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.

So did go all that is good and pure in the world.

My heart is broken.

I caught wind through fellow blogger, Lance, that during last night's taping of The Daily Show, long-time host Jon Stewart let slip that he would be stepping down from his hosting duties.

I may have cried a little.  I am not ashamed.

When I saw the posted headline, I silently begged "Please be the Onion.  Please be the Onion," but the AV Club's post had already been edited to include an official announcement from Comedy Central.

SOURCE

This is disheartening news.  It may sound weird, since it's not entirely kid-friendly fare, but watching the Daily Show has become family time around here.

Yes, my kids rock current events at school.

And even though Jon Stewart may have outed the Easter Bunny, he's also opened up dialogues with my kids about war, prejudice, injustice, politics, racism, sexism (but surprisingly, not make-believe holiday creatures).  I recall Reagan laughing at a joke Stewart made a few months back that pointed out the irony in gun-rights advocates invoking Martin Luther King Jr. as an ally.

Granted, she may have just been laughing at the faces he was making, but a little part of me thought she may have gotten the joke. The kid is pretty smart.

Humour makes ideas and current events accessible.  And I think that has been part of the appeal of the Daily Show.

I have a few hopes here.  My first hope involves a long-time desire to see Jon Stewart enter politics, as I am sure many others have also hoped.  Then if he ran for president, Rick Mercer could come out and renounce that time he shilled for the government with those "One-Ton Challenge" commercials and returning to biting political commentary with a northern touch, and make a run for PM and in the end we'd have an entertaining-as-hell Canada-US alliance.

That's just an idea I've been throwing around since pretty much forever.

Second, since Comedy Central's official statement seemed to imply that Stewart's departure would not spell the end of the Daily Show, I really, sincerely hope that they make Jessica Williams the new host.  Not only is she my favourite correspondent out of the current cast, she's pretty badass, but as a WOC she'd be a refreshing change of pace from the current white-dude tsunami that is the late night talk-show circuit (Although I haven't forgotten you, Larry).

SOURCE

I guess we have a few more months to find out what's in store.

The difference a year makes...

2013 ended on a shitty note.

My two favourite holidays were both a pretty huge bust.

On Halloween I was sick as a dog.  Regular sick, on top of being scary-Cancer-sick. My National Lampoons Christmas Vacation's cousin Eddie costume was kind of crap.  No Zombie Walk.  Didn't decorate.  Cancelled my Halloween party because I couldn't deal with the stress of hosting while dealing with impeding surgery.  I missed out on trick-or-treating with the kids and had to get up at 3 am so I could drive to Toronto and have a rather important organ removed.

So, that sucked.

Christmas I was still in recovery mode, although I was back to work part-time. My tree had but two piddling LED lights.  On Christmas Day my car battery died, which didn't matter much since my ENTIRE FAMILY got sick with a stomach bug and I couldn't be around them for fear of catching it and potentially blowing out my newly re-attached colon.  We ended up having pizza since there was nothing in the house to eat.  I cried a lot that day.  I don't think we did our family Christmas until almost, if not after, New Years.

This Halloween I decorated the shit out of my house. There was blood and skulls and fake corpses galore. I positively revelled in decorating and gathering materials for my Radar O Reilly costume as I recalled my bitterness the year before.

Today is December 17th. I just finished putting up my tree, with the help of the girls and my friend's children.  It's got a full contingent of lights, and even a few gifts under there.  My shopping is about 75% done, and I've yet to panic about the money, unlike years past.

Last year, I gathered all my energy to attend my staff Christmas party for at least an hour. This year, I was able to dance well into the night.  

I feel relaxed, yet incredibly appreciative, of everything I have right now. 

We've come a long way.

In other news, I've started a new blog for my artwork at actuallyacollection.blogspot.ca

Please feel free to check it out and give it a follow.

Parenting is hard work.

Parenting is hard work.

It does not get easier, it just gets different.  As the years pass, the physical becomes the emotional.

Raising infants is profoundly physical.  The carrying, the lifting, the walking, wearing grooves in the floor countless nights pacing back and forth, bouncing and rocking.  Always moving.  Pushing strollers, carrying car seats and playpens and diaper bags.

Dropping into bed at night with aching muscles.  Sleeping, but only half-sleeping.  Laying rigid so as not to not roll onto the baby during the night.  Waking up sore from the effort.

Raising toddlers holds many of the same physical challenges, but here the mental agility becomes more of a necessity.  Chasing little bodies with seemingly boundless energy, until that energy runs out.  Then carrying dead weight as they crash and sleep hard as only children can.  Upstairs, out of cars, desperate not to wake them too soon.

