Spin Me I Pulsate.

Well THAT sucked balls.

More tomorrow, when I don't feel like hell.

Posted by thordora at 10:27 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Tomorrow I officially become sterile.

There is a small part of me who doesn't want to-the part of me who, a year and a half later, enjoys her children, and selectively disregards the life threatening results of birth. There's a part of me mourning the loss of that part of my life, the part I barely ever appreciated to begin with. I can (could) give life! I could make people! I could feed people! I could do this amazing thing!

And in 24 hours, I'll no longer be able to, and most of me is awaiting this with baited breath. No more worrying about getting pregnant. No more worry, period.

But I can't help meditating on my womanhood today, and wondering how much this will take away from it. I've found myself defined in some ways by my birth experiences, transcending from girl to woman, growing, maturing, seeding and tending my own life, to become who I am now. And I kinda worry that in some ways, this will soon leave me. That I will feel sexless, a return to my adolescent state.

It's tremendous, and a little scary.

What a week.

And on a lighter note, can someone explain something? On another blog, I was trying to change the header, and a few other things-EVERYTHING is just fine in the preview, but it when I publish and few off an external link, NONE of the changes are there. I've forced refreshed, and republished, and still, nuthin.



Little help anyone?

Posted by thordora at 4:24 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Posted by thordora at 11:54 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Gods how I wish these manic periods would continue. I imagine this is how you regular folk feel most of the time-active, tons of desire to do stuff, able to get off the couch and cook, that sorta thing.

Mine never lasts, so I appreciate it when it happens. I even started a second blog for a short story that I've been tossing around in my head. At least on line I can come back to it.

Tomorrow, I get to find out what's really wrong with me. I'm scared she'll say "Nothing".


And good thoughts to Jen at Spaghetti Harvest (see links on the side) as she waits for the alien to make it's appearance out of her overdue body. :)

Posted by thordora at 3:05 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

So to answer Missy, there are THIS many colors:

I stand by my original figure of 6, but who knows really. ALl I know is that the nassty green on the bottom seeped into the wood, so I'm hoping that it will not bleed thru when I prime it.

I got all of ONE side of the door frame done. And that took about 2 hours, and it's not complete. Does anyone have some super awesome suggestions on an EASY way to get rid of this shit. I think what I'll have to do if remove all of it, and strip it in the garage. Otherwise, this will take 3 years between naps. Can't really have a heat gun around toddlers.

Today was GREAT. I stayed up last night working (I'm not a freak, I just had some attention issues during the day, and used my free time at midnight to do what I didn't get done at 2 in the afternoon) I also stayed up CAUSE I COULD, and to make sleeping in that much nicer.

And for those of you thus far lacking kidlets, I will say that there is nothing quite so nice as laying in bed and no one screaming "I'm HUNGRY NOW!" or screeching or banging or kicking or tickling their sister who has somehow caused her diaper to explode.

Bliss. Sweet Bliss. The only thing that would have made today better would have been beer or some hash I swear.

I went to the hardware store by myself, went to the mall by myself, and didn't have to buy anyone anything. Sadly, the "DADDY NEEDS COFFEE!" cup was gone that I was gonna get the Dorf, but ah well. Got Granny a little thingy "from the girls" Despite the bug 50% off sign on the shelf, the little pudwapper tried to tell me it wasn't on sale. Idiot. I don't care if there is not stamp, if there is a big sign on the shelf, and all these figurines of a certain make are on said shelf, it's YOUR problem.

Thankfully, she opted to give me the discount before I even had to argue. What I did find rather irritating, and have been finding so lately, was how she immediately assumed I was only going to buy something on sale.

This has been occuring a lot lately. IN a nutshell, I have gained about 50 pounds in the last year and a half since having Rosalyn. Mostly, it's been because I still haven't adjusted to not smoking, and I eat all the time. I'm working on it. But this ends with me looking rather slovenly a lot of the time (even 6 sizes smaller, I have a body not made for clothing) and add in the whatever is wrong with my brain, I usually find myself not giving a flying feck. In essence, I look like shit.

But lately, everywhere I go, people are pointing out the "sale" or the "cheaper" items for me like I'm some sort of broke leper. Despite your beer prices being fucking retarded ye new irish pub, I can still afford a pint of Clancy's thank you very much...It's insulting.

I worked retail for years, and one of the cardinal rules my father instilled is that you NEVER know who someone is based on their appearance. And I've seen it many times. And so I have always treated people the same, and followed their lead. Me staring at your beer list did not mean I'm on welfare-it means you have a good beer list asshat. Me wanting something possibly on sale might have something to do with the fact that half the goddammed store was on sale.

The differences in how I've been treated since gaining weight are incredible. I'm still the same person, but apparently, I'm suddenly broke. Yet another reason to finally start losing weight.

And I went on a walk/jog this morning. And it SUCKED BALLS. I can't freaking breathe! When will my lungs loosen the fuck up? They're like catholic school boys I swear...

Anyway, the tribe will likely be home soon (they better, sine I don't want the girls climbing the walls when they get back) and I want a shower.

And am I the only one who thinks Brokeback Mountain is a wee bit overfreakingrated? Ledger was great, but man, I never thought that movie would end...

