Wednesday, May 26, 2010

I can be kind of a jackass.

So, to follow up on my last post, it seems my understanding of the odd, question-mark shaped stuffie was flawed.

Turns out, as my six-year-old explained to me, because apparently it sometimes happens that I need things explained to me by a six-year-old, that what it is actually for is this:

Mom is on the phone. Young child has a query. But, alas, mom is still on the phone, and mom has told child numerous times that unless they are broken, bleeding or on fire, that they have to wait until mom is off the phone. Instead of tugging sleeves, and repeatedly going 'mom! mom! mommy! mom!' and so forth, child simply hangs the question mark on mom's arm as a way to indicate "Hey Ma! I gots something to ask when you're done flapping your gums!" When mom is done on the phone, she has this bizarre thing on her arm to remind her "Right. Better see what the kid wanted."

SO in that light, it's probably more practical than I may have believed it to be.

A quick rant on the dumbest toy ever.

So this past Saturday, my kids and I went to some yard sales as we were killing time before T's birthday party. At one sale, they were getting to close up so they had a 'fill a bag for a buck' table.

One of the things that my darling girls decided to throw in their bag was a peculiar looking stuffie, shaped sort of like a question mark. The woman at the yard sale explained that this was for you to hang on your arm when you are on the phone as an indicator to little children that you are indeed on the phone, and not to be interrupted.

...

I'm sorry, what?

Call me crazy, but I would think that the phone at my ear is a pretty obvious indicator that I am on the phone and not to be interrupted.

I mean, really? Seriously?

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Living under the F-Bomb

First off, let me say, I have very supportive parents, which is how this came about. My grandmother was up visiting this weekend for my daughter's birthday party. It seems that my mom found my last blog post impressive and wanted to share it with my grandmother, who doesn't have computer access. In her enthusiasm to share my writing, she (as well as I, not expecting my grandmother to read my blog posts) had overlooked the two very explicit uses of the word fuck in the previous entry. Later, Grandma Ruth expressed to me that although she enjoyed my writing, in her opinion, these two expletives, well, just kind of killed it for her.

Okay, that's fair.

My mother was quick to point out that, in all fairness, I don't swear very often.

Uhm.. *koff* yeah. *looks guilty*

The truth is, I do swear a lot but in all honesty, my own sailor-mouth is one of those personal traits I'm a little ashamed of. My mom, in her defense of me, is kind of right.. because I try to limit my expletives to my own peer and age group, and generally try to avoid it around children, the elderly and people in positions of authority. I'm a little more candid around close friends and acquaintances, but even so, I tend to get a little self-concious when I'm kind of off on a tangent and I realize the person I'm with wouldn't say shit if they had a mouthful. Guilty, I'll usually slow down and apologize for my utter lack of class.

In my writing I do try and avoid this particular epithet and have been known to replace it with all manner of cutesy bastardizations of the word - fragging, fricken, friggin, freakin', feckin'.. even fleurking. But even so, every so often, a well placed F-Bomb can be known to really drive a point home. But it needs to be used sparingly.

This is rather hypocritical of me, but I have little to no patience for people whose every other word is fuck. To me, it shows an utter lack of imagination in their day-to-day syntax. My own guilt comes into play here, as I occasionally find myself going 'Hrm.. I probably could have worded that a little more eloquently'.

The main character in Kurt Vonnegut's Hocus Pocus, Eugene "Debs" Hartke, a former army general whose lack of profanity earns him the name of The Preacher, sums it up best:

"... profanity and obscenity entitle people who don't want unpleasant information to close their ears and eyes to you."


That being said, I'm going to make a distinct effort to limit my use of expletives to only when they are truly necessary. Mark my flippin' words.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

Pushing 30.. will 30 push back? Not if it knows what's good for it...

In less than three short months I'll be hitting a milestone. My thirtieth birthday. The completion of three whole decades on this planet, inhabiting this body.

Often milestone birthdays have a tendency to cause people to reflect, to look back on their accomplishments, mistakes, goals, regrets and fond memories. In my own experience, I sometimes find myself at odds with birthdays, mainly because I never seem to quite fit into my own chronology. As a child, I possessed above-average intelligence which meant I understood things around me on a more adult level, yet socially I was always a few years behind. I've never quite felt 'my age'. More or less I tend to like a child who has somehow stumbled upon responsibilities, bills, and children of her own.

