That Night in Toronto - August 12, 2016

This was originally posted on my Facebook on August 13, 2016.

Have you ever had that feeling of being part of something infinitely bigger than yourself?

I felt that last night.

We’re an odd country, in that we have such a relatively small population, spread out over such a large area. It can lead to a sort of disconnect with our fellow citizens.

Last night’s Tragically Hip concert left me with a lot of feelings. This is a last hurrah (for me) for a band that I have loved from my early teens. I became aware of them around the time that I discovered MuchMusic, and spent hours taping recording videos to VHS, painstakingly pausing and unpausing to edit out the commentary and commercials.

“At The Hundreth Meridian” was the weird, wonderful video that first caught my eye. When I started looking into this band more, I realized I already knew them, without actually knowing them (if that makes sense). I found myself singing along, knowing words to songs that I wasn’t aware I had even heard before.

But yeah. The show. It was both awe-inspiring and exceedingly difficult to watch. The giant screens that magnify the band for the audience members relegated to the nosebleed sections show a lot of detail, including a man who was putting in a lot of effort, but was straining. I wish I could say there was the same frenetic energy of say, 10 years ago, but goddamn, he sure tried, and for most of the show, it was close. But to watch as someone who has known illness, it was exhausting.

I’m eternally grateful to the band for this tour. People can be exceptionally possessive and entitled when it comes to the artists they adore. So I want to make sure I am clear about this. They didn’t have to do a final tour. But I am so, so glad they did. I am so thankful that everyone that has loved this band got a chance to say goodbye. I’m glad the band got a chance to say goodbye as well.

But my goodness.. How difficult must this be? How difficult must it be for a man who probably knows he is dying, to go on every other night and put on the best show he can, to make that effort to live up to the reputation as a showman he’s been cultivating for the last 30 years, while knowing that it’s taking that much more energy, that much more strain, that some of the notes are that much harder to hit.

How heartbreaking is this for Robby, Gord S, Paul, and Johnny, who have been together since high school, without a single change in lineup, to know that this will for all intents and purposes, be the last tour they all do as a group. How hard must it be for them to be on stage knowing that this is for all intents and purposes it and nothing will be the same, all the while knowing and watching while they lose a childhood friend.

I was amazed that they played a 2 hour show, with two encores.

I was inspired by the way, near the end of the show, Gord stood on stage and to thunderous applause that lasted five minutes or more, looked out over the audience and just also seemed both sad, awed, grateful, and generally moved to tears. That’s when I started to cry, thinking that this must be the scene that they’ve been greeted by every other night for the last week and a bit. And it’s bloody brilliant.

The last few weeks, since the band announced Gord’s cancer diagnosis, have had surreal media coverage. It’s been a weird kind of retrospective but also like a living obituary. This tour must have been kind of like attending your own wake. Which is morbid, but also really amazing. I’m glad that the band and Gord especially, gets to see just what they have meant to so many people.

I am glad I got to be there last night. I’m glad I got to share it with some of the most important people in my life, along with thousands of strangers who, for a few hours, were my fellow mourners but also my friends.

Mesothelioma Awareness Day

It's been almost two years (less about a week and a bit) since I got the news that I had cancer in my ascending colon. After surgery, six weeks off work and a much longer period of both physical and mental recovery, I'm now approaching two years cancer free (as of November 1st).

I was lucky, in that colon cancer, if caught early, is pretty easy to treat.  Mine was caught very early, stage one.

Others are not so lucky.

September 26th is Mesothelioma Awareness Day.  Mesothelioma is a cancer of the lungs, caused by exposure to asbestos, otherwise known as that stuff that people used to put in houses for insulation, until people found out that it was all kinds of terrible for you.

Although asbestos use has been drastically reduced over the years, (Canada's last two mines closed in 2011) it's still legal for use in both the U.S. and Canada, and even if people aren't actively using it as much (however, they still are, which is mind-boggling and scary), it's still all over the place, in older homes and buildings. 

Hell, two years ago, when the sewer backed up into the basement and the line had to be dug up, one of the original pipes was made of asbestos, and got left in our yard over the winter.  I had to keep calling to get it removed, because I'd be damned if either myself or the Well-Travelled One were going to touch that thing with a ten-foot pole.

Mesothelioma is one of the major side effects of asbestos exposure, and it's outcome is general devastating.. Victims are usually given less than a year to live.

If you want to find out more, visit www.mesothelioma.com

I'm blaming Bruce McCulloch for this one.

So, this week has been the downer to end all downers.  September 30th, 2013 has officially gone down as the worst day of my life

"The worse day of your life so far." - thanks, Homer Simpson.