Posted by thordora at 7:08 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Oh bliss. Oh joyous, loving bliss.

I will have the house all to myself tonight and tomorrow. Since we moved in almost 2 years ago, I have NEVER been alone in the house. I'm as excited as a virgin on prom night I swear. Whatever shall I do with myself?

Actually, I know exactly what I'll do with myself. I'll be stripping paint and listening to Tori Amos and Legendary Pink Dots REALLY REALLY loudly. Needs to be done though.

We even went out to dinner last night. ALONE. BLISS!

So nothing deep from me today. I'm too busy marvelling at being alone.

Posted by thordora at 10:52 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Someone I work with keeps casually mentioning that people are scared of me.

This inevitably causes me to roll my eyes, because the conversation goes pretty much like this.

Me: Why in HELL is anyone scared of ME?

OP: I dunno. I guess because you scare them.

Me: That's helpful.

OP: You're honest, and let people know what you think.

Me: And that's a bad thing because....?

Why is honesty not something people actually want to hear? They'd prefer I lie to them, and then be thinking "what a jackass" in the back of my head? I'm a fairly simple person-if I don't like you, I won't talk to you, period. Of course, this is compounded by a healthy dose of social phobia, and shyness, but overall, I'm pretty easy to figure out. IF YOU TRY.

So is that the issue? It's easier to think I hate you, or be scared of me than to spend a few extra minutes trying to figure me out? I'm not really that intimidating, I swear. I just have a big mouth, and foot in mouth disease. And you know what? It's SUPER hard to NOT be scary when someone thinks you are. I don't know what the issue is, I really don't. And I'll admit, i can be an asshole. But you know what?

I'd appreciate a little honesty. I always wanted to be one of those sweet, nice little girls. Instead, I'm built like a linebacker, and apparently I scare small children and idiots.

Good to know.

Posted by thordora at 4:56 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I have to rant.

I have to, I really really must.

IN-LAWS.

Doesn't the word just put a shiver down your spine, like someone chasing you with an axe?

I'm trying to like them right now. I'm really, really trying. And I used to, mostly.

But then they committed in-law sin number 1.

Disregarding parental authority.

We're pretty normal parents I think, a for the most part, run with benevolent neglect as a parenting style. In our house, if you don't want the kids touching something, you don't leave it where it might tempt them, much as you shouldn't leave a cheesecake within my vicinity. It's like asking a starving man not to eat while sitting him in the middle of 7-11. Ain't gonna happen. So we just make sure nothing worrisome is near the edge, and use plain old "don't touch that" otherwise.

This works. It's called picking your battles.

Apparently, this isn't good enough for my inlaws. Apparently, leaving a camcorder and a very expensive part to a machine on the edge of the counter where Vivian eats her snacks is a good idea. Since apparently, she won't want to touch the illiicit items, oh no. Apparently, it's the TODDLER'S fault for being curious, and our fault for not disciplining them properly. It worked for their kids after all.

I was so bloody pissed off I could barely speak. These people are around our children, at most, 3 weeks a year. We told them explicitly that we do not leave things where they can grab them. My father learned this lesson the hard way, costing him a pack of smokes. The difference is, my father realized it was his own mistake for leaving them out, and didn't blame the kid. She still got in shit, but it was as much his fault as hers. She's being naturally curious like any almost 3 year old. He's old enough to know better.

My inlaws on the other hand, seem to think that we should just punish our children for everything, instead of preventing the problem in the first place.

Later that day, it happens again. The girls have this water table thing that we sometimes use as a sorta table if we eat on the deck. FIL kept putting his beer on the table, and getting mad because Ros wanted to GASP PLAY WITH THE TABLE, and hence the beer. Apparently, moving the beer to the deck rail wasn't good enough for him, instead, he wanted to punish the toddler for doing what she is supposed to-play with her toys!

I've turned a blind eye to the candy. I've walked away when they've let Vivian be rough, and get away with stuff, because I do believe that grandparents are supposed to spoil their grandchildren to a degree. I don't mind that.

But the minute the "It worked on our kids" speech comes out, I see red. Cause you know what? Smoking in a parked car with my kids in it? NOT COOL. Telling me that something worked on yours, and then seeing the effects, and working for years to get rid of those effects? NOT COOL.

My mother used to use a stick to strap me across the knuckles when I did something wrong. She also used to spank me as punishment. In the early 80's, this was a little more acceptable than it is now. Does that mean that it's ok? I remember riding in the backseat a a child, no seat belt, no nothing. We don't do that anymore. So it's not ok.

And the really bothersome part is that when we ask them nicely to respect our childrearing style, they actually get offended, and refuse to change or listen. It's immensely frustrating, because I cannot speak with them directly, and yet I need to deal with the tension. I'm going to explode, and my husband has to deal with all of this, on both sides. I don't want to be an asshole, but they are OUR children, not theirs. It is OUR house, not theirs. I don't have this problem with my father, even after he's been with us 6 months. He knows to back off, and not take over. He has fun with them, but leaves the true discipline up to us. Because they are our children, and they are overall well behaved, polite, smart, incredible children. And they don't get that way from being prevented from exploring, or being continually punished for our laziness.

