Saturday, September 30, 2006

My house, is a very very very nice house..sorta

Finally, I've begun painting our bedroom.

This week makes 2 years we've been in this house, and we've done nothing aside from a few items of "must" upkeep.

It's been driving me fucking INSANE.

One of the ONLY joys of owning a house is being able to do what I damn well please with it. And with two little girls running around, I haven't exactly been able to whip out the heat gun and crowbar. So with the Dorf being gone for a few days, and there fore no one around to whine about the resulting mess, I began my journey.

Now, I'm only doing half the room right now for two reasons.

  1. If he hates the color, it's cheaper to only paint over half

  2. His comics are on the other side, and he couldn't be bothered to move them before he left. And I swore I wouldn't touch them, mostly because, let's face it, if I touched them, it would be only AFTER I called the comic shop to trade them in for something I want to read like this or this. (Or maybe this)

So, after spending 100.00 or so at the hardware store, after standing behind Mr. "My wife wants the paint to EXACTLY match this butt ugly lamp I'm holding, and I'll take all morning to do it", I finally got my paint, ventured home, and began.

Now, first off, if I ever EVER buy a house again, and someone has smoked in it, they are paying ME to clean the walls. I had done a cursory sweep with TSP when we moved in, but apparently, I missed a few spots. It was disgusting the amount of shit off the walls.

Secondly, people should never, ever be allowed to use wallpaper borders ever again. That shit is hard to remove.

However, I am glad there is no stucco in the bedroom. There is some in the front room, and I have resorted to using a drywall knife to peel it off, since they were at least stupid enough to stucco over wallpaper.

So tonight, I shall pick up the tiny finger peeled shards of wallpaper backing, mask stuff off, and prime. Cause I'm not taking a chance that something won't bleed through, especially not after the story I was told about the previous tenant gangbanging a stripper here in the house. (IMAGINE someone telling you that story-dude who used to live here works for the company that closes our pool, and he sat there, calmly telling my husband, a STRANGER who lives here with his children that story. Now, everytime I look around, I wonder who's ASS has been where.)

But I really cannot wait to gut my bathroom-

photographic evidence here:

Underneath the lovely panelling is an even lovelier wallpaper, with what I believe are roosters. I also need to replace the flooring since, despite spending what looks like to be a good amount of money on it, they installed it wrong, and it's curling at the edges.

This entire house is like that-they cut corners on the stupidest things.

Let's not even talk about my basement. I do believe if I took pictures, the camera would die.

But hey, at least it's mine, right? Or, at least that wall in the bathroom under the window. I think I own that now....

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Friday, September 29, 2006

Girls are Icky

So I'm checking my site meter as a matter of course as the girls play "sleepover" shortly before bed. I check it every day or so since I occasionally find interesting sites, and I like to know what's generated traffic, and what squicky things people are googling that end up on my site, aside from the usual.

So to look today, and find what I found made me, once again, sick of my gender.

Someone who I have contact with through the "blogworld" apparently had some sort of spat with a group of "women". I don't know the real details, and frankly, I don't want to know. My life is full of enough bullshit and stupidity in reality thanks. But shit happens, and I realize that.

Stumbling upon a message board devoted to basically picking on someone in order to feel good is one of the more nauseating things I've found in a long time. I'm used to people using one or two posts to vent their rage, and get over it. It's what adults do. I'm not used to people googling someone's name in order to find them, and again go after them. Although I should be-I'm a woman, and I went through this type of behaviour-In grade EIGHT.

Is this acceptable? As women, are we ok with this? Don't get me wrong, I have my moments with some women, but they are generally kept to either myself, or to one person. Not online, not in a context that is meant to be read, is meant to act as fodder for feeding some type of fire built of bruised ego's and feelings.

Maybe being raised predominately by a man has colored my sight-I was taught that if you're mad, you tell the person, and move on from there. You don't act like a child, using the proverbial "nah-nah" to make them feel worse. And if they are the person who wronged you, attempt to fix it, and if all else fails, again, get the fuck over it.

Spending time, and energy on someone you don't actually like has always seemed counterproductive to me, because if I don't like someone, the cease to exist in my eyes, period. Which would seem to me to be the bigger insult. Acting like little girls giggling, passing notes in the back of math class? Aren't we past that sort of thing by now? Don't we have better things to do with our time, like perhaps, supporting other women instead of devoting entire message board threads to basically making someone out to be a piece of shit?

I'm not going to link to it because I'm that disgusted. It was quite literally the most revolting thing I've seen all week (and considering I watched Vivian eating lipgloss today, that's a feat). I don't care who's right or wrong-what possible good does acting infantile about any situation do?

There's a quote by Gandhi stating 'Be the change you want." If women continue to act this way towards each other, change will only come at the point of a gun, if at all.

I wish I could be disappointed. But sadly, this is exactly why I shy away from befriending women. Because it always ends the same, and they never, ever seem to learn that the world doesn't revolve around them either.

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Where my love lies waiting silently for me..

This morning we ventured out to Shoppers for a few items, including new books for the girls, since Mom, a literacy fan, can rarely, if ever, say no to that particular request. We're there browsing as the woman stocking the publications area starts commenting on my girls, how good they are, how sweet and lovely they are.

She tells me she has a 21 year old and...

you know the rest. She cannot believe where the time has gone. Yesterday he was just a babe in arms, and now, he's off, and gone, and she will not, she never can have those moments gone.

For this reason, we have elected to make less money, and spend less money by being home with our children. We've been so lucky to watch them become people over the last 3 years-we can decode their moods and their gibberish and know exactly when to ignore them and when to hug them. Could I say the same if they were in day care 8 hours a day, 5 days a week?

I don't think I could.

Sometimes I worry that I'm not adequately preparing them for school, or life, but not having them in some type of preschool. That's I'm keeping them behind. But then I notice Vivian explaining how things die, and how beautiful the day is, or how Rosalyn is transfixed by the workings of the blocks in front of her, or the gear toy next to her. My girls are not losing out-they're being themselves, they're being children, without any of the rush, or the stress or the illness that would accompany some type of group care. And they are smart-LORD are they smart. I don't know why I worry.

Daily I see people worrying that we don't allow kids to be kids anymore, and I think on some level, we didn't want to have that worry. I have Vivian to myself, without any external influence, for at most, 2 more years.

2 more years before Vivian has to go out, and begin the terrible, wonderful process of becoming. 3 or more for Rosalyn. And that's all I get. Sure, they're still "mine", but my influence lessens, me as the center of their world disappears. And that's hard to handle, and grasp.

Even if we could afford it, I could never put them in daycare, not now. I love them, their blue moods and anger, their giggles, finding Rosalyn in the garbage can, again. I love every wonderous thing that they do, and I almost cannot bear the thought of losing that, of it not being here with me.

We go places, and people tell us 'What happy kids!" Could there be a better compliment?

In my heart, I fear that I will lose those happy girls to the world at large. And I don't want to let them go.

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Bringing the messy back..

Karrie has redefined the new JT song, and it so totally rules. I like this version better than the original.

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Thursday, September 28, 2006


I don't know WHAT the fricken problem with Blogger is, but I've had it. I just lost a post I spent 40 minutes on, and I'm A LITTLE BIT PEEVED.

I'm going to be a loser copy cat and move this shit over to wordpress. It will take awhile but ARGH

I'm SO fucking ANNOYEd right now. Piece of shit crap balls monkeyballs.



Diva in Training

Apparently the drama training I had in high school was absorbed by Vivian in the womb.

Since the Dorf and I were both home yesterday, and he needed to pick up the suit of hotness for his friend's wedding, we walked with the girls down to the mall. We had the obligatory grease meal (I've had two greasy meals in two days-I want to die now thank you) and wandered into the toy store. Night was fast approaching, and so while he ran over to Moore's for his SOH, I walked over to the dollar store with the girls.

We purchased Vivian little fuzzy socks for her always cold feet so she's stop wearing mine.

Then, she lost her mind.

When Vivian becomes evil (aka-tired) she gets "the look". The look is generally, a glimmer of danger, mischief and badness, all in one eye, accompanied with a smile and giggle that loosely translated means "You will regret that we're missing my normal bedtime".

She ran off to play with balloons. I nicely told her to come with my and Rosalyn a few times. That giggle again.