"This is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife"

As a music enthusiast, I found turning 27 was a particularly surreal experience, as that was when I came to the unsettling realization that I had outlived many of my adolescent role models. In rock and roll, 27 is the new 13. Unlucky.

Although I'm experiencing all the normal apprehension about my big 'three-oh', I'm also finding myself rather excited. As I approach my fourth decade of life, I'm finally finding myself in a place where I have come into my own. My twenties were a time of huge emotional upheaval, turmoil, and most importantly a ridiculous amount of personal growth, and am just now becoming comfortable with myself and where I am.

Let's recount:

- I'm in the best shape, physically, that I have been since I was a teenager, and maybe even better than that. With that has come a great boost in my self-confidence. I can walk down the street and think to myself "Dammit, I feel sexy, I feel good, I'm pretty fucking awesome."

- I have a great group of friends, more close trusted friends than I could possibly have the balls to ask for.

- I have two beautiful, healthy little girls who are also very sweet and incredibly smart.

- I have a job that while not always the most fulfilling, it pays the bills and I don't dread going to - even if the work sucks sometimes, I like everyone I work with, and it's a decent environment.

- I get along great with my children's father and stepmother, with little to no drama involved.

- I'm discovering talents I never knew I had and honing those I did, all the while meeting others with similar interests.

- I've grown comfortable enough with being on my own that I can be decisive and (mostly) discriminating in my romantic life. Simply put, I know I will never settle or put up with more than a minimal amount of bullshit just to avoid being alone.

- did I mention I'm just pretty fucking awesome?

Simply put.. I'm gonna sit back, and relax, because frankly, I think my thirties are going to kick ass.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Thoughts on the Mass-Euthanization at the Newmarket OSPCA

So as many know, an outbreak of ringworm broke out at the Newmarket OSPCA. The OSPCA's response to this outbreak has been to euthanize over 350 animals that have been affected by the outbreak.

Pretty sick, I know, especially, for since for all intents and purposes, ringworm is fully treatable. The question has been raised regarding how such an outbreak managed to occur, and from what I understand, at least one higher-up responsible OSPCA has been fired over this issue.

The public outcry has been such that the OSPCA was forced to cancel a charity walk they had planned. Protesters now plan to hold a 'funeral march' for the doomed kitties and puppies and bunnies (but not the turtles.. apparently they're a-okay). Many people has expressed disgust with the OSPCA (which, I can't really blame them) and have declared that they will no longer donate to the charity.

This is where I feel everyone is getting a little counterproductive. I will not even begin to deny that this is absolutely tragic, but gawd, the hipocracy of some people really creases me. The place has 350 animals to either treat or euthanize. Yes, ringworm is treatable... at what cost, financially? Where is their funding coming from? If a lot of their funding comes from charitable donations then how is pulling your donations HELPING any of these animals? I'd bet my first born* that if the cost was within reach to treat every animal, that it would have been done.

I'm pretty sure the people who work at this shelter are NOT happy about the decision either.. and I'd be willing to bet that it was a heart-breaking one to make. Remember, people generally get into this field because THEY LOVE ANIMALS. But no, people out there are making it sound like Hitler gassing the Jews.

Hey, here's an idea... if every person who is up in arms about this so-called mass murder of cute little puppies and kitties, instead of standing outside the OSPCA all dressed in black with empty travel-boxes and leashes, actually walked in and said "hey, I'd like to adopt one of these unfortunate animals" then took them home and treated them, since ringworm is so very treatable, then BOOM, no little animals need to die. Problem solved.

I don't know, maybe I'm being overly simplistic, and this is something that has been tried, but at any rate is, if the OSPCA, an organization that for years has been dedicated to SAVING animals, is in a position that they feel the need to kill 350 of them, maybe they need our support more than ever, rather than our venom.

*this blog is by no means a legal bet for my eldest child.

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

M is for misfit

Think back.

Do you remember being in grade school, and one of the cool kids was having a birthday, and you knew it was coming?

Then about a week before, she comes to school with a stack of invitations, dropping one on each desk with a smile, but when she passes your desk, she just kind of walks by without a word.