My most favorite part however, was how my MIL was all like "Well, what about what WE are used to? What about our feelings, and wishes." Frankly lady, when it comes to my kids, I don't give a crap. You've got my mother bear hackles up now. And it also illustrates why I've had to fight with my husband for years to not always think about himself first. Because he was parented to believe that his wishes and desires were not valid unless he forced the issue, unless he controlled it, and was "first". I can't think of anything I can stand less than people who think the world is here only for them to stand on. I couldn't believe she said that.

Anyone else have this problem? Any thoughts? Because quite frankly, I'm about ready to blow my stack. Thank the gods I had to work today.

Posted by thordora at 5:10 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I shouldn’t be this happy to find out I’m crazy.

After years of dealing with my own bullshit, I’ll finally have a (relatively) definitive answer soon. I will soon know exactly what kind of crazy I am. My appointment with the diagnostician is soon, and I’m already prepping myself to not fuck myself over.

Cause yes folks, I can fool the shrink. I’ve done it before, and I’m trying really hard to not do it again. Granted, it’s not always that hard. But for some bloody reason, the minute my ass hits that seat in their offices, I turn into “Normal” me. Nothing really bothers me, it’s all just stress, or left overs from being abused, or losing my mother, it’s my trust issues, it my body image issues.

This time, I want to call BULLSHIT. Screw you self, I’m not letting you sabotage my last chance at being normal. My last chance at seeing how the other half lives. Since the other half doesn’t spend the majority of their time wondering if now would be a great time to kill themselves. There’s something unnerving about being so depressed that you calmly measure out the various ways of ending it, and just as calmly decide not to do it.

My therapist tols me I should write out a list of “symptoms/problems” so I don’t screw myself in the ass.

-Rapid cycling mood swings-high to low, can be weeks or hours. Manic periods where I spend money uncontrollably. But hey, it could be worse! I could use fucking people as my “crutch”.
-Hallucinations, which are getting worse each month I might add. Nothing like the feeling that there’s an old man hanging around when there isn’t.
-Persecution complex (i.e.-you’re all a bunch of bastards out to get me)
-Paranoia. (I.E-you’re only my friend/talking to me because you need/want something. The best part is how I always think people are trying to outdo me-like if I’m sick, and they say something like, ugh I don’t feel good either, I ALWAYS think they’re trying to be sicker so I have to feel sorry for them)
-Hypersensitive. Most people get vaguely sad thinking about bad things, and move on. I replay the images over and over and over again, to the point that I was to do myself in to escape images. Remember that little boy that was kidnapped by older boys, tortured and killed in England? I replay the images from that frequently now that my daughter is the age that little boy was. And right now, It’s physically painful to me to even write that. Most people don’t feel like that all the time.
-Trust Issues. Oh, that’s priceless. I can barely trust myself. I still expect my husband to fuck me over at some point, and I’ve never had a friend I trusted implicitly, and likely never will. But hey, have someone molest you as a small child, watch your mother die of cancer, and your father become an alcoholic, and what else should happen?
-Bad BAD dreams. My personal favorite lately was one where Vivian and I were in a concentration camp, and I was forced to watch through a window as she froze to death. She could see me, and in the dream, she’s screaming and begging, and I can’t do a thing. Most of my dreams revolve around death and killing. Apparently, I’m traumatized by death or something. Meh. Most other dreams are house dreams, dusty, musty, old houses I cannot repair or find my way out of. And yeah, I’m aware of what that could mean as well.
-Poor concentration levels. What was that again?
-Poor follow through- (aka-bright shiny object syndrome)
-No self censor. Watch me in public. It can be fun.
-EXTREME fear that I or my children will die of cancer. I know why I have this. But it’s totally unreasonable how bad it it.
-HUGE increase in appetite and weight gain.

I’m sure I’m missing something, but I want to go in there with something to give her so I don’t mess things up. What’s really scary is how hard it’s becoming to hide some of this stuff. The paranoia and the hallucinations in particular. I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, to my side suddenly. I look like I have a twitch. It’s so hard to function with this whatever it is. I just want a name for it so I can start to fix myself. And I want the right name.

I’m so fucking sick and tired of being broken. I can’t explain the feeling to people who aren’t, I’m just tired of it being so hard to participate in normal life. I’m tired of it being difficult to exist. I’m tired of being unable to stand people in real life. I’m tired of thinking everyone is out to get me. I’m tired of feeling like a worthless piece of shit more than anything. I’m tired of thinking I don’t deserve any better.

Posted by thordora at 10:22 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Everyone is at the park, and I have the ENTIRE house to myself for at least another hour. So what do I do? Why, start doing laundry, and try to catch up on the work I've missed in a week. (I believe my boss is secretly trying to kill me)

I don't mind. I just dropped 50.00 at the London-Wul Farm on the most squealingly gorgeous pink slubby wool, and some silk/wool yarn to edge Rita's blanket with. I wish they were in town. Although I'm sorta glad, since I tend to fall prey to Noro, and I cannot afford the 75.00 hank of kid mohair that was so pretty and dyed so nice. (She has a blog too-HERE-buy some yarn-the stuff FREAKING ROCKS.) The dog is even cuter in real life, and they are super cool people.