Parenting toddlers means being able to read every facial expression and grimace in anticipation of bathroom runs. It means mental calculus - How much sleep during the day will keep a toddler up half the night? How much liquid before bed will mean laundry in the morning?

Raising toddlers means anticipating every move. Being constantly ready to leap across a room to remove errant objects from hands and mouths, or to scoop up sturdy little bodies when they come too close to stairs or roads or fireplaces.

Raising toddlers means having the mental agility to foresee hazards before they present themselves and the physical agility to remove the hazards unforeseen.

Raising school-age children gives the body a break. Finally.  School-age children sleep through the night.

The mind gets a break.  Kind of.  Maybe.

...

That's a lie.  Raising school-age children means remembering schedules, helping with homework.  Be here at this time.  Calculating costs.

School means time to honing your analytical skills.  Analyzing the nuance behind the word 'fine', or the word 'nothing' in response to 'How was your day?' or 'What are you doing up there?'

Analyzing teachers, friends, other parents.  Questioning your own influence on your child, be it from a quantitative ("How much influence do I even have, when TV and film and popular music exists?") or  qualitative ("Is this the example I want to set?") standpoint.

Adolescence ups critical thinking and analytical skills even further.  It's a gold-medal worthy performance of mental gymnastics, walking the thin line between offering a guiding hand and dragging headlong into your own idea of what they should be shaping up to be.  The realization that their hopes, their dreams, their values may differ wildly from your own.

Being okay with being imperfect.  That's a big one.

Shoring up your foundations for those days when you are the worst human being alive, when you know nothing.  The days when you are the only thing standing between this human being whom you have loved with the very depths of your soul, whom you may have even made from your very flesh - the days when you are the only thing standing between this being and their happiness, and for this you are cursed, you are spat upon.

Gathering strength for the days when you question every decision, every indulgence, every harsh word, every "Yes," every "No" you've made as a parent.

Parenting is the exhaustion of constantly feeling like your heart will burst at any moment with immense love, and break with the knowledge that for all your desire to protect them and save them, that one day you'll let them go and have to hope that you've taught them what they need to survive.

This is Triskadecaphobia.

To My Daughter On Her Thirteenth Birthday,

Bear with your mother for a moment.  As you probably already know, being my child and all, I have a difficult time walking a fine line between sentimentality and snark.  Allow me this moment to get a little misty, to wax philosophical and to pass on some advice as you enter your teen years.

1) You are loved.  I figured I'd get that one out of the way first.  It probably goes without saying, but I don't like to go without saying it.  You are loved.  When you are feeling lost and alone, there is always someone there you can talk to.   I'd like it to be me, but I know there will be things that you may not want to share with your mom.  But I do know that for all the things that you feel like you can't come to me with (which I hope is a very small list) there are any number of people who would be willing to listen.

2) You are beautiful.  But you are also smart, funny, and kind. While beauty may definitely helps you in many areas of this looks-obsessed society we live in, it will be your humour, your kindness and your willingness to learn that will, in the long run, be the things that dictate the direction your life will take and how you are remembered.

3) You are worthy of respect.  Those who would deem you unworthy are not entitled to your time or energy.  That being said, treat others with respect as well.  Every new person you meet has their own stories, strengths, weaknesses, and potential to be a friend or ally.

4) Recognize your own strengths and weaknesses.  Work hard to develop your strengths. Be patient with yourself in areas of weakness.

5) "An it harm none, do what thou will."  Basically, be who you are as long as you are not hurting people in the process.

6) You do not owe your time to people who treat you badly.  YOU DO NOT OWE YOUR TIME TO PEOPLE WHO TREAT YOU BADLY.  It is okay to cut off communication with people who do not respect you or your boundaries.

7) Do not apologize for your passions.  Even if someone tells you that your interests and hobbies are weird or boring, do not apologize.  Even when you've graduated and gone off and left your family and friends, you'll still have Bandersnatch Cummerbund.

8) Be nice to your sister.

9) Try not to view other women as competition.  Don't judge other women's style, bodies, or sexual choices.  We face enough judgement for these things from society at large, without being shitty to each other.  There is no right or wrong way to be a woman.

10) For the love of Gord, turn your light off when you leave your bedroom.  I'm not made of money.

11) Take risks.  Not stupid risks, like getting into a car with some drunk asshole driver or doing drugs or stuff like that, but don't be afraid to try new things or to put yourself out there.  Like someone? Let them know.  If an opportunity presents itself to try something new and exciting, don't let the possibility that things might not work out *exactly* as planned dissuade you.

12)  Don't let people tell you that you are not good enough to accomplish the things you want. However, remember that when someone points out potential flaws in your plans, it is not to discourage you, but to make sure you can see and plan for challenges and obstacles in your path.