That's how i feel, right now. Awkward. Invisible. Like third grade.

Friday, May 7, 2010

An Open Letter to the Idiot who cut me off as I tried to merge onto Hwy 12 this morning...

Dear Douchebag,

Hi there.

You don't know me, but this morning as i was coming up the ramp to get onto Highway 12, you and your giant hideous red pick-up truck came up out of nowhere behind me and effectively cut me off as I was trying to merge. I had barely time to put my blinker on before you came careening out of nowhere. Had I seen you a second later, me, my car, and my children would probably have been, to use insurance terms, a 'write-off'.

Did I mention there were children in the car? Yes. Two of them. I like them, they're rather precious to me, and I prefer that they not be maimed or killed because of some asshat that doesn't believe that the first person on the ramp should be the first person on the highway.

I wonder if the guy in the white car that was coming up behind us (oh, yeah, the one I SAW, but apparently YOU didn't) was shitting his pants as you zoomed into his lane as though your pregnant wife was crowning in the passenger seat. I know I was. You may have heard the honking meant to express my dismay.

I'm not sure if maybe the giant truck and overly aggressive driving style is your way of maybe over-compensating for erectile dysfunction issues or some latent homosexual tendencies that you're just not ready to come to grips with, but I suspect this may be the case. The big exhaust pipes coming up the back? Pretty Phallic, if you ask me.

Just sayin'

Anyway, my advice is this: Find a guy, find some little blue pills, and do some experimenting. Hell, it's the 21st century, we're not here to judge. Stop putting people's lives in danger. In with the love, out with the jive. Next time, when you're out pretending you're Jacques freakin' Villenueve at a monster truck rally, remember that you live in a very small town, with a VERY recognizable vehicle. Keep that in mind.

P.S. To the other idiot who almost killed me this morning; You do NOT have an advanced green, so you must wait to make your left turn. I go straight, thus I go first. Asshat.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Animated like me...

Okay, so first off, when I was looking for images for this blog post, I was surprised and a little irritated to find that it's already been done.

Curses. Foiled again. The kicker is that she's picked at least two of the people I had in mind.

No matter.

In no particular order, here's some cartoon characters that bear at least a passing resemblance to myself, because sometimes, I really wish I was an animated character.

Daria


Meg Griffin


Marcie

This one is kind of funny, because I once told my best friend that she kind of resembled Peppermint Patty.

Yeah, she didn't talk to me for like, a week.

Velma


Gretchen (from Recess)


And please allow me a moment of wishful thinking...


Hey, I'm working on that grey streak.. a few more months without haircolor, and I may be able to pass.

Things not to think about when someone is poking you with a sharp metal instrument...

It's generally advised that when you are experiencing something unpleasant (such as childbirth, forced sodomy, or in my case, a subgingival dental cleaning) to think of other things can to help you through the pain and discomfort. Sometimes the wrong thought can result in greater pain as I discovered yesterday in the dentists chair, when a random thought crept into my head and gave me a case of the giggles that threatened to result in my being stabbed in the gums with a rather sharp implement.

In my line of work, I answer a lot of emails. We're somewhat medical-related, and for a while, we would get 4-5 emails a day from surgical instrument manufacturers out of Pakistan. EVERY company claimed that they were the 'Premiere' manufacturer of surgical instruments and supplies.

It's crowded at the top, I tell ya.

It got so bad that I started to wonder if Pakistan operates under a caste system, and if there is a caste that consists entirely of manufacturers of surgical instruments and supplies.

I can picture it now.. a little boy standing in front of his father, declaring his dreams for the future, to be an acrobat, or a bus driver, or a deep-sea diver or an accountant. He is cut down as his father's mighty hand shakes a finger at him:

"No, Habib. You were born a manufacturer of surgical instruments and supplies, and you will die a manufacturer of surgical instruments and supplies!"

Poor little Habib toddles off, disheartened, but soon comes to the conclusion that if he must be a manufacturer of surgical instruments and supplies, he will be the best, nay, the PREMIERE, manufacturer of surgical instruments and supplies.

Along with the many, many, many others.

This is the thought that comes to me as I am watching the hygienist poke around in my mouth with such a utensil..

...quite possibly manufactured in Pakistan.

Like what you see?