I could spend lots and lots of money in that store I could.

So I'll sit here thinking about the awesome blanket I will make Vivian with that wool. I cannot believe the color. I'll post a picture later maybe...

Posted by thordora at 4:27 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

First the zoo....then a car ride, leading to more car ride, then McDicks, then home to dig dig dig my garden out. Smelly dirty smelly...BUT there are new things in the ground.

Sadly, that fucking goddamm plant I hate is still there, but what can you do. I'll work around it until I can find some C4 to blow it out....

The zoo was cool in it's own way, once I ignored how depressing I find the zoo to be. Watching wild cats pace in a cage is not my idea of a good time. But, the kids found it fun, and we all got out. That's what counts, right?

Otherwise, going nuts...

must...take...shower...

Posted by thordora at 8:19 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Well, the toilet is fixed-all new and shiny. And you know you're an adult when you are excited to have a new toilet. Of course, the lack of dripping liquid waste in the basement is a plus. Soon, we move on to the outdoors. I'm tired, and it's sunny, so it's certainly not happening today. I can find other ways to give myself heatstroke and faint. But these things need to be done. And we never have enough time to do it.

But I realized something today-I don't have any goals.

Other people have them-stuff like "Fix garden up" all the way to "finish English degree". I don't have these. I don't have any type of plan for the future. And I know why-early exposure to death has stolen my ability to plan and see a future that isn't bleak, blah blah, blaming the past again.

But the other coin is that I don't want to plan and be disappointed when I inevitably fuck it up. I don't want to say that I will start taking night class to FINALLY get my English degree. Because what if I don't do the work? What if I screw the pooch on it like I always have? What if my brain has completely disappeared, and I can no longer explain iambic pentameter? What if what if? I can't handle those things, and it's weird, because in terms of traveling, or trying new stuff, I don't care, but when it comes to anything meaningful, I'm too scared to try it because I'm scared of failure. So instead, I don't want or wish for anything.

That's a bit fucked up isn't it.

So right now, I'm making a goal to have a LOVERLY herb garden in my front yard by the end of summer. It won't be perfect, but what is, right? I'm thinking that I need to stop thinking of today, and start believing that yes, I will live to see tomorrow. Other people set goals, so why not me? And that might help my brain on some level.

It can't be good for my children for me to be so shifting and shapeless in this manner. I should be decisive, and forthcoming. I should have a plan.

So now I do.

Posted by thordora at 12:41 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

that's right...it finally stopped raining, we're on vacation, and the Dorf's parents are here, so it's a nice day and what do we do?

We run off to Kent and buy a new toilet.

Thankfully, I'm not helping. I'll be tearing apart some flowerbeds later, if the blood loss allows (it's "let's fall down week!").

So if I'm quiet this week, it's cause I'm on "vacation". A loose interpretation of the term at least.

Posted by thordora at 1:54 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I was over at Pink Rocket, in awe of the usual kick ass thrifted finds are her incredible skills with "lady crafts" as I like to call them (tongue firmly in cheek) and I started thinking. I want to know how to sew.

Which is funny. Consider the fact that my mother used to sew a lot of my clothes as I child, and I freaking HATED it. I am not, and never have been "girly". Nothing is more amusing that a child the size I was in a white, short polka dot dress. And getting pinned while she fitted the patterns was never a joyous experience either.

So why is it that now, 17 years later, I so so so want to know how to do all these "womanly arts"? I never had this desire before. I can knit and crochet, which I'm getting slowly better at (attention span is the main issue, really) But dammit, Pink Rocket is COOL when she does it.

And for some reason, I want to be cool like that. I want to make cute little aprons, and sweet pinafores for my girls. I want to know how to make my own handbags. I want to make my own curtains.

Is my mother sitting somewhere laughing at her daughter, who was too busy playing Transformers in the backyard to bother learning how to run the sewing machine? I can't be the only woman who craves this knowledge, knowledge that our grandmothers just learned, period. It makes me sad that we have to regain these talents after losing them to feminism for awhile. Although I do believe that the women who were really devoted to the cause never lost them.

Any tips for learning to sew? (I'm also going to start jogging soon. It's learn new stuff month I guess!)

I think I'm finally at that point where the brain is working again.

And go visit Pink Rocket. She fucking rules.

Posted by thordora at 5:09 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I'd like to point out that for a Mom, she seems to have a hard on for my kid. Just another example of why Americans get judged so poorly.

What is it about stupid people that keeps that CAPS on? And I just can't stop writing the twit. Cause I'm waiting for her "secret code" to come on.

What exactly does "delted" mean anyway?

Last time I checked, we don't want you losers anyway. And sorry Missy, if you're offended. I have many NORMAL american friends. But people like this will remain the reason that people try to kill Americans. We have many of the same problems, but they are smaller, and they are less obnoxious, and dammit, they are at LEAST using proper english. I think most people are sick of people, and ideas that this person for clearly demonstrates. People who cannot think for themselves, and so use violence, or sit there saying someone's child is ugly instead. It's called stupidity, and I'm sorry, but for some reason, the US tolerates this without question it seems to the rest of the world. WHich is why I'm letting this continue.

