Putting your money where your mouth is.

Well, fuck.

Another day, another senseless act of violence, another show of meaningless 'solidarity' by changing a facebook picture, all the while ignoring the terrible things that happen to people around the world, people who look less like you.

Yup.  It's good to be home.

Since the events in Paris this week, a mosque in Peterborough was deliberately set fire.  A woman near Toronto was punched in the stomach, the hijab ripped from her head while she was called a fucking terrorist and told to go back where she came from.

People disgust me, yo.

It's exhausting, explaining to people, so-called Christians, people who supposedly worship a man who decried pointing out the splinter in another's eye while ignoring the beam in your own, that all terrorists are not muslims and all muslims are not terrorists.

But I'm privileged in that if I don't feel like speaking up, I don't have to.

I'm tired of trying to explain that the refugees fleeing Syria are NOT the threat.. they're running from the same threat.

And I will fucking scream if one more person talks about 'taking care of our own first' while doing fuck-all to actually help the homeless and the mentally ill.

Homeless people need help. Yes.  No shit.

The mentally ill need help.  Again, no big revelation there.

Refugees need help. 

None of these things need to cancel the others out.  If we have problems with mental health access and homelessness, it's not because of a piddling number of what... 25,000 refugees? That is 0.07% of this country's entire population.  Not even an entire tenth of a percent. 

That's one town.  One rather small town.

The mentally ill and the homeless aren't going to suffer because we accept a small town's worth of refugees.  They're suffering because of multiple governments that had already forsaken them several times over, governments supported by people who ignore the homeless and shit on people who have to rely on government assistance, but trot them out as an argument for having to 'take care of our own'.

The people complaining don't actually care about the homeless.  One person in a thread said that "The money has to come from somewhere."

Yes, it does.  Probably taxes.  I'm okay with that.  I'm willing to pay taxes if it means homeless people, mentally ill people, and refugees all get help they need (btw, there's overlap in these groups, in case you didn't know).  Fuck yeah.  Sign me up.

If you actually care about homeless people, then I hope you're speaking up just as loudly when MP's and MPP's and municipal politicians are giving themselves raises every year.  I hope you're fighting for better access to affordable and emergency housing.  I hope you're donating to food banks more than just at Christmas and Thanksgiving.  I hope you're fighting for legislation that prevents discrimination against people with mental illness or people with criminal records*, things that often lead to people being unable to support themselves.

But don't trot out the homeless to support your bigotry by saying "We need to take care of our own." 

This is a friendly reminder.

You deserve a day to yourself.

A day where you sleep in.

A day where you get up early, before everyone else, and enjoy the silence.

A day where the dishes don't get done.

A day where you don't wear pants.  A day where you don't wear anything at all.

A day where you play video games for six hours.

A day where you lounge in the bathtub until the water gets cold and you start to nod off, narrowly avoiding dropping your book into the water.

A day where you burn a tank of gas without a destination in mind.

A day where you don't leave the house.

A day where the kids have cereal for dinner.

A day where you eat off paper plates.

A day where you don't see or talk to people.

A day where you say "Sorry, I have other plans," even if those plans are playing videogames in your underwear.

A day where you turn off your phone.

A day where you turn a blind eye to dust bunnies, and circles on the coffee table.

A day where you don't beat yourself up for not living life to its fullest if all you want to do that day is marathon episodes Orphan Black.

You deserve a day off.

(Sometimes I need this reminder. I hope you find it helpful, too.)

Why Should Some Kid Get a Medal for "Just Showing Up?"

Why?

"Why," you ask, "should a kid get an award for just showing up?"

Because sometimes just showing up takes a lot of guts.  Sometimes gearing yourself up for the possibility of defeat takes everything in you.

Speaking as someone who was a shy, fat, uncoordinated child who heard my share of moaning and groaning from my classmates when my name was called during Phys. Ed, just showing up can be fraught.

Speaking also as someone who deals with anxiety, as many people do, putting yourself into new situations is some scary shit, for children and adults alike.

In Grade 8, I made the decision to try out for the school's volleyball team. I tell you, it took every ounce of courage for me to go into that gym.

