seals who loved to give kisses in exchange for mackerel. We were the cute, little fucks.

The Dancing Queen of Suburbia

2010-08-26T17:41:00.000-07:00

Shhhh... I have a secret boyfriend. Don't tell The Man. Though if he reads this post then the cat is out of the bag and I really should have never put a cat in a bag in the first place.

I've been lax in writing because I'm still reeling from our chance encounter, this secret boyfriend and I. It happened about two weeks ago on a grassy knoll with tiny fairy lights flickering. It was so beautiful I think I even heard music playing.

Was it in my head? The music? Nope. It was on the lawn seats of the Molson Ampitheatre with Toronto skyline in the background. Does it matter if there were 10,000+ other people in attendance? Billie Joe didn't seem to think so as his soulful eyes searched the crowd to find me. A pointed finger and a full moon later and I was reeling. It was meant for me. Out of the thousands of people bopping and weaving to 21 Guns or whatever other song on the list, he looked for me and instantly I was transformed, my hair flipping in the wind, my hips moving and my arms outstretched for the embrace I was sure was coming next. It didn't matter that he'd have to crowd surf about 50,000 feet, he'd find me.

I started to write this post a few days ago in the confines of my Cell Block C cubicle and I shivered with every word I typed. I hate to say that I think it was the dregs of my Sinus/Ear Infection but it was shivers nonetheless. The Man knows but doesn't really know how deep my love for Billie Joe Armstrong goes. The Green Day concert was just his front to find both of us in the same city, the same venue, breathing the same August wind.

This summer, my travels have been relatively close to home: Toronto, Kemptville, Quebec City. But it's nowhere near BJ and his gyrating. I don't think I'll ever be someone who would travel the world following a band. I know there are people out there (and probably in this blogosphere) who would but it's just not me. BJ has to come to me. And under a mid-August night, he did and I loved every minute of it. It's just too bad the restraining order keeps me so far away from him.

Okay, I jest. There is no restraining order and although I love my BJ (that sounds so bad but oh well...) I am pretty sure I would not know what to do or what to say if I ever had a chance to meet him in the flesh and not just from a distance. I'm kind of shy like that and I definitely holds me back.

I remember when I was wee and I would meet new people, even my parents' friends, and I would hide between my dad's legs and peek out to catch glimpses every once in a while. This shyness still rears its ugly head every once in a while with a bout of tongue-tiedness and the inability to walk into a group of people and immediately start a conversation with a group of strangers. It's worse if I find them attractive or, god forbid, actually genuinely like one of them. I go red, get flustered and all forms of communication slips from my grasp. I'm just thankful I don't resort to grunts and guffaws the like of my ancestors, the neandrathals. They may walk upright but they can't for the life of them use a full sentence of comprehensive words. Maybe I have more in common with them than I think...

I was a little tongue tied in Quebec City, where I again met up with a crowd of people I hadn't seen in almost 10 years. I was nervous at seeing them all, given how much I had changed physically. Gone was the trendy hairdo, the svelteness of my youth. But, after a few minutes of hiding behind some well-placed legs and I began to find my own voice. It didn't matter how much I had changed on the outside; I was still the same on the inside and that was what mattered.

I met up with Francis, my favourite French roommate/brother/friend and even though we were now into a new decade, I was still his "girl," in his circle. It was like no time had passed and I was still that fun-loving, water-fight instigating girl who danced the night away. And danced I did. Arms wide, head back and laughing. I danced like no one was watching and it was liberating.

So, when I ventured downtown to meet up with Billie Joe and his entourage I kept with it... dancing arms outstretched and head held back, taking in the sounds, the sights and dancing like I was the only one there. He was singing for me and I was dancing for him.

We all need more moments like that - carefree and unabashed - regardless of who is there and who is watching. The only person I judge is myself and I'm beginning to like what I see.

P.S. I was going to write about phoque shows and in meeting old friends for dinner and drinks in the city. When I put the fingers to the keyboard I had no idea where it would take me. The rest will have to wait for tomorrow's post. I have so much to catch up on.

Je ne suis pas un coc...

2010-08-11T23:48:00.000-07:00

Is this what the mean by a double-ended coc?

Since I'm on my way to Quebec City proper in a couple of days I thought I'd bone up on my French. Above is almost the extent of it, despite my years of high school French. Je ne suis pas un coc. I am not a rooster or a penis, and praise be to Darwin for that.

I'm off to see Marjo and Sandy get married in Sainte-Foy, Quebec and I'm uber-excited, not only because I will see the two best people in the world walk down the aisle but because I will get to visit an extended family, a family who gets me when I carry around an alarm clock and wear my red pom pom winter hat proclaiming for all to hear "Je ne suis pas un coc." And they will laugh at my French and call me cute because at least I tried to speak their language.

Do you need a background on the coc thing? Really? Isn't it enough that I'm not a penis? I can sometimes be a dick and will freely admit this, especially when it's said in jest but call me a dick in all seriousness and I would be all distress and wide eyes. Me? A dick? Okay, well sometimes. But I am never a rooster.

And because I am not a rooster, I will share with you my coc story. It was more than a few years ago (more than I care to admit). I'd just bought my house when Marjo asked me if her sister's boyfriend - her now-brother-in-law - could stay with me over the summer to follow in her footsteps and immerse himself into the English world. Enter Francis, the instigator of many water fights and hands-down the best summer roommate/boarder/friend ever. He's my little French brother and while I don't see him very often, his smile, laugh and joie de vivre pops into my consciousness and I smile.

Again, more than a few years ago, Francis came for a visit and I trekked in the cold, apres-Christmas snow to Oakville to see our Francis. And I wore my hat. Sandy opened the door and started to laugh. I didn't know why until he brought out the alarm clock, set the alarm for a minute after my arrival and then started crowing... you guessed it... like a rooster. With my limited French and a reach back to my first French class and I whined, "Je ne suis pas un coc." It sounded as dirty then as it does now. Francis turned red, fell on the floor and I thought he'd pass out. "Of all the French we spoke, that is what you remember?" he exclaimed.

I was under pressure, wearing a rooster hat and laughing over an alarm clock, so yes, Francis, that is the best I could come up with. You're welcome.

I am not a rooster, nor an alarm clock and definitely not a penis. But, I can be a dick sometimes.

Biting the bullet

2010-08-04T17:36:00.000-07:00

I just posted today that I am a little trepidatious in following new blogs since so many of my recent favourites have gone on hiatus or disappeared altogether. Not one to shy away from a challenge or give into my fears I set out tonight to find some new gems in the blogosphere. Thanks to Serial Comma, I found two and discovered a new post in the process.

xl-entropy challenged me to answer some questions and perhaps put myself more out there in the process. So here goes:

1. Coke or Pepsi?

Seriously, I can make a decision on this one but bear with me as I explain. I prefer Coke over Pepsi but will sell my first born for a can of Diet Pepsi. Diet Coke - not so much.

2. Do you play a musical instrument?

Does a skin flute count? One time at band camp... yes, I was a band geek for my entire high school career and yes, I did play the flute. I also took up the french horn, the saxamaphone (for a summer) and guitar. I can still pick out a few things on the guitar but I haven't picked up any of the other instruments in years so I'm not sure if I can make the grade.

3. If you could go back in time, would you make a different decision in your life?

There are tons of things that I would do differently. The top one extends to so many aspects of my life - not to be ruled by fear, the fear of failure and the fear of the unknown. I think all other decisions, no matter what they are, would benefit greatly from that.

4. Which sport do you consider to be "football?"

Canadian football, of course. Pigskins, downs, quarterbacks in their cute, little tight pants and huddles so I can peruse the wares. Growing up in a Scottish household, you would think my answer would be soccer. It's the one area that I don't follow the U.K. rules.

5. Do you like to travel?

Yes, I do, I have and I would like to travel more. Where have I been? Across Canada, to Canada's winter destination (Florida, but for the beaches and not for the early bird dinners and golfing), Mexico (three times), Dominican Republic, Scotland, Amsterdam, England and Wales. My next trip: I have no flippin' clue and no flippin' funds, but I am going to Quebec City for a wedding. My dream vacation: anywhere but here.

6. Do you like Piña Coladas and getting caught in the rain?

Pina Coladas, no. Getting caught in the rain, definitely. There's something liberating about dancing amidst the raindrops, catching the drops on your tongue and just being free. I do the same thing in a snow storm.

7. Surely you like cats, right?

I do like cats. I've had two, but right now, I must say nothing beats a dog's devotion and loyalty.

8. Beatles or Stones?

Beatles. The Stones should just give it up and retire 'cause this biatch ain't getting any satisfaction from them.

9. Which foreign languages can you speak (regardless of fluency)?

French, very badly (I read French better than I can speak it), Italian (all the swear words and all numbers) and Spanish (see Italian).

10. What special meal would you prepare for me?

Blue Cheese Hamburgers, Sweet Potato Fries, Mango Salsa and Bananas Foster. I rock at those.

Now it's your turn. Same questions. Go.

Do I smell or something?

2010-08-04T13:54:00.000-07:00

Is it something I’ve said or done? I have to wonder because, since starting this whole blog thing and discovering the many great personalities behind the blogs, over half of the blogs I follow have bit the dust.

Sure, some give updates every few months but when you’re conditioned nay have a downright need to connect on a co-dependant basis, it’s heartbreaking to say a goodbye, especially when you’re not ready to sever the relationship.

I have an aversion now not to become attached because life has taught me these people, these words and these ideas will disappear in about three months’ time. Some last a little longer but when blogs hit the 2-year mark they combust and I for one will not be a part of that.

It’s like a long friendship that has seen smoother roads. With some there is an explosion (or implosion), a single catastrophic event that sends everyone reeling and kneeling in their respective corners. For others it’s a slow fizzle, a dying of the light that once was a friendship.

All of them say “it’s not you, it’s me” and I tended to believe them. But, after the 10th blog list to disappear from my feed, it’s got me wondering if I did indeed do something to offend.

The latest to hit the chopping block took me aback. There was no real indication of an impending exit. The blog posts were consistent or as consistent as most of us make it. So when “Reasons to be Happy you don’t have Kids” announced its intent to close up shop, I was at first amazed and then a little frustrated.

There are a lot of good blogs out there. Most I’ve found through referral – a link on another blog. If my favourite bloggers read them, so shall I. But, I had established a relationship with these now-defunct blogs. Again, it’s like saying goodbye to a friend, no matter how long the friendship lasted. Often, it’s like a missing appendage. Will there be phantom pains whenever I hit my favourites tab?

And, how long will it be until I hit the reset button on this blogging thing? I’ll admit that I’m not as good as posting this summer since it is the summer and my brain is on somewhat of a hiatus. I’ve felt it too – the declining comments, the stagnant followers list. Perhaps people hit the hold or the release button because they feel they’ve ran out of things to talk about, or what about if those things are no longer interesting to them or their followers?

I hope I’m not defunct yet. I don’t feel it. I may sometimes stretch for a topic and not every post is prophetic. My last post is a case in point. When in doubt, post a picture of the dog.

So how do you keep it fresh? What inspires you? And how do you stop from hitting the release button?

I will await your answers. Until then, I must strap on my black arm band and mourn another fallen blog.