I waled over, and picked her up, telling her to come with me. She giggled AGAIN, and still didn't come. I stood her back up, and held on to her arm, walking her towards the stroller, and out of the store. Then she pulled one way and I pulled the other and something went "pop"


We've been here before, about this time last year. Her father took her for a walk, and the slipped, pulling her elbow from it's socket. And she was crying and upset like she was that time, and wouldn't let me touch it.

My heart sank to a level previously unknown, with visions of Children's Aid in my head, lectures, people telling bad mommy stories about me while they drank coffee wearing cpari's from Club Monaco. I felt HORRID.

And of course, both children then began to bellow. We tried bribing Vivian with ice cream. Despite the pain, she insisted it be one with a chocolate on top.

I should have had some suspicions right then.

She insisted I carry her, or she ride in the stroller, which she hates normally. We lugged her on the bus, me wondering how in hell I'm going to get to the hospital with her, and if they'll take her away since I must be a terrible mommy hurting her baby. I kissed away her tears and told her I was sorry, so sorry!

We get off the bus, and trudge home, when suddenly, the previously incapacitated arm is flung out so she can pull her sleeve back. The tears disappear and she tells us she's hungry as we walk up our front steps.


This kid is 3 years old. And yet she knew exactly how to play us for maximum effect. And it worked, it worked perfectly.

I cringe to think what she'll be like at 15.

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Wednesday, September 27, 2006


Because she knows me only too well, I received this stunning piece de resistance for my birthday:

Am I a dork because I love this type of thing? Or am I a dork because I find it interesting that Spam is actually real meat?

Spam-great bedtime reading...

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Tuesday, September 26, 2006

We're sorry, the number you have dialed cannot be reached by this method...

Someone had been curious about my adopted back story (and OH! don't I have many) and so I decided instead of linking back to the badly written post from a year or so ago, I'd make a better go of it.

My biological mother (Jane) was 17 when she had me. Her parents were "upstanding" folk (read: high school principal) and I doubt she was given much choice in the matter. In fact, my grandfather accepted a transfer to BC for the year when she was in the family way, and the only came back when she was about to give birth. Or so I was told. It doesn't make much sense to me.

I was adopted by a man and a woman, Marie and Francis, who couldn't have children. They already had my brother, also adopted. He's 6 years my senior, give or take a few months. I had an incredible childhood, for the most part.

I always knew that I was adopted, just like other children knew they had blue eyes, or long legs. It was part of me, part of my identity. No one ever said it was bad. It just was. I remember my father telling me that they picked me special, and they still had the receipt just in case they wanted to take me back.

And they really did. I don't know what it was for exactly, but it was a receipt for 8.75 I believe.

As the years went on, it became obvious I was not the "fruit of their loins"-I hit about 5'9, my brother about 5'12 or 6'0, and our parents are/were about 5'0, Marie being about a half inch taller than Francis, which she exploited. But I didn't feel weird about it, it never bothered me. Of course, I was busy at the time with my mother dying and all. It just was. It was always a good lesson in acceptance.

Since I was young, I knew I would want to meet my biological parents. Like many adopted children, I made up stories about where I really was from, and who my parents were. I shared this story with a guy I hung out with once when I was 9 or so. All I remember is that my parents were from some planet called 'Jeremiah" and that I had to be safely stored on Earth until they could come for me. He had a similar story, but I forget it now.

It's not that I wanted to escape, I just wanted to belong. Heritage Days were hell for me, because I did not know WHO I was. Sure, I had a sheet of non-identifying information, but all that told me was, basically, my parents were skinny, into gymnastics and young. It claimed I had an English/dutch background, but nothing more. No details like the other children had, carrying heirlooms from their grandparents who fled the Nazi's. Nothing like what my father had done about his Irish background, pure Irish on both sides. He drew up his coat of arms, traced his lineage back.

I couldn't help but notice that his blood was dying out with him. Sure, his brother had a daughter, but it wasn't the same. (This is a very large part of why my daughters carry his name, out of respect and honour. Because a man as good as my father deserves to be honoured.)

I'd sit in the back of the room, close to tears because it was the one day of the year that reminded me I knew nothing about what I was. I knew who I became, but I knew nothing before. For a girl raised to be a history buff, it was painful, and irritating. I watched my schools be so careful to be inclusive to everyone, and yet I had the choice to either sit and watch, or "pretend" my adoptive family's history was my own.

I hated the idea, I hated the teacher who suggested it. I couldn't stomach the idea of pretending to be something I wasn't. And I knew I couldn't do it anyway, as I watched the pride on everyone else's faces.

They didn't get it, the teachers, my parents, friends. It solidified my resolve to find my family, my history.

A few years went by, and I didn't think much of it. After my mother died, it was rough, and it was really the last thing on my mind. I knew my father was supportive-he thought it would be crazy to NOT want to know who I was. I knew it hurt him to say this though. I'm sure the secret thoughts told him I might not love him as much, that they would be better.

I don't think I could have ever, could ever convince him that this would never be true. I love my father in a profound deep way, and part of that love is due to the fact that he never caged me or stopped me from doing the things that were necessary, even if painful.

A few more years, a lot more shit in my life, and I finally end up under his roof again at 17 or 18. I argue with my brother about attending a 'ParentFinders" meeting, something he is vehemently opposed to. (He's never had any interest in finding his parents, and we wish he would.) I go anyway, and add my name to a list, along with my "code" and the part of my birth name I was given.

I go home, deciding I'm not ready for any of it. But I don't remove my name from their list.

About 8 months later I believe, a few days after Christmas, I receive a phone call asking me if I'm sitting down. They found my mother, who had been searching for me. She wants to call me, can she call me? Am I OK with that?

Is anyone ever prepared for that phone call? Hi, we found your PAST, would you like to talk to it?

About an hour later, the phone rang again. It was my mother.

It was weird, and uncomfortable, and surreal. My MOTHER. The person who carried me and bore me and likely, if my own children are any indication, cursed me as I sat on her bladder for months. This is the girl who had to let her baby go. The person I wondered about for ages and ages.

I don't remember the phone call. I remember feeling that I should have been more excited. But I felt nothing. I forced myself to cry, but I really didn't FEEL anything.

And to make a long story short, the woman who is my mother and I didn't really get along. Too many expectations, too many assumptions. I fell in love, and wanted to go, get into the world out of high school, she wanted me to live with her. She wanted me to become some automatic daughter who listened and sat up straight and didn't smoke pot with her husband.

I wasn't what she expected. She had expectations, whereas I was just hoping she wouldn't be a bitch.

The only Christmas I spent with her, she became very ill, and I felt like my world was just shitting all over me, and I silently thanked myself for not becoming invested emotionally. I stood next to her while she was in bed, as she screamed for me to get out, to leave her alone, and I stood outside, shattered as the ambulance took her away. It was too real, it was too eerie and similar, and the rest of the family didn't know what to do, what to say and again, I was just a girl left out of everything, trying to find her place.

I can't say that I tried very hard after that. We'd talk, but when I got married, I could tell she was unimpressed, and the entire family (and my biological family is big) showed up for the wedding. I had no idea why. My mother seemed surly about the whole thing, and insisted on paying for the cake, despite me knowing she didn't want to. I didn't want her there, yet I did. From there on in, it only got more strained. The last contact I had was a birthday card unsigned. That was the straw on my back.

And who knows, maybe I did something, and I don't remember. That's always possible. I don't know.

My brother, who had sporadic contact with my family, told one of my cousins I was pregnant, and I received a call from my grandmother, who was awesome. I regretted not having more time with her. We talked about the family, she talked about my grandfather having heart problems, and how happy they were to be grandparents.

What she didn't tell me was that she was dying from terminal cancer.

3 weeks after Vivian was born, my brother called to tell me she had passed. I signed an online condolence book, leaving my email address. I regret to this day not knowing her better, the one and only thing I really regret. My mother contacted me again, and we talked on and off, via email. But neither of us ever called. And again, we slowly lost contact.

Some days I want her, my entire family in my life. Other days, it makes me feel like a traitor. I want my girls to know where they're from, I want my mother to be a grandmother.

But my emails go unanswered, And I'm too chicken shit to call, afraid of what might not be said.