I went and I tried my hardest. Not even halfway through the tryouts I could feel tears of frustration welling up in my eyes, with every ball that I instinctively ducked instead of passed.  My face went red with the effort of trying not to cry.

Unsurprisingly, I didn't make the team.  I don't think I was even remotely close because I was really, really, bad at volleyball.  I also kind of hated it.  But I wanted to be involved in something.

I felt like a spectacular failure, and it was many years before I tried out or participated in anything remotely competitive again.

I kind of wish, at that time, that someone had given me something to acknowledge that even though I sucked, I tried, which was more than some had done.  That my effort was worth something.  That just showing up, when I was so afraid of falling and failing, that THAT was worth something in and of itself.


Listen.

I get that kids need to learn how to win and lose graciously.

Taking scores out of games so there are no 'winners' or 'losers' doesn't help kids. Kids need to learn that sometimes they are going to win, and sometimes they are going to lose and regardless, they need to not be an ass about it.

However, hyper-competitiveness doesn't help kids, either.  Over-emphasizing the value of winning over all other things teaches that if you can't be the best, don't even try.

There is value in effort.  There is value in trying, and fucking up.  There is value in just kind of being okay at something.  There is value in trying.

And I think that's worth recognizing.

SOURCE

Being Okay with Being Single.

This post is a long time coming.  I started writing it in my head over a year ago, after reading one of Chally's final posts at Feministe.

It seems odd, I know, for me to write about being single now that I'm in the longest relationship I've had in years.  At least, longest consecutively-running relationship that can't easily be amended with descriptors like "Off-and-on" or "Dysfunctional" or "Toxic" or "Vaguely Demoralizing".

Like I said, I started this post in my head well over a year ago.  However, it seems relevant today since this is a day many people bitterly lament their single status and the often-frustrating search for Twoo Wuv™.  I was one of those people for many years.  Hell, in solidarity with my formerly single self, I still refuse to give this Hallmark Holiday more than a perfunctory nod, because love - of ALL forms, not just romantic or eroticized love - should be something we celebrate everyday and not necessarily the consumer-driven, materialistic, hetero-normative version that is pushed on the general public by the greeting card and diamond industries.

However, I digress.

I had, at the time, come to the conclusion that I was going to be Okay With Being Single.  Not "I'm okay with being single because I know someday someone is going to love me and I will have my Happily Ever After" but "I may possibly spend the rest of my life as a Single Woman and that is okay."  I was coming to the conclusion that I was done seeking the be-all, end-all, heteronormative ideal.. the relationship.  I vowed to stop thinking of myself as All Alone because, dammit I was NOT alone.  I had my children, my family and many wonderful friends.  I decided that would be good enough.  I may or may not consider having sexual encounters but solely on my own terms.   I was done feeling like a failure, like less-than because I was unattached.  

From Chally:

Singleness is treated as something to be fixed. It’s treated as a state one would surely want to change as quickly as possible. If you’re single, you’re automatically miserable, and everyone’s going to try and figure out what’s wrong with you... What would society look like if little girls weren’t expected to organise their lives around finding a sole and central heteronormative relationship around which everything else in their lives must then revolve?

The words rang true.  So I made my decision to stop searching and just enjoy my life as it was.  And then in true fucking cliche'd fashion, when I stopped looking.. boom.  That was just over a year ago.  And it was good.  And continues to be good.

So that post never got written.

However, that decision never quite went away.  I'm still okay with being single, even if I'm not currently.  Because the future is always uncertain.  Make no mistake, I hope that things between the Well-Travelled One and I continue to be good, for a good long time.  Frankly, I like him a lot.  I know, though, that if things between us were to go south for whatever reason, I will be sad, I will Cry the Ugly Cry and wipe my nose on my sleeves and so on and so forth and miss the hell out of the guy, but ultimately life would go on.

Source

It sounds callous, but not really.  It's actually helpful in quelling (some) of my myriad insecurities.  I'm here because I want to be and if  I didn't, I wouldn't have to be.  I have many years of experience in knowing I'm fully capable of being on my own.   On that same level, I like to think that he's with me because he wants to be and not out of any feeling of obligation.

