In Praise of Cowardly Fat Dudes.

There's a certain character archetype, both in television and film, that when invoked I cannot help but automatically root for them.

They are the Cowardly Fat Dudes*.  

I say dudes, because frankly, there's not a lot of representation for fat women on TV and film, cowardly or otherwise.  Off hand, I can think of four fat lady recurring characters over the last twenty years and half of them were played by Melissa McCarthy.**

However, I digress.  This post is, after all, titled "In Praise of Cowardly Fat Dudes," not "Let Us Bitch About The Lack of Representation for Fat Women."  Believe you me, that is a post for another day.

I love a good underdog, and the Cowardly Fat Dude archetype fits the underdog description well.  Cowardly Fat Dude is portrayed as unsure of himself, often slow, and well, cowardly.  However, they are also often written as generally kind and concerned for others and can often represent a voice of reason when every thing around has gone bat-shit insane.

Some classic Cowardly Fat Dudes include Chunk from The Goonies, Dave from The Full Monty, and Piggy from Lord of the Flies (although anyone who has taken high school English knows things didn't turn out so well for Piggy.)

My current favourite Cowardly Fat Dudes are Aaron Pittman on Revolution (played by Zak Orth) and Samwell Tarly on Game of Thrones (played by John Bradley).  Aaron, a former stupidly-rich MIT grad and Google exec, loses his money, power, confidence and his wife after the blackout that is the catalyst for the events in Revolution.  He spends a lot of the first season mourning his pre-blackout life and generally pointing out the bat-shit craziness of the events that unfold around him.  However, as much as he protests and balks, when his friends are in trouble, he's usually right in there, even if he looks ready to crap his pants at any moment.  Late is season one, he pulls one particularly ballsy, kick-ass move that had me literally in tears.

Aaron's expressions usually alternate between this and "Are you kidding me?" disgust.  Source

Samwell is introduced as a self-described coward, who seems to have internalized a lot of nasty stuff told to him by his father, who considers him more than useless.  He joins the Knight's Watch (Night's watch?) after his father threatens to have a "hunting accident" if Sam doesn't get the eff out.  I haven't seen much of his character arc so far, as I am still trying like hell to catch up on this series, but I can't help but like the guy and hope to see him kick some ass.

There's some rage in there.  This kid is going to do some awesome shit, I know it.  No spoilers, please.  I'm only on season three.  Source

The reason I like the cowardly fat dude is that they seem to rise above their fear when it comes down to the line.  Every other character underestimates their abilities, as do they themselves, so I always find myself rooting for CFDs to come out on top, especially in situations where they are able to put their own particular talents to work in ways that other characters with more brawn and bravado would not be able, through the use of wit or intellect rather than brute force.  

I love the Cowardly Fat Dude character because it's one thing to lack a sense of danger, but it's an entirely different thing to look danger in the eye, feel debilitating fear, and go forth anyway.

*I'm fat-friendly.  I use 'fat' solely as a value-neutral physical description, and not a perjorative in any way.

**In case you're interested, the ones I came up with were Rae from My Mad Fat Diary, Molly from Mike and Molly, Lorelai's friend on Gilmore Girls and the inimitable Roseanne Conner.

And with that, my TV decided to channel Kurt Cobain.

I'm feeling rather grateful. It's been a stressed out week and a bit, but as the dust (and smoke and burning plastic smell - but more on that later) settles, I'm feeling immense gratitude.

I'm grateful that a week and a half after my sciatic episode, I'm pretty much pain-free. I've known people with sciatic injuries who have suffered for months and years on end. To be about 99% recuperated before I even had my first physio appointment, is pretty A-okay if you ask me.

I'm grateful that when my car started needing work, I had friends who were willing to step in and help with advice and work. I'm also grateful that when the need became especially urgent and said friends were unavailable due to circumstances beyond their control, financially I still had the option  of going to a shop and get the work done, armed with the advice given me.

I'm especially grateful that my pain-in-my-broken-ass kept The Well Travelled One and I home last Thursday night when my 6 year old Electrohome CRT television decided to literally go out in a blaze of glory. Let's be clear, when I say it was 6-years-old I refer only to the timeline in which I bought it. I wouldn't be surprised if they stopped manufacturing them much sooner. Its time was due. So as I sat there watching season 4 of Newsradio, Phil Hartman's head got really skinny, then kind of fat, then a little of both. I wondered if it was the connector and the WTO, who had a side view of the set from the vantage point of the computer desk calmly stated "actually, no, it's a small fire" before jumping over to quickly unplug it from the wall and disconnect all the peripherals.

So I am grateful that we had turned down the chance to go to karaoke, otherwise the girls would have been home, probably watching My Little Pony, wondering why Rainbow Dash's face was distorting when the set went up in flames. Thank Gord for oddly timed coincidences. Putting aside the most obvious, horrific possible outcome of that scenario.. Well, one traumatic house-fire is enough for any kid. But since my broken ass kept us home, the fire remained contained to the back of the casing, the only evidence a lingering smell of scorched plastic.

Better to burn out than fade away indeed. Tell that to all my other electronics that simply stopped working and didn't feel the need to get all showboat-y about it.

Morning.

Sitting in the silence of the mid-morning with a coffee and the sunlight streaming through the living room windows and the cat purring contentedly on the easy chair I feel completely and totally at peace.

There is a roof overhead and food in my pantry.  My children are happy and healthy and I am well-loved.   At 32, I've come to terms with my body and made amends with my past and look, hopefully and enthusiastically to the future, while I savor the present and for this moment, I am home.