So that's one of my stories, one of many. I know that many of us who have connected have similar stories. Please share them as well. I feel so alone with this sometimes.

A Perfect Post

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Monday, September 25, 2006

It shouldn't be funny, but it is...

So I'm sitting here, feeling like a bad mommy because it's the end of the day, I'm fighting off a cold and feeling one of those fever headaches coming on, I've smacked Vivian who was trying to put her foot through a wall, and the house is a mess, when I discover this in my feeds.

And Missy, I feel for you, but I nearly pissed myself laughing. Your misery and misfortune was just what I needed right now. So here's one just for you:

Quick? What's the number for 911?

The other day I followed a link to a blog where the author was talking about her reactions to a neighbour calling the police due to her child's cries. I'm not going to list the link here because,

1-she received a lot of negative comments from it and
2-it's only relevant as the trigger for my thoughts.

It all ended well, with the policeman even calling his wife for some colic tips (how cool is that!) but the Mom was pretty upset, and I would imagine embarrassed that someone, likely a man or woman she would see on a daily basis, thought she was hurting her child.

Then a few days later, I'm coming home, and see a little boy, maybe 3 or 4, standing alone at the bus stop near the local low rentals, where the driver obviously told him to run along home. He walked, ran, walked, and generally didn't look like her belonged at first. Then he bolted into the interior of the complex, where most of the kids would usually be.

I stood staring at the little boy for awhile, thinking "I should call someone" It didn't seem right, there was something odd about the little guy running around alone. But the other half of me thought "his mother is right there, somewhere, or his father is, and they can see him"

But it weirded me out.

And I got to thinking-how many cases of child abuse aren't reported because we're afraid of offending someone, afraid to offend, afraid that someone will think we're bad people for wondering, for playing it safe, for saying "just in case"?

I feel for the woman who was upset on her weblog, I really do. I would be mortified if I received a visit, and frankly, considering the volume some nights, I'm surprised we never had. But I don't know if I would necessarily be offended. I think (and it's just theory, since it hasn't happened to me) that after I was over the initial shock of it all, I would be glad that someone took the time to say "just in case". Because really, what's the harm if nothing is wrong?

Her reaction made me think of how I would react, and if I would call in a situation that demanded it a little more than that little boy did. We're all so quick to turn away and not get involved, and we're applauded for that. But maybe instead of knowing exactly how many pounds Nicole Richie weighs, we should be busybodies a bit more when it comes to children.

I'd just hate to think that I could have saved a life, and yet I didn't.

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It's that day again.

Years ago, a scared 17 year old gave birth to me at 2:16am on this day.

I often wonder how long I stayed with her, or if they took me away from her immediately. Did she sing to me? Did she kiss me, and love me, really want me, despite her parents urging me away? Or was she glad to be rid of me, blessed with the knowledge of what her life would have been?

My birth mother told me she had miscarriages when she was trying to become pregnant years later, and she wondered if it was a punishment for having me and getting rid of me. She told me that on this day every year, she would get pleasantly drunk and pass out, waiting for the 25th to go away. She wondered who I was, where I was, if I was happy.

I remember telling her that I was, and that what happened, my other mother dying, my life turning to shambles, wasn't her fault. We couldn't fix it, or stop it. Life just is.

I was parenting even my biological mother wasn't I? She wanted so badly for someone to tell her what she did was the right and good thing to so.

And it was Jane, it was. My mother loved me so fiercely, I know that she did. My parents waited and prayed and begged for me, and I arrived, because of you. My mother celebrated my life on my birthday however she could, and I wouldn't trade those memories for all the money I could spend. I was happy then, so long ago.

I'm thinking about my mother a lot today, both of them really. I miss the mother who hid my presents around the house, letting me leave the dinner table to search. I wish I had a relationship with my birth mother, I wish I had that "mother" idea in my life right now, to share all my joy and heartache with.

I'm almost 30. I never imagined I'd live to be 30. The last ten years have been, thankfully, free of trauma and pain, unlike the 10 or so before it. Today the sun is shining, and while I mourn for what I have lost, I can also embrace the fact that years prior, a girl had to make a choice that ultimately affected how my life played out.

She made the right one.

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Sunday, September 24, 2006

Postcard RECEIVED!

So we joined in with Thingamababy to have a "Postcard Exchange" for the kidlet. And here is what AJ's daughter sent Viv! (who LOVED THIS btw)

I thought it was so cool to get a glimpse into another little girl's world, especially since one of my favorite things to read about as a child was the redwood forests. Someday, I will see them with my own eyes.

We sent CJ a postcard as well, and hopefully she gets it, showing her some things from the east coast. It's an amazing thing, considering she's on one end of the continent, and we're on the other. OR, I'm easily amused.

Vivian LOVED the idea of getting, and sending mail (and CJ, the scrawl on the postcard is, according to Vivian, a mosquito and a kite.)

And you know what, I love this idea SO MUCH that I want to continue it from my end as well-if anyone would like to trade postcards with Vivian, email me and we'll figure it out. Cause who doesn't love fun mail?

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Saturday, September 23, 2006

Uh...maybe you can't leave after all.

So, I'm sitting here, procrastinating part of my morning away at work. I still have to go grab a coffee, so I spend the time reading my feeds, going thru my links, eating an All-Bran bar which actually tastes good. (I shit you not. I'm officially addicted to the things, and my bowels seem rather happy about that.)

I look at the calender, where I see 4 happy little "OFF" words on my work days this week. The Dorf's bestest friend is/has gotten married, and he's off to the reception this week. (they're getting married in Scotland the bastards, and it's only them and their witnesses since the rest of us are broke. Wait, they have twins, so I don't know how they did it.....)

He even went a got a suit. Fucker. He's never worn a suit for me, but his friend tells him it's a FORMAL affair, and off he goes.

Anyway, I look at the dates and realize I will basically be ALONE with my children for a week and a half. Not a few days. A WEEK AND ONE HALF.

What in the FUCK will I do with them for that long? We don't have a car (on purpose-we're cheap hippies that way) and the transit system here is so bad it's not even funny. Going to the mall is about as amusing as poking myself in the eye with my crochet hooks. We've been to every park within a 30 minute walking radius.

I'm good for my three days a week of my children. I love that I have that. But I am so NOT a housewife it isn't funny. Too long around my kids and I go batty. Simply put, I NEED adults around me, or at least people pretending to be adults. I don't know how I will hack this.

And when I think about it, I know that if I dumped the kids on HIM for this long, he's go batshit. He really would. So I'm getting a little pouty about the entire thing....

On another note, Vivian ratted me out to her Dad this morning as they talked about my birthday present. Vivian starts talking about "Martian Manhunter" and then says

"That's what we got you Daddy!"

followed by

'I'm not supposed to tell you Daddy."

Thanks kid...thanks. So now I have to figure out some OTHER surprise to get for when he comes back (his birthday is at the END of this week). Everything he likes is generally only found on the internet, and I have no Credit Cards. So I dunno. Maybe I'll buy him some porn.

Guys, is porn an acceptable birthday present? If so, what kind?

Oh, it's gonna be a great week isn't it...

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Friday, September 22, 2006

Forget my birthday-I deserve presents ALL DAY LONG!

My birthday is on Monday, and The Dorf keeps tormenting me by reminding me that my present is "a good one, and I better not ever call him cheap after this one"

While I'm hoping that means I'm getting this, I sorta doubt it.

So I'm on messenger with him earlier, and he's talking about going to get his comics tonight, and make a pithy comment about him hitting the sex store for a present for me. I get the "it's not your birthday" speech.

Whaaa? So?

I tell him I always deserve presents, and he laughs before returning to burning CD's. Now yes, he already got me my Made Out Of Babies shirt (LOVE IT!), and I got him his Voivod one, but frankly, I want more presents.

And I've always felt badly about that. I'm supposed to be a modern girl who renounces material things. Of course, that goes out the window with this dress, which incidentally, would go great with my cute shoes. I have trouble being the girl who wants nothing. She doesn't get along with the girl who wants to be spoiled.

Should I expect more gifts? I can never figure out if it's shallow to want some actual tokens of affection. I know, I should appreciate that I have a guy who loves me, loves his kids, stays home with them, blah blah blah. But once in awhile, I'd like a surprise, flowers at work, chocolate that he doesn't eat if I don't eat it right that minute, something, anything.