Cliff Pervocracy wrote about the fear of the The Worst Thing In The World and framed this fear as something that may be a motivator for abuse and emotional manipulation in relationships.  The fear of the Worst Thing In The World (ie, a relationship ending) can provoke an extreme fear response:

I remember when my first "I love you" relationship ended.  I couldn't  abide the thought.  I screamed.  I cried.  I tried to seduce him.  (While still crying. Sexxxay.)  I threatened to harm myself if he didn't come back.  I called him until he stopped taking my calls.   The ridiculous thing is, I didn't even like him that much.  It wasn't about getting the joy of the relationship back.  It was about avoiding [The Worst Thing In The World]... What I did to my ex-boyfriend--threatening myself and refusing to leave him alone--was abuse. Fortunately it didn't go on very long, but it was abusive. And I didn't do it because it felt good to scare and upset him. I did it because I was so deeply afraid of losing him.

Cliff goes on to explain how realizing that this wasn't The Worst Thing In The World helped hir to deal with later breakups in a more dignified and mature manner, because it wasn't a 60-foot cockroach, it was only a 6-foot cockroach (read the full post if you're confused as to where cockroaches play into this).

Similarly, the Worst Thing In The World allows a lot of people to put up with a lot of bullshit.  Some people fear their inability to function without a significant other, that they cannot take care of themselves, support themselves financially and so on.  Some people buy into the idea that pairing up must be a life goal.  I had a friend, single at the time, say to me forlornly "I've never had a relationship last."  I looked at them quizzically and thought "Well, no shit.  If you did, you'd be in one right now."  It struck me funny but I realized afterward that in our society an ended relationship is seen as a failed relationship.  And this fear of failure becomes The Worst Thing In The World.

It's not, you guys.

Being single is not a failure.  It's not The Worst Thing In The World.  There is no moral imperative to get yourself all paired up.  Also, no one owes you a relationship.  Nor do you owe it to anyone else.  Spend time with people whose company you enjoy, without worrying if zie is 'The One'.

When do they stop running?

I drove home tonight and happened to pass three girls, a mere year or two older than my eldest daughter. They walked slowly, sauntering, almost a careful gait. Arms close to their sides, swinging slightly.

When do little girls become so careful in their stride, so measured?

I think of the past summer and the one previous, when I would let my girls, shiny Toonies in hand, walk to the corner store for candy. They'd run, momentarily untethered by a mother still nervous about negotiating boundaries. They run, they'd skip, on rare occasions they might hold hands, or maybe that's this mothers nostalgia giving these recollections a Norman Rockwell patina.

When do little girls stop running?

My oldest, my blonde beauty, who still at times seems so young, so naive has begun to walk with the lazy, sauntering step of one who is navigating her way between childhood and preadolescence. She lags, without the same excitement of getting where she is going. In a few more years it will be sharp angles, hands on jutted hips, an eye-roll here and there.

My littlest still bounds ahead, still skips as her hair swings from side to side. There is no self-consciousness, just the journey ahead however short it may be, that promises newness.

My oldest still runs, from time to time, but only if no one is looking.

Why do we stop running? Why the importance in seeming unaffected? When do we lose the wonder in the journey, and worry only about arriving in style?

Two random vocalists that make me want to kill myself with joy

Source

Cat Power - Her voice is evocative of that kind of straight-whisky drinking, chain-smoking in a dark dive bar, of the type that was probably at one point classy as all hell, but has since become a refuge for derelicts and the lost. She sounds like what that woman who sang Bette Davis Eyes should have sounded like, instead of sounding like Joan Rivers doing karaoke. Love and Communication haunts me and it pisses me off to no end that I cannot, for the life of me, sound one-tenth as good as she does singing this song.

Source

Dallas Green - Consistently reminds me of guys in high school that I wanted to have write sappy yet earnest ballads and sing them for me in hushes tones.  The type of guy that would sit back and not say much until someone pulled out a guitar when he'd reluctantly join along, quietly at first, then gradually getting more into it until everyone else suddenly just shuts the fuck up and sits there blinking, thinking 'Holy shit.  This kid can actually sing!'  On Sleeping Sickness he pairs up with my all-time favorite vocalist, Gord Downie and my head explodes from all the awesome.