We can all sit here and pretend that the US is ok, but it's not. And being the biggest "superpower/whatever" right now makes that really scary. Because the rest of the world is left to clean up the messes caused by, when you get down to it, this "sense of entitlement". This type of person thinks it's ok to drive a big stupid car, because the world is theirs. They think that they are owed everything, allowed to be "louder" because their son/daughter is in the military. They believe they're special.

And this type of thing is DESTROYING the world you live in, the world that some of us want to keep a little longer, since we know that the rapture is nothing more than that great opening scene in one of the episodes of Six Feet Under. I want my children to inherit something that has value and worth. This type of person is a plague, but it's a lot more sinister than anything else. Anyone who blindly believes in an elected figure, as this "person" seems to is sadly deluded. And they'll never know, because the don't want to.

I've yet to meet anyone Canadian who would attack someone in this manner, for no apparent reason. And continue to do so. THAT is half my point. If I showed this manner of writing to someone, and asked who they thought wrote it, they'd say "American". Because Canadians have been putting up with this shit for ages, and I'm quite sick of it really. What is so wrong about living in a clean, relatively crime free, civilized country? Oh, aside from the jealousy part. We have our issues, but it's rare to see a Canadian leaving because they disagree with the administration.

Oh wait, actually, those are AMERICANS coming here.

And I'M the coward. heh.

Anyway, rant over. Here's the latest update from the twit:


HONESTLY SWEETIE, YOU NEED TO SPEND YOUR TIME LOOKING FOR PLASTIC SUGEONS TO FIX THAT LITTLE ONES, FACE....I SHOWED HER TO MY DAUGHTER, OF COURSE YOU LOVE YOUR CHILD, BUT TO SPLATTER HER FACE ALL OVER THE WEBSITE, YOUR ONLY SETTING HER UP TO BE MADE FUN OF....
THE ONLY THING WORSE WAS IF YOU WOULD HAVE NAMED HER GEORGE ON TOP, THEN MRS. BUSH WOULD HAVE HAD A HEART ATTACK...STOP WRITING ME, I DONT READ YOUR EMAILS, I DELTED THEM
IF YOU HAD AOL YOU WOULD BE ABLE TO CHECK THE STATUS AND SEE THAT THEY ARE DELETED

DONT YOU KNOW SOME DRAFT DODGERS OR CRIMINALS THAT YOU CAN GO AND REFORM, YES, LOL, WE EVEN THROW OUR FOOTBALL PLAYERS OUT IF THEY DO DRUGS...AND GUESS WHO TAKES THEM IN, YOUR SORRY ASSED COUNTRY....DROP DEAD YOU COWARD AND STOP WRITING ME...

Posted by thordora at 4:31 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Who created duvet covers? Was it a man? It must have been. I just spent 10 minutes arguing with the bloody thing, while trying to keep Rosalyn off the bed, which she keeps threatening to fall off. Just my luck she figured out how to climb up on it. So I'm sitting there jiggling, shaking the damn cover, using a leg to keep the kid on the bed, only to find out I have the stupid comforter twisted inside the cover.

Good thing it was only 8.00 on clearance. Otherwise, I'd have to burn it.


I was deleting some work emails (that never happens, but once I begin to reach 100 unread, it's time to purge. I love that email preview feature.) and I came across one about a coworker leaving. They want to buy her a gift.

Fine. I can understand this. But then I get to the next line.

"Anyone who can give 20.00 towards this gift, please come see us."

WTF? Since when do you solicit specific amounts for gifts? And 20.00 freaking dollars? I make ok money, but we almost live off what I make, so I don't have a ton to spread around.

And I swear, everytime I open my email, it's another request for money for something. Workplace sports teams. Charity. "Social committee" (whatever the fuck that it). Every single freaking day someone is asking me for more money.

We pay about 35% taxes all told. I have money coming off for benefits, and savings bonds. I have a mortgage, groceries for 4, cable bill (soon to be gone, but still), credit bills, and sometimes, a wee bit of money for me.

But let me get this straight. You want 20.00 for a gift for someone that, while tolerable, was never more than a passing aquaintance? Or even better, money so you can have ball shirts? I have other things to do with the whopping 5.00 I might have left.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not against charity. But I tend to be more in favour of stuff like running a blood drive for the former employee who's 1.5 year old son has leukemia. THAT I will put myself and my money behind. Because that to me, has more meaning than someone going to a better job.

Posted by thordora at 12:48 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

This email that I recieved proves to me yet again why I think that the US is on the way out. I made some pithy comment about Dubya being the devil or some such nonsense on a message board, and this is the highly literate and adult response I get via email. There's something about a coward that I love.

What is it that makes some Americans so bloody nervous and insecure around Canadians? These people turn into whining, snivelling toddlers. (Actually, that's insulting to my todder). I don't hate all Americans-I just hate the ones who can't spell or formulate a coherent, relevant argument. And I LOVE the ones who believe "perverts" are jerking off to my kids photos. But my favorite is the COWARDLY snivelling about how if I reply, it won't be read. THIS is why Canadians look down our noses. Because some of you are blithering idiots.

ALL spelling and grammar is as sent. And here's the email address it's from: marinemomfaith@aol.com

Lovely behaviour from a "marine Mom" Feel free to spam her/him/it with some scat or at least some free samples of your favorite psychotropic drugs.

Hey a-hole..was that comment about George supposed to be about my President....i was going to really go off on you but then i saw your a friggin worthless, cowardly canadian....yup, put some flowers in your hair and bury your a hole head in the sand...worthless, your as bad as the french, then again...they make up a great part of your country dont they....? YOU WOULD BE IGNORANT ENOUGH TO PLASTER YOUR KIDS FACE ALL OVER THE INTERNET AND TELL EVERYONE HER NAME..AND AGE...SO THAT SOME PERVERT WILL GET A HOLD OF IT..THAT DID IT FOR ME...I MEAN SHE IS NO BEAUTY QUEEN, BUT I WOULD STILL FEEL BADLY IF I DIDNT TELL YOU THAT THERE ARE SICK PEOPLE OUT THERE THAT EXPLOIT THAT KIND OF A THING...YOU SHOULD BE ASHAMED OF YOURSELF FOR POSTING HER PHOTO UP THERE
I CAN'T STAND THE LOT OF YOU.. you make me sick all of you canadians with the way you look down your noses at us...meanwhile...you hate of for our "war mongering and intolerance" but yet each and everyone one of you are poster boys and girls for intolerance...when i went to montreal to watch a friend play hockey and you all booed our national anthem...you made me sick, i used to deal with antiques online after that i refused to ship...or sell to any suck up canadian...
your a bunch of filthy swine...no respect for anyone or anything else...your a weak, flower child country, all that land and natural resources and your just a third rate country..you go around spewing your crap about me president, grow up
take your unattractive photo of your kid offline before some jerk gets it and keep your comments to yourself...about my President and my son's commander in chief
by the way, if you reply it will be deleted before it's read....becuase of a- holes like you, my friends and i have designed a system...in the subject line is a code..and if that code is not in it...we dont read it, we just delete it...so if you go and make up screen names to send me mail...it wont get read lol
your a freak and from the looks of your offspring your husband is a freak too....
and by the way i dont hate kids , i love them, i am the mother of 8, i just dont like ignorant people that go around trashing my president and producing ugly kids....

I'd also like to add that it looks like this person, IP 64.12.116 was SO offended that they needed to visit me at LEAST 50 times. Apparently, it takes an entire afternoon to act like a baby, and hide behind what's likely a fake email address. I really hope it didn't take all day to write that email. Cause if it did, it's obvious that illiteracy was the reason this fuckwit has 8 kids.

UPDATE: IT LIVES! Apparently the "code" isn't so foolproof. Here's what I received back:

i deleted your email and i also reported it to my spam folder and i also blocked you and if you use another screenname without the code it will be eliminated...


PMM OF PFC JUSTIN R. C.3rd BN 2nd Marines, (Soon to be deployed)
Camp Lejuene, NC
SEMPER FI!

So....the special "code" will work this time? Is there some AOL secret I don't know about, or do I need to write like a 4 year old for it to go through.

I wonder if she realizes that her son is likely to get killed by an IED fighting a war that's not worth fighting? I wonder how many of her kids, or someone else's kids need to die before they realize it's not worth it.

Email the wench. If nothing else, she needs some english lessons.

Posted by thordora at 9:24 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Vivian will be 3 years old in August.


3. FREAKING not a baby anymore, almost ready for school, big enough for the kids clothing section 3 YEARS OLD.

Which means I'm also another year closer to 30, but that's another post entirely.

Oftimes I catch myself just staring at her. Amazed that I created this creature, that a one point I used to sit there slapping my stomach to get her toes out of my ribs. Thankful that despite my inability to quit smoking while pregnant with her, that's she's smart as a whip, devious, sly, sweet and crazy, like any other almost preschooler. I stare at her as I'd stare at my own reflection-seeing familiar movements, glances, frowns. I'm adopted-this particular sense of familiar is not something I'm quite adjusted to. I can't stop fiddling with her hair when she's around, I can't stop but feel this sense of wonder when I touch her:

She GREW in my belly. Once she wasn't, then she was created, and out came this tiny, high pitched creature., born with a laugh already in her mouth it seems. I remember sitting in bed with headphones and my monitor, straining to hear her heartbeat, and HEARING IT! And listening to it every night.

I was so scared when I saw those little lines on all three tests in under a second each. (Apparently, when I get pregnant, I get REALLY pregnant). I remember crying, and showing my husband. Just standing in the doorway holding the sticks, and holding my mouth. Wondering what the hell we were going to do.

But telling our parents, that was like a gift unto itself. This child was so welcomed, so waited for. I dreamed of her even, dreamed of her name, dreamed of us together. And yet I resisted, I fought the mother urge I thought I'd never had, because I would never stand the pain if something went wrong.

3 years later, I'm someone I wouldn't even recognize if I met her then. Vivian has gifted me patience, tolerance, and a shattering sense of all the pain in the world. Vivian has taught me that nothing is so bad that a good tickle won't fix it. Or yummy ice cream.