Worse than September 25th(ish), 1998 when I was rushed to the hospital with a leg the size of a deli salami and a colon that had been bleeding my life away for months. Worse than January 13, 2003 when a very pregnant me saw her marriage shatter (a blessing in disguise if you ask me).  Worse than April 19th, 2005, the day I watched my home go up in flames.  Worse than that random day that summer when I was fifteen where everyone was fighting and we were broke and everything sucked and I hated life (I don't remember the exact date, but it was pretty craptacular.)

Nope, this was worse than all of them.

As you may recall, I had a colonoscopy a few weeks ago, to follow up on one that the doctors couldn't quite figure out.  Turns out "there's something here and we don't know what isn't is"  IS kind of, tangentially, similar to "holy shit, look at all this cancer," since that's what they found, this go-round.  A malignant tumour in my colon that will need to be operated on as soon as my internal medicine guy talks with surgeons and finds out which hospital is comfortable with taking my case.  You see, it is apparently rare to find colon cancer in one as young as myself.  *flutters eyelashes becomingly*

Go me.  You know, I've never wanted to be a record breaker.

So, this week has been a regular whirlwind of blood tests, CT scans, emotional breakdowns, and inappropriate dark humour.  Actually, I'm pretty sure the five stages of grief need to be adjusted to include inappropriate dark humour as one of the stages.  When I split with the ex, there was a Kids in the Hall sketch that helped me get through it.  Whenever I was down, my friend and I would recite the Hotel LaRut sketch and dissolve into giggles.

Now, once again, during times of trouble, Dave, Mark, Kevin, Scott and Bruce give me solace.  Mainly meaning that I can't get this damn sketch out of my head.

So, thanks a lot Bruce.  You always were my least favourite.

Ahh, but yeah, aside from the awesome healing powers of Canadian sketch comedy, I'm also quite grateful for the ridiculous amount of support I have been recieving, from The Well-Travelled one, who has been marvellous in listening to me freak out and letting me break down, to my family who have offered help in any way possible.  Not to mention friends and the management at work.

I'm not gonna lie.  I'm pretty terrified about all this.  But so far i am functioning on a day to day basis while I wait for more answers.  At least I feel okay.  Which is kind of messed up.  I don't feel sick, like, AT ALL.  I'm gassy and bloated and have occasional stomach cramps.. All that is pretty much par for the course for me.  It's rather surreal but at the same time, I'm glad at least right now I'm not feeling like crap, physically.

I have a rough go ahead of me.  But I will fight.  In the words of Aunt Becky, I'm going to go EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER on this thing. I will win.

Hug your babies tight.

This morning in Ontario there were parents grumbling and inconvenienced because they couldn't send their children to school due to the one-day teacher's strike.

Today, in Connecticut there are parents who will wish, possibly for the rest of their lives, that they had never sent their children to school this morning.  They will go over and over what they could have done differently.


No one should have to consider the possibility that when they send their little ones to school, that they might never come home.

Some will thank God or whatever forces of the universe they put their faith in for the fever, or the stomach bug or even the case of head lice that may have kept their child home today.

I can't even imagine what possesses a grown man to open fire on a building full of children.

It boggles the mind.

No child should ever have to see their teacher, principal and peers gunned down before their eyes.  No child should have to live with that memory.

The teachers who were on duty, some of them will live with the memory and guilt, guilt that they should not have to bear, from being unable to save the children.

It feels like there should be some kind of metaphor here, but I have nothing. It's just as well.  Enough people will use this event to political ends as it is.  I don't want to add to it.

I don't want to speculate on this guys mental and emotional state.  I don't want to talk about guns.

I just want to hold my babies.

"Are there no Burger Kings? Are there no No Wal-Marts?"*

Oh, Mr. Flaherty, you've really lost touch with the common Canadian, haven't you?

I can only assume this is the reasoning behind the statements you made today regarding those receiving unemployment benefits and the seeming unwillingness to accept employment that is 'beneath them' or 'too far away'.  

Finance Minister Jim Flaherty said Monday new rule changes to define "suitable employment" and "reasonable" efforts at finding work have yet to come down, but as far as he's concerned people should be prepared to take pretty well any available job.

"I was brought up in a certain way. There is no bad job, the only bad job is not having a job," he told reporters. "I drove a taxi, I refereed hockey. You do what you have to do to make a living."

I'm sure on a six-digit government salary it is easy to adopt a boot-strap attitude, seeing as how you, Mr. Flaherty, will likely never be faced with the prospect working two or more minimum wage, part time jobs to put food on the table.  The truth is that no, it is not always a case that any job is better than no job.  

A family faced with deciding between paying daycare and paying rent because even a full-time minimum wage position doesn't always cover both, especially in cases where there is only one parent, or more than one child.  This may not have been an issue if the National Daycare Program had ever come to fruition, but I guess that $100.00 a month bribe to make us forget about it made it ALL WORTH IT.

