High School and the Fine Art of Giving No Fucks

It's amazing, you know?

It blows my mind sometimes, the way minor, yet arguably shitty, incidents and experiences can take you to a place you thought you'd left behind. Habits formed from self-preservation remain in play long after the threat has dissipated.

A 34-year-old mother of two, with a job and a mortgage and responsibilities can be reduced to an anxious, self-conscious adolescent in a matter of seconds, just from the sound of a giggling teenaged girl.

The high-schoolers have infiltrated the YMCA.  My mornings spent getting ready for work after my morning swim used to mean running into a few elderly women and occasionally one of my co-workers.  That was pretty much it.

But now there are high-schoolers. 

I hear their voices and laughter bouncing off the ceramic tile, muffled by the sound of the not-quite-hot-enough showers and my shoulders hunch up and my eyes, like magnets, are drawn to the ground.  I adjust my towel, just a little more tightly, as this body of mine, the one that not 20 minutes earlier had been gliding gracefully through the water now feels preposterous - all sagging, scarred, bumpy-fat flesh.  Taking up space.  Too much space.

"For the love of Gord.  You're 34 years old.  Woman the hell up already," I tell myself and sigh.  So many years gone by and I'm still affected.

I like to say that high school was a breeze, a lot of fun. 

(aside from grade nine.  aside from gym class.  aside from the girls who threatened me with violence because they thought I was "looking" at them.  in the change room.  I stopped looking up, ever.)

I tell people that high school was the time I ran out of fucks to give.  I learned to relax.  A little.  It was the time I tell people (and I tell myself)  that I learned to not care what people thought of me.

(I cared.  I just didn't let on.  It was safer if people thought they couldn't get to you.)

I practiced not giving a shit.  More accurately, I became practiced in the fine art of appearing to be all out of fucks to give. 

I learned to sneer at people, especially girls, I felt thought they were better than me.  Prettier, richer, more desirable.  The ones who had their shit together.  Brick by brick, I built walls of 'giving no fucks' to encase myself in and I told myself that they were nothing, of no consequence.

The most relatable character in this film, from my perspective. - SOURCE

My mother told me, "Hold your head high."

I held my head high.

But even now, hearing these voices echoing off tile, voices that exude the confidence of knowing the world is at your feet, sets my face to utter stoicism.  Instinctively, I still brace myself for mockery, setting my expression to one of utter neutrality, as I gauge the risk of making eye contact, or drawing attention to myself.

(go ahead.  Laugh at this fat, spotty, scarred body.  see if I care)

But of course, no one says anything.  Because this isn't high school, dammit.  I'm a 34 year old woman in the YMCA changeroom and I am about as incidental to these kids as any stranger on the street.

Packing, purging, moving and other things less pleasant than a golf shoe to the face.

So, I may have recently mentioned that I bought a house.  Did I mention that? I might have mentioned that.  I only keep mentioning it in an effort to actually convince myself it's true.

The downside to buying a house (aside from mortgage payments, house insurance, lawyers fees and having to do your own repairs without being able to legally call your landlord/dad to do the them... I mean, if I ask I'm sure he'd help, but after this move he's no longer legally obligated to it) is, unless you're planning to rent (which comes with it's own set of issues I won't pretend to understand or care about) then the purchase of a home usually entails MOVING.  Which, although I'm only moving 15 minutes away and not across the country, is generally a giant pain in the ass.

Ever see those movies/tv shows where someone moves out of a place and they move out with ONE BOX?

I laugh when I see that bullshit.  Laugh in a bitter, ironic sort of way.  I have never had a move that has required less than a full truckload and several car loads.   What kind of bizarre ascetic existence do these people live that all their shit fits into ONE BOX?