13)  Don't be in a hurry to grow up.  Enjoy your childhood and adolescence.  Being a grown-up can suck.  For instance, grown-ups have to watch their kids grow up and deal with all the crappy stuff that can sometimes come with being an adult.  We're also not allowed in the McDonalds Playland.

14) Speaking of which, I will never not worry about you.  So you can just forget about that right now, missy.  I will, however, do my best to trust that you will make good choices in life.

15) You are loved.  Happy birthday, my sweet girl.

Step lightly, love.

Anxiety and other monsters under my bed

It's been a while.  

I've fallen into that blogging trap of going weeks without posting and as a result, all my posts begin with the requisite apologies for not posting in forever.

And so it goes.

I've been struggling.

This winter has been a tough one and I have found myself in an almost constant state of anxiety dating back to the cancer and the floods, a state of waiting for the other shoe to drop, a sense of looming disaster at every turn.  

When I was younger, I was very anxious.  I worried about change, about risk and what if? It's one of the things I am sure helped contribute to the destruction of my marriage.  Incidentally, that destruction helped quell those thoughts for a long time.  After the initial separation, I felt as though if I could get through that, anything else was a piece of cake.

I learned to roll with the punches.  That things were never as bad as they seemed, they could always be worse.  I'm trying to get that back, because anxiety is a huge asshole that robs you of your ability to enjoy your peace as you are always looking around the corner for the next sign of impending doom.  It leaves you with pain from walking with your shoulders at your ears.  Everything is a fight and everyday decisions become fraught.  Everything that goes wrong becomes a sighing, eye-rolling case of "What the hell else?"

Anxiety has been eating at me, these long winter months, and it's affected my relationship, my children, my work.  I've been neglecting friends and hobbies (hi, blog) because being on guard, it's so fucking exhausting that at the end of the day it's easier to zone out and watch episodes of M.A.S.H or surf the Internet than actually try and socialize, which ends up being another source of worry... Either worry about co-ordinating efforts or worry about if you're a horrible person if you just bow out, one more time.

I'm fighting, though.  Bit by bit, I'm trying to relax.  Breathing.  

Out with the jive, in with the love.

Slowly, but surely, I feel like I may be able to pull myself out of this darkness and enjoy the light once again.  It's going to take some self-care and taking some time to fix the things I can, but each day I'm feeling a little more hopeful.

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.

20 Odd Years

Today I said good-bye to the house that has been my family's home for the last 20-odd years.  Hearing that the place had sold was excellent news, it had become a crushing financial burden and my parents were itching to get moved into their little retirement home (formerly known as 'The Dollhouse' when I resided there).

Odd, the number of memories a house can store up in the course of two decades.  I've left and returned a number of times... strange to think that I will likely never see the inside of it again.

I didn't want to move here.  Not at first.  My parents had first made noises about leaving Aurora when I was in the fifth grade and I was devastated.  Less than a year later, when they made their purchase, I had changed my tune.  I was all "Fuck yeah, let's blow this yuppie hellhole."

That spring, at eleven years old, my parents drove me out to a vacant lot in the middle of a newish subdivision in a town of not much more than 1000 people and said this would be our new home (the house that was to be built.. not the vacant lot).

20 years is a lot of memories.  After work I drove out to the house, let myself in and walked the empty rooms, thinking of the times I'd had there.

Age 12: My sister gives me a hard time about the posters on my wall.  I'd harboured a huge crush on the kid from Terminator 2, but I'm starting to get over it.  I begrudgingly let her tear down the biggest of the Eddie Furlong posters.

Age 14: My parents are out and I have friends over.  Sitting around the kitchen, smoking and gossiping, we start burning bits of paper and birthday candle in a huge glass ashtray.  Just as Jenn goes to comment about our mini-campfire the ashtray explodes, spraying coloured glass and bits of flame.  I catch hell a day later when Mom notices the varnish is missing off one of the kitchen chairs.

Age 14:  Mom works in the city, so Dad and I are home by ourselves a lot.  Some nights, he goes to the Legion for a beer, leaving me to my own devices.  This particular night, I was out on the back deck, having a cigarette, when I see him heading down the hill towards home.  Hurriedly, I ditch my smoke... and proceed to run smack into the screen door.

Age 15:  Home sick one day in March, my sister gets a call from the hospital that her Cesarean has been re-scheduled... for THAT DAY.  We freak the fuck out, take her to the hospital and by end of day, my sister is a mother and I am an aunt.

Age 16:  The house is full of noise and people.  Nicky has moved home and my best friend lives with us also.  The basement is being finished, so we're all confined to the upper floor.   Melissa does a fantastic impression of the Carlton Dance. We get the baby, Randy, to make his 'Uggie Face' and everyone laughs.  We paint a huge mural on Melissa's wall, featuring all the pop culture references of our time.  Friends sign the wall when they visit.

Age 17:  After a few frustrated attempts, I lose my virginity, on the couch while my parents are out. My mother finds condom wrappers in my room a few weeks later.  During the days following, my dad has a hard time making eye contact with me.

Age 20:  The day before my wedding, it's 30 degrees and the future ex-hub and I are trying desperately to ice a cake that is melting fast than the Wicked Witch of the West in a monsoon.  The next day, my aunt picks up a slab cake from Foodland and the three-tiered cake my sister painstakingly baked is forgotten.  I'm informed that one of the groomsmen still doesn't have a suit.  My mother and I are both freaking out nervous and my grandmother is insisting that someone get us a drink, a joint.. anything... to calm the hell down.

Age 21:  The future ex-hub and I return, tails between our legs and expecting, leave behind most of our belongings and debt-ridden return to the house on George Street.   We live in the basement for the next year.  It is Mid-spring when I wake him up in the middle of the night to tell him I'm having contractions.

Age 23:  I return once again, with one less husband and one more child, to live with my sister and her boys.  The house is full of the noise and the fun and the stress of two (and later three) women and their four children.  The day I return from the hospital, Tierney drops her week-old sister on her head.  In tears, I rush to the hospital.  While I am gone, the CAS visits, scaring my sister out of her wits, as we are still just unpacking and there are kids and boxes everywhere.

Age 25:  Sitting in the yard with my sister and one of my best friends, discussing the future and dinner plans.  It's time to part ways, while the going is good.  Living with people is hard and we are all happy to still be speaking to one another.  Later that day we stand in the street, tears in our eyes as fire trucks arrive and neighbours leave their houses to gawk at the flames that are leaping from the windows.

Age 26:  Months later, fully restored, this is once again our parents home.

Birthdays, Christmases, laughter, fights, nights watching TV, parties... So much time passed, so much of a lifetime spent.  So many people come and gone through the front door, struggling to pass each other on the narrow landing.

If I had some liquor, I suppose I'd pour a little out about now.  So long, House.

Just some stuff.

My grandmother fell and broke her hip, or more accurately, my grandmother's hip broke and she had a fall as a result. She is having surgery for it tomorrow. I'm more than a little worried and upset. I've been lucky enough to have both my grandmothers around for a good long while.. I mean, not everyone is lucky enough to get to their 30's and still have grandparents around. Hell, I know people not much older than me who have already had to deal with losing both parents. So I'm lucky, I know that much.

Because I realize this, it's all the more upsetting to face the fact that they are both of them not as young as they used to be.

god. Isn't that the most ridiculous saying? Not as young as you used to be. Well no shit. I'm not as young as I used to be either. in fact, i'm a whole day older than i was yesterday. Seriously, what an idiotic saying. I feel like punching myself. It's as bad as saying "It's always in the last place you look!" Again, no shit.

I digress.

So I'm clearly worried, and I don't really know what to do. Damnit.

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

So, my hearing sucks. It's terrible. I'm pretty sure years of headphone abuse combined with a history of chronic ear infections (the over prescribing of antibiotics for said infections eventually, I believe, leading to my ulcerative colitis, but that's a story for another day) have done irreversible damage. I don't hear a lot of ambient noise, and I can have trouble making out what people say, especially if they talk low, fast and don't enunciate well.

I know it can be frustrating for those around me, having to repeat things to me, and me not always understanding things the first time around. It's not like it's not frustrating for me. I hate having to ask people to repeat things, or not to whisper to me. I hate having to fill in the blanks sometimes when people talk to me. I hate that I have to watch movies with the closed captioning on half the time, otherwise I have to have the TV blaring. I've had tests done, and looked into hearing aids, but for the actual amount of difference an aid would make is negligible, as apparently the loss "is only minor."

I'm told that I don't have any fluid build-up but... Well, I love to swim. Love it. A few years ago I went cliff jumping at Grundy lake and when I hit the water, it rushed into my ear and I couldn't hear properly for weeks afterward. Now I find that when I swim, if I stick my head too far under, my ears and head feel like they are going to explode with pressure.

I don't know if I should go back for another second opinion or not.

Hell. Not great mood overall. I kind of wish I had my covered porch again so I could watch the storm.

My body betrays me, once again.

Illness is an asshole.

There was a time when slowly, over a period of months, my life oozed away and my body, in it's attempts to keep that life in place became a ticking time bomb.

I rose, I recuperated, I fell once again. The threat still existed but had grown weak. There came a long, long period of good health, where my body felt strong, felt functional.

This time, when the signs began to show themselves, I was prepared, and I swore I'd be pro-active and take control before this thing took hold of me. I got the meds, I got the supplements and I embarked on a self-care plan.

Sunday, the pain in my legs began and I panicked. I had a full on panic attack, terrified that once again, I had that bomb, that cluster of cells, deep inside that was ready to break free and lodge itself in my lungs, in my brain. I feared Death. I feared everything I had worked for slipping away from me.

I'm not going to die. Not yet, anyway. Not statistically sooner than anyone else.

A swirling deluge of relief, annoyance and shame washed over me when the doctor reported there was no sign of clotting.

Relief, for obvious reasons. Not dying! Yay!

Shame for the worry and fear that had manifested in myself and affected those I love.

Annoyance because my diagnosis, an injured sciatic nerve, was just another fucking issue to deal with. And annoyance because the pain, which mimics the pain that nearly killed me, is triggering as hell. Annoyance because I don't have the luxury of assuming a pulled muscle.. The leg pain could mean a few days discomfort, or it could mean a lifetime of anti-coagulants (Three Strike Rule, y'all) and higher risk of stroke, heart disease or pulmonary embolism. I don't have the luxury of saying "Meh, I'll walk it off."

I'm optimistic, though. Today, the pain is tolerable. I've faced worse than this, and so have countless others. I have hope that this is a short term injury (the most plausible cause being a slight misjudgement of a step at a friend's house that brought my foot down a little too hard) if the improvement between today and yesterday is any indication.

A part of my childhood just died.

I'm usually not one to get all emotional about death when it comes to celebrities and other public figures, so I'm a little embarrassed to admit that I pretty much burst into tears not too long ago when I found out that one of my childhood heroes, Stompin' Tom Connors had passed away at the age of 77.

As a child, I would go to my grandparents house in Bancroft where they had a big old 8-track stereo. If my paternal grandparents were Big Band, my maternal grandparents were Grand Ol' Opry. One weekend when I was about 7 years old, my mom dug out one of the 8-tracks and played a song called "Goodbye Rubberhead." The rhyming scheme and gratuitous use of the word "boob" appealed to me. I giggled at The Ketchup song, about a potato and tomato that get married, and at the long-sufferingness of "My Brother Paul".

My mom and dad found a 60 minute tape and made me a copy of that 8-track album, Bud the Spud and other Favorites, filling air on the B-side with East Coast fiddle music. For the next year or so, when we visited our trailer during the summers my mom would cue up that cassette tape before I went to bed each night and I would fall asleep to the music of Stompin' Tom. I held onto that tape until I was in my early 20's, when it was lost during one of many moves.

He came to Midland a few years ago to play the rec center, but at the time the ticket prices were out of my reach, or perhaps I had I unbreakable obligations to attend to, but for whatever reason, I missed this show and I swore I would see the man perform live while there was still time.

That time has run out and I don't mind saying I'm a little heartbroken.

R.I.P Mr. Connors

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.

My own childhood bullying tale - or - I'm not fucked up because of how my parents raised me, but how other parents raised theirs.

Today I felt like crying.

No, no.  I'm okay.  Nothing to worry about.  Just feeling bittersweet.  Accent on the bitter, I guess?  

It started with a Facebook group.  *shakes fist in Mark Zuckerberg's general direction*  A group called I GREW UP IN AURORA.

I did, you know.  Grow up in Aurora, I mean.  Aurora, Ontario.  Some of those closest to me may be familiar with the sneer of derision that usually comes with mention of the place.

I'm not actually a member of this group (update: I totally lied.  I am).  My mom is, because she did too. Grow up there.  That may be too simplistic.  I think my mom merely lived there.  It'd be safe to say her actual growing up was done in the neighbouring town of Newmarket, which according to the stories of adolescence I have been regaled with over the years, was a far more rad place than it's neighbour to the south.

A friend of mine who lived in the area for roughly the same period of time (although we didn't meet until years and years later) once remarked that in Aurora, you'd drive down streets where people had paid tens of thousands of dollars on landscaping, only to find nothing but junk inside.

At the time it seemed an apt metaphor.

Gosh, I sound pretty bitter, don't I?  Why all the hate, you may ask?

Interesting question, that.  I'll get to that.

So yeah, because the Mighty Zuck seems to think everyone needs to see everything that everyone does, I caught a link through this group to a photoblog which had, amongst its many posts, photos of the school I attended from grade 1 to 3, which was shut down a few short years back.

It's a tremendous and beautiful building, having first served as a high school (where my grandfather attended) and later used as a primary school for grades 1 through 6.

Seeing the photos was a bit of a head-trip.  I, myself, have not stepped foot inside in over 20 years.  When they closed Wells Street, there was an open house to commemorate it's 100 year history.  The few photos in this woman's blog brought forth a rush of emotion - first, the visceral reaction I generally get when presented with classical architecture.  I'll be the first to admit, I have a bit of an obsession with older buildings.

Second was a flood of memories of the relatively brief but formative time I attended Wells Street Public School.

I was a painfully shy, and oddly intelligent child.  A little awkward, a little chubby.  More interested in the planets and ocean creatures than Barbies and My Little Ponies.  Eager to please, eager for others to like me.  A prime target for bullies.

Third grade was when the two 'popular' girls in my class decided that that year was the year I would have no friends, no fun, no joy whatsoever.  They began to taunt me, promising friendship then ripping it away, with mocking laughter and cruel, cutting, remarks.  They made it well known to all that I was social poison.  Not only would they not be my friend, but anyone who did befriend me would also be outcast.

Two of my best friends would whisper when no one was looking that yes, they were still my friend, even if they put up the act of shunning me as well.

I could hardly blame them.  I had already saw the devastation these two popular girls had wreaked in my own world.  I couldn't let that happen to my friends as well.   My third friend managed to escape the social stigma of being my friend simply by benefit of being a boy.  The threat of expulsion to loser-land was lost on the boys in my class... they were just happy to join in on the fun.

In the evenings, I would cry inexplicably.  I was always crying.  My parents would ask how my day was, what was wrong.  In a quiet voice I'd insist that my day was fine.  Nothing happened.  I was okay.  In tears, but okay.  My sister knew what was going on.. She wrote me letters from the exchange house in Germany where she was staying that winter, telling me she loved me and making empty but appreciated threats to beat the 'little bitches'.  My parents continued to wonder why I was upset all the time but refused to open up to them.

I guess that has just never been my way.

I have no recollection, perhaps I've blocked it out, but I've been told that it got to the point where I was skipping school.  This was how my parents found out about these girls and how they had been tormenting me for most of the school year.  The one girl lived down the street from us, with her grandparents and her mother who was single and worked full-time, relatively unheard of in 1980's Aurora.  Her mother was devastated and truly remorseful that her daughter was capable of treating another kid this way, and blamed herself.  The other child's mother, who had attended high school with my own mother, simply sneered.  She had taught her daughter to be tough.. it wasn't her problem if I was "such a fucking wimp."

I see these pictures of the school and I remember not just its immense empty halls, but I remember walking them, sad, and scared and angry.  The staircase in the second photo from the bottom is the same staircase where I would sit after being sent in the hall.   Heeding the advice of "ignore it and it will go away", I would close my ears to the whispered taunts until finally I would lash out in anger and frustration, only to be scolded and sent to the hall for causing a disturbance.  I'd sit out there and cry and wait until I was sure my face was no longer red and my breathing had returned to normal.

Even then, I had a tendency towards 'The Ugly Cry'.  Oh, look.  There it goes again.

I was lucky enough to change schools the next year after being screened for the region's gifted program.  My problems didn't end there, by any means, but they subsided for a good while.  However, by the time we moved from Aurora to the Midland area, I was good and ready to get the fuck out of there.  I never really felt like I belonged there.  I don't think my family did either.

You know, a lot of this seems trivial in retrospect.  So what?  Everybody had bullshit to deal with as a kid.  But it kind of fucked with me for a long time.  For years I had a difficult time making friend without falling prey to the suspicion that I was being taken for a fool, that I was being set up as part of some grand, Carrie-esque prank and I'd be the girl covered in pig-blood, only instead of wreaking my vengeance all I would be able to do is cry and hate myself a little.  I missed out on what could have been some wonderful friendships because I couldn't bring myself to trust.  That said, I'm thankful for the few long-standing friendships was able to forge over the years.

I'm not going to lie, I've let these memories color my memories of Aurora with a very dark brush.  I think sometimes that I would still like to go back.  To fight my way down Yonge Street where everything is so built up now that you can no longer tell there was ever any bordering area between Newmarket and Aurora.  I'd like to park at my uncle's house (which was the house where we lived) and walk the neighbourhood as I did when I was a kid - my parents were the free-range kid type.

There are still places I have fond memories of..

Someone get me a priest, I have a Grinch that needs exorcising...

*sigh*

I love Christmas.  I really do.  I love spending time with my family.  I love spoiling my kids (within reason, anyway).  I like watching A Christmas Story and National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation over and over again.  I love relearning O Holy Night and God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen on the guitar.  I love playing Euchre with my dad and sister and grandma and uncle.  I even love washing dishes after dinner.

I love the fact that my family is pretty functional and my kids are usually grateful for whatever little things I can scrounge up for them.

But I'm so stressed out right now.  The weeks leading up to Christmas, with all the shopping and running around and constant barrage of consumerism can fuck right off.  I feel like I haven't been able to take a breath for a week.  

If I had my way, I'd sleep from December 1st up to the 23rd, only waking for the occasional Christmas party and concert.

I can't wait until tomorrow when I can just relax and actually enjoy the holiday. I'll snap out of it.

This may be the last post for a bit.  The comp is on the fritz again.

Merry Christmas, folks.

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.

I'm gonna let you in on a little something.

It's probably thoroughly un-progressive of me to say this, but I have a confession.

I kind of want to be the Manic Pixie Dream Girl.

Go ahead.  Laugh.

I would.

It's true, though.

I want to be a muse.  I want to inspire someone to live life to their fullest.

I'd like to be that crazy, quirky, fascinating girl who breathes life into someone who has otherwise lost all interest.  Destroyer of the Cynical.

I'd like to be the object of undying affection, fascination, adoration.

I'd like to be the person who changes someone's whole outlook on life.

I'd like to choose who would be that person.  Which is where the fantasy falls apart, I guess.

Meh.

I've had a couple glasses of wine tonight.

In the span of 12 hours I vanquished a fear and had it realized again.

I don't go around saying it very often, but I'm pretty smart.  With the standardized tests to prove it.  So it's frustrating when there's something I really want to master but I JUST.  CAN'T.  FACKING. DO IT.

For a long time now, I've wanted to learn to sew.  I can do simple things like hemming pants or repair a split seam, but I really want to learn to design and create things.  Thing is, sewing by hand is slow and bullshit.

I have a sewing machine that was given to me by my mother, which was given to her in turn by her mother which was bought as a gift by my grandfather and has been used maybe 8 times in total.

This would be the monstrosity right here.

My Nanny wasn't much of a seamstress and my mother always preferred to used the old Singer that was given to her by.. oh.. hrm.  Some female relation or another.  I think it was my great grandmothers.  Anyway, she likes to use that one (probably because unlike this one, it doesn't have a whole table attached to it).

Sewing machines elude me.  My mother was still making my halloween costumes when I was 24 because I would get this lofty idea that I would sew my own costume, I'd borrow her Singer, sit down in front of it and promptly forget the method for setting up the machine, despite Mom having shown me 47,000 times before.  Gord forbid I'd have to change a bobbin.  Forget it, not happening.  I'd get all flustered and it wouldn't be long before Mom was sewing my costume for me.

Pathetic.

So when I got this one, I had every intention of learning to use it.  I took it out on one or two occasions and would do a few test runs.  My first attempt resulted in this:

That was enough to scare me off for oh say... a good year and a half.  Meanwhile though, I kept hanging on to old T-shirts with dreams of making them into pillows and quilts and such.  Today I braved the machine again.  I threaded it, got the bobbin set up with the help of the 50 year old instruction booklet and much to my delight I managed to mend a couch cushion and two of the girls shirts.

I was on a roll.  I went into town that afternoon and excitedly told my friend Lori about how I had braved the sewing machine and that I was going to learn to make shit, starting slow with simple things like pillows.

I guess I got too big for my britches because tonight I cut up some fabric and pinned it and set to work.  I decided to try the zig-zag setting, but for some reason everything kept getting tangled, so I played with some settings and tried to adjust the tension.

I fucking broke it.

I have barely touched this thing over the last 2 years because of my intense fear that I would somehow break it and would end up with a very heavy side table.  I broke the goddamned tension dial.  As I was turning it, the dial popped off and springs went flying everywhere.

And I don't know how to put it back together.

You said it, Natalie Dee.

I'm not dealing well.  I'm not good at feeling stupid and this epic failure on my part is way more upsetting than it should be.  

*sigh*  Faaaaack.  Anyone have any expertise on how to fix a 50-year-old sewing machine?

Photo Credit:  www.nataliedee.com

12 bars at closing time.

Source

plink plunk.

I think I'd like to be the world's greatest lady blues guitarist and it occurs to me that maybe I am.  If there are others before me, their names have been lost to history.  Maybe I just need to read more.

There's a pattern here, there's a pattern and a structure only decipherable when the pattern breaks and the sour note stabs, making me curse these befuddled digits.  Thinking of playing until my fingers bleed, but it never happens, not really.

Once I did dip my fingertips into ice water, until the numbness allowed me to go on.

plink plunk.

I need to not be drawn in by the urge to check up on those from my past, through the tempting rabbit hole that is social media, it only creates more questions than it answers.  My ego makes up stories, scenarios that are likely as detached from reality as one can get.

But sometimes it's nice to pretend.  I like to think it's all about me.

Through the looking glass, I wonder if someone pointed out the mistake.  Did they bring it to the surface?  Did it leave a scar, a vicious red x on your psyche?

Did you shake your head, cover your ears?

Ehh.

It's probably not about me, anyway.

I have a song, but I didn't write it.  Someone else's words are all I have to describe my experience.  I've tried to put them as my own but it all comes out a plagiarism, so I am left only to paraphrase.

These words are mine, here.  Put them to what melody you may.

The melody is not mine.

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 Good, The Bad and the Delightfully Cheesy.

Been a little quiet the past few days, I know.  Going through some stuff.  Had to cut off contact with someone who was very important to me in order to save myself a whole lotta time going through the emotional wringer and would you know it pretty much blows?  Big time.  Running the gamut of emotion, angry, sad, self-righteous and well.. you know how it is.  Boys n' such.  So I've been disgustingly emo over the last 24 hours.  I've had a few of my closest girlfriends be super supportive as I got all weepy and snotty and introspective about it, even though over the last 12 months or so the "I swear this time it's really DONE" has been nothing new to any of them.

But I swear, this time, it's really done.

Hit the local Party On The Dock this past weekend, which proved to be quite the raucous affair.  There was much beer, much dancing to all-ages friendly (as in 9 to 99) cover bands.  Okay, this is something that gets me every year.  The headliners are a group called Northern Harbour, who bill themselves as

The Ultimate Jimmy Buffet Tribute Band!

But.. if it's true as some say that Jimmy Buffett is essentially a cover artist himself, then wouldn't a Jimmy Buffett cover band really just be a generic cover band that happens to play Margaritaville and Let's Get Drunk and Screw? (which, incidentally, Northern Harbour DID play much to my amusement).

Anyway, was a fun-filled evening.  We closed the party, headed to the local bar, closed the bar, got food, ended up at the park and next thing you know it was all "Oh hey.  Hello, 5 am! Fancy meeting you here!"

A word of advice: Sitting down by the water in the wee hours of the morning may sound like an awesome serene idea, but you change your mind quickly when you wake up in the morning with goose shit on your pants.  Had awesome Karen-Walkeresque moment the next day as my bestest and I sat in her backyard feeling rather rough and a small child was driving around in one of those Power Wheels dealies.  Shielding my eyes from the sun I asked "Is it really necessary for that kid to be driving that thing this early in the afternoon?"

I'm fucking witty when hungover, I tell you.

My shitty mood after last night's drama nearly resulting in an ass-kicking today as I got a wee bit snarky with some folks who insisted on ignoring the giant No Loitering sign on the front door of our building and wound up with a rather frightening woman up in my face because apparently I'm doing a huge disservice to their hanging-around-in-front-of-Tim-Hortonsing by not-so-subtly suggesting her friends try standing 2-3 feet to the left or right AND NOT IN FRONT OF THE FUCKING DOOR.

How silly of me.

And then some guy got his ass handed to him in the parking lot about an hour later.  Cops and everything.  I have a great view from my desk.  And YES, I DID call 911, as buddy was taking quite the beating but I guess someone beat me to it because all I had to say was the address and "Fight" and they said "Yeah, we're already on our way." at which point the cops pulled up.

I swell with absolute pride at my town, which is NOT AT ALL white-trashy in ANY WAY.

Today my geek worlds collided.  For about 6-8 years I was a soap fan.  To be clear I was regular follower of the Guiding Light.  It started when I was hospitalized at 18, after which I drove my ex-husband nuts with it for years, and when the Sister and I lived together we watched religiously.

I stopped watching after I moved out on my own in 2005, as I wasn't home when it was on and I didn't have a VCR.  The show was cancelled in 2009 and a little part of me was heartbroken that I never saw the last episode.  I found out today that in 2006 Marvel Comics did a Guiding Light crossover based on a halloween storyline where Harley (one of my favorite characters) gets super powers and becomes a heroine by the name of 'The Guiding Light'

Har Har.

So this evening I wasted a whole lot of time looking up clips from this story arc on YouTube, and trying to find out where I can get my hands on the comic portion of the storyline, which apparently included Spiderman and the Avengers, as well as GL characters such as Buzz Cooper and Gus Aitoro (*drool*)

Beth Ehlers and Ricky Paull Goldin

Harley all Comic-fied - Source

 The link to the Comics Alliance page has a preview where you can see some of the other drawings.  I enjoy seeing the characters rendered in comic style.

The story arc on the tv side is atrocious, but what do you expect? Part of the fun of soaps is the groaningly bad melodrama and improbable story lines.  Hell, that's part of the fun of comics too.

They have so much in common.

Watch, and giggle.