700km, an Off-Roading PT Cruiser and the Faint Sound of Banjos, part 3 (the not-so-dramatic conclusion)

Part One

Part Two

So it looks like this, the third part in my "What I Did A Few Weeks Ago" trilogy will likely be the shortest of the series, as my memory is getting increasingly fuzzy. But, hey, I don't want to leave anyone hanging. In other news, holy crap! TWO posts in one week. How about that??

So Sunday we woke up by the faint light of the sun rising over the blueberry stand across the highway, groggy and stiff from trying to stay comfortable in the back of the Cruiser. Not an easy feat, as he's not one to be scrunched up to sleep and although i generally tend to curl up in the fetal position to sleep, I was trying to remain somewhat conscious of not kicking or hitting the poor man in my sleep. Which I am told, I have a tendency to do.  Sleeping me is quite violent.

This is possibly the shittiest sunrise picture ever taken.  I took this one.

Watching the condensation slowly evaporate, we had a pre-breakfast breakfast of coffee from the Tim Hortons in whose parking lot we spent the night and glorious sweet chelsea buns from the bakery in Bancroft we had visited the previous day. Finishing up, I got tired of watching condensation evaporate (because yes, that IS as boring as it sounds) and rather unsuccessfully tried to dry it up with my t-shirt.

Pre-Breakfast Breakfast.  Tim Hortons, I want some royalties for this.

After getting on the road, our first stop for the Morning was at Cordova Falls, which is just outside of the little mining town of Cordova Mines. Cordova Falls, to date, has probably been the least Impressive of our waterfall hunting excursions, but that may be a result of it being both a dammed (as opposed to damned) waterfall and it being later in the season. I will say I was impressed seeing the pennstock for the dam. Impressed that it had not burst, as this old wooden contraption looked about 60years old and was sprouting leaks all over, some of which had been lovingly and not-at-all-half-assedly patched up with various bits of wood, some of which were jammed right into the leaky spots.

That's Reassuring.

Once we had fully explored the Upper and Middle Falls, we decided to skip the Lower Falls and head to town to see if we could actually locate THE Cordova mine. The town of Cordova Mines, Ontario is a fairly small one, almost a ghost town now. We knew the mine had to be about 4km from the dam we had just visited, as that was what the sign at the dam had told us.

If you can't trust a historical plaque, who can you trust?

One trail that we found almost took us all the way there, we discovered upon checking the maps at home. It started out near a small community hall, the type with a park and picnic benches and tables under shady trees, the type of place one could envision town picnics being held generations before. We braved the path as far as Petey would take us, at one point traversing a ground level river crossing. But beyond this we found a heavy gate with a variety of "No Tresspassing" signs. Later we would find out that what we were looking for was just on the other side.

Those aren't puddles.. that's the river creeping across the path.

...Just in case you didn't believe me.

Giving up on finding the mine, we headed to Peterborough for Actual-Breakfast and to see the Peterborough lift locks.  I can't remember all the ins and outs of how these locks actually work.. it has something to do with water displacement is all I recall.  I'm going to let the wonder that is Wikipedia fill all the dirty details in for you and just say that they were impressive and cool to watch.. we got there just as the first boat of the day was crossing.

See? Impressive.

Breakfast was had at one of GFWIHNCUWAGBA's (okay, acronyms clearly aren't an option here) favoured establishments.  Good potatoes, good eggs.. toast was a little too dark, bacon too crispy.  Good coffee and I got to find out just what in the hell 'Beaver Balls' were.

Turns out, they're basically like Beaver Tails (which I think may be known to people in other countries as Elephant Ears) but in ball form.  The More You Know.  At least they aren't some bizarre Fear-Factor inspired delicacy.  Although I still say that eating bull testicles would have been child's play had Joe Rogan just battered and deep-fried them.

However, I digress.

This was my first ever visit to Peterborough (with the possible exception of visiting my grandfather in hospital shortly before his passing, but that may have been Bancroft hospital) so he took me on a bit of a tour around the downtown and through some of the riverfront parks.  Having been up since about 6am we had made fantastic time to get to Peterborough, look around and still have time to visit my Nanny on the way home.  We got hit with the rain about 40 minutes before Nanny's house, after a weekend of otherwise lovely weather.  So that was lucky.

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In other news, I'm making a concerted effort to post more.  I've missed it.  I kind of put myself on hiatus writing at Different Paths, Same Destinations when I ran out of fucks to give in regards to my weight-loss efforts. I get the feeling I'm not the only one on a break.  Hopefully the other girls will come back and start posting again.  But we all have lives, and busy ones at that.

My posts here will probably focusing on my day-to-day stuff for the next little bit as I will be saving some of my social-issues ranty type stuff for a two-week guest blogging stint at Feministe (*geekyfangirlsquee*).

Say it with me, Sally Field.  "THEY LIKE ME!"

I'm ridiculously honored to have been asked to submit.  Like, stupidly so.  Like being asked to the cool girls house for a sleepover.  Except I get to write a lot.  So look for my posts over there during the last two weeks of July.

Quick and Dirty Photo Post.. but not actually Dirty Photos.. sorry.

So excuse this moment of vapid attention-whoring, but I got new glasses and I want to show them off.  On previous trips to purchase eyewear I was torn between lighter or thicker frames.  Last week I went in and there was a sale...

So I got both.

That is, indeed, the newly-detesticled asshole cat on the chair behind me.

Pair number two

Oh and in case you were wondering, I also got myself a little bit of a giftie.

Sexy, right?

I'm now tasked with the.. uh.. task of giving him/her/zie a name.  I haven't even assigned it a gender.. most of my other guitars I've given guy monikers.  This one is a little prettier, a little sexier that I'm inclined to lean towards a more feminine signature.