It's terrible, I know. I try and resist, but I still always hope that just once, I'll walk up to our bedroom and find a SURPRISE.

I try to surprise him when I can, which is difficult without a creditcard since he doesn't like anything I can get him around here. And I don't believe it's only a man's job to do this crap. He just rarely if ever does it. And having to do it for a birthday/anniversary/Xmas, etc takes all the fun out of it.

Peeps, tell me if I'm being shallow. But also remember that I'm a girl who writes him love poems before ye judge.

Also remember that I like presents, and did I mention it's my birthday on Monday?

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Reason 4,569 I'm glad I'm Canadian

Reading this post put a knot in my stomach, right next to the fire of rage.

Morality Clauses, EC and Broken Condoms

This is the USofA? The land of the free? Bring us your huddled masses?

Americans, is this the country you want? Is this how your women should be treated? Is this what you want for your daughters?

I cannot freaking imagine. I just can't. If anyone told me I couldn't have Plan B because I was unmarried and had not been raped, I would LOSE MY MIND. I would do what this woman has mentioned-mail them the abortion.

I cannot believe that in this day and age, people like the doctors and nurses in this post exist and take care of your children. It's nauseating.

Go read. My lunch is coming up the back of my throat.

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Thursday, September 21, 2006

Step right up! Pick your baby!

We all know I'm not a big fan of reproductive technology at this point, right? So seeing an article on CNN about how people are "selecting" for gender more often made my coffee want to come back up.

42% of the fertility clinics surveyed stated that they had selected for sex. Not to avoid disease. SEX.

Monkey wants a boy, monkey gets a boy.

According to one doctor "It performs a much desired service. We're making people happy"

We bitch and whine and moan that our current generation of KIDS are ungrateful little snots, who think everything is about them, and only want to be happy.

Where do you think that comes from?

Let's flash forward a few years-let's assume we have a country that's turned into even MORE of a theocracy, where boys are highly valued, and girls, meh, not so much. Keep a few around for breeding.

While this type of thing may support my lesbian island utopia, I don't like it. As women we are told that we cannot choose when to abort a potential being in OUR wombs, but if we want to manipulate said potential, then go to town? If we want to force a 50 year old body to have babies it wouldn't otherwise have, go to town! We can alter the baby before it's a baby!

How wonderful! We don't have to actually make a decision anymore, or accept life as it is, spontaneous and shocking. We can ask a doctor to make us "happy"!

While I'd much prefer that people carrying deadly diseases NOT reproduce (thinking about the gene pool here) I support using in this manner, because it makes sense. The ultimate goal is to reduce the suffering a child may experience. It's a benefit of a modern society.

But picking your child like a pair of shoes, chancing multiple births that you may not be able to physically handle, or financially afford-it's icky, and it's actually rather scary.

Individuals from China come to the US for this procedure. And we all know why. Because their own country bans the practice, and people want boys. So they get boys. Lots of boys. They've already passed laws to try and prevent sex selection abortions. Now, they can avoid that messy little part.

I don't get it. Of course, I don't get the drive to have "your own" child when so many children need homes and parents. I find it selfish to consider your own needs in this way. Sure, you get something with a penis-but what if he happens to be gay and doesn't fulfill your ideas of a man? What then, you try again?

I've thought for a long time that we've jumped into these technologies blindly, but also in a discriminatory way. And it frightens me. People will argue passionately for or against vaccines, and yet have no qualms with manipulating the beginnings of a potential life?

Regardless, I think I lost my appetite this morning.

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Wednesday, September 20, 2006


Someone screams my name loud enough to wake the dead at 6:30 am. I discover that they've done so in order to regain possession on "Mama Elmo"-not because they have to pee, are hungry or otherwise needing of something real.

But because they've decided they want to cuddle Mama Elmo for 5 minutes.

I've decided that I want to throttle my three year old before I go to work.

Yesterday, she said "Mommy, you're annoying". That resulted in only getting to watch a Baby Einstein DVD, which in turn resulted in a nap. She hates nothing more than losing her TV priviledges, or being tricked into a nap.

When they were babies, I expected getting up early and in the middle of the night. I planned for it, and worked around it. I dealt with it.

But this? Sleeping til 7:30 on day, and the next being awake when it's still bloody dark and I still have sleep in my eyes and the lingering scent of a dream? Nu-uh.

It's also raining, and I love nothing more than to wake up and hear the raindrops beating on the roof, slowly, like a heartbeat lulling me into safety.

I didn't get to do that today. And now I sit here, rather annoyed and sleepy, wondering what to eat for breakfast.

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Tuesday, September 19, 2006


We voted (or, went looking for the boat if you listen to Vivian)

I've never, ever voted Liberal. Somewhere in my brain is a little girl screaming for hours because of this.

But, I cannot STAND Bernard Lord, and I could never find any info on the NDP in my area. I only realized we had a candidate when I was looking at the ballot.

So woo wee. We have a Liberal government. Watch me hold my breath for change.


For some reason, I'm really freaking bummed out today, which is odd, since I haven't been like this for awhile, and frankly, it's rather scary. On the lower dose, I never had any problems. I'll give it a few more days. I might just be coming up on girlie time, who knows.

I made some bread, the sole accomplishment of yesterday. Doesn't it look yummy! It tastes yummy.

Today, I want to crawl into a hole and stay there, but since I'm not at work, no such luck. I think we'll go to the dollar store. That always makes me feel better for some reason.

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Monday, September 18, 2006

My husband gave me a gift the other night, and it's the best I've ever received.

Let's back up a second.

After being diagnosed with Bipolar II a few months ago, I began using Trileptal to treat my aching, broken brain. Being me, I was too, whatever, to ask my doctor for a refill, so I was existing on a lesser dose for awhile, before the shrink gave me shit and a new prescription. I upped my dose, then upped it again, as instructed.

The last move upwards triggered what I can only call a crazy manic episode. I was smilely, I was giggly, I was yappy and amused and glowing. I felt like I had taken speed. Nothing bothered me. Not a thing. I was walking on air.

I was also a wee bit violent, something I remember from my past. When I'd get happy, I'd "lash" out in a way that I thought was friendly but was, apparently, hurtful and annoying. It's like I can't contain the feeling, and I need to vent it out like that.

The Dorf was a little irritated, and bothered by it. After the second night of it, he was more than a little irritated, and we had a major fight at 2 am.

Not a fight, not really, more like a purging.

I have to admit something right now-one of the best parts of being drugged is actually feeling the love I have for him, feeling it deep down in my belly, where it started so many years ago. I almost can't stand knowing how much in LOVE with him I am, how he still makes me giggle so, how he laughs at my lame jokes, how comfortable we are. There has never been, never was any moments of awkwardness between us, no uncomfortable silences, just like I had been gone and I came home. And it's amazing to think he loves me back like this, and that we love our kids and our life.

Got a little spun there didn't I...

In the midst of our fight/not fight, he broke down. I was getting my back up because it seemed like he was attacking the treatment, and not allowing it enough time, and I was so angry because finally, I found something that worked and it was wonderful!

But no, he was scared. Scared of losing ME, the person who had emerged in the past few weeks, the person he had glimpsed from time to time, the girl he fell in love with so long ago. He felt like I was disappearing before his eyes, and there was nothing he could do.

It was terrible, he said, to be happy for the first time in a long time, and to watch it slowly slipping away.

And it is. It was. I'm so afraid that these pills will one day stop working, and he'll finally give up and take the kids and go. I'm afraid everytime I get mad at one of the girls that something might snap. Life on the bipolar express with kids and a husband and all that jazz sometimes seems harder than I'd like, and I'm worried that I'm not up the the task.

But he gave me the gift of knowing how deeply in love with me he really is. And for a girl that always felt unlovable, ugly and stupid, it really is the best gift ever.

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Sunday, September 17, 2006

It's Sunday again

My feet hurt. I just walked the asses off two children, which, while resulting in some quiet time and an opportunity to prep dinner (orange ginger chicken with sweet potaoes...YUM!), also left my feet aching. I keep feeling like I sprained my ankle, but it comes and goes, and when it returns, it's accompanied by PAIN in my heel when I walk. Any thoughts internet?

