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.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
Ma testicles...
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.
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.
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.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
The Heathen gives it up for Lent
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.
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...
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
A united voice
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.
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.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Dentist with huge digits hands down icy ultimatum
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.
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...
 |
| Willie's too sexy for his overalls... |
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...
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