I'm thinking of naming her after a song name.  I've always been a little fascinated by 'name-songs' and always a little jealous of people who have songs with their name in the title.  At least, I was jealous until I found out that one of my favorite alt-country (I really can't lump them in with regular country, but they're not *quite rock*) bands, Blue Rodeo had a song called Andrea.  It's an odd little tune, sung by Greg Keelor, and sounds like some kind of 'My Drug Buddy' type tune.

Andrea I'm so happy that you called 
Just to hear your voice 
Helped dissolve 
The paranoia 
Until the drugs wore off


The name Jolene, after the Dolly Parton tune, is jumping out as a possible option.  It's a fairly unique name and seems to match the vibe I get from this particular instrument.

What are your favorite "Name-Songs?"  Do you share a name with any songs that you know of?

I wanted to upload a video to christen my new whats-her-face, and was inspired as I wrote this post so here you go.  Be warned, I hate seeing myself on video, so I haven't watched this.  If it's terrible, you have my sincerest apologies.



Isn't that one awesome thumbnail image?  I WILL EAT YOUR SOUL!!!  I need a haircut.

In other news, I went to Guelph yesterday with my friend Tess for her birthday.  We loaded up the car with all of our respective children and her SO, and went to see A Suessical Musical along with her sister and grandma.  Was a very late night as showtime was 6:30 and Guelph is about three hours away from here.  The children were extra "F.U.N." (read: Fucking Unbelievable Nightmare) to get up this morning but all in all it was worth it, a fun time for everyone involved.

One last picture.  Although most of the time he's kind of a dick, as I have mentioned, occasionally Simon manages to break out the cute.

It's like a kitty-vampire coffin.  Kind of.  If cats were shaped like guitars.

Two random vocalists that make me want to kill myself with joy

Source

Cat Power - Her voice is evocative of that kind of straight-whisky drinking, chain-smoking in a dark dive bar, of the type that was probably at one point classy as all hell, but has since become a refuge for derelicts and the lost. She sounds like what that woman who sang Bette Davis Eyes should have sounded like, instead of sounding like Joan Rivers doing karaoke. Love and Communication haunts me and it pisses me off to no end that I cannot, for the life of me, sound one-tenth as good as she does singing this song.

Source

Dallas Green - Consistently reminds me of guys in high school that I wanted to have write sappy yet earnest ballads and sing them for me in hushes tones.  The type of guy that would sit back and not say much until someone pulled out a guitar when he'd reluctantly join along, quietly at first, then gradually getting more into it until everyone else suddenly just shuts the fuck up and sits there blinking, thinking 'Holy shit.  This kid can actually sing!'  On Sleeping Sickness he pairs up with my all-time favorite vocalist, Gord Downie and my head explodes from all the awesome.

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I have a post up at Different Paths, Same Destination regarding the Children's Health Care of Atlanta's fat-shaming campaign. I'm told it's good.  Go check it out.

Tidbits

So many things to write about, so little time.

Today is Gord Downie's birthday.

I've been sickish this weekend, but well taken care of. Feeling special and appreciative.

I took the opportunity to watch 6.5 out of the 8 Harry Potter movies.

My guitar tuner is missing. As such I'm coming to the conclusion that I have a shitty ear for these things. I hope it turns up soon.

Yesterday was duff mckagan's birthday. I kind of miss when he was all baby-faced, in the pre-velvet revolver days.

My little one made me breakfast saturday. Cheerios and peanut butter toast and an apology for not knowing how to use the coffee maker.

Today is Queen Elizabeth's diamond jubilee. 60 years in the same position with no room for advancement. Still has a good shot at breaking queen Vicky's record though.

Things I Love Today: #changethetweets (also.. 500th Post! or not)

So I guess today CBCRadio2 has been hosting a contest for tickets to see Kathleen Edwards. The idea is to tweet the song that has changed your life with the hashtag #changethetweets (which is apparently a take-off of Edwards' album 'Change The Sheets').

Myself, I had a hard time really coming up with a 'life-changer' but in light of my recent Mountain Goats obsession I decided to tweet 'This Year', with its refrain of "I am gonna make it through this year if it kills me", as my go-to song when I am sad, frustrated and in need of some strength.

Some of the tweets people have been posting are quite moving.  Here are a few of my favorites:

The contest is picking up a little steam, so my chances of having unexpected plans to go to Toronto this weekend are probably slim, but I've enjoyed reading the Tweets.

What are some songs that have had an impact on your life?

P.S. according to Blogger, this is my 500th post.  Except that it's not, because I copied a bunch of posts from my old MySpace blog over here so the actual number is either a lot less (if you want to count posts since I joined Blogger) or a lot more (if you want to count all the posts I've written in the time I've been blogging.. which dates back to sometime in 2005 over three different platforms).

So, uh.. happy unbirthday to me?

Post X-mas Round Up

My computer is pretty hit-and-miss right now.  I was able to get it started up and it's not freezing on my every 15 seconds.  It's a Boxing Day miracle.

A quick run-down on Christmas this year:

Both my grandmother's are in decent health after a pretty rough year, one having recently had hip replacement surgery and a weird intestinal thing that caused her to drop 30 lbs but has gone away as mysteriously as it started, and the other having fallen while cleaning her refrigerator last spring, breaking herself in many places.

Picture me knocking on the nearest piece of trim.

For all their weirdness and foibles and pre-adolescent moodiness my kids are pretty damn awesome.  They were gracious receiving their gifts and remembered all their pleases and thank-yous.  They are also coming to the age where they are thinking of others and made hand-made gifts for both grandmothers, my parents and I'm guessing they must have asked their dad for a little money because they got me a cute little necklace.  It has Snoopy on it.

