Humility is for suckers.

I got called out yesterday morning by a friend I hadn't talked to for a while.  I fully deserved it.  It was in regards to a facebook post I had made for a recent post on the art blog.

He pointed out that I seem to preface every post with a negative comment about my work.

Fair enough.

Not having ingested enough coffee at the time, I thought this observation to be mainly in reference to the blog post itself, which being a post about one of my first painting attempts, I thought was critical but fair.

It hadn't occurred to me that on the Facebook post, I had included the words "Be prepared for terribleness."

Okay, that's pretty negative.

Although I created the art blog with the intent of sharing more of the stories behind my artwork, I also wanted it to be a place where I could examine and critique my own work:  where I've improved and where I'd like to see improvement.

But I'm not going to lie. I tear myself down, a lot.  I've been using self-deprecation as a defense mechanism for a ridiculously long time, and it's a tough habit to break.

I know there one major thing at play here: there is the desire to point out my own flaws before anyone else can.  It's as though if I don't let anyone see that I might actually be taking this somewhat seriously, then I don't have to live up to the expectation of being any good at it.  It's the thing that keeps me referring to myself as a dabbler, or a hobbyist, as opposed to an artist.  I feel like if I act like I take it too seriously, then I'm at risk at becoming the living embodiment of the insufferably pretentious art snob.  So I fall back on "Ha ha, I suck."

I've always felt rather mediocre at most of my endeavours.  Perhaps I've only ever been mediocre because I won't allow myself to immerse myself in anything enough to be more than 'just okay' because if I do, then there will be expectations.

And let's face it.  Pride is still considered, in many circles, to be a vanity, a sin.  Women especially are expected to downgrade their accomplishments, to deflect compliments with phrases like "Oh, you don't mean that," and "You're just saying that to be nice." 


It's bullshit. The idea that people should be humble, should not draw attention to their strengths, is a great way to keep people down, to keep them from realizing their full potential.  We don't know the things we are capable of if a fear of pride or appearing immodest drives us to downplay every single accomplishment we have.  We internalize the message that those things we learn and do and become good, great, or even experts at (outside, of course, of those things we do to earn money, because capitalism.. you are your job, in this system) don't matter, that they aren't a big deal.

You, my friends, are a big fucking deal.  If you tried something new today, that's a big deal.  If you did something today that you love and did it even the teensiest bit better than you did yesterday, that's a big deal.

From today, I am going to try to work extra hard not to be so self-deprecating when it comes to my art, my music, my writing or myself.  I am a big fucking deal.

SOURCE

Aunt Laura Wasn't Crazy, After All.

Nanny and Aunt Kay. They don't really pertain to this story, but I couldn't find the picture of them with Aunt Laura.

I used to labour under the impression that my maternal grandmother was one of three girls, mainly because I never really heard her speak of any of her siblings besides her sister Kay and her sister Laura.  It wasn't until I was well into adulthood that I found out that Nanny had been one of upwards of around 8 children.

My great-grandparents had so many kids, it turns out, that the youngest had to be given up to foster care.

But, no, for years I thought it was just the three of them. To this day, the only other one of her siblings I remember meeting was Uncle Jack.  One day after class I decided to pay Nanny a visit and a quiet, somewhat unfriendly man opened the door, grunted, and let me in.  I had no idea who he was.

That was uncle Jack.

Aunt Kay and Aunt Laura are the ones I remember.  They're both gone now unfortunately.

I used to think Aunt Laura was insane.

She was married to a man named Gord Arnold.  He died when I was quite young, possibly before I was born.  I have no memory of him, but I knew who he was, and I knew he was dead.  But for years, during family visits, Aunt Laura would make comments about how she had "been talking to Gord the other day" and how "Gord had fixed the kitchen sink last week, it's about time," and so on and so forth.

I always thought it odd, that Aunt Laura talked to her dead husband.  I also thought it was very understanding, albeit a little creepy, that everyone in my family was totally okay with humouring her whenever her dead husband was mentioned in the present tense.

I'm going to be honest.  I'm not always quick on the draw.  There was a very important puzzle piece missing, one that pertained to the fact that Laura and Gord had about a million kids.

I found this out one day when Nanny was showing me the framed picture of her many, many nieces and nephews that she had received for her birthday that year.

"That's Annie and Donna, and there's Tim, and that's Gord..."

*light bulb*

As my mistake became all to clear to me, I dissolved into hysterical laughter.

"OF COURSE! OF COURSE!" I cried.  "AUNT LAURA ISN'T CRAZY! HOW COULD I HAVE BEEN SO NAIVE??"

I had never met my mother's cousin Gord.  Or if I did, I had no recollection.