It's so nice though, to have them at the age where we can go out for a few hours and not worry about freak outs. 3 hours seems to be the max before little persons lose their minds. But Vivian can walk and walk, which is so awesome. I never thought I'd ever look forward to getting rid of strollers. But the bastard bus service here says strollers must be folded (although those giant walkers you can sit on are a-ok) and whomever invented the unbrella stroller made them for midgets, cause lord knows, I can't use it without wanting to die.

Best of all, was listening to the laughter of my girls as they tormented each other in the buggy (I got lazy at the mall), and watching other people REALLY smile as we walked past. And really, is there anything better than the crystal shot of a toddler laughing? I grin from ear to ear to hear them so happy and free.

And I barely got suckered into anything. Which is a victory. But we had to buy the Dorf's present from the girls (a 3 pack of Martian Manhunters if you must know) so I felt I had spent enough. But what is it with all the babies in Toys R Us? That's enough to make anyone have some baby lust I tell ya. So many new parents around. Suckers. I wouldn't want to go through that again for all the tea in China.

So that was my day. I had a rant all lined up about how I have to vote tomorrow and I don't give a rats ass, but the Liberal in my riding is young and fresh and I like that so I'll likely vote for him, but I don't care enough to rant about it. I love politics in Canada, don't you?

And because I have the Daniel Cook theme song in my head...

"This is Thordora squinting.."

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Saturday, September 16, 2006

Trust your kids? Screw THAT action.

There's a reason I don't frequent Blogging Baby much lately.

I've linked to a post about random drug testing in school for anyone ATTENDING extracurricular activies.

The idea of random drug testing irritates and insults me to no end. But what REALLY gets on my nerves is that people think it's "A-OK" to test anyone, because really, "kid's safety" is paramount.

How exactly does testing a kid who showed up to watch a ballgame helping keep him safe? If they decide next year that they want to test all female students for pregnancy, or all male students for the clap, will that be ok?

Why is this ok? Someone mentioned that they'd rather their pilots, teachers, everyone be tested because it's "safer"

Ever watch American Beauty? I can't help but think that's occuring more often than not. It's not hard to fool a drug test, and it's also not hard to have a false positive. It's insulting and demeaning to anyone, teenager or adult, to have this occuring.

You want to make sure kids don't do drugs, or adults for that matter? INVEST time and energy in people. Get involved with their lives-the few years where I had what could be termed a drug "problem" NO ONE was paying any attention to me, not my father, not my teachers, no one. If anyone noticed, they just wanted me out of their hair so they wouldn't have to deal with the potential fallout.

No one stopped to help me. And if I had been tested, I would have likely been busted, and what would have happened? I would have been expelled, and likely, little else. I stopped using drugs because I didn't need them anymore, and I saw with my own two eyes what could happen.

But some kids aren't that lucky. And what will they do with some kid who maybe smoked half a joint on a whim? Throw him in jail? Expel them? Beat them with sticks because they aren't perfect?

People talk about being "sick" of touchy feely ways of dealing with drugs etc. Would these same people consider beating their kids a way of not being more "touchy feely"? Would they leave them to cry in their cribs because "they've had enough attention for their problem"?

If you do not attack the core REASON for why a kid wants to do drugs, and I mean REALLY do drugs, not a few bowls at a party, you will not win. PERIOD. The "War on Drugs" in the US is pretty zero tolerance, and what has it done? It filled up your jails, and now drugs like meth are everywhere, because people will ALWAYS find a way to fill a need. And there is obviously a need. If getting "tough" on drugs worked, hell, y'all in the states wouldn't have ANY problems.

But you DO. In spades. And instead of stepping back and taking a hard look at what doesn't work and what does, you lash out and start treating people like rats in a cage. Not as trustworthy human beings. It's like walking into a Wal-Mart with 60 cameras, greeters, people from loss prevention walking behind you. Instead of assuming that you are innocent, they assume you will eventually do something wrong. Instead of treating you with respect, you're treating like something under someone's shoes.

And sure, the odd time, an adult will have an addiction. But do you think those tests are there to protect you? Nu-uh-they're there to protect the company, plain and simple. Who wants to deal with a pesky rehab if we can just fire the dude and wash our hands of it. Which just plays into a cycle that fixes nothing.

Seek and destroy isn't working for drugs anymore than it's working for war right now. When I was using a lot, I wanted someone to be there for me, and no one was. If my father would have then tested me and punished me, it would have done nothing but push me farther into the arms of the drugs I loved so much at that point.

Don't your kids deserve better than that? Don't they deserve thinking, feeling parents, instead of blind automatons who will let themselves be led by people claiming to look out for them and their children?

My children, and their privacy and self respect are worth FAR more than that.

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Thursday, September 14, 2006

Agony, Ectasy

Today was just another random day in my life-another day where I cam home to two grinning, bouncing tigger like children who were totally blissed out to see me.

I was especially attuned to them tonight, after overhearing a teenager on the bus talk nonchalantly to her older friend about leaving a baby alone when crying, and how she was likely going to lose her kid soon.

How does anyone say those words so simply, so easily? They fell off her tongue like poison into the air. And I wondered inside myself what I should say, what I could do.

I saw them walk into the low income housing up the street from me, and I felt bad about assuming, about letting my brain run away and play "all around the mulberry bush" with itself, thinking that this is exactly what I should expect from people who live "there".

I know it's wrong, but I can't help but think it. I could see the life of her child, I could fast forward 20 years and see that repeating, my feet could feel the slow rumble of desperation and apathy that groaned out from her. She had no hope, she had no happiness, nothing surrounded her besides her own personal predestination. And I hated her for it.

Staring out the bus window as red and gold leaves fell past me, I thought of the agony I go through all the time, questioning my parenting decisions, my lifestyle, my words, my actions. And I thought about this girl having to be reminded that you cannot leave a baby alone, even if they are sleeping. I thought about her life, her childhood, and what causes a person to get where she is.

I thought about her child ending up dead because she forgot not to leave the crib near the window, and the blind cord became wrapped around it's neck, and she wasn't there to save it.

I stopped thinking about that quickly.

My heart bleeds and beats for my daughters, for my children, for the beings I created and brought forth from my womb. I cannot imagine even thinking, for a second, of seriously leaving them as she spoke of, or having them taken away.

Just the thought leaves me rather breathless, like I've drank too much water too quickly.

To hear this apathy are carelessness in someone who looked not a day over was agony. She should be lusting for life, she should crave newness and wonder. She should be happy.

As I am.

My only revenge is to raise my children right, and proper, and well, and suck in their sweetness while it's still able to make my teeth ache.

**Note: If you've been trying to comment and have received a big "fuck you!", it's because blogger's new "beta" is fucking EVIL, and if you aren't on beta, you can't sign in and leave a comment. Bastards.

For now, just post anon, and put yr name on it with your web address so I know where to find you, if I don't already.

And yes, I'm a wanker for signing up for the stupid thing...sigh...****

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Wednesday, September 13, 2006

So Thordora, how was YOUR day?

SOOO glad you asked.

The laptop, henceforth to be named "Shebeast from dregs of Hell" decided that the sickness it suffered from last week was terminal. Hard drive, she is toast. Thankfully, a coworker is off on vacation, so I can abuse his desk.

But then, as I was already super fucking dopey from raising the trileptal dose, and have a huge freaking headache which seems to be a lovely side effect at first, the Dorf comes online to ask why my phone says it's disconnected.

Say WTF?

I call my phone, and yup. Disconnected.

At this point I shoot an email to my boss asking, 'Am I being FIRED and no one bothered to tell me?"

I was so mad, and frankly, annoyed that I almost started crying. Crying is the alternative to kicking people. Finally, 2 hours later I find out that SOMEONE (and I do believe I know who it is) decided that I didn't "need" a cell phone and CUT.IT.OFF.

I don't have a desk phone. I work at least some of the time from home. My boss is in the US. Any thoughts on how much daytime calling to the US would be on my home line? Of COURSE I need my cell phone you asshats. But could anyone be bothered to, oh, I dunno, ask me, or at the very least my BOSS if I needed it.

In the end my boss had to send an email explaining where to bill it to because that's the main issue-I don't report onsite, and no one wants me on their budget (which is fair). But common sense would dictate that you ask people. It's glaringly obvious when you look at my desk that I do NOT have a desk phone.

Ok, it's glaringly obvious when my desk is clean, but still.

Add to that trying to work on a fun PPT presentation for my boss to impress her boss with, and my head wanted to explode.

That's all. Nothing deep. Just plain old, boring bitching.

Oh, and something amusing to take the edge off.

Jet passenger tries to open door in midair

CHANTILLY, Virginia (AP) -- A man wearing military fatigues and throwing punches into the air tried to open the exit door of a jet during a cross-country flight on Tuesday night, airline officials and passengers said.
United Airlines Flight 890 from Los Angeles landed as scheduled at Washington Dulles International Airport at 8:35 p.m., said Amy Kudwa, a Transportation Security Administration spokeswoman. No one was injured.
Ken Wolfenberger, of Whittier, California, who was on the flight, told The Associated Press in a telephone interview that he helped subdue the unruly passenger. The man wore patches on his fatigues with special forces and jujitsu champion logos, Wolfenberger said.
The man had been acting strangely for about 20 minutes, then sat up, wrapped belts around his hands and threw punches into the air, Wolfenberger said.
Wolfenberger said he heard a flight attendant yell for help and tell the man, "Sir, get your hand off the handle."
"Any time you hear a flight attendant shout 'please help,' you worry that something pretty bad is going to happen," he said.
Wolfenberger said the man was held down and punched by other passengers as he grabbed the man's leg. Air marshals then came and took custody of the man.
The passenger became unruly about 31/2 hours into the flight, said United spokeswoman Megan McCarthy.
"After the passenger was restrained, the pilot decided to land at Dulles," McCarthy said. "It wasn't an emergency landing."
Airport police and FBI agents met the flight and were interviewing the passenger, said FBI spokeswoman Debbie Wierman.
There were 138 passengers and six crew members on board, McCarthy said.

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Breaking news or breaking wind?

So, I'm subscribed to "Breaking News Alerts" through CNN to try and kill my CNN addiction at work. (It's a problem I tell ya.)

And in the last hour I received:

Grammy-winning singer Whitney Houston has filed for divorce from husband Bobby Brown, her publicist tells The Associated Press.


Several students were injured and two gunmen were killed inside Dawson College, Montreal, Canada, the administration office confirmed in a recorded message.

Can someone, ANYONE explain why someone getting a DIVORCE necessitates an email ALERT?

I mean really....

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Tuesday, September 12, 2006

Where have all the mothers gone?

and aunts and sisters and cousins and grandma's...

First off, let me admit that I have an addiction-and it's to Mommy Crack, AKA A Baby Story. It's a problem, I know, but it's one of the few ways I "bond" with being a woman. It affirms for me the sense that all around the world, other women are doing what I did for the first time a little over 3 years ago. It reminds me that I do belong to "Club Mom". And somedays I like that.

This morning, in an effort to stymie the Curious George obsession (timeshifting and a smart three year old do NOT a happy mom make) I put "Bringing Home Baby" on as I clean, since she likes to watch the babies, and reads after she gets bored.

I've always liked the idea of a show really showing how "bad" it can get the first little while home. But it saddens me that we need it-that we no longer have other women in our lives to help us, to prepare us for that female only rite of passage-labour and delivery. We don't have women to pass along breastfeeding knowledge, or how to soothe a baby, or the best way to burp. We have books, babycenter and TLC. Part of me is always screaming, "What have I lost, what have WE lost?"

I was so supremely lost when I had Vivian. But I read and read until I felt comfortable, because that's what I do. I study situations, I make logical decisions based on the knowledge given me. It's usually a good way to work.

But I didn't have anyone to show me how to LOVE her, how to BE her mother. I had no role models, no women around me to really emulate. I had me, and the four walls of my house. It was terrible.

And of course the shows on TLC are most certainly NOT representative of every woman. I never see me there, I rarely see single women, don't recall any lesbian couples delivering. Just usually a nice middle to upper class couple delivering their perfect baby. No real problems (unless you consider most episodes ending in C-Sections a problem). Sometimes I wanted a mother with PPD who couldn't get the baby to latch to come on. Or on BHB, a mother going nuts because her inlaws decide they MUST go visit relatives 2 hours away 2 weeks after giving birth, while in the throes of PPD. Or showing at any time a new mom, scared, isolated and alone. Showing reality, or the reality that I have experienced, would be welcome.

I wish that somehow would could begin to replicate the "village raising a child" that once was. And in some small part, the internet has been that for me. I've made some friends, and received oodles of support over the past year that has really helped me feel less alone. But I wish that village was here with me, instead of on the TV or internet. Sometimes, you just want someone to make you a cup of tea.

So to my village, here's my cup raised, a steaming hot cup of Earl Grey, thanking you. I realized this morning that my village exists, even if it's not here with me.

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Sunday, September 10, 2006

It Tickles!

So...Vivian has noticed that "tickling" her vulva with things feel good. Not that there's anything wrong with that (well, the rubber ducky might have had words to say if he could, you know, TALK)

So far I've toed the line of "I know, just wait until you're alone." But then I start wondering if I'm not setting herself up for not being totally at ease with her sexuality around future partners-I mean really, look at home many girls won't do it with the lights on, or fake the big O. Obviously, they aren't trusting in themselves much. But she's three, so I worry that too many qualifiers will just confuse the situation. So I fall back on 'I don't care, but it's a private thing for you."

But tonight, she was so enamored of what she had discovered that I couldn't even say that. I could tell by the look on her face that it was like she had just noticed her feet were ticklish, and I'd never tell her to wait until later to play with her feet. She seemed so comfortable with herself at that moment, and I couldn't bear to interrupt that. She'll lose it too soon.

I know that this is a normal mode of development, and that she isn't pleasuring herself sexually-she's just found a new spot that tickles.

But I remember the time when I was in the bath, and I said "It tickles Mommy!"

I don't remember the words, but I remember coming away from that bath thinking "Don't touch it, don't acknowledge it, it's bad."

All of that because it tickled when my mother washed my vulva as a 4 or 5 year old.

Of course, she was none too pleased when I showed her how I "rocked" on my baby doll because it felt good. Baby doll disappeared after that.

My mother's upbringing only served to teach me that my body was "wrong and bad" and that I shouldn't touch it, shouldn't serve the needs of the flesh. It was implied that only "bad girls" did this, and I most certainly was NOT a bad girl.

I'm sure in light of certain events, my mother is rolling in her grave. A LOT.

Obviously, I now know that my mother was a TAD repressed-personally, I blame the nuns that taught her throughout school. But it's also my mother-she was a VERY old school lady. Certain things weren't spoken.

Hell, when I burst out excited that I knew how babies were born, I remember her freezing up. I explained that the lady on the show (Guiding Light?) was screaming and screaming, and then a baby appeared out of her mouth. It made PERFECT sense at the time I recall.

She didn't say much, but a day or so later, a pink book called "A baby is born" or some such nonsense. I remember it was VERY pink. And very detailed in a scientific kind of way. No one said anything, but suddenly I knew what and where everything was. I read it once, and put it down exactly where I found it, and never saw it again.

My mother's upbringing has colored my ability to deal with toddler exploration, but in a good way I think. I don't want to infringe on her discovery, I don't want her to think it's bad in any way. At the same time, I don't know if I'll ever be that mother who takes her daughter to buy her first vibrator. Maybe I will be. But right now, I still retain far more puritain than I'm comfortable with. My mother's conservative, thin lipped "proper" lady is never far from my mind.

There's a whole WACK of virgin/whore complex going on in here...

I guess I'm worried that I'm going to screw them up this way as well. Part of my own reluctance to tell my mother about my sexual abuse was that I didn't want to be blamed for it, and I didn't want my body blamed for it. And I worried she would blame it. I want them to grow into women in control of their sexuality, instead of growing up like many of the girls, yes GIRLS I see masquerading as women today. I want them to know that sexy is who you ARE, not what you shake out. I want them to always remember that they can control who and when they're with someone.

And mostly, I want them to have an orgasm before they turn 18. Because believe me, that is a terrible waste.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

Pet Peeves a la office

For the last day or so, I have been unable to listen to music (I don't know why-all I know is I stupidly downloaded the Google Web Accelerator last week, and noticed EVERYTHING going wrong. I removed it, but something is right fucked)

So all the things I can normally block out with the help of something loud and metal, I am suddenly privy to. OH JOY.

