Spin Me I Pulsate.

New posts will only be posted at www.vomitcomit.wordpress.com from now on. I haven't quite moved all posts over, but new items with no longer be cross posted.

Goodbye Blogger, it's been sucky lately.

Again, PLEASE UPDATE YOUR LINKS AND FEEDS.

Posted by thordora at 9:50 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Being Canadian, especially on Thanksgiving, lends itself to a certain introspection and wonderment. We aren't brash and mean, we don't run the world, or think we should, or could. We don't have uprisings, or rebellions (not anymore at least). We, as a country, are quietly passionate people, who generally believe that our country will do the right and proper thing when necessary.
We fought for peace, or at least a form of sanity, during two world wars. We continually travel the world keeping the peace, or at least trying. (Rwanda anyone?). Being Canadian has always meant helping those who need help, at least in my head it has. Anytime I toyed with the idea of joining the army, it was because I wanted to help people, not invade another country for dubious reasons.
So when I hear people questioning why our soldiers are in Afghanistan, I become angry and a little sad. Does anyone remember what was going on there, is still going on there? Women being tortured, raped, killed, girls prevented from schooling, from leaving the house, from being people. Men lived in fear, felt forced to join the group they despised in order to protect their families.
The US led invasion helped none of these things. Before the Soviets, Afghanistan wasn't the dirt hole it is now, and the recent invasion didn't help matters. Hell, it didn't even capture public enemy number one. Afghani's soldiered on, much as they always seem to have done.
Then it seems that their country was forgotten in this war on terror, they were forgotten in some quest no one understands anymore.They hung in some seemingly limbo.
And yet Canada is there to try and root out the problems, make lives better, provide funding and education, build infastructure. Our soldiers are willing to risk their lives to help rebuild a country and a people. And yet some of my countrymen think this is bad, that we're dying for no good reason?
What makes a reason then? What's a life worth? Is a life worth some oil profits, or a school for young girls who will one day grow to lead their country? Is a life worth political clout, or a town where men no longer have to fear for their families?
I have supported our troops, despite my normal leanings against us being in other countries, because we are doing what we do best-helping other people. We aren't there to rape and kill 14 year old girls. We are their to help those girls have a life. We are doing what our soldiers are known for-goodwill, compassion, bravery and skill. We are doing what Canada does. And I'm proud of that, and willing for my money to go to that, because to me, it's an essential part of being Canadian.
Do I believe that our army is underfunded, and sorely lacking in some areas? YES. But until the majority in this country come to realize what our troops really are doing in Afghanistan, they will remain so. They are fighting a war that will one day, allow a country to have it's autonomy back.

What's that worth?

For another perspective, see this article in The Star

Cross posted at vomitcomit.wordpress.com

Labels: war

Posted by thordora at 12:49 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Is there anything more depressing than a sick toddler?

Take one child, who normally is bouncing off the walls, screaming, yelling, making herself KNOWN dammit!, and add what seems to be a headcold.

Quiet, sleepy and pissed off.

What we assumed was one hell of a molar coming through now seems to be some sort of illness. You know the kind. The "I'll just go over here and DIE for a little while" variety.

It;s the saddest thing ever, the dopey eyes, the fever burning up the surroundings. We dutifully give her tylenol ever 4 hours, and the fever dutifully comes back every 3.5. The weird thing is, nothing else is happening-she wakes up, you put her down, and she starts crying like you just tipped her favorite cow.

I made cookies, and she didn't want one. She's that sick. (And for the record, next time I decide to make said cookies, remind me that eating 6 of them at once makes your tummy kinda rumbly in a bad way.)

I just hate to watch it, but at the same time, I love it when my kids are sick. They're cuddly and quiet and nice to sit with a just hold. I love the feeling of the little head under my chin, the hand in mine, the moist doe eyes staring at me like it's my fault. Call me nutty, but sometimes I enjoy the dependance.

So, in lieu of anything useful, that was my day. Poor Rosalyn is sick like a dog, and I have a sick suspicion that I'm next.

Labels: Rosalyn, sick

Posted by thordora at 8:01 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Just so y'all know, as soon as I get all the posts dumped over (I'm up to February), I'll be hauling ass to

www.vomitcomit.wordpress.com

This beta shit is for the birds, and wordpress is prettier. Sure, I can't mess with the CSS, but even when I did it didn't do anyone any favours.

And before anyone asks, yes I WOULD have imported my blog if I could have. You can't with beta so I need to manually move every. freaking.post. Well, not every one. Some aren't making the move-think of it as throwing away all the old underpants in your drawer.

I'm hoping to have everything "officially" moved over by the end of the month-I don't have a ton of time on my hands to sit and do this. I'll post the new address again when I'm ready to rock over there, and if someone can tell me how to set up an automatic redirect, I'd love you.

Have no fear, I won't disappear. :)

Labels: MOVING, PIECE OF SHIT BLOGGER

Posted by thordora at 6:32 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Now, we all know I'm not a huge fan of the war in Iraq (or the bloodletting as I usually refer to it), but I do have a TON of respect for anyone in the Army doing what they feel is their duty. This letter home is great. My personal favorites are "Best Chuck Norris Moment" and "Best Vindication."

A funny, frank description of life "over there" from a soldier.

Labels: iraq, stupidity

Posted by thordora at 12:38 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Labels: life, the universe and everything

Posted by thordora at 11:58 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

So where I live has now instituted a mandatory garbage seperation program, after years of it being voluntary. And wouldn't you know it, there's always someone crying and whining and acting like someone cut off their right arm.

When we moved here from Toronto, and discovered they had a seperation system, we were shocked and confused. In Toronto, we had all these boxes, and certain things went in certain places, and you tied your papers together, all while avoiding the racoons. All in all, it was a time consuming annoyance. But we did it, because it's what's best.

Moving to Moncton, where you only had a blue and a green BAG, of whatever size, was neat, although it took months for me to not feel guilty about putting a popcan in a garbage bag. We found the process easy to understand, and willingly complied since moving here. It's a good idea people.

Currently, they're still trying to come up with a way to enforce this in large apartment buildings. So of course, there is a chorus of "why do they not have to do it?"

What is this, grade 3?

I mean really, what's the difficulty here? You throw your garbage out anyway, so why is having two bags hard? Is it a problem to actually have to remember that peanut butter jars aren't compostable? Is it a principal thing-no one is going to tell you what to do? Or is it the plain and simple fact that you're going to pout like a 4 year old because someone else isn't being FORCED to do it?

Of course it isn't "fair". But it isn't fair that I have to suck back the dirty exhaust from your car either, especially since I don't drive. But when process changes occur, you need to allow for some adjustment time. Landlords need to enforce this, and the city needs to find a way to do so.

For now however, the expectation is that people behave like adults. Why should you? Because we all have to live here. I know that it's also easier to dump garbage on the side of the road as well, but really. Some of us have children who'd we'd like to see grow up to do something other than clean up your mess.

Sometimes doing the right thing means being a big boy. Just buy the freaking bags, sort your trash, and shut up. You could be in Toronto with the big giant bucket.

Labels: garbage, stupidity

Posted by thordora at 10:12 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Since it's Blogging for Books time, I really had to think. The themes are:

• A tale of a Halloween past, either from your own childhood or from your experience as a parent;
• A “ghost story”, either real or sprung from your imagination;
  
• Any time in your life when you were frightened out of your skull.

Personally, having a little trouble with this one. I like halloween, but it's not like I have some love affair with it. Most Halloweens for me have been pedestrian, and rather like the prom. All hype, and very little good candy. Just those icky "kisses" that stick to your teeth and cause things to rot.

And I've never had any ghosts, although I wish I did. Apparently, my brother has a whole family of them, but I don't think that counts. Or my friend who had a milk pouring, poster ripping ghost, but i don't know the whole story since she hates to talk about it it seems.

Which left me with option 3.

Now, I don't scare easily, if at all. I'm a big girl, so it takes a LOT to frighten me. I remember only two instances of being actually terrified. The first occured during a particularily wonderful acid trip which ended in a sunrise I termed as "fuzzy peach". We were walking through a very dark, very creepy, known to contain rapists park, and almost to the end of the path when some jackass leaped out at us, likely after hearing the dorky LSD giggles that preceded us.

Ironically enough, the two GUYS I was with moved a hell of a lot faster than I did, and certainly didn't wait to see if I was ok.

Scare of my life number two was getting myself knocked up.

I never wanted kids, and didn't particularily like them. They smelled and did weird things to the carpets.

So to find those little pink lines on not one but three pregnancy tests caused the walls to shake and seize upon me as my heart struggled to find it's beat again. I attempted to will my uterus to abort abort!

Didn't work. And I was fucking petrified

I wasn't fit to be a mother, I didn't love things, I could barely take care of myself.

I worried that someone would break into our house constantly. I worried that something would happen to my husband. I worried I'd be fired. I saw boogiemen behind every door, in the corners, in my tap water, since we all know tap water is the root of all evil.

I was scared of every piece of food I put in my mouth. Well, almost. I wasn't scared of the veggie burgers from Burger King, which is a good thing since I ate them all the time. But I was scared of pain, I was scared of the kicked in the groin feeling of late pregnancy, i was scared of my suddenly incredible sex drive, and the resulting tired husband.

Mostly, I was scared that I wouldn't pick it up and be the adult I suddenly had to become before I was ready. I was scared to actually grow up. Having a child would mean that I would no longer be able to stay up all night playing the Sims; hell, I wouldn't be able to afford a computer to play the Sims with. I didn't want to start acting as a fully functioning adult-it was bad enough I got married at 20.

But that's the funny thing about being the woman. You don't have much of a choice. Even if you abort, or give it away, you are irrevocably altered by becoming 'the oven". Your breasts change, your hips move, your sense of self shifts so much that you wonder if they felt it in China. You are suddenly aware, vividly, that you are not an island alone.You are part of something bigger, and badder, than you ever dared imagine.

It's a wonder I even left the house really.

I was scared the day my water broke, and remember staring at my husband on our back porch, asking "Are we ready? is this it?" Two kids stood there, two scared stupid kids, and they never came home.

In their place came the adults we were scared to become. I miss that child sometimes, but the fear was the harbringer of something much different. The fear broke down the fences I had built, destroyed them really, which would have been the more frightening if it wasn't replaced with something wonderful.

Awe, and love. Which, in the long run, might actually be scarier than you think.

Labels: Blogging for Books, fear, halloween

Posted by thordora at 12:50 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

I was thinking about this huge thing with that Foley guy, and how it's suddenly so important that he was molested when he was younger, as if it relates to the crime, and I'm wondering:

Why is it something like 1 of every 3 women have been sexually molested at some point in their lives, and yet most of them never, ever go on to molest someone. Why is this 'excuse" given for nearly every single pedophile who gets caught? Why is it considered relevant?

I was molested, and find the idea of doing it to someone else repugnant. Why is there a seeming "allowance" for men if they admit it happened to them so long ago? If someone shot at me as a child, would that somehow make it "ok" for me to shoot someone later in life?

I don't get it-can someone explain this to me, since the news lately has left me with a loss for words.

Labels: stupidity

Posted by thordora at 4:53 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

The conclusion to my "opus" about my mother is up at Motherless.

The formatting is all messed up sadly, which detracts from how I wanted it set up. Which sucks, so eventually, I'll post the entire thing here. I'm rather pleased how it came out, but I want to tweak it a bit more in the future.

Bonus points if you name the song I used for the title of the post.

Labels: motherless

Posted by thordora at 11:36 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

After one too many school shootings in a random period of time, I’ve started wondering: what prevents carnage?

Many people sit back and pontificate on the reasons for these events-they listen to “goth” music, they’re crazy, someone hurt them, they like power, they like the idea of posthumous fame. I find people talking about how it’s all because we don’t beat our children anymore, we let them do anything, it’s all about what THEY want, and we don’t actually punish people, we allow more rights to the criminal than the victim

Let’s assume that it’s true, that we are easier on children, and people in this day and age. How do we know? It’s like saying that there’s more snow now-it’s difficult for me to judge solely on experience since my memories of snow tend to be from when I was 3 feet tall. My experiences have been colored by who and what I was. If my parents used corporal punishment when I was a child, perhaps I might feel that kids these days “get a free ride”.

Most statistics will show that violent crimes, overall, are lower now. What’s changed? The constant influx of CNN and Fox and papers on our door steps every morning. The internet, showing us every single bad event from every corner of the world if you want. Bad news sells papers, and draws readers.

Bad things have always happened. They will continue to happen. There will always be the anomaly in the crowd, someone will always be a little off. This is part and parcel of being human, of accepting the limitations that are placed on our race at birth. Some of us are crazy, but not homicidal. Some are nudged in that direction, and a few, the rare few, just don’t care. Are they evil? That seems to be the simple explanation that helps make people feel better. It’s so much easier to sweep the explanation under a carpet of “bad” instead of really understanding what happened, and working to prevent it.

How many cases of child abuse, physical, emotional, sexual, are never discovered, never reported? What is the effect on the psyche of a child, especially in a culture which revers guns, torture and war as a valid solution to a problem, and glorifys these things? How long can a mind resist the constant barrage of violent physical solutions before they act on them? How long can a mind resist the lure of fame for no good reason? How long can a mind stay strong when rooted in a society which does not truly value things like progress, mercy or compassion, despite is supposed “Christian” overtones and beliefs?

I read comments and posts from people saying we’re too soft on crime, and yet no one addressing the issues that cause the crime-poverty, loss of hope, lack of opportuniy, apathy towards those less fortunate. I hear people talking about “moochers” on welfare, and how single mothers should have been more careful who they breed with, in case they turn out to be wife beaters. Because we all know that the victim is responsible for someone else beating them down, figuratively or not.

Society doesn’t care-it doesn’t care about you, or your children, or your friends, because it’s easier to ignore, to walk on by, to believe the person on welfare is a junkie instead of someone who had a bad break. It’s easier to assume that the single mother was “dumb” enough to enter into a relationship with someone who beats them, than to assume that the abuser is the one who deserves to be punished. Isn’t it always easier to blame the victim? And isn’t that what we used to do to rape victims, say “they shouldn’t have worn that dress/danced that way/talked to me/walked down the street?”

Let’s assume that the victims in the latest school shootings were “stupid” to have not known that some strange man walking in their parking lot shouldn’t have been there. They were foolish enough to not be protected from him.

But why should the victim assume the guilt? And should they? Are they less blameworthy being “innocent” Amish people than say, an abused woman down on her luck who can’t catch a break? Are they ‘bad” as well? Should they be locked away too?

You blame the victim, you blame society, you blame everyone except for the person who did the deed, and you create people who will never ever take responsibility for their actions when they DO commit a crime. If someone kills little girls because he was caught with his pants down years ago, does it make it the fault of those little girls, and by extension, not the killer’s fault? Can we claim that those little girls are the true root of their own murder?

Of course we can’t. But so long as we insist on finding blame and reason in the events of the past, in slights, mistakes, in the TV and music, we will never find an acceptable reason. People deal with problems violently because they lack the capacity to do much else, and they life in a world where every single sentence must be validated and applauded. They live in a world that insists you’re special, even when you aren’t. And when the chips fall as they may. And you discover that you aren’t actually special, what then?

You pick up a gun, you find a reason, and you go to town.

I believe that our culture is at a crossroads of sorts-that we can go one of two ways. We can decide to become compassionate yet firm “keepers” of each other, or we can decide that our friends, our coworkers, the people we live next to, aren’t worth our time or effort, and say the hell with it, because ME, I’M more important.

How we live reflects who we are. And it’s high time that we all hitched up our big girl pants, and acted accordingly.

Labels: death, guns, stupidity

Posted by thordora at 1:24 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

You know you've been alone with your kids too long when work seems alluring. Despite my "I'm not working while I'm off" ordinance, I'm actually craving going back to work. And not just because I want to walk to work and play with the new toy the Dorf got me for my birthday.

He came back yesterday, smelling slightly beerish, but otherwise ok. (Some jackass CHECKED BEER which then exploded on it's way to Toronto, going all over the suitcase-who travels with beer?)

After we got reaccquainted, we ordered in from Pizza hut (just a small personal for me thanks-I was good and had Lentil Soup for dinner). He ordered the wings.

7 hours later he wakes me up to hold him because he's freezing and shivering because something was wrong with the wings. Once again, the boy had a mild case of food poisoning. So he's home from work, and resting upstairs, destroying my sleep in chances, since he was up puking half the night.

On a good note, he came home with my new favorite album, by The Essex Green, and older one by the Decemberists (waiting for the new one to arrive-it's out today I believe) and this damn cool Wonder Woman book I was almost going to buy with the GC someone gave me for my birthday.

I love presents, and he's finally beginning to realize this.

So, all is almost normal again here, thankfully. He seems refreshed by having a break, which was why I bothered him to go in the first place. You can't spend all your time around your kids now can you.

Labels: presents, The Dorf, vomit

Posted by thordora at 12:25 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Look what Eden went and done did. She gave me this:

Labels: perfect post, So anyway

Posted by thordora at 12:26 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Yesterday, while walking back from the "blue circle park", the double umbrella stroller we got from a friend fell apart. Totally. And me being me, I refused to leave it in the bushes or something, since that wouldn't exactly fall into place with my "don't litter, cause we aren't pigs" philosophy.