But I look at her, and I see what the world is going to do. She'll start school in about 2 years. Kids are mean, the world is mean, and painful and dark sometimes. And I so badly want to spare her these things, even though I know I can't. I want to hold her so tight that nothing will ever touch her, nothing bad at least.

I fight this feeling. I fight it knowing that the world also has good things for her. Learning new things. Falling in love. Riding rollercoasters. Belgian Chocolate. Leeks with potatoes and butter. Your first child in your arms, sleeping.

She's almost 3, and about to step into the world as a person more than she ever has. She's no longer my baby. She's my kid. I never realized there was a difference until now.

Funny...you spend their first few months trying to hurry them up...and the rest of time trying to slow them down.

Posted by thordora at 2:49 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I'm torn.

I go into the baby store next to work, and stare at all the baby stuff. It's cute, it's adorable, it's....it's out of my price range right now, for the most part. But it all sits there, like sirens, waving me in, begging me just to look, just come see how soft these pants are...

I realized something about me though. As much as I don't care how I'm dressed (because frankly, my body and clothes do not work. I have no waist to speak of, and a fat ass and low-rise pants do NOT work) I DO care what my kids look like. I want them to have all the neat little 40.00 Robeez boots. I want them to be dressed in nice (read: NOT made in china) clothes. I want them to look cool and interesting, not boring like all the other kids.

I visit sites like Babywit-and I LOVE their stuff. But add in shipping, and the stuff is totally out of my price range. And even then, I have to convince the Dorf to buy it since I don't have a credit card. So I sit staring at these items, wanting them.

It doesn't help that the one company we tried to buy something cool off ended up taking our money and never sending anything, and never ever getting back to us (Yes DOOKIEWEAR, I'm talking about you). So the Dorf is VERY hesitant on doing it again.

I hate the fact that I feel like I need to dress my kids a certain way in order for them to be "cool"-whatever that is for toddlers. But I feel like my kids are an extension of me, and so if I don't dress them in a certain way, people are going to think of me in a certain way.

Am I making sense? Am I the only one that feels almost pressured? I don't want my kids to grow up thinking that "stuff" defines them, so I constantly fight the feeling back.

But damn, those shoes were cool....

Posted by thordora at 9:38 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

He's labelled it "You Will Hate Me-For This". I didn't even catch on, which really, considering some band names, you really can't hold against me.

But too stoop so low as to add MANOWAR!

AND it was the Kings of Metal song. It was bad.

So now the Dorf is overly pleased with himself, and I've got to find a way to get him back.

I'm seriously considering returning his present.

Posted by thordora at 1:46 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Let me just say that hey, I used to smoke. 12 years of blissful nicotine addiction. I LOVED to smoke. Hell, I was tempted today to get me some, but no, I resisted.

I just wanted to say, Mr. Asshat, that I thought it was especially polite of you to stand in the bus shelter for 15 minutes smoking as I stood in the rain. I was incredibly impressed with the way in which you could be bothered to leave the shelter to throw out your coffee cup, but not bother to smoke your goddammed sin stick in the rain like a normal, rational, polite person would. Like I used to do as a smoker. I would have never stood there like the skid that you obviously are, letting someone stand in the miserable mist. I would have moved my ass outside because you aren't SUPPOSED to smoke in the goddamed shelter. Even when I smoked, that was gross.

Yeah, I could have said something, and gotten into a huge fight about it. I could have stood in the shelter anyway. But you know what? I've spent the last almost 2 years NOT smoking, and I've gained 50 pounds and my lungs still hurt so I'll be dammed if I'm going to stand there and inhale the very thing I stopped because it was bad for me.

You Mr. Asshat, are a twat. Plain and simple. And when bad things happen to you, and you don't quite know why, remember today. Remember me standing in the mist and the mud pointedly ignoring you. Remember that what goes around comes around.

Asshat.

Posted by thordora at 3:33 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

It always seems to hurt anymore. Of course, the screaming matches at home with the kids (all in good fun, I promise) don't seem to help any.

Yesterday's having to listen to 'Superhero Songs" over and over and over again didn't help either.

The superheros on the bus are off to work, off to work, off to work.

ACK!

Posted by thordora at 2:16 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Of all the things the internet has spawned, discussion boards must be my one pet peeve. Where else can you get in arguments over whether or not to be offended by something a person who you don't know has said?

It's driving me insane. It's this whole "entitlement" aura that seems to surround people nowadays. I don't like it, so they shouldn't say it. It makes ME feel bad, so you should have a huge bloody disclaimer on what you said. Not EVERYONE (read: ME) had that experience, so you shouldn't try and pass yours off as the end and be all.

FUCKING FUCK.

I can't stand people like this in real life, and online it's like this big giant scab that I cannot scratch. If I read someone's comments about, let's say, their last trip to Cosco, and how it sucked balls, I'm not going to argue with them that I did not have that experience, and in fact I had a lovely one, and would you please make sure to be inclusive of all points of view.

Screw that. The entire point to having freedom of speech is to be able to say what YOU are feeling, not every single variation on a theme. I had a really shite time after both children. I had PPD VERY bad. I feel terrible and guilty about that some days. But do I get upset when someone women talk about the first few weeks after, and how they totally LOVED their child? No, I don't. I envy it, I wish I could have had that for me, but I don't get all pissy about it. I'm happy to share their experience, because I know that many people also have had mine. I don't need this validated in everything I read.