*****************************
I have a post up at Different Paths, Same Destination regarding the Children's Health Care of Atlanta's fat-shaming campaign. I'm told it's good.  Go check it out.

Winter is finally upon us. Whoopitty-doo.

It's a bitter inevitability, these January days. Even December, this year so uncharacteristic in its mildness could not hold them off forever. Waking to the morning when the clear blue skies And sunshine cleverly disguise the mercury's sudden decent.

Wind creeps through the cracks where the door has warped and no longer meets its jamb. Roaring from the bowels of this humble dwelling, the ancient furnace breathes up from the floor and wrestles with the draft, struggling to overpower, but still the chill remains.

Wrapped in blankets I bury my head and breathe deeply, exhaling warm damp mist into my frozen hands. Pulling the blanket ever closer, cocooning myself, wishing I could return in spring when the cracking ice screams from across the bay and the snow banks retreat, dropping a sediment of salt and dirt onto muddy front yards.

Hot coffee and thick stews and ratty woolen sweaters are my weapons against the biting cold and the long stretches of night, while I grasp each precious minute of sunlight and count the days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

The Tip of my Tongue.

When I was growing up in Aurora there was a restaurant down the street from my uncle's place, in a plaza (some may know them as strip-malls) on the Southeast corner of Murray Avenue and Yonge Street, at one point the longest street in the world and the eventual route that would take my family on our short but life-altering pilgrimage from Aurora to our current home on the Georgian Bay.

My memories of this establishment are fuzzy yet curiously vivid as well.  Glaring yellow signage ran the length of the outer end of the building - it was the last unit and faced the traffic of Yonge street.  I recall caricatures of old comedy acts such as Laurel and Hardy and W.C. Fields gracing either end of the stylized lettering, now blurred in my mind's eye.

It was a fairly large, licensed establishment, specializing in Italian fare - a family restaurant, before we became inundated with proto-family-cookie cutter chain eateries.  Upon entering, one would walk into a sparsley furnished, harshly lit entranceway with a small counter for picking up takeout orders.  In contrast, the main dining room was lush and romantically lit, a sea of dark wood, leather and tiffany lamps.  As a small child I would swing my feet from the huge bench seats of the booths and look around curiously, in my own world, ignoring the chatter of my parents and sister.

What stands out in my memory, clearer than anything is the Pac-Man game.  The PacMan game sat in the entryway, close to but not quite in the dining area.  It was one of those table-top arcade games where two players could sit on either end and play head-to-head games of Pac-Man.  Occasionally I was lucky enough to be given a shiny quarter to play while we waited to be seated, but even when no quarters were available I was content to sit hunched over the bright flat screen and trace my fingers along the plexiglass, following Pac-Man's gluttonous feast.  My little brain, just then learning to read, would watch as the screen flickered and switched from the demo to the menu screen and mouth along as the rival ghosts were introduces.. Inky, Blinky, Pinky and...

and...

What was the last one's name?  I can never remember.

The last time I was there, I was seventeen.  My friends and I had embarked on a road trip to the city for some reason or another and I, being full of ideas, suggested going to Aurora and driving by my old house.  We stopped there for lunch and it was as I remembered it, mostly.  I don't recall now if the game was still there, but the food and the atmosphere was as I remembered.

That was nearly fifteen years ago.  The restaurant has since been shut down, re-named, under new management.  It's funny though, that with all that I can remember of that place, of the details in the decor and the food and how my child-mind perceived eating in a  big, grown-up fancy-pants restaurant with china and cloth napkins and where I was even allowed to order a Shirley Temple and felt very grown-up doing so... well, with all that, to this day I cannot recall it's name.

Funny, that.

UPDATE:  So, I was at work and standing in the bathroom washing my hands and out of nowhere, it hit me like a ton of bricks.

Barrel Pizza.

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.

"I think that ghosts like the cooler weather..."