Nanny was alarmed at my outburst, and through the tears streaming down my face, I explained that for years, I had thought that my insane Aunt Laura had been talking to her dead husband and that no one in the family had the heart to set the poor woman straight.

She had been talking about her son the whole time.

Years later, I told Aunt Laura of my ill-conceived notions about her mental health, and to my relief, she was more than a little amused.

I do dumb things.

While at work today, I answered a phone call and hit myself in the face with the receiver.  The caller on the other end heard me say 'ow' as I attempted, and failed spectacularly, to maintain some air of professionalism.

On my third or fourth day of seventh grade, I was leaning forward in my chair, when it slipped out from under me.  I grabbed the desk for support.

You all know how sturdy school desks are, right?  Not very. Needless to say, I made a great first impression as 'the new kid'.

Sadly, I hadn't learned my lesson from when I was six and I nearly concussed myself after leaning too far back in my chair, becoming well acquainted with a wooden work bench.  This was back when first graders were allowed to use saws and hammers during playtime. Oh, the 80s.

At the age of 14 I smoked.  I laboured under the assumption that my parents didn't know.  They probably did.  One balmy summer's eve, I stood out on my back porch enjoying a cigarette when I spotted my dad coming down the hill to our house on the way home from the Legion.  Like the ninja I am, I tossed the butt and raced straight into the house.

And by 'house' I mean 'the screen door.'

Once at the Y, because I am a living cartoon and I have no sense of time+distance, I nearly set my shirt on fire before catapaulting myself across a room, all because I thought that 6 kilometers an hour on a treadmill seemed a reasonable speed for a beginner.

I fell under a bus once.

Just the other week, I provided my children with an excellent cautionary tale called "Why it's a bad idea to jimmy a glued-shut jar of Mod-Podge open with a paring knife," starring Mom's Mangled Index Finger.

Lastly, a headboard is no place for an antique clock.  That's all I'll say on that topic.

Survivors Guilt, or Something Like It

I've been reading through the colon cancer tag on Tumblr, after being followed by another young woman who is also dealing with with this disease, and I really can't believe how easy I've gotten off with the whole colon cancer thing.  Aside from the diagnosis itself, which obviously is not awesome, I've really been getting a lot of best case scenarios along the way, and a lot of it has been pretty flukey, starting catching it early enough (stage 1) that chemo and radiation were not necessary, by virtue of what was a routine scope.  

The worst of my colitis was concentrated in the ascending colon (where the tumour was located) which meant that my rectum could be left in place even while removing the rest of the colon, making it possible to do a resection that let me avoid things like iliostomies (pooh-bags), when originally I was looking at pooh-bag for life. I had very little post-surgical problems aside from a minor ish infection in my join.  I didn't pop any staples or sutures, haven't had any subsequent surgeries.  I had a six-week follow up appointment with my surgeon and he's pleased with my progress.  I can return to a normal diet, and should be able to return to most normal activities in another month or so.  I'm going back to work half-days next week.  Did I mention, work has been fantastic and crazy-supportive about this? I know not many people get that luxury when facing major illness.

Even my bathroom trips have been best case scenario.  Where I was told I'd probably have to crap 3-4 times a day, it's been mostly once a day, like clockwork almost.  

The weird thing about all the best-case scenario business is that I almost feel like I have no right to complain.  Long ago I started dealing with shitty things by thinking of all the ways situations could be worse.  Problem with that is that I start feeling like I should ALWAYS be looking on the bright side and unless I am dealing with the absolute worst-case then I'm just being a whiner because somebody always has it worse than me.  It's the kind of thing that results in me telling doctors in the ER "Oh, I'm okay..." before the Well-Travelled One nudges me and whispers "uh.. No, you're NOT. That's why we're here."  It's the kind of thing that makes me apologize to people for getting upset, because I am scared because I had FUCKING COLON CANCER AND HAD MY ENTIRE COLON REMOVED, but it's okay I'm fine.  It's also the kind of thing that leads me to sometimes overdo it because I don't always ask for help when I should.

That's messed up, right? I forget that I have every right to get freaked out from time to time, which I still do, not gonna lie.  I downplay how tired I get sometimes, because my muscles are shot, post surgery that my body is not used to holding itself up.  I feel weird blogging about all this because I kind of feel like, okay, surgery is done, no more cancer, you can stop talking about it now.  

Meh, I guess it could always be worse.

I'm Old.

I had a bowl of Lucky Charms last night and it was kind of gross. There actually seemed to be TOO MANY marshmallows. Is that depressing or WHAT?

NORM!!

Goodbye Norman, you useless waste of flesh.

I'll always have the scar to remember you by.