They also got me a DVD player, as my Playstation has been doing a fine job of destroying most of my movies, but I have a hunch that *may* have actually been from my parents.

Quite honestly, all the kids were well behaved.. my sisters' kids are all pretty nice kids as well.  They all seemed to like their gifts as well. 

My haul included the aforementioned DVD player, necklace and... a Ukelele! So I have a new instrument to learn, as I was not aware that the Uke works on entirely different tuning and chord patterns.  I love getting stuff for Christmas that I would have a hard time justifying for myself.  I know other people like practical stuff, but my thing with practical gifts is, if I haven't already bought it for myself it's probably because I don't feel like I really need it.  So this was an awesome gift.  (In all fairness, the DVD player was pretty cool too, because that was on my list of things I WAS going to buy for myself, out of necessity, and now I don't have too).

Today consisted of some visiting/procrastination as I took my cousin back over to my parents (they were short on room and she loves spending time with my girls) and then stopped by my sister's place.  My youngest nephew is absolutely adorable and starting to speak in full sentences.  Amusing as all get out.  Coming home I got on taking down the tree, as my house is entirely too small to keep it up for long.  There was also the matter of putting away gifts and doing about two and a half weeks worth of laundry. 

We set up the newish Wii that was gifted to the kids from Nanny.  Well, technically.  December 1st my Nan usually sends me a check for each of the girls and instructions to get something for them from her, because God love her, she's getting old and has a hard time getting around and quite frankly, has better things to do with her remaining years than shop for kids, especially when she doesn't know what to get them anyway.

What this has resulted in is that in our house, Santa doesn't bring the really cool gifts... Nanny does.  I can picture the day when we finally have the Santa talk (which won't be long now, I think) and the question will be "Okay.. but Nanny's still real, right?"

I've mentioned a few times today that I count myself lucky that I don't dread family time.  My biggest worry when we all get together is.. "Oh man.. it's gonna get so LOUD".  Because it does.  Get loud, that is.  But if that's worst that happens, I think we're doing okay.

Hope everyone else had a lovely Christmas, or a satisfying secular Sunday.

The Tip of my Tongue.

When I was growing up in Aurora there was a restaurant down the street from my uncle's place, in a plaza (some may know them as strip-malls) on the Southeast corner of Murray Avenue and Yonge Street, at one point the longest street in the world and the eventual route that would take my family on our short but life-altering pilgrimage from Aurora to our current home on the Georgian Bay.

My memories of this establishment are fuzzy yet curiously vivid as well.  Glaring yellow signage ran the length of the outer end of the building - it was the last unit and faced the traffic of Yonge street.  I recall caricatures of old comedy acts such as Laurel and Hardy and W.C. Fields gracing either end of the stylized lettering, now blurred in my mind's eye.

It was a fairly large, licensed establishment, specializing in Italian fare - a family restaurant, before we became inundated with proto-family-cookie cutter chain eateries.  Upon entering, one would walk into a sparsley furnished, harshly lit entranceway with a small counter for picking up takeout orders.  In contrast, the main dining room was lush and romantically lit, a sea of dark wood, leather and tiffany lamps.  As a small child I would swing my feet from the huge bench seats of the booths and look around curiously, in my own world, ignoring the chatter of my parents and sister.

What stands out in my memory, clearer than anything is the Pac-Man game.  The PacMan game sat in the entryway, close to but not quite in the dining area.  It was one of those table-top arcade games where two players could sit on either end and play head-to-head games of Pac-Man.  Occasionally I was lucky enough to be given a shiny quarter to play while we waited to be seated, but even when no quarters were available I was content to sit hunched over the bright flat screen and trace my fingers along the plexiglass, following Pac-Man's gluttonous feast.  My little brain, just then learning to read, would watch as the screen flickered and switched from the demo to the menu screen and mouth along as the rival ghosts were introduces.. Inky, Blinky, Pinky and...

and...

What was the last one's name?  I can never remember.

The last time I was there, I was seventeen.  My friends and I had embarked on a road trip to the city for some reason or another and I, being full of ideas, suggested going to Aurora and driving by my old house.  We stopped there for lunch and it was as I remembered it, mostly.  I don't recall now if the game was still there, but the food and the atmosphere was as I remembered.

That was nearly fifteen years ago.  The restaurant has since been shut down, re-named, under new management.  It's funny though, that with all that I can remember of that place, of the details in the decor and the food and how my child-mind perceived eating in a  big, grown-up fancy-pants restaurant with china and cloth napkins and where I was even allowed to order a Shirley Temple and felt very grown-up doing so... well, with all that, to this day I cannot recall it's name.

Funny, that.

UPDATE:  So, I was at work and standing in the bathroom washing my hands and out of nowhere, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Barrel Pizza.

Crying the Ugly Cry

I woke in a terrible mood this morning.

Actually, that's not entirely true.  I woke up in a half-decent mood, having had a fun-filled night of music with an awesome group of people, and a new prospect of some fun people to jam with.  The girls had stayed the night at their dad's so I woke to a quiet house and no one I had to worry about getting out the door but myself.

Since it had been about a week since I had done so, I decided to step on the scale and immediately my mood went to SHIT.  You see, I've been keeping fairly vigilant over the last week or two and aside from a slip-up with an order of cheese wontons and some toaster strudels, I figured I've done rather well.  My scale disagrees, the bastard.

Some people allow themselves a 'cheat day'.  I, apparently, cannot have a cheat MEAL without thoroughly fucking up my progress.

You know how sometimes one thing will set off a domino-effect of hating everything in the world and ignite a desire to kick puppies and tell small children that there is no Santa Claus just because why should they live in a world of happy innocence when everything around you so clearly sucks?