I think this weekend, while my kids are out at an early halloween party, that I'm going to take some pictures of the local foliage. Central ontario is a great place to be in the fall (although Western Ontario is pretty breathtaking when you get into the heavy deciduous forests). I say this in spite of the nearly constant rain we've been having over the last week or two.

The constant damp, the cold, it gets into your system. I find myself wanting to eat heavy things, comfort foods with rich sauces, that kind of stick-to-your-ribs stuff that warms you to your depths. Stews, casseroles.

My house has a real haunted house feel to it, beyond the decorations that I've put outside. The stone exterior, the weathered wooden front porch littered with leaves that I have had neither the time nor the motivation to sweep away.

Mornings have gotten darker already, as have the evenings when I leave work. The unrelenting drizzle has left me feeling sweetly melancholy.

I wish for a fire place. A fire place, and clinking crystal glasses filled with lucius red wines served with expensive cheeses and green grapes.

It's a time of heavy cable-knit sweaters and quilted vests and the smell of burning leaves.

Glorious.

I'm looking forward to some sun this weekend to complement October's crisp breezes.

This song is one of my very favorite songs of all time and in my humble opinion, embodies everything I love about Fall, the strange mix of melancholy and contentment and the slow cocooning of oneself in preparation for the Winter. Of harvests and generations past.



You can tell by the wind
By fresh cut wood all stacked to dry
That autumn's here. It makes you sad
About the crummy summer we had
With pine trees creaking
The raven's screeching
Just like the story my grandma tells
About when a bird hits your window
Someone you know is about to die


Autumn's here, autumn's here
It's ok if you want to cry
'cause autumn's here, autumn's here, autumn's here


So find a sweater and you'll be better
Until the kindling is tinder dry
We can be quiet as we walk down
To see the graveyard where they are now
I wonder how they brought their piano
To Holdene Hill from old Berlin
Be hard to keep it well in tune
With winters like the one that's coming soon


Cause autumn's here, autumn's here
It's time to cry now
That autumn's here,autumn's here, autumn's
It's ok if you want to cry
Because autumn's here


I think that ghosts like the cooler weather
When leaves turn colour they get together
And walk along these, these old back roads
Where no one lives and no one goes
With all their hopes set on the railway
That never came and that no one stayed
I guess that autumn gets you remembering
And the smallest things just make you cry.


Autumn's here, autumn's here, autumn's here that autumn's here
Autumn's here, it's time to cry
Cause autumn's here
Autumn's here, autumn's here
It's ok now, cause autumn's here


Autumn's Here - Hawksley Workman 

"Honesty Is the Best Policy" and other myths...

Alternate Title: Who the Hell asked you?

Interesting post on the forums today regarding Honesty versus Bullying. In my time, I have seen far too many people justify degrading others in the name of honesty. The philosophy that honesty is the best policy seems to be interepreted by some to mean 'you are welcome to say any thing that comes into your head to another human being regardless of if it is hurtful or not'.

No. Full Stop.

Honesty is the Best Policy means that when given the choice of telling the truth or telling a lie, in the long run, the truth is probably your best option, because lies beget more lies.
Honesty is not a free pass to insult people or be hurtful towards them.

I know I am overweight. Most people who are overweight are fully aware of this. Unless someone asks, "Hey, Do I Look Fat In This?" or "Why Can't I Seem To Lose Any Weight?" it is not acceptable to tell someone their pants make them look fat, or suggest that they'd lose weight if they didn't eat so damn much, and then defend yourself by shrugging your shoulders and saying "Hey, I'm just being honest."

No, my friend. You are not "just" being honest. You are also being an asshole.

Visitors.

There was a knock on the door last night at about 9:45.  A guy was looking for a motorcycle he had seen on Kijiji.  The Google map was unclear.  I said I knew nothing about it.  The man at the door described the ad further, asking if there were 'any guys' around who might know about it.  Again, I said I knew nothing about it.

Sometimes I get into this state of mind where I almost forget that my house can actually be seen from the road. (Hint: my house can DEFINITELY be seen from the road)

It's like I think I'm living in a sort of Potterverse and there's an incantation that only allows my close friends and family to find the place.