When my late former mother-in-law passed, she was without a will.  My ex and I, who was the last child at home, were pretty much tasked with dealing with whatever was left after his myriad brothers and sisters had gathered their belongings from the matriarchal home.   Which was a lot.  Most went to storage and when we were finally ready to move into our first apartment, we were pretty much fully furnished.  Over subsequent moves we would try to purge some of our stuff... We had so much stuff.   When we were expecting our oldest we moved to a single room in Barrie, so we had to get rid of a LOT.  When things didn't work out there and we came back to my parents place, tails between respective legs, there was even less.

In my adult life, moving has always been mostly disastrous.  Moves with the ex-hub were disorganized at best, with frantic calls to friends-with-trucks the night before we were due to leave.  After we split, moving became a hassle for different reasons.  I seemed to always end up in hospital when I was supposed to move.  After ex-hub and I split, I had to move out of the apartment we were in, since although I was carrying it on my own, I was also pregnant and knew I wouldn't be able to afford it once I went on maternity leave.   So when my sister and I moved in together, the moving date ended up falling on the same date I was in the hospital giving birth.  Less than two years later, the stress of the house fire and having to suddenly move again caused a flare-up in my colitis that landed me in hospital again.  Which meant my family was tasked with moving me, again.

The last move, into the dollhouse here, was the most successful, if you gauge success as not being hospitalized and having both parents still talking to you at the end of the move to be the definition of success.

Before the move comes the purging.  I have a hard time throwing things away.  I think I'm closer to a pack-rat than a hoarder, although there was a time that my insistence on keeping a box full of broken cuckoo clocks for possible craft use may have said something different.   My aversion to throwing things away is borne of a) sentimentality, b) guilt, c) stinginess and d) a distinct distaste for landfills.

A) sentimentality. It's over rated.  This move, I finally threw out most of my wedding shit.  FINALLY.  I kept some for years thinking that the girls might like to have it... But really, what kid wants souvenirs of their parents wedding that eventually crashed and burned before they were even old enough to remember?  There are still pictures and stories.  That will have to be good enough for them.

B) Guilt.  Holy shit do I have a love-hate with school work.  I hate that the schools send home every last piece of it and that I feel like the worlds worst mother if I throw out any of it.  I love keeping the artwork and creative writing... But everything else? I KNOW my kids can spell.  I KNOW they can do basic math.  I don't need every last scrap of evidence to that effect.  But I go to throw that stuff out and I feel like I might as well give up my mom card.   I even tried to throw out my OWN school work that my mother kept and passed down to me and I couldn't do it.  I felt like I was slapping 6-year-old Andrea In. The. Face.

C) I'm cheap.  I don't buy things just to toss them or give them away later.

D) I hate the idea of throwing things into landfills. I once held on to four broken DVD players and three broken VCRS for well over two years because..Gah, LANDFILLS. Organizations like FreeCycle have helped, as has discovering the electronics disposal and scrap metal donation bins. Our local one have been seeing a lot of action.

Well, I'm off to packs a few more boxes. Time to pack the bookshelf. Last move I had over seven boxes of books. It'll be interesting to see how many I have now. It will also be fun to see the book shelves work them back into their original, non-bowed shape.

With Respect to Messers Barker, Hoppus and Delonge, I Guess this really is growing up.

Anyone born after 1995 is probably not going to get that title, but oh well. Such is Life.

So, I bought a house. *applause*

Yup. Bought a house, and I take possession at the end of next month. I'm just now getting excited about it, mostly because I'm lost in a haze of "Holy mother of Gord, what the hell have I gotten myself into?" and "Sweet merciful Jebus, what all do I have to do?"

I don't do large purchases well, and this is the largest purchase I've ever made. The day my Real Estate agent texted me to let me know the offer had been accepted, I called my mom and cried, because truth be told, I was scared shitless.

(okay, I still am. Writing about this, even, I could pee a little. That might be the coffee, though.)

So, now I have a month of cleaning, organizing, purging and packing ahead of me. But in the end? My own property, my own home, my own BATHTUB (omg, three years with only a shower, you cannot begin to imagine...) my kids each with their own space, not piled one on top of the other. Amazing. It's been a long time coming and yeah, I have to give myself some credit for doing all this on a single income.