Anyway, the immense frustration of making no progress in spite of over a month and a half of effort (and being very good the last three weeks, Wonton day notwithstanding) snowballed into a spiral of loathing and general resentfulness of all the things in my life that are not as I would have them... being consistently broke, not having clothes that fit and refusing to give in to the recent gain and buying new ones, being perpetually single.  For the first time in five years I RSVP'd to my staff Xmas party as one, hoping to avoid the yearly conundrum of trying to figure out who I can bribe with a free meal to be my date (I used to be able to bribe with a free meal and an open bar, but after last year's Xmas party, I'm not sure that I wouldn't be lying about that).

I got thinking about people who are no longer in my life, and about hurts that people have inflicted on me in the past and I found myself getting very, very bitter.  It was all I had in me not to call in sick and stay home all day, mournfully playing my guitar, feeling sorry for myself and crying the ugly cry.

Yeah, I have one of those.  The puffy-eyed, red-faced, scrunched-mouth couldn't-possibly-hide-that-I'd-been-crying-if-my-life-depended-on-it ugly cries.  It's kind of like this sketch below, but with less Adele and more Neutral Milk Hotel.  And no damn ice cream.



I have nothing against Adele, she's great. I just can't reach the same notes she does.

Anyway, as one does in these days of social media I reached out via the Facebook and posted a (rare I think, anyway) poor-me post in search of support.

And I got it, in droves.

Usually I like to think I have a fairly positive outlook on life, albeit wrapped in a vaguely cynical and sarcastic candy shell.   However, I'm not half the pessimist I used to be, and on a good day I can usually count my blessings and run out of toes.

Sometimes, for a moment, when things like the upcoming holiday season, get overwhelming I lose sight of these things and focus on what is wrong.

The wrong stuff still sucks.  Being poorish sucks, and so does the loneliness. I have a lot to be happy about as well.  I'll get back to that place, at some point.  Today was a low day, admittedly, and I'm not entirely over it, but at least I know that when I find myself in a dark place I have people in my life to hold a match for me.

Of bars and bunk beds

A quiet but relatively busy weekend this weekend.  Friday night was spent moving furniture and cleaning the disaster area that is my children's room to prepare for new bunk beds.  

Back when we had the house fire we were fortunate to receive a great number of donations to replace the furniture we lost, including a beautiful set of metal bunk beds, the kind that sleeps double on the bottom and single on top.  The younger kid, about 20 months old at the time, was forced to make the transition into a 'big girl' bed rather quickly as who wants to buy a brand new crib for a kid who will likely be out of it in three months anyway?  

These bunks served us well for the last 6 years but about 8 months ago I started looking out for a set of twin bunks either for sale or by barter.  You see, the bedrooms in our little cottage are rather small, and for two growing girls, I figured I could free up a lot of floor space this way.  Plus the mattresses were getting old and the children were complaining of discomfort sleeping.  It was pretty ridiculous, but I was holding off on buying new mattresses because I still hoped for new beds  - no use buying a new double when I wasn't going to use it.  

It got to the point where the kids would rather sleep on the couch or on an easy chair than in their beds.  I'm the only person I know who still - quite reluctantly because Gawd knows, I LOVE having my bed TO MYSELF - had 'the family bed' with a 10 and 8 year old.  I was about to break down this week and buy new mattresses just so EVERYONE could get a good night's sleep when one of my dearest friends texted me to let me know she had located some bunks that would well suit my needs.  So being the Amazon I am, I dismantled the old bunks and carried the damn things out to the shed all on my own and then set to work cleaning the room, including what was once 'under the bed' - aka where socks, Webkins, spare earrings, books, more socks and barbie clothes go to die.

You know it.  Amazon.

My friend, her significant other and another friend of ours made it out to my place with the beds after having to fashion some hardware that was missing from the set.  After everything was set up I attempted to make conversation while surreptitiously gazing at my children's bedroom, in awe of all the extra floorspace.

Saturday was a day of laundry and yardwork and removing Halloween decorations, as there comes a time sometime after November where it is no longer fashionable nor socially acceptable to have dead babies on your front lawn.  Philistines.  Also, the yard was getting jungly and the freaky mysterious 'Where-the-hell-did-they-come-from' Morning Glories had long ago taken over the front porch.  They were, by this time, quite dead though so I decided maybe it was time to take my porch back.

Seriously, though.  I don't know where they came from.  I have not in my history planted Morning Glories.  My sister did when she lived there, but that was four years ago and to the best of my knowledge they are not perennials by any means.

Saturday night my other friend and her SO and I headed to Collingwood to see the Schomberg Fair... again.  This is my fourth show now so I imagine that puts me into some kind of weirdo Dead-head category now.  Truth be told, I'm going to be a little sad when these guys make it really big (which I am pretty certain is bound to happen).  I'll miss that recognition and appreciation one gets for showing up and supporting a pretty awesome trio of local musicians.

A great show, even with a smaller than usual crowd - then again, it's Collingwood and I didn't gather that the downtown had a thriving nightlife.  They played pretty much every song off the new EP, Mercy  as well as a number of older tunes I had not heard played live before.  Even "Dark was the night, Cold was the ground" which had been requested by myself at previous shows, so I was stupidly excited over that one.

Sunday the girls came home to their surprise and were quite happy with the new beds and their newish mattresses.  I haven't had any company for the last two nights and I couldn't be happier.

I've got some red on me...

Oh Toronto Zombie Walk, how I adore thee.