As far as working out of town, I like how you assume that this is an option for most people.  Consider those without cars... That's right.  Some people do not own their own vehicle, or may have medical conditions that prevent them from obtaining a drivers licence.  Shocking I know.  Also, shitty and/or non-existent mass transit systems are also a thing.  Let's assume that a vehicle is readily available.  Consider the current price of gas, sitting at between 1.27 and 1.35 per Litre in Central Ontario... once again, one falls into the trap of spending a good portion of their wages on fuel, which is aggravating enough when one lives relatively close (my own commute is a decent 10-minute drive) but becomes teeth-clenchingly frustrating when one is earning minimum wage and paying (in fuel) for the privilege to do so.  Not to mention, coming back to families, commuting adds time to the workday that ends up covering the cost of.. you guessed it! DAYCARE.

I've known people who have, repeatedly, found themselves in the position of having to decide if a job is even worth taking once expenses such as fuel and daycare are considered.  Often, it's not.

As far as the lack of laborers in Alberta and Saskatchewan, well it'd be pretty awesome if everyone on EI benefits had the resources (money, transportation) or the lack of ties to their current geographical area (oh, like schools, family, support systems) combined with the skills for the jobs available out there to relocate for the sake of work.  Ideally, anyone should be able to do this if they wish.  Here's the thing.. packing up and moving across the country the size of Canada is kind of a BFD, if you read my acronym.

Jim, you make it sound like the unemployed are all simply turning their noses up at jobs deemed 'unworthy' but mostly the need to turn down employment is a simple case of logistics, as illustrated above.  Does pride play into it as well?  I'll be honest.. as someone who worked their ass off through three years of school earning a Bachelor's degree which was supposed to help me escape a life of convenience store servitude, if today I were to find myself unemployed (she says, knocking on wood), I'd be more than a little fucking hesitant to get behind a counter for 10 bucks an hour while trying to pay off the crippling amount of student debt that BA earned me.

And do you know what, Jimmy?  Canadians pay into their EI benefits.. EI is not a government handout.  It is a fund that we as workers pay into, and should be able to use to our full advantage.  If I pay for auto insurance on a brand new 2012 Lexus and someone rears ends me, the insurance company shouldn't be able to hand me an '84 Chevette and say "Well, any car is better than no car!"

Should people on EI benefits be making a concerted effort to seek employment?  Yeah, for sure.. and I am willing to bet that most of them do.  But to say that people who have found themselves without work through no fault of their own should be satisfied with any given job offered them is condescending at best, downright insulting at worst.

Some would rather die.*


*is invoking Dickens melodramatic?  Maybe a touch.  I offer no apologies.

The Internet is Effing INSANE part 2

Sometimes, as a blogger, we have no way of knowing what post is going to explode on us.  To my surprise, my most popular post to date in terms of views is a post where my friend Dan and I speculate on Yosemite Sam's junk.  Now, I know that 588 views do not quite equate to an internet explosion, but it just goes to show, you never know what's going to be wildly popular, or unpopular.

Two days ago, feminist blogger, lawyer and activist Jill Filipovic wrote a one-off post at Feministe about a note that was left in her bag by a TSA agent after they found an item of a... *koff* personal nature in her luggage.  Jill's initial reaction to it was lighthearted, while still acknowledging that hey, this is not cool.

Total violation of privacy, wildly inappropriate and clearly not ok, but I also just died laughing in my hotel room.

Then kaboom.  I guess a few other sites including Jezebel got a hold of the story and the whole thing has kind of gone kablooey.  Kind of?  Actually, to be more accurate, it seems that the whole damned internet has gone apeshit over this story. You'd almost think that Jill had dared to insult the Bloggess or something.

Can I just say, first, that it is totally possible to find something incredibly inappropriate and incredibly hilarious at the same time.  I would have giggled too.  But I laugh at dead baby jokes and make smart ass remarks about heroin addiction.  Doesn't mean either of these things aren't horrifying.  Sometimes you gotta laugh, to keep from crying.

So far this story has hit Fox News, Gawker, Forbes and a number of other media outlets.  The original post itself has 20 trackbacks at this time.  A lot of the articles focus on the issue of privacy which has been an ongoing concern with the TSA and for some, this is just another example.  There's a weird faction of articles that want to focus on the 'hot-chick-practices-self-love' angle, which is kind of creepy as fuck if you ask me.

Us ladies, we like to get off sometimes.  T'ain't no big thing.  Why you gotta make it a big thing?

The most eye-crossingly bizarre commenters and articles are the ones that are claiming that Jill must have done this all for attention and hits to her blog.  One commenter on the original thread ripped into Jill (comment 79: trigger warning) and made some not-so-veiled threats, which I loved the hell out of Jill's response (comment 80):

But thanks for the weird rape threat? You seem totally cool and normal.