The one really bugging me today is "People who can't whistle and really don't know the song anyway trying to whistle along to some crap song on the radio." I never EVER listen to the radio aside from CBC (for something classical) or Soma. And dude, really, if you can't whistle, just shut the hell up, m'kay?

My other personal favorite is the guy who thinks laughing loud enough to cause twitching is cool. Not only does he laugh like everyone should stop what they're doing and pay attention to him, he also has this sneeze that I swear you can hear on the other side of the office. People have mentioned this to him. Repeatedly. He still doesn't get it.

Isn't the cardinal rule of working with people that you stop doing stupid annoying shit when people ask you to? I kinda wear headphones since not everyone shares my love of The Essex Green or Made out of Babies(or god help me, the new Justin Timberlake song-I know I KNOW). I try to minimize my impact because people are FREAKISHLY annoying.

However, all the people who bitch and complain about the music on my headphones being too loud (I kid you not) are the exact same people who are annoying and irritating. It drives me absolutely insane.

Oh, and the "let's have a loud conversation for 20 minutes right beside your pod and then pretend we didn't know you were there despite the multiple times you were typing, on the phone or talking to yourself."? I HATE THAT. You have an office. USE IT.

And close your damn door if you're having a 2 hour conference call on SPEAKER. I don't CARE.

I hate this place.


So I'm sitting there and finally I lose it with the goddamn radio, and ask the other guy (the whistler) if he minds classical music, because the pop station was making my ears bleed. He says "no, go ahead and change it."

So I do. And it's a nice choral piece-a bit pompous, but nice after listening to Jojo and Rhianna and bunch of other crappy pon da reflux kinda people. So my brain is saying "calgon taking me away" when he starts whining.

"What is this? It's terrible. It's like bad horror movie stuff"

I tell him it's classical, choral, perhaps even from an opera. I don't know, but it's nice. A little culture won't hurt anyone. (I could HEAR the hurt feelings over THAT little comment)

"CAn we change it? Do you like classic rock?"

Do I like fricken classic rock? NO!! My ears have suffered enough what with the FREAKING goo goo dolls and theory of a deadman and a bunch of other PAP that people should pay ME for listening to. I don't want to turn on CRAP from 20 years ago! Tom FUCKING COCRANE?!?!?

I don't get it. I know that many people where I live seem to live sheltered little boring lives, but to not even make it through one choral piece? To not even TRY to like something new? I know that it's not force fed via Crapadian Idol or anything, so perhaps that's why it's hard? What is so bloody wrong with attempting to listen to something, especially since I listened to that fucking asstastic station ALL MORNING LONG! And believe me, I've lived in isolated little towns with better radio than here.

Of course...the scarier option would have been if he suggested turning to the christian rock station (assuming it still exists)

Man oh man that nauseated me today...what small worlds some of these people live in.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Motherless Part Two

I'm over here again-Part two of three of my short prose about my mother dying.

I hope to expand it out someday-any comments or critques would be welcome.

It's makes me cry-I'm I a wuss, or does it do it to anyone else?

Thursday, September 07, 2006

Bleeding is for Suckas

When I was 13, I got my period.

How exciting you say. Just like almost every other girl who ever existed.

But there's a catch.

I was 13 when I got my period, and had no mom. I had only a father who referred to any menstruation related products as "Sanitary Napkins".

I kid you not. It's taken me at least 15 years to get him to say "pad".

I had a stash of various pads and tampons stolen from other people's mothers, figuring that I needed to be prepared for when IT happened. I thought having one a day would be fine. I had read all about it at the library, and took the claims of "teaspoons" of blood seriously.

I know, I know. I don't believe it either. Stop laughing and keep reading.

And then it came, and I spent the majority of a morning writhing on the linoleum in the bathroom from cramps, the kind of cramps they tell you are similar to labor pains. That day, I decided to beg any and all gods to remove my ovaries and uterus. I wasn't going to use it anyway, and this kind of pain was just mean.

Eventually I picked myself off the floor, stuffed my mouth full of Motrin and made my way to school. Wearing light blue jeans, and my favorite loyalist days shirt. The one with the ruffle that my mother had made.

Everything was just fine until I coughed an hour into the day. Suddenly, it was like the gates had been opened, and it had been raining for days and days. I imagined blood was pouring off my chair and on to the floor. I thought about what I could do, where I could run.

Instead, I stared straight ahead and tried not to move. Not.An. Inch. No coughing, no talking, no nothing. I would wait until the end of class, and tie my coat around my waist. I knew that the evidence on light blue jeans would be too clear.

At the end of class, I stood up after everyone else had left, and felt that torrent begin. All I could do was let it happen-it's not like I could close my legs and keep it in. I ran from the room for recess, and hid in a corner by a window, my coat tight around my waist.

I was not the first student back into the room, and when I entered, I heard the boys sniggering and all the girls pointedly NOT looking in my direction. Suddenly, one of the louder, ore boorish boys yelled out,

"Mr.. Dubeau, we can't sit here-she BLED all over the chairs."

In my defense, I only bled on one of the chairs.

Everyone in the room started to howl, and I managed to cover the red/pink spectrum in under 20 seconds on my face. And still, I felt the blood between my legs. The teacher was helpless-he was male, and everyone thought he was gay. In grade 8, that's a death sentence. (he eventually was finished off by the class after us, who caused him to hurl a computer monitor out a closed window). So he did what any male teacher would do.

He sent me to see a female teacher.

Mrs.. Adams quietly took me aside, and began to explain a few things about my flow, and how to use pads. I had been dumbfounded the first time I stood in front of the aisles of "Feminine Products". Wings? Super Plus? I had no clue what anything really meant, and she kindly explained it to me. I watched her almost waver into pity, but she knew better. I was deeply embarrassed because I didn't know what I was doing, and had caused the problem. I wanted help, not a shoulder.

Besides which, Mrs.. Adams was the most feared teacher in my school. You did NOT fuck with this woman, who was all of 5 feet tall. So I sat and let her explain that part of the birds and the bees to me. Then, she called my Dad, which only made me feel worse. My FATHER was going to know about this, and be just as uncomfortable and embarrassed about it. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

I wanted outside for him. I couldn't bear to be in the school one more second. He came, and picked me up, and we drove home in silence. I cleaned up, tried what she had told me to do with the pads (double them up honey-some days are worse than others) and went back downstairs where he waited. The way back to school was silent as well, until we were almost there.

"I can't Dad. I can't go back. I'm so embarrassed.I bled all over a chair! Don't make me go back, please.."

My father stopped the car, and looked me full in the face.

"You have to go back. That's the only option here babe."

What he didn't say was what I heard in his eyes. That life has sucked for us, and this is just another in a long line of terrible, horrible no good things that might happen. That sometimes life hurts, a lot, and yet we have to soldier on. That he desperately wished my mother was there to make it all better, was there so he wouldn't have to tell his daughter to go back into school to a guaranteed roasting. That all his love couldn't make it better, and that this was what life was-doing what we don't want to do sometimes. And it hurt him too.

I knew I had to go back in. And I dreaded it like I had never dreaded anything ever before. But obviously, there had been "a talk". Likely a speech about being nice to the poor girl who had no mother. The offending chair was cleaned, but in my eyes, the stain never went away. I didn't look anyone in the eye. At first.

My father taught me one of the most important lessons I've ever learned that day-that we do the hard things sometimes because it's right, or it's the only way. Hell, I can even apply this to childbirth in some ways-the only way out, is THROUGH. More importantly, my father taught me that it's ok to be scared even when life requires something hard from us. That I'm human, and it's ok to feel, ok to be a girl. That losing my mother didn't mean I couldn't handle life.

Ironically, I also learned a valuable lesson about OB tampons from Mrs. Adams. Which, all told, may have been the most important lesson I've learned.

Oh lord, it's freaking SEPTEMBER already

First, a disclaimer. if I haven't been commenting as often, it's because you're on blogger, and I'm on blogger beta because I had no IDEA the fuckwits would take forever to move everyone over and I can't leave a comment unless you too are on beta.

Sigh. And some of you (Magdelana) don't allow anon comments, so I can't even leave you comments to tell you how awesome your post was.