Yesterday marked my second time at the Toronto Zombie Walk and I'm still washing blood out of my hair today.  Last year I went with a good friend of mine, and found the whole experience thrilling.  This year I got to take my two girls as they are old enough not to be too freaked out by the.. well.. freakshow. Reegs, the little one got right into it.  My oldest is getting to that 'too cool for school' age and it took some cajoling to get her into the spirit.  I was also accompanied by two of my oldest friends and my 16-year-old cousin who sometimes scares me with how much like me at that age she is capable of being.

Part of what I enjoy aside from the opportunity to engage in some imaginative, poor-taste, grotesque humor is that it's a very uncommercial, organic event.  It has yet to be bought by corporate interests and seems truly to be a home-grown community event.  Participants are generally well behaved, the cops that help to make sure no one is impeding traffic are, beneath the gruff exterior, generally well-meaning.  (as one cop tried to corral us out of a busy intersection by yelling 'clear the way' myself and another guy responded a few times with "We're working on it!" to which she replied with a sympathetic "I know..")  Non-participants seem to enjoy the event as well, gathering in doorways to watch the parade go by.

I also love how people manage to take one unifying theme (ie.. zombie apocalypse) and come up with what seems like hundreds of different ideas, even if some do show up year to year.  I have come to the conclusion that each walk will have, invariably, the following (amounts are approximate, and probably exaggerated):

• 1 Zombie Waldo
• 2-3 Zombie Jesus'
• 21 Zombie Brides
• 3-7 Zombie hunters (that is, Hunters of Zombies, not Zombiefied big game hunters)
• 118 Shaun of the Dead characters.
• 1-2 Thriller-Era Michael Jacksons
• 275 Zombie Nurses
• 314 Zombie Schoolgirls

Each year I go, I tend to get a little gorier.  I haven't done a theme costume.. mostly I just go with generic zombie.. Some nasty fake scar tattoos, light makeup, and a shite-load of fake blood.  Everywhere.  It generally does the trick.

Product Shot! Where's my damn money, Tim Hortons??

The girls had a bit of a theme.. Prom-Queen Zombie (making good use of the dress from last year's Carrie costume) and Hobo-Clown Zombie (I was reminded of Sol the Clown from my TVOntario childhood)

In front of the house.  Yes, That's a dead baby on my porch.  I put the ass in class.

At one point during the walk, I thought they may have been getting tired out, until i realized that Reagan was not getting tired.. she was TOTALLY in character.  Foot-dragging and all.  That's my girl.

So before I post some random pics, I'm going to take a poll.  Which of the following is a bigger dick move.

Entering a small, classy type restaurant (half hour away from the parade) in full Zombie Regalia, minus blood and makeup after crowding into a single stall bathroom to clean it all off, however still wearing aforementioned gaping headwound tattoos due to not having the necessary rubbing alchohol or baby oil necessary to remove them without taking a layer of skin with it.  Sitting down in said restaurant, practically ass-cheek to ass-cheek with other diners, all of whom are staring, some in amusement and some in disgust, and potentially disturbing their dinner...

 - Or -

Entering a small, classy restaurant in full Zombie Regalia, piling 5 people into a single stall washroom to wash off blood and makeup, thus occupying said washroom for a good 15-20 minutes and using all their paper towel and then walking out again, having decided that as a group you'd feel much less guilty about ruining people's dining experiences at a Kelsey's or a Boston Pizza?

Survey Says?

No matter, what is done is done.  At least we cleaned the blood out of the sink first.

Anyway, here's some more pics:

Lots of OWS themed signs. This guy told us he was headed down to Bay Street after the walk.

Group Shot, me the girls and my cousin

Reegs doing her zombie face

This year's family Christmas card portrait

Kiki, who made up for a lack of make-up with a very convincing and chilling zombie-stare

Tierney looking frighteningly gorgeous

Amber*, who took most of these pictures

So much fun and Hallowe'en isn't even over yet!!

*Sarah, this is the friend that I said looked like you in the post with the picture of you and your daughter on the pony.

"I think that ghosts like the cooler weather..."

I think this weekend, while my kids are out at an early halloween party, that I'm going to take some pictures of the local foliage. Central ontario is a great place to be in the fall (although Western Ontario is pretty breathtaking when you get into the heavy deciduous forests). I say this in spite of the nearly constant rain we've been having over the last week or two.

The constant damp, the cold, it gets into your system. I find myself wanting to eat heavy things, comfort foods with rich sauces, that kind of stick-to-your-ribs stuff that warms you to your depths. Stews, casseroles.

My house has a real haunted house feel to it, beyond the decorations that I've put outside. The stone exterior, the weathered wooden front porch littered with leaves that I have had neither the time nor the motivation to sweep away.

Mornings have gotten darker already, as have the evenings when I leave work. The unrelenting drizzle has left me feeling sweetly melancholy.

I wish for a fire place. A fire place, and clinking crystal glasses filled with lucius red wines served with expensive cheeses and green grapes.

It's a time of heavy cable-knit sweaters and quilted vests and the smell of burning leaves.

Glorious.

I'm looking forward to some sun this weekend to complement October's crisp breezes.

This song is one of my very favorite songs of all time and in my humble opinion, embodies everything I love about Fall, the strange mix of melancholy and contentment and the slow cocooning of oneself in preparation for the Winter. Of harvests and generations past.