Go me!

Today is the Warrior Dash and I am at home doing laundry and organizing the shed (and blogging, apparently) because the illness I was fighting earlier this week ended up being a rather nasty chest infection that still has not entirely gone away. Huge disappointment, you bet. But considering I can't run across my living room without getting winded right now, a giant obstacle race was probably not in my best interest.

I'm still guest blogging over at Feministe this week. There's a pretty good debate going on regarding scent free workplaces right now, and an earlier post about delaying sexual activity in kids got picked up by The Lady Garden, so although it was not without criticism, that's still pretty cool in my books.

oh, and I got tweeted by the Good Lovelies when I wrote to them to ask permission to reprint their lyrics for this post.

UPDATED: And somehow, when I wasn't looking, I became a grown-up?

I'm a little nervous, I have to admit.  This being a grown-up stuff is nerve-wracking.

Last week I called my brother-in-laws 'mortgage guy' because the time is drawing near where I may not have this little dollhouse any longer.  It was something I've known was coming for some time, a couple of years even, but even so has managed to sneak up on me.

For the last few years I have been paying down chunks of debt and socking away money in hopes to better my financial situation.  I was feeling pretty confident.  I had paid down my line of credit, my credit cards and had, through coincidence or divine intervention, managed to divest myself of a $300+ a month car payment and have my insurance payments lowered in the process.  All I had left in the way of debt was my student loan payments.

I don't have a full down payment saved but nonetheless I was reasonably sure that I had a good shot at something modest, in the 150K range.

So I called the mortgage guy and after going through my stuff he informed me that although I'm currently on interest relief for my student loans, he'd have to report what I'd be expected to pay once that relief runs out.  Which is in the ballpark of what I'd be paying monthly for a mortgage.  Hence the continuing applications for interest relief.

What did this mean for me?  Basically that if he could even get me approved, it wouldn't be for anything substantial and I'd probably not be able to afford anything that didn't include the word 'Mobile' in the description.

Needless to say, I was pretty devastated.  There was a possibility that I could have my loan payments changed so that they were less but that would involve going off interest relief and having thus having to pay every month.  So theoretically I'd be more able to afford a house, but realistically I'd be less able to afford it, because my imaginary $600 + payments would change into very real $250 payments that I would have to make, instead of paying what I can, when I can as I am doing now.  The other downside of this would be that I would probably be paying my loan for the rest of my natural life.

The other option was getting a co-signer, which is not only hard to come by, but at least if the mortgage is in my name only then I'm the only one that gets fucked if I default.

That day I cried a lot at work and in the evening Guy For Whom I Have Not Come Up With A Blog Alias™ helped cheer me up by engaging me in some black humour as we scoured MLS for houses 'in my price range' across Canada.  Or more specifically, in the $25,000 and under price range.

It's amusing reading the descriptions and lack thereof of some of the more run-down properties that people are trying to unload.  At this point, you know the agents have just given up trying and in some cases, such as this beauty in Thunder Bay (which could be yours for just under $10K), you get the idea that the agents aren't so much trying to entice potential buyers as warn them.  Descriptions ranged from your typical "Handyman's Special! Needs TLC!" to "Value is in the land, not the building!" and my personal favorite This-Realtor-Has-Just-Given-Up line -- "It Is What It Is!"

We also discussed the possibility of moving this gorgeous little church from Alberta to Ontario.. I could potentially buy it outright with my down payment money.   I'd just need to transport it and find some land to plop it down on.  Sounds easy enough, right?

Anyone got a truck, a couple of police convoys and a shit-load of bungee cords?