While I understand and practice the whole caveat emptor where stories on the interwebs are concerned, it really shocks me the vitriol that is being spit at Jill over this whole thing.  She has been accused of purposely planting said item in her luggage with the knowledge that it would be searched; of writing the note herself to make the TSA look bad and I ask.. why are people so convinced it's not true?  It's not like the TSA hasn't come under fire for way worse things.

And if it isn't true and she made it up?  Who the fuck cares?  On one hand, some of us may have gotten a much needed giggle for the day.  On the other hand, it has reopened discussion about civil liberties and privacy and how much of our freedom we should be willing to give up in the name of security.  It has opened up discussion in regards to what kind of respect should be shown by people who are given clearance to rifle through our most personal belongings.

Oh, and the people I really love - and by "Love" I mean "would like to hit with a brick" - are the people who are all 'Well if she was so embarrassed, why did she post about it?'  You can point out that something is a huge invasion of privacy without being embarrassed.  The fact that it was posted tells me she couldn't have been too embarrassed.  If anything would be embarassing it's probably the way this whole affair has blown out of proportion.

I personally hope that this doesn't end up affecting Jill on a personal and professional level, as someone who blogs under her real name and has covered a number of serious topics.  It'd be a shame that a severe over-reaction to what seemed to be a quick post made in jest ended up undermining a promising career or turning her away from blogging.

Wasn't going to, just feel like I should.

I had sat on a large cushion in my living room, feeding my almost four-month-old daughter a bottle. It was 9am, Regis and Kelly time, but the show had been interrupted.

With my free hand I reached for the portable phone and dialed my best friend who was a thousand kilometers away with a baby of her own to care for.

"Turn it to Regis. Some jackhole flew a plane into a building. Who does that?" I said, with my usual display of sensitivity and compassion. It could only be a fluke, I reasoned.

"I know, right? People are idiots"

Mere seconds later, the line fell quiet between us as on the screen, before our very eyes, the second plane hit the tower and we seemed to come to the same conclusion almost simultaneously. It takes a special kind of stupid (or, in fairness, a gregious technical error or malfunction) to crash into a building once, by accident. Nobody does it twice.

Not by accident.

"Holy shit."

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I still can't accurately describe my feelings.  Sad, of course, for the families and friends that were lost.  Humbled, by the heroics and feats of strength and perserverance of everyday people.

Afraid.  Angry.

I felt angry mostly because of people's reactions.  Maybe if I had lost someone close to me I would feel differently, but I remember thinking that in many people's minds, this would simply be justification for hate that already existed.  

Justification for taking up arms against people who were different from us.

People who, like many of us want nothing more than to get up every morning, hug their children, spend time with friends and family and enjoy life as it is given, but who would now be targeted merely for sharing a belief system.. nay, for sharing the NAME of a belief system (for, much like Christianity, the interpretations of Islam vary and some people take it to dark places, where others choose to approach from a paradigm of love and respect for humanity), with people who wish to see us dead.

I felt a certain amount of pride in own government's reaction, for keeping a level head when G.W. was making his "If you're not wi' us, yer agin' us" speeches.  We went to Afghanistan, but we stayed out of Iraq and I think that was one of the last good decisions ol' Jean C got to make (or his government made) in that final term.

I felt fear, still feel fear.  During the cold war, my mother used to have nightmares of nuclear holocaust, and of trying to urge us, her children, to run from the danger while our feet melted to the sidewalk in the face of the overwhelming heat.

In the days following, I felt connected to that memory.

I still don't know how I feel.   Awed, that such time has passed.  Vaguely cynical, as the more things change, the more things stay the same.  I don't feel like we have learned much at all.  I'd like to say we value life more, but I'm hard pressed to back that up.

I wasn't going to write anything at all, because I always feel like I'm bandwagon-jumping.  I'm loathe to feel obligated to feel something today.  I had a great day today, spent time with family and with friends and enjoyed life.

And I did it guilt-free.  Maybe that is the lesson.  I don't know.  What is the lesson here?  Is it to fear?  Is it hate?  Or is it to value life, no matter whose life it is?

Anyway.  This song kind of haunts me.

Kimya Dawson - Anthrax

It had already been a strange day to begin with...

This is a post for Studio30plus weekly challenge.  This week's prompt is 'The Storm'.  If you're over 30 and not already a member, I encourage you to go check it out.

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It had already been an odd day, June 23rd.  That was when we had the earthquake.  It was at some point in the early afternoon that the computer screen in front of me began to waver.  I wondered if I was having some kind of spell.  Dizzy, I tried to focus but the screen kept swaying.

After a few seconds, my co-worker calls over from the next cubicle "Is it me, or are we shaking?"

You see, we inhabit a pretty sturdy chunk of the Canadian shield.  Discernable earthquakes are not an everyday occurrence.

So it had already been an exciting day.

I left work to go weigh in and get some groceries.  While in the RCSS, I noticed the sky had darkened and rain had began to fall.  I cursed as I remembered the windows I had left wide open as a result of the days earlier warmth.  Rushing out with my groceries in tow, I found myself struggling against the wind to get to the far end of the parking lot where I had left the car.  I had been 'adding more steps to my day' as they encouraged us in the Weight Watcher meetings.  

Approaching the car the wind gained more speed and the sky opened up.  Veritable buckets of water fell from the sky as I hastened to get my groceries into the car although I could barely see.  Water sluiced down my face and glasses, distorting my sight.  Back in the car, I was unable to even wipe my glasses dry as my clothing was absolutely soaked.  I rummaged for an old napkin, which nicely did the trick.  Water squished in my shoes.

Arriving at the ex-hubster's place to pick up the girls, I grumbled impatiently at them, admonishing them not to dawdle, as I was still drenched and by this time, quite cranky.  The ex and I made small talk about the storm's ferocity, but being on south end of town we did not yet realize how serious the situation was.

Driving up the main drag to head home, traffic was unusually slow.  Under an eerily calm purple-pink sky, residents were leaving their homes and walking, dumbfounded up King Street towards Highway 12.  Confused as to why the mass exodus, I grumbled while I sat in the traffic that was so uncharacteristic of our little town.

Phone.

Normally I don't answer the phone in the car, but since I had been at pretty much a full-stop for the last five minutes, I figured what the hell?

"'yeeello."

"Where are you?"

"Hey Dan.  I'm on King, heading home. Why?"

"Turn around if you can and come to our place.  12 is closed.  You're not getting home anytime soon.  Tornado struck down."

Whole.  Leigh.  Shit.   Come again?

"uhh, okay.  Sounds good.  See you soon."

The mass exodus turned out to be hundreds of people who were in the vicinity when the funnel touched down on the north end of town and cut a swath through a chunk of farmland, most of our industrial district and in true cliche form, the local mobile home park.

Source

Arriving with the ladies at the home of Sean and Dan, where my other friend Kaylee had already arrived, we were greeted and informed that power was out all over, but cellular networks were still intact.  We sent the children upstairs to play and for a while we all made attempts to call or text loved ones to check in with them or warn those in the tornado's path.  I got in touch with my dad who informed me that other than a small downpour, the weather near our place had been uneventful.  My mother was away visiting my grandmother but promised to stay put until the warning was lifted.  I made numerous attempts to contact the then-boyfriend but the storm had knocked his phone out.

I realized I was still in sopping wet clothes, so I borrowed some clothes from the Danno, him being the obvious choice as at the time I had about 50 lbs on Sean.  As friends were assured, families contacted and stomachs were starting to growl.  When in Rome, do as the Romans do, and when in Canada during a natural disaster that knocks out the power, you do as Canadians do best.  Barbecue and Beer.

We should be in a beer commercial

Driving home that night as night fell and the clouds still hung low in the sky I took the back roads, as the radios were advising people to stay home and off the roads (sometimes i have a problem with authority).  The main highway was still closed.  I was tense as each time the rain started to fall I would scan the horizon for funnels, white knuckled on the steering wheel.

Down one concession the rain fell harder, and I hit a stretch of road littered with leaves and branches.  Along the ditches fallen power lines hung in trees, and I could where the funnel had cut through the brush and across the road.  Ahead in the dark, two figures ran through the rain.  In my hurry to get home to my house (at 105 years old, no storm could take it out) I drove on, but after about 200 meters I turned around to see if the runners needed a ride somewhere.  They were no where to be found.

At home, I was amazed to find that in spite of the destruction that occurred a mere few kilometres away, at my own home, rakes that were left beside the shed stood, completely untouched.  

It's a wonder I'm still walking around...

This is a post written for Studio30Plus's weekly challenge.  This week's prompt is 'Risk'.  I've tried to convey a sense of suspense in this piece.  This is a true, if anticlimactic, story

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I don't always err on the side of caution.


I've gotten in cars with strangers.  I've met men through the interwebs.  Quite a few.  I've walked through the park, by myself, late at night.  Why?  Just because I could.  Because the park at night is peaceful, and quiet, and you can hear crickets chirp.  Of you can hum dirges to yourself and scare the bejesus out of yourself. 

Get the heart rate going.  Feel that adrenaline.

One day, mid-afternoon on a brisk, sunny fall day, I find myself walking through the bushes.  The main foot and bike trail veers off and a small dirt path runs along the water, behind some overgrown fields and into a deeper brush.  The sun beats overhead, and I walk along the retaining wall which plunges deep into the dark blue Georgian Bay.  I have my iPod buds in my ears and I walk briskly along the dirt path, enjoying the music, enjoying the day, enjoying the solitude and sunshine.

Where the retaining wall comes to an end in a twist of broken concrete and corrugated iron, the dirt path veers into the bushes.  I've walked this trail a thousand times before.  It's low-traffic, and isolated.

Voices.  Over the music I can hear them.  Slipping my hand into my coat pocket, I turn the volume way down.  There's about four of them.  Male voices.  Laughing boisterously.

Aw shit.

From this vantage point, I know I'm not visible from the road.  Out here, they wouldn't find my body for days.  I slow my pace and consider my position.  Keeping to the trail will bring me right into their line of vision. 

I could cut through the brush.

No good.  I risk drawing more attention to myself by snapping twigs.  Besides, I have a better chance on the trail if I have to make a run for it.

Keep moving.

My heartbeat echoes in my ears as blood pumps faster and faster.  I'm getting closer to where they sit on the half-broken picnic table, moved to the water months previous. 

Walking by, I pretend like my iPod is still on.  I sense them gazing in my direction, and I make eye contact for the briefest moment. 

"Hello!"  I nod my head slightly, in the slightest gesture of assent.  My feet want to break into a run, but I force them to maintain their steady pace.

"I said 'hello!"

Look again.  "uh.... hi."   Keep walking, keep moving.  My stomach is clenching, and flashes of grotesque images start to flash in my brain.  The trail has curved, I've passed them now.  My back is to the group.  I can hear muttering and chuckles.  My ears, half-functioning at the best of times, are now acutely aware of the sounds around me.  I listen for footsteps approaching behind me.  I don't dare look back.

The trail takes another turn, and I know, from having walked this dirt path numerous times before never having met a soul along the way, that I'm out of their line of sight.  It's now that I allow myself to break into a full-run, feet slamming the dirt path, dodging rocks and roots, slipping on leaves, until I find myself back on the paved bicycle trail, the one that follows along the main road, safely visible to the cars that whizz by.

Bent double, I struggle to catch my breath.  Did I over-react or did I just escape a potentially life-threatening situation?  I'll never know. 

That was last fall.

We're not all Johnny Cash here...

Jezebel posted an article today about a Republican in Indiana who voted down a exception that would allow abortion to be an option for victims of rape and incest because it might encourage women to lie about being raped in order to get abortions.  The exception was voted down because it would create a 'giant loophole' and that "someone who is desirous of an abortion could simply say that they've been raped or there's incest."

This bothered me on a number of levels.  I might have an easier time with this if the concern was that it may result in wrongful rape convictions, then I could say well, that's a good point, kind of.   Lord knows, we don't need people wrongfully imprisoned, nor do we need more people to doubt the validity of actual rape accusations.

She's just saying he raped her because she wants an abortion.  


Yeah, let's add THAT to a list of handy rape defenses.

But there's no mention I've seen about this concern.  The GOP still seems mainly concerned with making sure that sexually active women face the 'consequences of their actions'.  Besides, if the concern WAS an increase in false accusations of rape/incest, then it'd be just as easy to avoid such a situation by NOT restricting availability to cases of rape and incest, thus negating the need to lie about it.

The other thing that bothers me about these lines of rhetoric is that the right-wing and the pro-life movement seems to be under the impression that women fighting for reproductive choice are simply clamoring for the opportunity to have an abortion of their very own.

I want to make this very clear. No one WANTS to go through this.

The way some folks put it, however, you'd think there were thousands of women out there, getting themselves knocked up on purpose so they can be ready for that uber-trendy photo op outside the abortion clinic.

We're not Johnny Cash here.  We're not shooting men in Reno, just to watch them die.

My Motivation is Playing Ferris Bueller Today..

I've done too much driving this weekend and not really gone anywhere.  Yesterday, in driving my children to a birthday party I came to a few conclusions (that you may have already seen if you follow me on Twitter):

• Barrie's south end embodies everything I absolutely hate about everything
• Goodwill has better prices than Value Village but is an infinitely more depressing shopping experience
• My knit hat is likely the culprit that is causing my forehead to break out like that of a 13-year-old on chocolate and high-dose oral contraceptives
• On the rare occasions I break down and go to Wal-Mart for something, I feel better if I can't find it.

Something I learned after a night of dancing and some drinking:

• After a night of dancing in heels and drinking beer, if you go to sleep in your pantyhose, you will wake up feeling like sausage.

Today I drove twice to Midland to take the cats to get weighed so I get them all flea treatments for the next few months.  Then, instead of napping, I decided to drive to Orillia (because two trips to Barrie - one for the birthday party, and once for dancing - and two trips to Midland didn't feel like quite enough driving) to go see my battered and bruised Nanny in the hospital.  She's currently there due to a fall where she managed to break herself in many places in an attempt to clean the top of her refrigerator.   Thankfully she is recovering well, and is in better spirits and more mobile than when I saw her last week.

Needless to say, I will be using this incident as justification for the utter and complete neglect the top of my refrigerator suffers at my hands.  Better safe than sorry.

For cheap amusement, here's some of the search terms people are using to stumble upon my lovely little piece of the blogosphere here:

"i'm reminded of light beer"
'schrodinger's rapist'
dory
ghost world
hidden staircases
margaret atwood's inspirations
she's the kind of woman that'll make you forget about hiroshima

I'm excited about the first one, because I can only assume that it means there is someone out there who loved those Blue Light commercials with Tom Cavanaugh as much as I do.

When Life Makes Decisions for You

I don't even like chicken wings.

After the demise of our respective marriages, my sister and I shared a house for about two years.  For the first year, she went to school while I took care of our four children while I was on maternity leave.  I was not well suited to daycare, so when my one-year leave was up, my good friend Crystal, who has much more patience for children than I, joined our household as a live-in nanny as it was a hell of a lot easier than shipping four kids of varying ages out to daycare.

After the ex-hub and I split, I immediately got my name on a waiting list for subsidized housing, knowing that it would be difficult at best to raise two children on a convenience store clerk, and later student budget.  We lived in the house for a little under two years, until fate unexpectedly set in.

It was an unusually warm day in April.  I had finished writing my first year Psychology exam that morning and had rushed home to look at an apartment, as my name had finally come to the top of the housing list.  Here, you are allowed to turn down three available units before they drop you back to the bottom of the waiting list.  I had already turned down a place six months previous on account of our obligation to the unspoken 'lease' we had with my parents.

The apartment was lovely... three bedrooms, two bathrooms, well kept building.  But I was unsure about moving to Midland, when I would be going to school in Barrie.  Would it be better, perhaps, to hold out and see if a place became available in Barrie?  The building manager told me I could think it over, as there was one other person looking at the place, but they too were unsure for whatever reasons.

That evening, we sat out on the front porch, debating what to do for dinner that night.  It was a warm, lazy Friday and no one much felt like cooking anything elaborate, but pizza seemed well.. blah.  The suggestion of chicken wings was brought up.  Inwardly I groaned, but being self-aware of my picky eating habits and how they might be unfair to others, I just kind of shrugged and went 'meh, whatever'.

I was downstairs with the smaller children when I heard the sound.  Nicky was on the front porch studying, and Crystal and Steve (my sisters boyfriend at the time) were in the kitchen, along with my oldest nephew.  My Reagan, about 18 months old at the time, had wandered up the stairs. In a house with four adults and three older children, I figured she couldn't get into too much trouble.

It sounded like a splash - a horrific, sickening splash - and my first thought was that my beautiful toddler had pulled the pot of hot oil down on herself.  I paused in sheer terror, waiting for the screaming... there was a scream, but it came from my oldest nephew as he ran out the front door.  I believed the worst.  I heard nothing from Reagan and  it then to me that not only was she horribly burned and disfigured, but that she was dead.  I broke from my paralysis and came up the stairs to the front landing, and heaved a sigh of relief upon seeing her standing at the front door, babbling to herself, completely unharmed.

However, out of the corner of my eye, up the second short flight of stairs, I saw the flames.

I grabbed Reegs and quite literally picked her up and tossed her onto the front lawn, before running back down to the basement to herd the other children out the back door.  I ordered them to go around to the front of the house and wait there.  I ran back into the house and into the kitchen where Crystal stood in front of a giant flaming stock pot of doom, flames licking the ducts over the stove.  She was already on the phone with the fire department.  Steve had grabbed the birdcage and met Nicky outside with the children.

Panicked, I grabbed a box of baking soda, because they say to put baking soda on grease fires to put them out.  This, however, was less a simple grease fire and more an raging inferno at this point.   Like a lunatic, I threw handfuls of baking soda at the flames that were now licking the ceiling.  The soda sizzled as it hit the flames.  Crystal stayed on the line with the fire department as long as possible, but gave up when the portable phone's cradle caught fire.   As cupboard doors began to blacken and ceiling tiles began to curl and drop to the floor, there was nothing left to do.

We ran.

From the street we watched the smoke billow from the windows.  I could hear glass popping as the immense heat shattered mugs, drinking glasses, and windows. The roughly three and a half minutes it took the volunteer department to arrive stretched out like an eternity.  We stood in the road and stared.  And cried.  We called our parents and told them of the fire and we cried some more.