You can tell by the wind
By fresh cut wood all stacked to dry
That autumn's here. It makes you sad
About the crummy summer we had
With pine trees creaking
The raven's screeching
Just like the story my grandma tells
About when a bird hits your window
Someone you know is about to die


Autumn's here, autumn's here
It's ok if you want to cry
'cause autumn's here, autumn's here, autumn's here


So find a sweater and you'll be better
Until the kindling is tinder dry
We can be quiet as we walk down
To see the graveyard where they are now
I wonder how they brought their piano
To Holdene Hill from old Berlin
Be hard to keep it well in tune
With winters like the one that's coming soon


Cause autumn's here, autumn's here
It's time to cry now
That autumn's here,autumn's here, autumn's
It's ok if you want to cry
Because autumn's here


I think that ghosts like the cooler weather
When leaves turn colour they get together
And walk along these, these old back roads
Where no one lives and no one goes
With all their hopes set on the railway
That never came and that no one stayed
I guess that autumn gets you remembering
And the smallest things just make you cry.


Autumn's here, autumn's here, autumn's here that autumn's here
Autumn's here, it's time to cry
Cause autumn's here
Autumn's here, autumn's here
It's ok now, cause autumn's here


Autumn's Here - Hawksley Workman 

Wordless Sunday.. because anyone can have Wordless Wednesday.

Okay, so it's one word.

Good News, Everyone.

My computer is officially fixed.

Be prepared to get esophaegal-lining-rupturing SICK of hearing from me.

*resists urge to sign opening lines from Eminem's 'Without Me'*

Happy Birthday, Little One

Today is my youngest daughter's eighth birthday.

A few months ago, when my older daughter celebrated her 10th birthday, I wrote about how I found out I was pregnant, and about the day I was born.

I'm not going to do that today.

For two reasons, mainly:

Back in May, I had regular access to a working computer.  So that's something.. I've still not got the home comp fixed so I'm forced to blog in spare moments here and there.

Second, the time of Reegs' birth was not a particular happy one for me.  I'm sad to say, I've blocked a lot of that period of time out of my memory.  The parts I remember tend to make me a little stabby and rage-filled, even after all these years.  In the name of keeping things upbeat, I'll avoid the specific events of the day.  Maybe another day I'll go into them, but now is not the time.

What I will say is that there was, once upon a time, a decision I had to face due to circumstances that were beyond my control.  A decision that, had I chosen otherwise, would have meant that I would not be sitting here writing this today because there would be no happy birthday today.  I chose what I felt I needed at that time.

The love that I felt for this little girl was probably the only thing that kept me sane during what was, up to that point, the worst period of my life.  Okay, even to this point, it was still the worst period of my life.

*Knocks wood.*

She was, and continues to be, a smiling, giggling, thoughtful, beautiful, mysterious beacon of hope that I thank the great unknown forces of the universe for on a daily basis because I don't know what I would do without either of them in my life.  Although I love Tierney every bit as much - she was my first, she made me a mother - I have a special place in my heart for my Reagan, maybe because of the circumstances of her birth I feel more protective of her, feel more of a need to be sure that no matter what, she knows that she is loved and wanted by all those around her.

The birth of your sister forever changed my life and who I was for the better.  Yours saved me.
Happy Birthday Reagan.

The best feminist children's book ever.

The Paper Bag Princess

If you grew up in the 80's, in Canada especially then it's likely you are no stranger to the wonderful stories of Robert Munch.  I had a collection of teeny-tiny pocket versions of his books, which tended towards simple but humorous plots (a dad who sleepwalks, a kid who won't wear his ugly snowsuit, a kid who won't go to the bathroom until the last minute) and cute illustrations generally provided by Michael Martchenko.  As soon as my kids were old enough to focus their eyes on a book, I began collecting anthologies of Munsch's work so that I could share them with my kids.

Somewhere in the time between being a six-or-seven-year-old with a profound love of reading and a thirty-something mother-of-two I happened to learn a bit about the media and about feminist theory and social constructionism and how gender portrayals in the media tend to affect us.  So upon revisiting what is possible Munsch's most well-known work (aside from that unholy tearjerker that everyone sadist likes to give expectant mothers at baby showers, Love You Forever) I was pleasantly surprised to find a strong feminist message in this story about a princess who outsmarts a dragon to save her beloved.

Let's recap, shall we?  Princess Elizabeth is slated to marry Prince Ronald.  Oh, he's cute and all and she's rather smitten.  So it's understandable that when the dragon comes and destroys her (yes.. *her*) kingdom and carries off Prince Ronald, she is eager to get him back.

The book gets its title from how after her kingdom is burned to smithereens all Elizabeth has left to wear is an old dirty paper bag.  This comes into play later in the story.

By way of her intellect, Elizabeth tricks the dragon into exhausting himself by performing various dragonesque stunts until he collapses, leaving Prince Ronald unguarded.  Pretty clever, no?  Not even clever 'for a girl'.  Just clever.

Source

Here's the rub.  Rather than showing some gratitude towards Elizabeth for saving his useless ass, Prince Ronald turns his nose up and tells Elizabeth that she is a mess and should come back when she 'looks more like a princess.'  Rather than fret and be all apologetic for not living up to Ronald's gender and class expectations, Elizabeth firmly but respectfully informs Ronald that he's a narcisisstic asshat (my words, not hers.. this IS a children's book.  Elizabeth, I believe, calls him a 'bum') and lives happily ever after, ON HER OWN (or at the very least, without the company of the insufferable Prince Ronald).  This is the impression we're given anyway, between the line "And she didn't get married, after all" and Martchenko's illustration of Elizabeth walking off into the sunset, clicking her heels with joy.

So we have a princess who uses her wit and resources at hand to show concern and come to the aide of those around her, undeserving as they may be.  Her kingdom is describe as her own.  She outsmarts the dragon without doing harm to him, so she is an empathetic character.  She is able to recognize that her own self-worth is of higher importance than marriage to a prince.  Let's also add that this is not the stereotypical 'beautiful' princess.  Elizabeth is pretty in an average, relatable*  sort of way.