With a clearer head I decided I would speak directly to my bank, having been a loyal customer for the last 15+ years, while never asking for so much as an overdraft.  I came out of the meeting feeling more optimistic, mainly because being a bank and not a broker, they CAN take my interest relief into consideration, so my application will be based on what I am paying now, not what I may theoretically be paying in six months.  This is a good thing, potentially.  It will be a few days before I hear back from the bank though.

So now, now I play the waiting game.

"Waiting game sucks.  Let's play Hungry Hungry Hippos." - Source

UPDATE:  A) I got the pre-approval! Whoo-Hoo!  I can start house-hunting!
B) The link to the Thunder Bay house is dead.  This could possibly mean that it *gasp* actually sold, in which case, I want a cut.  But I think it's more likely that the place got washed away in the midst of all the flooding.  Thoughts are going out to anyone, including my former in-laws, that are in the area.  Hope you all are safe.

Well, I guess it's that time again, isn't it?

2011, amirite??

I really don't have whole lot to say about the past year, to be honest. I spent most of it just kind of laying low and enjoying life. There were a few high points, such as my trip to the Dominican with two girlfriends back in January and my trip to quebec with my girls in September. I got to go to a few concerts, including Finger Eleven, A Primitive Evolution and a few more from The Schomberg Fair - two in one week from those guys.

Although, I did date a bit, and had fun while I was at it, I spent 2011 pretty much single. I've spent a lot of time sorting out my issues in the aftermath of most-recent-ex, whom I had made one final attempt at friendship with before deciding it was best for everyone involved if we just cut off all contact. Not easy, but I'm working on it.

My car got written off but it was a situation that ended up working out well for me as it allowed me to get out of my car loan.

Compared to last year, spent most of this year on the periphery of other people's excitement - some good, some bad. For myself, in retrospect, the year was kind of mundane and uneventful.

Maybe that's a good thing.

2012 looks like it could potentially be quite the roller coaster. That is, if we aren't all blinked out of existence by mid-December. However, I'm sure that much like Harold Camping's prophecies of doom this Mayan calendar issue will likely turn out to be just a lot of hooey.

Please feel free to make fun of me for using the word 'hooey'.

As I was saying, the coming year already holds a lot of promise for excitement and/or crippling anxiety... Wheee!

This year's to-do list includes:

• Buy a house. Yup, that's a big 'un
• learn my ukulele
• compete in the Warrior Dash
• find a way to make some money with all this writing
• keep working on staying in shape
• My kickboxing instructor has thrown around the idea of holding some demos, in which case I want in on that. Yeah, I've been doing this for over a year now, and still love it

So I guess that's my year end wrap-up. Time to start getting myself dolled up for this evening's festivities. Cheers, y'all.

I'm Pretty Sure June Cleaver Never Dealt with This Kind of Self-Doubt.

It starts with a phone call or a paper invitation sent home in a school backpack.  The birthday party.  Some small child in your own progeny's class has decided that your kid needs to be at their birthday party.

And it's good.  Who doesn't love knowing their kid isn't a social pariah?

I sometimes wonder if maybe I'm a bad parent because I don't immediately wonder if the parents of these children are derelicts or Satan-worshippers or sociopaths.  You want to take my kid for 3-4 hours and feed them sweets and pizza?  Is it bad that I'm totally okay with that?

Whether one is prone to excessive paranoia or not, etiquette and basic safety rules dictate that you meet the adults to whom you will be entrusting the life of your little one.

There is little in the world to make a parent feel more inadequate than the prospect of meeting another child's parents.

I'm lucky in that I have a few close friends who are in similar situations as myself and have kids in my girls' age cohort.  But meeting parents outside of my social circle.. it's harrowing.  You may have been there, yourself.

It starts with a phone call.  An invitation.  A time and an address.

Dropping your child off at the address provided and realizing it's in a rather posh area of town.  These parents, they aren't renting an apartment in that sprawling century home.  They live in, and may even own the whole thing.

As you're invited to come in, suddenly you become hyper aware of your own tiny dwelling, and even though you're not there, you feel a little ashamed of the dust in the corners and the old futon on the front porch and the dirt and gravel driveway, as though each dust bunny, each unmade bed, each fingerprint is written on your face.  Walking into an immaculate kitchen, you think of the unwashed dishes in your own sink.

Was her coat that dirty when we left? you wonder as you try to casually run your fingers through your child's hair, using a seemingly-affectionate gesture to hide the fact that you're really just trying to get it to look neat as suddenly it seems impossibly messy.  And in need of a trim. You find yourself wishing you had some scissors.

You see the fridge with the professional portraits of each child taped neatly to the door and think of your own fridge, with pictures of your kids from five years ago and a number of magnets with off-color jokes and advertisements for fast-food restaurants.

You make idle chit chat with this parent who is the same age as you, looks five years younger, but seems so much older, so much more put together, so much more... grown-up and you take off your hat and realize.. holy shit, I'm standing here talking to this totally-put-together parent who is making fruit smoothies for her kids SNACK  - meanwhile your kids had a handful of goldfish crackers in the car -  and I have pink hair.  Pink fucking hair.  What am I, 15?


Feeling ridiculously uncomfortable, you just thank Gord that your Shut Your Whore Mouth or equally inappropriate T-Shirt was in the laundry today.  Standing there in your coat, you wonder when you should excuse yourself.. too short, and you might appear rude.. overstay and you might appear.. well... still rude, not to mention over-protective.  This is part is especially fun for the socially inept like myself.


You find yourself comforted when you realize that Ms. Other Mom is talking a mile a minute and it dawns on you that perhaps, just maybe, they are just as intimidated meeting you.  After all, you're entrusting your child's well-being to them.

Maybe one day I'll get over the nerve-wracking experience of meeting other parents.   More likely is that I'll be that parent who has a near-coronary when one of the girls wants to introduce me to the parents of their significant other.  Such is life.

I'm one step closer to world domination...

MUAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

I've just been given the Overlord Award from Bruce and Tucker the Puppymaster at Just Another Day in Paradise.

Three things that are gonna change now that I'm calling the shots:

First order of business:
People who blare their car stereos in parking lots at ungodly levels are to be placed in an echo chamber with their car stereos at full-volume, extra bass until their hearts explode in their chests.  (Yes, this is a BIG peeve of mine).

Second order of business:
It is now completely acceptable, legal and okay to, with complete impunity, slam those people who stand directly in front of building doors with said door, especially if said door has a large 'No Loitering within 15 meters' sign right in front of it for the purposes of preventing people from standing in front of said door in the first bloody place.

Final order of business:
There will be a 10 year moratorium on any film remake, reboot, or reimagining.  Also included in the moratorium  are prequels and extraneous sequels (unless based on a series of books, this limits filmmakers to one sequel per film) NO SEQUELS SHALL BE MADE TO FILMS OVER 20 YEARS OLD. 
Addendum: There will be no more live action movies based on beloved children's cartoons.  No more.  Just stop.  Really.  No. Really.  Knock it off.

That's right bear.  Back into the woods and the second dimension where you belong.  Source

Sadly my rule is a short-lived one, but I now get to pass my Overlord crown along to three lucky successors

Lori at Little Scotia/Vintage Witch, because she would be a benevolent overlord who would leave encouraging notes even when her minions do stupid effed-up shit like leave behind plastic containers from the recycling even though they are CLEARLY marked 1, because hey, she knows we're all trying our best here.

Lance at My Blog Can Beat Up Your Blog, because as overlord I am sure he would have some of most heinous 'popular' musicians of our times drawn and quartered in the town square for all us elitist music snobs to watch and cheer.  And I'm totally down with that.

D'Artagnan at Support Your Own Agenda because his blog title indicates that maybe he's already got plans for world domination, and I admittedly have a bit of  a blog-crush on him.

In spite of my best efforts.

Yesterday as the girls and I were making dinner, Reegs told me she didn't ever want to get married.  This is not the first time she's made this declaration.  She once told me that when she grows up she's not going to get married, not going to have kids, not going to have a car, and is going to be a hairdresser.

I can totally envision this, by the way.

An artist's rendering of my youngest daughter in about 10 years. Source

I decided to ask her why she didn't want to ever get married.  Keep in mind, I also don't want her to grow up feeling like she is under any obligation to marry, either.  However, I was curious so I asked.

"I don't want to get married because I don't ever want to have a divorce."

Cue massive parental guilt.

What do you say? Between the ex, the new wife and myself, we've tried to do what we can to make sure the kids aren't negatively affected by our situation.  It's taken a lot of compromise and a lot of putting our (okay, MY) own  hurt feelings aside in order to give the kids as stable an upbringing as that.

Still, it broke my heart to hear her say that and I couldn't help but wonder how much of it was some deep-rooted fear of emotional pain that was subconciously implanted (even within the womb) into her psyche, or if maybe I'm taking too much guilt on myself and that this is a more global fear that she's picked up from television, books and movies.

So what could I do.  I did some fast-on-my-feet parental thinking and told her that not everyone gets divorced and even if it happens, although it genuinely does suck, it's not the end of the world and people move on and get through it.   Had I been quicker I could have pointed out her Grammy and Grandpa who have been happily married for nearly 35 years now.

Still my heart broke a little.  I hope neither of my babies ever have to go through it.  I guess they are lucky enough that they were both too little to remember the really rough post-split aftermath, as Tierney was just a toddler and Reagan was a newborn baby.

*sigh*  I guess we all just do what we can, right?  Right.

Fire, Fire, Fire. Fire in my Brain.

I woke up this morning with no alarm.  Thankfully I startled myself awake about ten minutes before I usually get up.  I showered and when I returned to my room, I was confronted with the unmistakable odor of a feline that had decided to declare something as 'His'.

My winter coat that, in a moment of sheer and utter laziness, I had dropped on the floor just behind my bedroom door upon entering the house the previous evening.  Lovely.  That will teach me to be more fastidious.

The fire alarm went off while at work today.  I promptly evacuated, and to clarify I mean that I left the building, not that I shat my pants.  Thanks, Vicky, for making sure I am more careful about that particular word in the future.

As I left I glanced at my wallet on my desk but decided to leave it.  I did grab my coat, as why escape a potentially burning building, only to die of exposure to the cold.  This is Canada, after all.  Always thinking.

As I stood in the parking lot with three out of my roughly 15 to 20 co-workers, along with a handful of Tim Horton's employees, I wondered what all of our elementary school teachers would think of this gross lack of respect for the fire bell.  In the time it took our staff to wander their way out, half of us could have been dead.

Source

I entertained the fantasy that if the building was indeed about to burn to the ground with my wallet and all identification within, I could jump in my car and assume a new identity in a new place.  I could be a dancer, or a surly truckstop waitress, or join a carnival.  I could buy a farm and grow tomatoes and sell pie at the side of the road.  I'd send for the children and they could join me.  We'd live in relative obscurity, off the grid.  Maybe open a small restaurant.  The cats would be left the little dollhouse, free to leave their smellieness where-ever they please.

Like Edward Norton's character in the 25th hour, just drive.  "Nothing at all for miles around"  Like Monty Brogan in that fantastic ending, that ending that you are never quite sure is the actual ending or just a work of Monty's imagination.  Like that, but without all the drug charges and such.

There was no fire.  I returned to my desk.  My wallet was there, my identity safely tucked inside each of the little slits meant to hold licenses, credit cards, rewards cards.  Life goes on as usual.

Sometimes, my mind wanders.

Hit like a Mac Truck.

My kid has a Christmas concert tomorrow morning. Holy christ, I AM a parent. Wow. Doing all that parent-y stuff like going school concerts and stuff.