More and more, it seems like everyone wants their opinion, their experience valued and noted. Everyone wants to be special, everyone needs to be pointed at and petted and patted. And it drives me insane. Because newsflash...

not everyone is special. Sorry, but most of the times, my opinions are drops in a bucket, and are meaningless. I can rattle on about what I believe that Madonna is offensive to parenting, but I won't. Why? Because my opinion doesn't really matter, and I have better things to do with my time, like chuckle about Iran fucking with Dubya's head. (please note, I don't actually feel that way about Madonna)

I realize that some people truly have nothing better to do, and that some people think that simple words on a website are going to formulate the thoughts of millions. Guess what. Ain't gonna happen. How you raise your children, how you behave with your friends, how you make decisions at work, these are the things that will guide the future.

I'm all for discussion, even argument. But anymore, you can't seem to have a reasoned argument with running into someone who's "offended" that so and so doesn't seem to have the same high regard for Tampex that you do. And it's frustrating, and it inhibits REAL discussion about REAL issues.

AND it drives me completely batshit.

Rant Over. It's a lovely day, and I should go mow something.

Posted by thordora at 1:55 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

For the first time in years, the Dorf and I actually get to see each other. For the past..forever it seems, he's been working overnight shifts. Suddenly, we're home together, a lot.

It's almost bloody suburban.

I've noticed something though. I'm happier. I'm more at ease. I feel more like myself. I'm not on edge.

We talk now-hell, half the time, we're up most of the night talking. Remember when you first fell in love, and you couldn't stop talking about everything, it was all shiny and new and interesting?

Well golly, it's like that again.

After all this time just existing together, due to shifts and life, it's almost like we've begun to fall in love all over again, gotten to know eachother once more. No wonder I felt like we were drifting apart so much-we didn't know eachother anymore. How could we, when we were rarely awake at the same times for years?

We're discovering that deep down, we really are still the same idiot kids who fell in love one March Break. Deep down, there are still people, not just working bodies that occasionally come in contact with each other.

I didn't realize how much I missed this until now.

Posted by thordora at 8:11 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

The Dorf and I were talking last night, as we lay awake for hours as seems to be the norm these days. Somehow, we started talking about when we first met.

The long and the short of the story is that we started out as tape trader/pen pals, and ended up falling in love. I'm sure I've written about that before. If I haven't, I'll cover it in the future.

As a teenager, I felt rather detached from my sexuality, my ability to be attractive. A few years of being walked on built a very tall wall that I was not willing to let go of. It was easier to never dream, or think of anything good, because then I could never be disappointed. Having sex and being sexual are two very different things. I only ever expected guys to want one thing, and that my attractiveness only went so far as what I might do for them so to speak.

I'm aware of the fuckedupness of this. I am.

When the Dorf and I met, me off the bus, he driving to pick me up, it was like coming home. It was like finding that old blue cardigan I lost long ago. It was soft, comfortable, and it remembered me.

We were never weird around each other. It was like continuing a conversation we had just stopped the other day. I was 15 or so, and we'd only been writing for a year or so, most of my letters chronicling how stoned I was on a particular day or weekend. I was traveling through, and thought we should meet, hang out for a few days.

The Dorf says he pretty much knew we'd end up together. (and yes, I do think this is the coolest thing I've ever heard)

I spent most of the intervening years believing no one would ever love me, want me, truly want to be my lover and partner. I was preparing myself for that life. Turns out, the entire time, he was thinking of me, wondering why he bothered with girlfriends since he knew, somehow, we'd be together someday.

Once, in Guelph of all places, as I slept on his floor because I cannot stand beds up off the floor, I lay awake wondering if we, if I should take the next step. Turns out, he was thinking that too. But we weren't ready, I wasn't at a place where that would have been cool. At that point, I would have pushed back at him so hard he'd still be running to forget me. But the tension was there, lord was it there. It's the one thing I always remembered between us.

When we finally, finally let all of this free, and found our arms around each other, it was so simply complete, I hardly have the words. 9 years later, I can still feel his lips up my neck like fire. I can still feel myself begging silently to not be hurt, remember the consuming need to be with him. How even hands held became so extraordinary.

I hardly believe in fate, that some things are meant to happen. Doesn't really fit with the world view of an Ayn Rand reading atheist, now does it? But ponder, I only met the Dorf after finding the letter I wrote him, which was lost behind a dresser for months, and mailing it out on a lark. Without that letter, we would not be here. We would not lie awake laughing about what brought us here, what gave us the possibility to be happy. I would never have known that someone once secretly wanted me the way all 16 year old girls so desperately want to be wanted.

I would have never known that it was ok to believe in good things.

Some people in this life are old sweaters. The Dorf is my favorite one.

Posted by thordora at 11:10 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Asshat or fuctard.

Discuss amoungst yourselves.

Posted by thordora at 8:14 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Just stupidly busy at work...I have SUCKER on my forehead apparently, because I agreed to help with yet another UAT....along with my normal, sucks up my life normal job...

so nothing interesting to say today....

Posted by thordora at 6:20 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken: