Nope, Not Feeling It.

I'll be totally honest.

I've kind of been thinking of taking a long-term hiatus from this blog. Blogging has been a good outlet for me for 10 or more years but lately, I'm not feeling it.  I still have a lot of opinions on a lot of things, but sometimes I just feel to damn lazy to back my opinions up with facts.  The kids are getting older, and they read and stuff now, so my ability to blog about them and their cute little foibles is becoming limited, because as they get older, they have more to expect in privacy.

Blogging has changed as well. I don't see the same kind of communities of commenters as I once did, and now it kind of feels like screaming into the void.

But, I suppose, I like having the outlet here. I like thinking that someone out there cares what I have to say.

Today marked the two year anniversary of my surgery, and I'm kind of bitter-sweet about it.

I don't miss my colon much.

I'm glad to still be alive, and functioning at about 90-95% of what would have once been considered normal.

I'm fat as fuck again, but I'm mostly okay with it.  Buying pants is bullshit, though.

I'm anxious a lot.  I get scared as hell sometimes.

Maybe I'll keep writing, and just stop promoting it. Maybe I could just make this a place to scream into the void.

There's a common theme amongst cancer survivors.. a lot of talk of Living Life To The Fullest™and Making Every Day Count™. It makes me angry, because it's such a privileged position to take.  I mean, it's a nice life, if you can afford it.

I still have kids to feed, a (ever-so-slowly crumbling) roof to keep over our heads, and a car to keep on the road.

Living Life To Your Fullest™sounds pretty good on paper, but the vision of quitting your day job and following your dreams is only realistic when it's built on three things: Money, Time, and Energy.

Once I had Time, and Energy, but no Money.

Now I find I have little Money, little Time, and only so much Energy to go around.

So, I get angry.  Once upon a time, I looked at where I was and said "It's cool, I've got my whole life ahead of me."

Now, I'm not so sure. I may not have another 10 years. I may have another 50.

Maybe. Possibly. Hopefully.

And here I stagnate, wanting to Live My Dreams™ and Make Every Day Count™, but there are mouths to feed and bills to pay and at the end of the day, I am lucky if I have the time and energy to type a few words, pick up a guitar or a paintbrush, or even stay awake through a full episode of Breaking Bad.

LottoMax couldn't come soon enough.

Are you there, Void? It's me, Andrea.

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

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.

The Obligatory Year-In-Review and New Years Resolution Post

2014.  This was not my favourite year.

I dealt with a lot of stress, mental health issues, physical health issues, house stuff, money stuff, relationship stuff.

The high point of my year?  NOT having Cancer.  Which is a really, really awesome thing, but a pretty low bar to measure a whole year by.  Also, this last month the last remaining portion of my colon decided to get its shit together, figuratively speaking, and push my colitis back into a state somewhat resembling remission.  At any rate, the daily ass-bleeding has stopped for the most part.

Not having Cancer was Ay-Oh-Kay in my books, as was the reprieve from daily ass-bleeding, but quite frankly, the rest of the year just felt like a god-damn struggle.

I know it's not been all bad.  The change in mood between this post and this post from a few weeks ago can probably tell you how all-over-the-place I have been. I've been making efforts to maintain some level of positivity.  Some days are 'be thankful and count your blessings' days.  Some days are not.

On a side note: I had a pretty decent Christmas. Got to actually see my family and eat turkey.  And then every single member of my household got sick as shit for the next four days (not from the turkey, from the flu).  So while Christmas was much better than last year, the universe did it's damndest to make sure Boxing Day blew chunks (metaphorically).

So basically, 2014 can fuck right off for not being the vast improvement over 2013 it was supposed to be.  You're fucking fired, 2014.

So, now that we've got all that bother out of the way, some plans and resolutions for 2015:

1. Be more active, whilst remaining actively body-positive.  This will include: 
• Continuing to swim at the Y three mornings a week
• Returning to kick-boxing once a week
• Using my lunch-breaks to walk each day, or taking evening walks after dinner
• Refraining from negative self-talk and avoiding the "D-word".  Riots, not diets, folks.
• Eat more system-friendly foods that will keep my fucked-up digestive happy
• Drink water. Lots of water. Because dehydration is a bitch, yo.
2. Finish working on The Table Formerly Known as the Penis Table
3. Blog more, both here and on The Art Blog. I also have a plan for a third blog that has been in the works for a while.
4. Paint. Draw. Craft.
• Submit work to art shows. Try not to get frustrated if not accepted. Keep trying.
5. Write.
•  Look for opportunities to write outside of blogging.
6. Make music
• Find a conveniently-scheduled and receptive open mic to attend.  Attend with some regularity
7. Audition for plays
8. Continue to practice good self-care, for the benefit of both my physical and mental health:
• Take my blood-thinners and butt-meds regularly
• Get my blood work done regularly, as required
• Continue seeing my counsellor for as long as work will cover it/I can afford it
• Bitch-slap the jerkbrain when she starts getting too loud.
9. Make friends, and make time for friends.
10. Make time to keep being a good mom, girlfriend and person, overall.
11. Make time for me.
12. Breathe.

So that's all from this end for this year.  Here's to new beginnings.

I look slightly deranged. I kind of like it. Cheers, y'all.

Today I am all out of patience.

Today I am out of patience.  Outwardly, I look okay.  Normal.  I'm going to go, do some christmas shopping with a friend, have dinner with The Well-Travelled One and go about my business, while inside I kick and scream and throw a toddler-tantrum at the sheer un-fucking-fairness of it all.

There's so much anger inside me right now.

I'm angry that, as a friend of mine pointed out, we don't show the same level of remorse and shirt-wrending heartache when we hear of children across the ocean being killed daily by bombs and artillery.  Over there are also parents who woke up one morning, kissed their child that morning only to mourn them by day's end.  We call them collateral damage and hush people who dare to mention little brown children dying when clusterbombs are dropped on school yards because we need to support the troops.

I'm angry at the people who are suggesting that the way to prevent gun deaths is with more guns, rather than less, as though arming teachers couldn't have possibly ended in more bloodshed.  I'm angry when people say that this is not the time to talk about gun control, when people are dying.   This is the perfect time.

People say that he would have found another way.  Perhaps a bomb, perhaps stabbing like the guy in China that stabbed 22 school children.  Do you know how many of those children died?

None.

Fucking ZEE-ROH.

So don't tell me now is not the time to talk gun control.  This is the perfect time. Don't tell me less access to guns wouldn't have made a difference.   Today 22 parents in China are thanking their lucky stars instead of mourning their lost babies.

I am angry at people jumping to the obvious conclusion that this man must have been 'mentally ill'.  Is it a possibility?  Yes.  But not all mentally ill people are violent and not all violent people are mentally ill. To assume so does a huge injustice to the non-violent mentally ill.  It is not up to me or you to diagnose.

I am angry at the idea that this could have been prevented by allowing God back into our schools.  We kept Him out.  We refused to let people pray.  (We refused to force people to pray, actually).

I want no part of any God who would let little children die because we do not worship as he sees fit.

I have been told, in dark moments, that God has a Plan.  Was this part of it?  Cold comfort to the families who are living a nightmare today.   I have been told on numerous occasions that he is both omnipotent and loving.   If he couldn't have saved those children because he isn't "allowed" in schools, then he is not omnipotent.  If he wouldn't, then he is not loving.

An omnipotent, loving god would have stopped Adam Lanza before he ever reached the school into which he was not 'allowed'.

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.

just a random thing that sucks...

listening to a really awesome song.. then pausing to listen to the lyrics and finding that they're.. um.. well, a bit rapey.

I know, I know.  Everyone and their grandma goes through bit of cognitive dissonance this at Christmas time when they listen to 'Baby it's cold outside' and find themselves singing along with Dean Martin (or possibly Will Ferrell) as he alludes to spiking his date's drink (in Ferrell's case, the adorable Zooey Deschanel) during what is possibly the rapiest christmas carol going.  Possibly? No, definitely.

I've run into it other times as well.  Outside of the Hair Metal and Gangsta Rap genres, even.

Example?

Bruce Springsteen's "Fire" (mistakenly attributed to Jeff Buckley on my Grooveshark playlist)  Honestly, I don't know who performs the version I have.  all I know is that although I still dig the melody I get a little squicked out when I take a close listen to the lyrics:

I’m driving in my car, I turn on the radio
I’m pulling you close, you just say no
You say you don’t like it, but girl I know you’re a liar
`Cause when we kiss, Fire

Late at night I’m takin’ you home
I say I wanna stay, you say you wanna be alone
You say you don’t love me, girl you can’t hide your desire
`Cause when we kiss, Fire

There's something off here.  Bruce as the narrator doesn't seem to quite grasp enthusiastic consent, and seems a little co-ercive in his efforts to woo his date.  Accusing one of lying is definitely romantic as well, don'tcha think?

I betcha 'But... Your Honor... When we kissed.... FIRE!!' would be an awesome defence in a date rape trial.

This is why I can't have nice things.

Class Elitism, Thy Name is Tiny Beaches

I live in a small town with a lot of waterfront property, yet a proportionately small amount of public water access.  We have one small beach, two public docks and a small number of 'public' boat launches - somewhere in the area of 2-3.

It really frickin' grates my cheese that in a town that is surrounded by water, it is so bloody difficult to find a decent place to swim, especially with small children in tow.  Our public beach is a bit of a mess.  To get to a decent spot to swim, one must first wade through a couple feet of muck, then navigate a trail of slippery, moss-covered rocks before hitting a sandy bottom.  At this point, you may be able to wander out another 50 feet or so before hitting a bed of weed.  At this point, I'm maybe waist-deep in the water if I'm lucky.

Of the two public docks, one is surrounded by weed beds, and both garner a fair amount of boaters and/or anglers which make swimming hazardous at best.  There's one boat launch that has half-decent swimming, but little to no beach to speak off.  About 20 square feet of beach, I'd wager.

The rest of the water front that is taken up by cottages, waterfront homes, and luxury condos the latter of which not only restrict water access to the very wealthy, but also serves to prevent the rest of us from really even enjoying the view of the water.

So it comes that I have to venture out of town to find some decent swimming for my children and I.  About 20 minutes from us there is a long stretch of white, sandy beaches known as The Tiny Beaches.  Over the past few years, debates rages over the sanctity of public use of these shorelines as homeowners in the area attempted to subvert ability to access these public beaches.

This weekend it became clear that this fight for fair access is being lost.  My girls and I had been made aware of a beautiful stretch of beach at the end of the 6th concession of Tiny.  Crystal clear waters, sandy bottom with nary a rock or a weed in sight, water that stretched out for miles.  However, access to this 'public' beach is impeded by a severe lack of available parking.  That is to say, there is NO available parking.  For a while, we were able to park in a vacant lot about 500 meters from the beach entrance.  But this past Monday I was chagrined to find pink tape had been lined across the entrance to the lot and again we were thwarted, so off I drove to try and find parking that would result in less than a 20 minute walk with gear in tow.  Well, you know what?  The road that runs behind this beach, along with all the side roads, are lined with No Parking signs, or with Permit Parking only signs (a $60 fine for each three hour period).

Buy a permit.  That's reasonable, you say?

Sure.  Residents can get two permits for a cost of $15 dollars.  If you're from out of town, be prepared to pay upwards of $75 dollars for a permit.. if you can get one.

Once upon a time, access to these beaches were free for the public.  Then the property lining the shore began to get bought up by wealthy cottagers who did not want the great unwashed littering *their* pristine beaches. Anti-parking bylaws were passed, fences were built, and it became more and more clear that these 'Public beaches' - as are clearly posted - were only for the cottagers, the elite, and their friends... and for, perhaps, those hearty enough to walk or bike out to the far reaches of Tiny Township (which, if you are familiar with the area is a complete misnomer).

Last year one of the few remaining beaches with available parking implemented a 'Pay and Display' system, which is only a little less annoying than the permit parking.  Plans are in the works for next year to have the last remaining 'Free beach' at Balm Beach go pay parking, and restrict parking on the main road leading into the village.  Business owners in the area have protested metered parking, claiming it would cripple their business, which is a reasonable fear in my own humble opinion.

I can sympathize with some of the concerns of residents who pay property taxes to live in these areas.  When I was dating the most recent ex, who lived in the same general area, it was hard to even get to his place while navigating through the throngs of people and cars at the beach.  Thing is, the people, the crowds, the cars are hardly new.   It's not like these folks move in and go "Holy Shit!  People!" (well, maybe, if they buy during the winter months).  No, for the most part, they should probably know what they are getting into. But there seems to be an entitlement amongst the tourist class to come into an area such as ours and squeeze out the local lower-classes by changing the rules of the game to suit their comfort levels.  And of course Municipalities are going to go right along with it, because of the property taxes.

I guess what bothers me the most is that I wouldn't even have to deal with the bullshit parking issues in Tiny if my own constituency had a decent swimming area.  I know, I know.  First World Problems.  People in the world don't even have water to drink let alone swim in.  I know.  I'm whining.  But as someone who operates on a pretty strict budget and would like, once in a while, to have a fun day out at the beach with her children without settling for a mucky, boggy, rocky weedpatch of swimming hole, when there are white sandy beaches stretching for kilometers, if you only you can find somewhere to put your damn car, well, it's pretty frustrating.

*In the name of full disclosure, I should divulge that our family moved to this area from a suburb of Toronto after camping in the area for a number of years.  However, our move was based less on needing a 'summer home' to 'get away from it all' and more on 'Wow, Aurora sucks and living here is expensive as hell!'

Forgive me this moment of blatant self-pity

This day can go right to hell.

As I write this, I'm semi-perched in my computer chair with my leg resting on a leopard print pillow on top of my sadly-neglected Nevada amplifier.  I'm bent like a contortionist trying to keep my leg elevated.  My belly itches and aches at the needles entry point and will probably become a black and purple angry mess any moment now.

Why the Cirque Du Soleil act?  Good Question.


Right at this moment I grapple with the possibility that my blood cells, those belligerent, sticky little bastards, nay, those belligerent sticky motherfuckers have once again decide to conspire against me and throw a rather nasty wrench into my otherwise contented day-to-day.

Earlier today I checked myself into Emerg to investigate the pain I'd been experiencing in my leg since late yesterday morning.  Initially I had thought I was dealing with discomfort from bad shoes, what between my flats that are too worn, heels that I don't normally wear that are too tight and sandals that are too big.  Anyone of these things can screw with your posture and in turn your joints and muscles.  But given my history, after more than 24 hours of not excruciating, but definitely irritating pain that would not completely subside no matter how much I walked, stretched, shook and massaged the leg, I decided it would be prudent to see a doctor ASAP.  And since ASAP to my doctor's office means "In roughly 2-3 weeks" then the Emergency department it was.

Oh, yes.  Dear GBGH, is it too much to ask that you open up an extra 3-4 emergency parking spaces?  Bad enough I'm AT the hospital, but I have to pay five bucks for visitor parking as well?  P.S. Whatever they tell you about hospital wait times in Canada, take it with a grain of salt because it depends on the hospital.  I waited maybe an hour and a half before I saw the doctor.