Later, scrounging through the wreckage, I found a lone pink circle amidst the otherwise soot-black carpet where our cat had curled up in the smoke when she couldn't find her way out.  And I cried some more.

Needless to say, I took the apartment.  And I still don't like chicken wings.

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This post was written for Studio30Plus weekly writing challenge.  The prompt is "Irony".

Do other people refer to their vagina as Betty?

Because I don't.  But people seem to think I do.  But no, as I've mentioned previously, Betty is my cute little 2008 Aveo.  This doesn't negate the fact that when  I say that I've hurt my Betty (or in this case, a friend hurt my Betty) there is a decent amount of inappropriate giggles that go around.

But yeah, she's hurt.  Hurt bad.  It may be terminal, we don't know yet.

Long story short.. Last evening, there was a car, a what-I-would-believe-to-be-a-rather-illegal U-turn, a swerve and a slam of brakes, a crunch, a sketchy eyewitness account that has led to a possible conflict over fault, and now my car is waiting to be appraised to see if it's worth fixing or if it's a write off.  I wasn't driving, it was my friend that had my car at the time.  No one was seriously injured, although my friend is rather sore today.

So it's been a long day of talking to my insurance company, talking to the rental company, and trying to get a copy of the police report that hasn't been filed yet. 

I'm not going into great details, well.. because.. well you know when something happens and you just get sick of re-telling it over and having people offer their well-intentioned but often conflicting and rather overwhelming advice?  Yeah.  Since there's not much to do until the adjuster gets there Mondayish and until the actual police report gets filed I'm just going to try and enjoy the pretty rental car and wait and see what happens.

*sigh*

Luck of the Irish, indeed. 

my poor girl

Japan.

I've avoided writing about this, because I don't know what to say.

It's fucking horrifying.  I watched one video of the tsunami and had to turn it off.  It turned my stomach.  I don't deal well with these huge, abstract things that I have no control over.  I cannot wrap my head around the thousands dead, the hundreds of thousands homeless, without food, without shelter, half a world away.

The reactors.  Sweet jesus fuck, those fucking nuclear reactors.

It all terrifies me.  If I think too much I lose sleep.  I get sick to my stomach.  So I try not to think about it.  That might make me a bad person, I don't know.

I saw posts today from people who said that this was due payback for Pearl Harbour, and I want to punch these ignorant redneck douchebags in the throat.  If this is "God's" payback for Pearl Harbour, then they may want to duck and cover because I'd hate to see what he has in store for America for bombing the everloving shit out of Nagasaki and Hiroshima.

What the fuck is wrong with people?

Times like this all I can do is hug my kids and get down and kiss this giant expanse of rock we call the Canadian Shield.

The CCF and the Humane Society could use a lesson from this woman

I am not generally a charitable person, in the strictest sense of the world.  I don't make a whole lot of cash donations to charitable organizations.  I know, I know.  But I'm a woman on a budget, plus I'm kind of a misanthrope who questions if my charitable donations are really going to someone who needs it.  I never said I was a good person.

Today I read a letter that first made me laugh, in that horrible 'Oh my god, I shouldn't be laughing at this' kind of way.  It was a letter written to Jenny at The Bloggess from a woman named Ally, of Christchurch, New Zealand.

As you may already know, Christchurch was hit by one huge sumbitch of an earthquake on February 22, and Ally was writing in hopes that Jenny, in her vast interwebs popularity, would be willing to ask her readers to help the people of Christchurch in their time of need.

Read Her Letter Here.  You Will Not Regret It.

It's okay.  I'll wait.

... *twirls in chair*  *tries to balance pen under nose* *picks at errant hangnail*

Oh, you're done? Good.

Now, if your reaction was anything like mine, you laughed then immediately went "Holy shit.  We need to help these unfortunate fuckers STAT."  

Did you?  Cool.  Go Help Them, then.

I think organizations like the Christian Children's Fund and the Humane Society could learn a lesson from Ally.  Honesty is the best policy.  Don't guilt people, don't fucking depress them.. because what happens then?  People get depressed.  They get overwhelmed, because they want to help ALL the starving children and ALL the abused kitties and puppies with their big sad eyes and distended bellies and flies on their faces.

Then what happens?  Your average Joe or Josephine.. they feel bad.  And resentful.  Because You, Charitable Organization, have made them Feel Bad.  And We Can't Help Everyone. And what do we do with unpleasant feelings?  We tune them out.  We change the channel when Sarah McLachlan starts singing ".. in the arrrmmmms offf annnn annnnngelllll" and the little puppies and/or African kids come on the screen.

And then No One gets help.

I love Ally's approach here.  Honest, direct, and creative.. and effective.