Then I get a knock on the door at 9:45 at night and I'm reminded that there is no magic to hide me, no forcefield protecting me from strangers, harmful or otherwise.

Just a deadbolt.

Wordless Sunday.. because anyone can have Wordless Wednesday.

Okay, so it's one word.

If you don't have anything worth saying..

... well screw it.  Make something up.

I'm hungover (well, a little) and doing laundry today.  It's one of those beautiful, crisp fall days where the sun is warm but the air is brisk.  The kind where a coat is a suggestion, but not necessarily a requirement.

Being a responsible drunk, my plans for the day include a very long walk to go and pick up my car from last night's resting place.  If I bring my iPod, and pace myself, it should be a rather pleasant walk.  I may take the Tay trail.

I have an earworm that has been burrowing itself into my brain for the last 48 hours.  I must have listened to it a dozen times since I first heard it at my sister's place Friday night.



Yesterday was full of music and self-loathing.  So good and bad.  I've put some weight back on and I'm trying not to beat myself up over it and just pay more attention to my habits and make sure I'm making healthy decisions.  In the meantime, my pants have turned against me so I was not feeling my awesomest yesterday.

The music, however... well, the music is good.  Three bands in one day.  I'd call that a win.

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.

Conversations with my sister: Good parenting.

Recieved a text from the sister last night:

N: Hey what you doin?
Me: Just packing up after the fireworks
N: {my brother in law} n {my nephew} n i aret mom's
Me: Are you drunk?
N: No lol E was on my lap and it was hard to type. lol.  jackass.
Me: you shouldn't call your toddler a jackass.  that's not nice.
N: lol no love YOU'RE the jackass

I mean, I already knew that, but I couldn't resist such a set up.

I amuse myself far too much.

Thoughts on "Passing Gifts"

Well, another school year has come and gone and with it, year end report cards.  Generally, my youngest gets glowing reports in the A and B area.  The oldest, although very smart, has a little more trouble with school, but on the whole, she gets by with B's C's and the occasional D.

A friend on the Facebook brought up an interesting question.

What do you think about giving your kids gifts for passing onto the next grade?


Me?  I think it's kind of like paying your kid to clean their room.  A Non-issue.  It's something they are expected to do, it's their responsibility.  So no, I don't necessarily agree with buying gifts for simply passing from one grade to another.

That's no to say that there aren't some good arguments.  One other friend pointed out that working parents get yearly raises, so why shouldn't kids get similar?  And that's fair, to a point.  However, many raises are also awarded on merit, rather than for simply being there.. not for simply doing your job, but for doing it well.  A raise is also supposed to cover the increases in the cost of living that accrue each year.  A new bike, or XBox is not a living expense.

However, going to school is a responsibility, much like keeping ones room clean at home is a responsibility.  It is expected as a part of a household, and as a current/future member of society.  In my honest opinion, these are things that should be expected if they are within your capabilities, and offering rewards for them may only serve to foster a sense of entitlement, a "What's in it for me" mentality.  Education in and of itself is a reward.  Feeling good about yourself for having accomplished something is a reward.  Satisfaction on a job well done is a reward and I think a focus on these things is important to a child's self-actualization.

Now, I will say that I don't think there isn't some place for rewarding your children for hard work.  If they have gone above and beyond, then there's nothing wrong with acknowledging that with a gift or a special day, especially if you have a kid that really struggles.  But the focus should be on the effort rather than the end product.  Myself, I'd be more apt to reward a child who struggles with school who manages, through dedication and determination, to raise their grade from a D to a C+, than I would  a kid who regularly excels at school getting straight A's yet again.  I will admit that I don't know what it's like to deal with a kid who routinely struggles with school.  If I did, my expectations would be different, I suppose.

To use the housekeeping example again, I don't think I should have to reward the kids for doing things they are expected to do as part of a functioning household.  However, if there was something they did (say, for example, weeding gardens, cleaning the bathrooms etc) that was not a part of their expected chores, then I'd be inclined to give them a little something for their efforts, along with a (more importantly) a sincere "Thank you!" and "Great Job!" - an acknowledgement for contributing beyond normal expectations and going out of their way to help out.  It's probably an interesting contradiction that I'm more likely to reward my kids for doing things without the expectation of a reward.