So the scoop is this.  Until I can get an ultrasound tomorrow, they're treating it as another blood clot.
Hoo-Rah.

I was given a shot of Heparin by a nurse who told me that it would likely bruise, as though I hadn't had hundreds of these shots, most of them administered myself, often with better results than the nurses.  I'm no stranger to the vicious subcutaneous bruising that injectible bloodthinners are capable of creating, no sir.

So, suffice it to say, I'm freaking out a little.  There's still a chance that it could be something as innocuous as a pulled muscle, a hamstring perhaps?  Does anyone know where your hamstrings are?  But, being prone to worrying, I'm not real optimistic at this point. My head is swimming with the knowledge that if, worst case scenario this is another clot, I'll likely be put on anti-coagulants indefinitely.

Three times is the charm, folks.

It may also mean having to rethink my employment situation as a desk job is definitely not ideal when one has circulation issues.  Perhaps I could blog professionally?  What professions are there that don't involve A) sitting all day or B) standing all day?  I don't think I'm hardy enough for the trades.  Postal Worker perhaps? 

So as I sit and pity myself and worry myself into a state, I'm also having a glass of wine, since anti-coags mean that I'll have to say good bye to that, as well as a cold beer on a hot day.  I may have to take up pot again, just to get through certain social situations, especially those involving country music and or a large number of strangers.  Which is counterproductive anyway, since the reason I gave that up is its tendency to make me distinctly anti-social.

You ever see a girl sit in an empty room by herself for forty-five minutes, staring at a wall?  Yeah. That's why pot has never really been a big hit with me.

What? Fun without alcohol? I'm sorry, you must not have met my friend, Social Anxiety.  No, he won't shake hands, he's too worried about stroking out at any given moment. 

No, wait.  That's me.

I'm being a big flubbin' drama queen I know.  If this is indeed the worst case scenario, the blood clot, I'll be fine.  I'll deal with being on meds again, I'll figure out how to negotiate the work situation, and my implied reliance on alcohol as a social lubricant is mostly hyperbole for the sake of comedic value.  I'll miss wine, but I'll deal with it.  I'm not going to stroke out.  It's going to be fine, and I'll probably sell the computer and get a laptop.  Gotta keep those feet elevated, you know.

If my hamstrings would like to take the fall on this one though, that'd be super.

Anti-love songs

It's valentines day, I'm pissy so I turn to my ONE true love, music, to find the songs that sympathize with my feelings about this day and the construct of 'luv'.

In no particular order

Lunachicks - Cumming into my Own

Girl gives up on the bs of relationships, and gives into the joys of masturbation. Thats my take on it though

Line that makes you go 'FUCK YEAH!' - And if I don't pick up the phone/it may not mean that I'm not home/I may be laying there alone/feeling fine, feeling mine

Screeching Weasel - Love

No, no I don't wanna don't make me do it

Line that makes you go fuck yeah - Love is for assholes/Love is for assholes, it's true/ and I don't wanna be in love with you

Tool - Prison Sex

Well you don't get much less romantic than forced sodomy, do you?

Metric - Patriarch on a Vespa

The dark side of the white picket fence dream

Lines that make you go fuck yeah - Are we all designed to be confined/buy ourselves chastity belts and lock them

Offspring - Self-esteem

I include this, because I have lived it.

Seven Mary Three - Home Stretch

Angry growly song with a catchy chorus

Lines that make you go FUCK YEAH - Theres only one sound to love/ Bye Bye Bye Bye Bye/ Ain't it good

Headstones - And

Let's get over it, lets move on, I don't wanna fuckin' talk about it.

Lines that make you go Fuck yeah - Lets not find the weakness/hit the bruise/ what good would it do/let's not drag out the details/salt the wounds/what good would it do

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Listening to the song Rocket Queen by Guns N roses...

Listening to this song does anyone else get the idea that maybe axl had to do some things he was not too proud of upon arrival in L.A. This song screams male prostitution to me.