I love that the message in this book is not an overtly preachy one, and is one that is universal to anyone of any gender, ethnicity, class etc... Be resourceful, and you are not obligated to people who disrespect you.  The fact that Elizabeth is conceived in such a brilliantly simple manner as a Strong Female Character - that is, strong in character and intellect, not necessarily just a more ass-kicking object for the male gaze - is what makes this an excellent feminist children's book.

*I'll concede that Elizabeth may be more relatable if you're a little white girl.  However, Munch has made a point of incorporating characters of many ethnicities in his stories, generally without resorting to stereotyping

"Excellent" she says, fingers steepled in classic C. Montgomery Burns fashion...

Must post quickly before I head home.

Great News.

Recall a while back when my car got totalled, and the friend who was driving (in one of those 'can you move your car I have to go to the store' 'Oh, just take mine' moments) got a bogus careless charge despite the fact that the woman she t-boned was trying to make a U-turn out of a parallel spot and was not looking where she was going?

Well, her court date was today and the charge was thrown out.  As it should be.

Huh.  ZAH.  Vindication, y'all.

There will be some calls to my insurance company, and there will be drinks in celebration.  Today is a good day.

May 22, 2001.

My back had been killing me all day.

I was ten days overdue, and quite over the whole pregnancy thing.  Quite over it, indeed. Her original due date had been May 13th, which was also her paternal grandmother's birthday.

The ex-hub (at that point, simply 'the boy') had made plans to go to Toronto that day to see his bio-mom and step-dad who were visiting from way way up north, and whom we only saw occasionally, being that they lived 20 hours away, and we didn't drive.

She handily thwarted those plans.

The pain in my lower back gradually increased over the course of the day.  I had chalked it up to the baby having dropped.  By 2 am the pain was excruciating, keeping me awake and in a state of discomfort and by 3 am the pain was coming in waves.

Oh, God.  In waves.  Being my first pregnancy, I didn't catch on right away but when I thought back to a concept I had heard of called 'back labor', I realized what was happening, and I started to cry.  This woke the boy who asked me what was wrong.

"I'm sorry hun.  I don't think you can go to Toronto today."

**************************************************

8ish months earlier I had been experiencing pain in my legs.  8 hour days at work left me in debilitating pain at the end of the day.  This worried me, given my history with circulation problems.  After a particularly bad night, in tears from the pain, I decided to go to the ER.  It was the boy who had suggested the possibility to which I had promptly pfffffted and shook my head. 

"I'm only, like, a week late."

"Uhm... no.  You're like, three weeks late.  Believe me, I keep track."

At least one of us was paying attention.  Anyway.

At the hospital, when they took my INR,  we requested a pregnancy test.  When the doctor came in, he asked the boy if he was the father-to-be.  We looked at each other, shrugged and said "That, depends, what are you saying?"

Emerging from assessment room, we found that about four of our friends (all guys), plus the boy's nephew who was staying with us, were in the waiting room, waiting for us to come out with the results.  I can only imagine what we must have looked like to the others in the waiting room - a Maury Povich episode waiting to happen. 

****************************************************

Labor was a piece of cake.

Or so I thought.  

It really is like bad menstrual cramps, I thought.  My grandmother and her boyfriend had driven us to the hospital, and notified my parents who had already headed to work.

Every 15 to 20 minutes, my stomach would tighten, and I'd ooh and owww, all the while thinking what's the big deal?  This isn't THAT bad.  The contractions, however, slowed to a halt around. 6:30 am.  Rather than send us home, the doctors decided to induce labor, seeing as I was already way overdue.

Jesus Christ on a cracker.  Whole new ballgame.

My abdomen was being put in a vice and twisted to oblivion, seeming to last 20 minutes each time, with only about 30 seconds rest between contractions.  The boy, in an attempt to be helpful, tried rubbing my back with a tennis ball.  I promptly took it from him and whipped it across the room.

"Please.  Don't Do That."  

He ceased trying to help and decided that the best way to support me would be to just stay the hell out of my way.  This was probably the best course of action.

It may have been around noon that the doctors came in and told me I was only 2cm dilated.  They broke my water, and hooked me up to a fetal monitor.  After an hour, the doctor, looking grave came in and told us that the baby's heart rate was dropping, they'd need to perform an emergency C-section.

My response was a resounding "Holy shit, yes, can we do this now please?  No, I mean really.  Like now.  Open me up and get this kid out, already.  General Anesthesia?  Yes please!"  

As they were prepping me for the surgery, the contractions continued annoying me to no end since at this point it was basically pain-for-no-reason, not accomplishing anything.  I badgered the nurses, my OB, and the anesthetist who also happened to be my family doctor, asking when they were going to go ahead and knock me out because holy hell this shit HURT.  A LOT.

They eventually rolled me into the OR and ran the IV line with the drugs that would knock me out.  It's odd, you know... between being put out and coming to, it always seems like no time passes at all.  I woke feeling strange.  My stomach was flat-ish and my throat was sore.  The boy was at my bed, telling me we had a baby girl.  

"A girl? Neat." I said groggily.  My throat was scratchy from being intubated. "I want a popsicle.  please."

We named her Tierney, a Gaelic name I had fallen in love with 6 years earlier when my nephew was born.  It means 'Noble'.  She was given the middle names Catherine, for my mother, and Melissa, for her godmother and my best friend at the time.

Today she is ten.  She's smart and yet innocent, sensitive and yet full of humour, kind-hearted and beautiful.  Ten years ago, she changed me, in that she made me a mother and gave me a new perspective.

Happy Birthday, Baby Girl.

May 22, 2001