So I walked home with Vivian, Rosalyn, and this big stupid broken stroller. About half way home, while trying to keep Rosalyn out of the ditch, and out of traffic for about the 20th time, and trying to keep Vivian going in a forward motion, I lost it.

I totally, and utterly lost my freaking mind.

The scary thing was how similar this rage was to when I was in the midst of full PPD-it was blinding, painful and disturbing. I just wanted to throw one of them into traffic, I wanted to throw the stroller, or better yet, myself. I had one crawling almost on to the road in pursuit of something she picked up, one actively trying to run away, and this hulking stroller falling from my arms.

I saw white for the briefest of moments, and just wanted to sit down, and cry my bloody stupid eyes out.

It was a short moment, but it was frightening in it's intensity. And it was a flash back to a time when I was, well, freaking nuts.

I try not to admit to myself that I have these moments, times when all I want to do is scream at my children until my throat is raw and I cannot speak, and not because they are bad, because they aren't. But because I have this RAGE buried in my chest, rarely seen, well hidden, that is usually smothered in a smarmy layer of sadness. Yet some days, it yearns for release, just as I some days yearn to die.

I thought that after coming to terms with and dealing with my PPD, these moments would end. They didn't, since it turned out that I AM certifiably nuts, being diagnosed bipolar II. And again, I believed there would be a light at the end of the tunnel, that I would suddenly feel everything like normal, that it would be "sunshine and lollipops, and roses everyday."

It isn't. I don't want to kill my children anymore, but there are the usual days where I want to run and hide in the woods behind the house, or stick my thumb out on the highway and see how far I can get. Some days, I find myself calmly evaluating if today would be a good day to die, and how I might do it, sounding much like someone deciding what to eat for dinner. I catch myself staring at my wrists, wondering what keeps me from it.

I stood on the sidewalk screaming at my girls like a fishwife, and I immediately felt like shit over it. I remembered that feeling from when I screamed at my daughters as babies, their cries increasing in shrillness and fear. I felt on that sidewalk what I felt way back then "I can kill this, I want it gone."

But now, unlike then, it passes like a stray cloud against the sun, instead of lingering around my eyes for weeks. I can accept and move on from it, acknowledge my rage as a momentary lapse, and keep walking. I can remind my girls that I'm mad, but I love them, because it's not their fault that the stupid stroller doesn't work, or that my meds some days don't seem to do it for me, not completely, and I'm scared to try too many options, instead content with what seems like 90% of me.

The spectre of PPD will likely always haunt me, in quiet moments, in mad moments, when I'm alone and reading about the love others had for their babies. But it is, irrevocably, part of me, and always will be. And I tell myself, that despite this, I AM a good mother, that I love my children, and always will, even if the outset is a wee bit bumpy.

Sometimes life reminds me of my shortcomings, or my failures, and allows me to use them and stop and smell my roses, my girls. We took the long way home so Rosalyn could stop and touch nature, instead of the scary sidewalk on the busy road.

And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Labels: bipolar, double strollers suck, PPD, Vivian Rosalyn

Posted by thordora at 5:39 p.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken:

Oh gods I'm beat.

If any military parents who are regularily stuck with their kids for months on end alone are reading this, I feel for you, and you have my utmost respect.

I have NO FREAKING IDEA how you do this every day for months. It's been 3 days of total alone for me, and already I want to run screaming towards a bookstore and hide in the biography section. I'm exhausted.

Of course, priming a room, mowing the lawn of doom, carrying/fighting with children because the goddammed stroller broke half way home, and generally being aware that no one hurts themselves has done a number on me.

Today I find myself coming back to the computer frequently, hoping that something will wake me up. Especially since I've spilled 3 glasses of diet pepsi in the last few days.

I couldn't be a housewive, I just couldn't. I need people, I need quiet time, I need to be able to pee in silence. Last night I was so beat, I had a bag of Doritos for dinner.

You read that right. Doritos. With applesauce for dessert.

I miss my husband, but mostly, I think I miss just having someone else around to talk to, to hug. Banana kisses from a toddler aren't that impressive, all told.

He's back tomorrow.

Labels: The Dorf, tired, toddlers

Posted by thordora at 11:00 a.m. | Permalink | Pulses Taken: