It's been almost two long years of hoping, praying, cursing and a lot of I love you. I loved hearing that happy noise when you heard I had come for a visit. I miss the crazy dance antics you pulled when your favourite show was on, you with remote in hand rewinding and rewinding your favourite scene. I would give anything to take it all back but I can't and now you're gone and I don't know how much life will change because of  the imprint you placed on it, a fingerprint saying with certainty that William Christopher Brockbank was here.

I asked for more time with you and I got what you could give. A few more I love yous, a few more days of tucking you in and calling you my favourite stinkpot. A few more days did nothing to ease the pain, the loss of finding your spot, your place in my world empty. It gave me a few more days of loving you and a chance to tell you how I feel about you. You didn't need it. You already knew.

And there will be much nashing of teeth too...

I heard the best line ever today, and it came from work, which in itself is amazing that anything brilliant could come of this cesspool: "Will there by yelling?" Why, yes, yes there will be yelling and hair pulling and much nashing of teeth.

We had a new employee start at Cell Block C (which is what my place of employment will be called from now on). She's nice. Like really nice. Like too nice to work here. Her very first task on her very first day is to attend a hockey team fitting, complete with hockey moms, hockey dads and wanna-be Sidney Crosby's only in the female form. In short, it's hell although not nearly as hellish as Cell Block C. But, she does not know that. According to management, everything is sunshine and lollipops here.

So, when wished good luck at the fitting tonight (yes, she's pulling overtime already), she asked why. "Will there be yelling?" With the boss there, I couldn't enthusiastically nod my head nor make the slicing across the throat kill motion. All I said was that it gets busy but to take a deep breath. Everything will get done, everyone will be served and remember it's your first day. Oh, and remember that NyQuil and Valium make a great combination.

Big, bad and bald

You know what I've been thinking a lot about lately? Male pattern baldness.

I blame Anasatan, as I blame her for most things: my shyness when she proclaimed in front of my Grade 7 crush that she would not, could not pull his track pants down so I could get a look at his penis. I digress, but yes she did that. I was mortified. I was also disappointed I didn't get to see said package.

Anypenisways, I was over at her house loving up my little mugwump Christopher, socializing with her and her other half when I commented on the newly coloured state of my hair. It was the night after the potential job interview and in a step to putting my best foot forward, I thought that covering my natural highlights would give me a boost.  I had run across to the local Shopper's Drug Mart to procure me some youth-inducing colouring agent and had stolen an hour of probably much-needed REM sleep so I could look daisy-fresh, and wondered what my state of affairs would be if a) Shopper's had run out of my colour; and b) what if we didn't have the colour fusion technology available at all. No colour prisms, no tonal clarity, no washing that grey (um, I mean natural highlights) out of our hair. My answer was not the most popular.

"If I had to I would pluck every grey hair out of my head," I had answered. "You'd be F-ing bald," Anasatan reminded me. Okay, it's time to spill secrets here, as if I haven't already done enough of that. I have had grey hair since the age of 18. My first year in college, the boy I was crushing on sat in News Writing class and pointed out a long, shiny strand. Again, mortified. It didn't take much, really. Ever since, new crops continue to pop up and now it seems that wherever I decide to part my hair, new greys will form. I'm running out of parting options unless I move to the back of my head, which has yet to see a sprout. Lift my bangs on the left and it's night and day. Night on the top, day underneath and it's not fair.

Shorter hair (I had a pixie cut for five years) or longer (it took me a year and a half to grow out), I still have grey. And, if I pick them all out, I'll be bald or at least have to try out the whole Comb Over King concept only it would be Comb Over Queen instead of Scribe. And, no doubt Anasatan will pick up on that one too and tease me to no end until I would stab her with a makeshift shiv whittled out of her long-necked duck, Motherfucker.

And then I would be bald, up on murder charges and have to uphold my duties as Comb Over Queen of Cell Block C. I can't win.

Can Dolly do my job?

She may have a nice smile but does she rock the gaudy rings like me?

If I create my clone, will she have better fashion sense than me? Dolly the Sheep did it, so why can't I? Sure, she didn't last very long but that was years ago and I'm sure technology has advanced, so a clone for a year may be possible now.

Unlike Dolly, however, who was content to roam the hills of Scotland (yes, Scotland again - I just love the place!), I would put my clone to good use, putting me in two places at once, doing double the work and easing the voice that seems to ring out in my head every day of the five-days of hell at work: I need it yesterday.

As some of you know, I work in a high-stress environment with people yelling for their crap to get done even though I have 17 other pieces of crap work to go through. Today was stellar. With my coworker, Red, going off to greener pastures (see how I tied the sheep metaphor in there? Gawd, I'm brilliant), I inherited one extra salesperson, doing admin work for now three, sometimes four sales nazis. And, everyone needs their stuff, their orders done... you guessed it, yesterday.

In an ideal world or the world that our company manual seems to represent, admin people have 24 hours to deal with an order. That's 24 hours from the time it lands on their desk. Idyllic, right? Not so. Every order that flies  across  my desk must be done immediately, orders shouted from across the office, nothing written down and I have to ask how high I must jump. I'm used to it. It was how I was raised, my work ethic, nose-to-the-grindstone ingrained in my DNA.  But it's the raised voices, the sighs and tones emanating from the corner cubicle.

Today it was a mutter: "Idiot" under his breath, low so he thought I couldn't hear it, uttered when I had done what he had requested but sent a file in a version that could not be opened by the intended recipient. It was easily remedied by sending a follow-up email with the correct version. One request, one question and no attitude and it would have been done immediately and without issue. Instead, my hackles were up. The email was still sent but I was seething.

I don't do well with attitude or muttered insults. Kiss your teeth at me and I'll put you through the flippin' window. Head first. I'm not a violent person by nature, but disrespect me and question my intelligence and hellfire will be forth coming.

Tomorrow is interview day. Finally. And to top it off, I'm nervous as hell as it's been a while since I was on the job trail and this close to a potentially good job with good people, good pay and a chance to contribute anything but a body in a chair. I just hope they don't kiss their teeth.

In which I question everything

I must be crazy.

It's again almost four in the goddamn a.m. and I can't sleep. Sure, I'm tired and I need toothpicks to keep my eyelids open when I'm not in bed, but my head hits the pillow and WHAM! I'm awake. Restless. Flipping back and forth from side to side, so annoying that I've actually considered moving to the guest room to give  The Man the space and the quiet he needs so he can be alert for his 6 a.m. workday.

I'm so tired I don't even know what to write. I spent my weekend loving Gus, doing dishes, cooking dinner and worrying. I have a lot of worries, none for  myself. I will be fine. I will cry, I will grieve and I will support my friends in any situation, even if those situations are hard to handle. And this is.

I've decided to go into work tomorrow. And it's now 4 a.m. and I have to be up in 3-and-a-half hours to deal with orders that mean nothing to me. I don't care that a customer will get his golf balls all logoed up to hand out at an upcoming golf tournament. I don't care if the 75 jackets get to the embroiderer in time. I don't care what colour the golf tees are for another customer. I don't care. It's not important in the grand scheme of things. In the grand scheme of things, Gus would be healthy and my friends wouldn't have to consider life without him, I wouldn't have to consider a life without him.

Every day I wish for one more day with him, one more day of hearing the intermittent "I love you" but that is not fair to him. Nothing is fair when it comes to a 10-year-old boy whose only vice is saying exactly what he means. It's refreshing to experience especially when my trust in adults, my trust in a just higher power is being questioned daily. I question daily, hourly, minute by minute why he was chosen, why he was brought into this world only to have to depart now, a lifetime too short. It makes me question everything, including  what I used to consider important.

Tomorrow, I will fill a seat, until it's time again to hit the highway and show up at the doorstep of my friend. She's my people and that is what is important.

Got a bite... now to reel it in

I will be happy to note that I have an interview this Thursday. Anyone whose been reading this blog over the past several months will know that my job search has not been exactly jumping with offers. I know... who wouldn't hire me? Well, a lot of people apparently. But my tide is turning, my ships are coming in and I'm ready to take another voyage. Enough metaphors? Yeah, I thought so too.

I don't want to go into detail as to not jinx this chance. Suffice to say, it pays a hell of a lot more and it's not working with the douche-canoes with whom I presently spend my days. That's enough for me at the moment. I'm sure there will be opportunities for growth. I will make sure of that. But, let's get past that first hurdle -- the interview.

I need to wow them with my stunning personality, my vast work experience and my never-ending work ethic. Should be a piece of cake...

I know I had you at turd...

It's closing in on 4 a.m. and I'm still up, catching up on blogs but really trying to make my brain tired that it will shut off. I'm at my friend's house tonight debating on whether the couch will be the lucky recipient of my post-sleep drool or whether I will actually make it to the bed they've made up for me. It's still a toss-up, but in the meantime I will share a story that had me laughing my ass off. Literally.

We were talking about our pets tonight ('cause we're nerdy like that) and what they do that makes us laugh. I could bore you with hours of stories of how clumsy Kao is, but I won't. I won't tell you how he ran headfirst into a recyling bin or how he rolled off of the one couch we let him sit on, his gangly legs taking out a whole coffee table and everything on it. Instead, I have two words, a name actually: Turd Burglar. I never get tired of saying it. Turdy-Turdy Num Num. Nom Nom Nom.

Now that I have your attention (I had it at post-sleep drool, didn't I?), I will save you from your curiosity and tell you about the origins of the Turd Burglar name. Apparently, it's quite common that dogs eat their own and others' feces. My friend Dar's dog, Cody, liked to go one step above and beyond by raiding the resident cats' litter box. With multiple cats in the household, it was a buffet. A smorgasborg. Free-range grazing for turds.

Cody, whose name shall now be written as Turd Burglar, loved the little nuggets, raiding the box at every turn. Of course, we were all disgusted, throwing up in our mouths disgusted, but somehow curious. What made the litter box so appealing? I for one used to hold my breath whenever changing it but to Turd Burglar it was heaven.

I must be deliriously sleepy now, since I'm still giggling and repeating over and over again... come on, repeat with me - Turd Burglar, Turd Burglar. Turd. And I'm wondering why everything about shit makes me giggle. Another friend relayed a story a while back about his first post-puberty date where he stretched out to look cool while he shared a moment with the girl du jour, ready to make the move and put his arm around the object of his adoration only to reach his hand back on the grassy knoll for more leverage only to find a pile of shit. That's right, Brady Brady Shitty Hands (as he is now called) put his hand square in a pile of shit.

See? That shit is funny. Now if only I could stop saying Turd Burglar and Turdy-Turdy Num Num. Bloggers, I really need sleep. Or a life. Both would be great right about now.

Scribe out, but never forgotten.

Turd Burglar. (Still funny).