It's also important to take into consideration what is considered a 'Gift'. I knew a girl growing up who received extravagant gifts each year for passing into the next grade.  Call it sour grapes if you will, but looking back this girl was a bit of an entitled brat, and this always became apparent around the end of school year, as she would brag about the new scooter, or bike she got for passing.  I know not all kids are like this, and giving your kid a present doesn't mean they'll also be entitled brats, but it's something that has always stuck with me.

I did enjoy one woman's idea that her and her family have a special dinner or special day, more as a tradition to celebrate the end the school year.  It sounds like less pressure for the parents (since much like the Tooth Fairy tends to leave more money with each tooth, Passing Gifts may get more expensive as the years go by) and a fun way to reflect on the year and look forward to the coming summer.

An affirmation to you from me (and the bathroom graffiti artist at the rec center)

a little bit o' twisted nostalgia

When I first started my job, I had the pleasure of working with my sister.  At that time I was doing a lot of internet research and data entry, so I'd pop my headphones on and well.. my mind had some time to wander.

Nicky was the lucky person that got to be subjected to whatever happened to cross my mind.  I just found these emails yesterday.

Remember way back when on the Y & R and either Cricket and Danny, or Cricket and Paul had their honeymoon (or some random ‘romantic getaway’) in Newark?  Did they ever clarify which Newark it was?  Because apparently there is a Newark Delaware, and a Newark, New Jersey.   Which begs the question… How effin' lame do you have to be to honeymoon in Delaware or New Jersey?  I mean if your heart is absolutely set on Jersey, at least go to Atlantic city, so you can gamble and junk.

Just my .02

I totally stand by that sentiment.

Exciting Delaware
Wayne's World at MOVIECLIPS.com

Next:

The Business development manager for M2M Imaging is HAWT.  http://www.m2mimaging.com/aboutus/profiles.html - Cameron Barnard.

P,S.  The depths of my idiocy knows no limit.  I've been driving around without a health card or drivers licence for the last week.  Why, you ask?  Because they have been in a safe at Staples, where some good Staples employee placed them after I LEFT THEM IN THE PHOTOCOPIER.  Gah, me=moron.

I checked that link.  Sadly it appears that hottie Cameron Barnard no longer works for M2M imaging.  Sad.

I wanna make dirty monkey love to my own hair today… it looks THAT good.

Well, it DID.

I think I’m in love with Mike Ness. I also think I’m becoming a country fan.  Of the old school, not the new.  Should I be disturbed?

 A lot of thoughts came to me via the hours I spent on my iPod:

I’ve tried and tried, for years to like Rage Against the Machine.  But I just don’t.

Nicky got to be privy to some of my geological discoveries as well:

Arkansas… Copycat? 

Let’s see, first there is the spelling.  If you pronounce it how it looks, it could say “Our (pronounced ‘are’) Kansas”  It’s like they wanted to be Kansas, but it was already taken, so they decided that parcel of land would be “Our Kansas”

Now I come across a site for the Ouachita Baptist college.  Doesn’t that look like it could be pronounced like a bastardization of Wichita?  And where is Wichita? 

….

That’s right.

KANSAS.

Buncha plagiarists, I say.

 Not to mention my observations about the lovely building where we work:

I found myself in the washroom on this end of the building, and avoiding the larger stall in much the same way I avoid parking in handicapped spots.  And it occurred to me:  How odd is it to have a wheelchair stall on the upper floor of a building that is clearly not wheelchair accessible?  And I said ‘AHA! I must email Nicky…”  But once I came out of the washroom, I looked at the so-called ‘wheelchair stall’ and realizing that the door on the stall was not nearly large enough for a wheelchair to pass through.  This is not a wheelchair stall, just a case of lousy designing resulting in two average size stalls and one freakishly large one.  Curses, foiled again.

*sigh* 

 Nicky doesn't work there anymore, so I don't have her to send my random musings too.  Thank God for Twitter.