Otherwise, I'm super busy because it's month end after a holiday, and since I'm fermenting two post type things in my head for some other things, I don't have much room for anything else. Oh, and my Google Reader now crashes my laptop for no apparent reason, so I can't keep up unless I'm at home. Messenger does the same thing-I deleted a font that was causing a problem-could something like that cause crashes? Cause it's annoying. It's bad enough that this bloody thing takes 20 MINUTES to boot up, and Access SLOWS it down to nothing...


Vivian puked in her bed the other night, causing me to silently thank my mother for being who she was. However, when I puked in bed, I puked EVERYWHERE. She just got it in one little area.

The eating better must be working, since I was able to move one belt notch in! And I'm not cheating, it's comfy. I guess cutting pop out and eating less DOES make a difference. And we're not going to talk about the pizza I had last night, aside from saying it was wonderful until it wasn't.


In about a month, my Dad comes back for the winter. He lives with us, and it RULES because the kids LOVE HIM and we get breaks. Just being able to leave one at home and run an errand is wonderful. And he cooks and buys me stuff. I love my Daddy.

It's almost my birthday, and I'll be 29. EEK! But the Dorf will be 30.


And that's all I have to say about that.

Tuesday, September 05, 2006


That sound that you hear is me dancing gleefully all the way to the bookstore. Steven Brust's new book is out and WEEEEEEE! Apparently it's GOOD.

Review on BoingBoing.

I LOVE the Vlad Taltos series, and I really think more people should read his books.

Cannot WAIT to go buy this! WOO HOO!

Monday, September 04, 2006

Crocodile Hunter: RIP

As I'm perusing through various websites this morning, I notice that Steve Irwin had died. Because a stingray got him.

You remember Steve, the moron who poked snakes and tigers and basically anything that would, given the chance, either eat him, or do the most amount of damage possible.

I mostly remember him because of the spot on impression our friend Mike used to do in high school, replacing snake with...well, a piece of male anatomy starting with C.

We never understood the attraction, or the need to torment, oh, I dunno, a highly venemous rattler or mambo or whatever he was tormenting that week. It seemed like a lot of risk for no apparent reason. So I never watched the show. Quite honestly, the guy drove me freaking nutty.

So to hear he died doing what he loved was cool. But then I saw that he had two young children.

And in thinking about this all day long, I'm a little annoyed.

I lost my mother to a disease she couldn't beat. She fought it, and I lost her anyway. Since then, my life has been framed by this loss.

This guy had children, and continued to act in ways that I consider dangerous. Personally, I don't ever want to chill out with a stingray, or anything that could kill me. I don't play with guns either, for much the same reason. I read the reactions of people, most of them saying oh, how sad, and at least he died doing what he loved.

But at what point do you have a responsibility to your children and family? A what point is an adult who has reproduced responsible to say "enough" and stop doing things that endanger their life? I don't find my honor in leaving your children when they still need you. That three year old boy will never get to know his father, aside from videos of him handling wild creatures. That little girl won't have her father around for any of the big moments in her life.

I find it rather unfair, and selfish, that someone would consider their job before their family in this manner. And perhaps I feel it more keenly because of my experiences, but it seems wasteful. The only thing I ever saw when watching this man's show was someone taking foolish chances with their life. Shouldn't having children make you at least stop and think about the consequences?

And why do we applaud this man? Women constantly today talk about how men are not at the same "level" as women in terms of being parents. What if the person who was stung and killed was his wife, and not him? People would be up in arms that a mother would throw her life away, and deny her children a mother, just to pet a stingray. So why is he treated like some type of hero?

Don't get me wrong-I find this death sad, and hope the family will come out of it ok. But it didn't need to happen, and I really do wonder if there isn't a time that everyone needs to grow up, and stop playing chicken with Wild America. While I can recognize the good he may have done for "science", there's something else that really bothers me.

Those two kids needed him too.

Saturday, September 02, 2006

Sniff....sniff sniff sniff....

Can you smell that? Take a deep breath. REALLY smell.

Autumn is coming. And I loves me some autumn.

I have this theory that I love autumn because my birthday is during autumn (it's this month if anyone would like to spoil me). Anyone else love the season they were born in?

Don't get me wrong, I love all the seasons in their own way, spring with the teetering awakening of life, summer with it's long hazy days, crisp and white in my memory, winter with it's quiet, subtle beauty and calm, long walks on crunchy roads.

But autumn, it always makes me think of my favorite sweater, curling up in a chair with a good book. I love to watch the world preparing to settle, to sit and ponder, to stay awhile and have the perfect cup of tea. Watching the world wrap itself on a crysalis of red and gold. Feeling the bite in the air after a long, hot summer.

Maybe it's because fall was also my mother's favorite time, at least I think it was. My mother LOVED halloween, and gleefully looked forward to it all summer. No stinking storebought costumes for us. She made them. The last one she ever made for me was a giant sunflower,with a headress that wouldn't fit through the door. I acted like I didn't like it. But secretly, I loved it. Once, she made me a poodle skirt that would twirl right up to my waist. We had a quiet talk about that I recall.

One year we made candy apples, and I remember how incredible and shocking the Macintosh was through the warm crack of candy. We ate them all that day, and they were wonderful. Our house was always warm on those fall days, and walking home from school, we'd jump off the stone fence in front of St. Mark's into the piles the groundkeeper left for us.

Autumn is full of back to school memories the eagerness the first week held, the smell of new pens and crayons and backpacks. New classrooms, new people. How exciting, and ultimately a let down that week always was.

It's nebulous, you know? But there is this peace that I feel when the air turns crisp, and the leaves begin to turn, and I can smell the wood stoves burning. It's like coming home. Sometimes I think it's the closest I can get to my mother's embrace.

Progress? I'm still hungry, I know that much....

So I think I've lost a pound or two since starting to watch what I'm eating, cutting out all the crap and pop and tasty things I once loved. My pants are suddenly loose, that's fer sure.

On the other hand, I walked 5 miles the other day within the span of about and hour and 15 minutes due to forgetting about an appointment, and pulled a muscle in my ass.

Yes. A muscle. In. My. Ass. How in the HELL does that happen? And how do you fix it?

I backslid a bit yesterday and had somce fries with my lunch. Shortly after, I felt like I wanted to die. I didn't think that ACTUALLY happened. I thought it was some psychosomatic thing. So now you have proof-grease, after 3 weeks or so of no grease, will make you feel like HELL. Ugh...

So far, so good. I'm not going nuts-eating about 1800-1900 calories a day (is that good? It's within the range I got for my size). I don't want to eat to little, and hit that starvation place where you lose no weight. But I feel great (ok, I did until they upped my meds, so I don't know how much walking will happen for the next few days) and my husband tells me I look like I'm slimming a bit.

I think the obvious thing was all the crap and pop I was drinking. All told, I was likely eating 3000 calories, most of them in sugar water a day. The thought of that scares me. I just don't know what's a NORMAL caloric intake. Hell, I don't know what normal eating is period. I don't want to do any weird diets or anything-I just want to eat better, period.

And I hate being hungry. When does THAT stop? Or am I just not used to being hungry?

Friday, September 01, 2006

Yoo Hoo! I'm over here too!

And yes, that means you have to go read my column. Even you in the back with the gum....

Well, it's Friday, and I'm thinking about school

All day long.

I've been thinking about if I want my children to enter the public school board here, or if we should suck it up and either homeschool them, or send them to one of those weird private catholic schools.

I'm an atheist, and the Dorf is agnostic, but both of us went through both systems, preferring the catholic schooling. I can counter the religious issue, but I found the quality of the education, and many of the moral and ethical teachings preferable to my public school experiences, which included, and I quote:

" I don't care if you get high. Just don't come to my CLASS high."

Even at 17, I found that ODD.

We don't find that the results of the educational system around here are all that high. Don't get me wrong, there are MANY intelligent people here, if you look.

But there also seems to be a higher than average volume of not smart people, and we're a little scared of that. I want my children to be challenged by more than the number of bad words their friends can teach them. I want my kids to love learning like I once did, before high school stamped on that. I want them to enjoy school, and not come home with notes from the teachers saying they have "anger problems" when all they really have is energy to burn with no outlet.

So I'm wondering, for those of you with kids in school, what kind of school are you using? How do you find your kids are doing? Are they happy? Are they learning?

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