The Rise and Fall of Penny Lane

Career Path

2012-01-22T10:03:00.001-06:00

Everyone imagines what their life will be like when they are older. I think the habit of doing so is ingrained in us at a young age. How many times did we get asked in school what we wanted to be when we grow up?

I never really saw myself where I am. I always said I wanted to be a writer in some regard. I wasn't picky, though I really wanted mostly to do a combination of the odd feature article and a lot of fiction and reality based fiction writing. I suppose, if you really thing about it, I'm not that far off. I have written a few published articles, and I blog. I have written two full length novels. I suppose the only difference is that I am not getting paid for writing. I would have loved to have lived off this hobby, but sometimes it just doesn't work that way. While I used to be very frustrated with that, I'm not that upset about it anymore. I understand that a good chunk of it has to do with my own motivation and my own writers block. I also was very lucky and fell into a good and stable career path early.

Career path - not a term you hear often these days. I used to work three jobs at one point. At one of my retail part-time jobs, while talking about my lack of direction in my career path she told me that while it was normal for our parents to stay with the same job for 15, 20, 30 or more years. These days, its not so common and there is nothing at all wrong with that. She was in her mid fifties and had worked about six or seven different jobs in her life. She said the change has always kept her on her toes and kept her focused. I admired her, truly. She was fantastic at finding the positive angle in every situation. And while I'm pretty sure I'll be working with the same company I am with now for a very long time, I do understand the joy that variety can bring.

Like I mentioned earlier, I at one point worked three jobs at one time. It was trying and I had little to no free time but the variety of work I was doing kept my mind sharp. I became quick to adapt, fast to learn and found creative and interesting ways to balance my life at that time. Skills that I still use today, everyday.

I don't miss those days. While I learned a lot and was able to pay off some serious debt at that time, I would not recommend anyone work that much. I was exhausted most of the time and had very little free time. When I did bite bullet and go out with my friends, I would then suffer for the rest of the week. When I finally did have a day off, I really just wanted to sleep in late and do nothing at all. It was an exhausting time. Now, I seem to be at work less and less. I work a compressed work week, which means I stay and extra half our at work and get a day and a half off a month. I've signed up to try something my employer offers called Leave with Income Averaging. Basically, I sign up to take a minimum of five weeks off and work will average out my salary so I get a pay cheque doing those weeks off. On top of that, I'm still entitled to my three weeks of vacation time.

I was over the moon the day my first term contract came through with my current job. I could quit all three jobs I was working at as my salary at the new one would be comparable to what I was making working three different places. And I would finally have regular days off - every week. What a concept. Now, I couldn't imagine life any other way. How did I deal with working 10 days in a row? How on earth did I work eight hours at one job and go right to the other and work another four or five?

I try to think that I worked hard and deserve the break, that I wasn't just 'lucky' when I landed this job, but that it was karma's way of paying me back for all the stupid work I was doing all that time. I know that if my position ever ended that I would work three jobs again if I had to to make ends meet and I would do it with as much strength and dignity as I could. We all do what we have to in order to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table. I don't ever want our son to feel that we can't do something because we are unable to afford it. I don't want him to be excluded from the simple things in life because we can't make ends met enough to budge for it. It's my goal for him to understand that while he won't always get what he wants, I will always make sure he gets what he needs. That is my job now and I take it on will full vigor.

You Can Always Go... Downtown

2012-01-11T22:02:00.000-06:00

There are lots of reason why I love downtown.It ranges from the simple, to the complex. Downtown Winnipeg can be beautiful, soft and lovely. It can radiate a vibe that is completely natural and open. Other times, it's gritty and worn. It's old and tired.

Even in those moments, I still love downtown.

I can't express why. There is something about the darnkess of this city that gets under your skin and finds a home, like a tattoo.

I haven't had many bad experiences in downtown. Thinking about it now, I can only think of one moment recently where I didn't feel safe in my own back yard.

I was living on Assiniboine Avenue, about a block away from the Legeslative grounds. At the time, my heart had been broken and I was drunk. It was late spring and I decided that it might be a good idea to wander along the river walk, towards the Osborne bridge. It wasn't that late, probably close to 11 PM I think. I remember it was peaceful and enjoyable until I got close to the stairs leading up form the river walk to the Louis Riel statue. There was a group of young men, I believe about five or six. I don't believe any of them were older than 25. It was hard to tell. I didn't get close enough to them to get a good look.

As I walked up the stairs, I started to hear the laughs and jeers of these guys. I couldn't hear completely what they were saying but I could tell from the odd word I was able to pick up that they were talking about me. It was really the first time I felt uncomfortable in my own city. I quickly changed my path and got far away from them. I did my best not to make it look too obvious. My heart was racing as I walked briskly to the Osborne bridge. I stopped halfway on the bridge and watched them. Some of them had skateboards and were trying to grind the long rails on the stairs. Mostly they were laughing and drinking. From my advantage point I could see the bottle they were passing among each other, trying hard to conceal. I watched until they got bored of the river walk. Didn't take long as there was no foot traffic around the legislative grounds that late at night.

After they moved along, after I saw their shadows blend into the night, I started my trek back.

That was really the one and only time I felt that hightened sense of danger. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up and my heart rate jumped. My hands clenched and I felt my knuckles go white.

I've been living downtown since I was 24. Almost ten years and in that time, I've only had one experience where I didn't feel in control of the situation. I do believe that when you live downtown, you do have to exhibit some level of simple street smarts. Maybe that is why I haven't had more negative experiences. I assess the environment around me, I avoid places that are dark and empty late at night. I'm careful. I keep a very thin guard up all the time, I am always aware of what is around me. If you let that little guard down, even for a minute - well those are the moments you run into trouble.

I both live and work downtown. Part of the reason I love downtown so much is the fact that I can walk to work in about fifteen minutes. I'm lucky, I realize that. I wouldn't change any of that for the world, and I have a hard time thinking about moving out of downtown. I know I should think about getting a house, taking that next, logical step but I find it hard to consider doing that. I love the lights, the busy streets, the people and being so close to everything.

There is the downside of course. Parking is a bitch and often deters people from coming to see me if they have to drive here. Also it can be noisy but you soon learn how to tune out the loudness. It does suck that there are no real grocery stores in the downtown area and the few that are here are super expensive and don't have the greatest selection. And of course, there are the homeless. You can't avoid them, they are here and its a fact of downtown living. It's simple, dealing with them. Be polite, be honest and don't ignore them. Simple rules to live by that makes things a lot easier on everyone.

But even these negatives can't outweigh the positives for me. I love it here. I grew up in the country and can't see myself living back there. Nor can I see myself in the suburbs. The one way streets, the cracked sidewalks, the people - they all are in me and a part of me now. This is where I live and where I belong and I love it.

Winter Woes

2012-01-07T23:17:00.000-06:00

There is something off in me today. I am just overwhelmed lately by these feelings of sadness and my heart aches.

Winter woes, I suppose. We finally got our first decent snow fall of the winter. Strange, considering its January. By this time in the winter season, we are covered in feet of snow, the roads are a mess and ice coats everything. I'm sitting here in my living room, on the sofa looking outside of my window. I have a beautiful view, really do . I am over twenty flights up and my window gives me a fantastic view of both the Red and Assiniboine River, St. Boniface (our french quarter) and a lovely park just across the street. Everything is covered with white.

We had a brown Christmas this year. First Christmas in a while where I can remember seeing grass. I was too busy to give it much thought. I did notice that travel over the holidays didn't give me heartburn. I suppose that counts for something.

My view, out of our living room window has been frosted white. Is this what is causing me to feel, well, sad? Or am I just tired? What the heck is wrong with me?

This blog post is going no where. I had high hopes for it, I really did, but as I'm sitting here, writing this, I'm losing it and the post is going nowhere. I like to think I have enough writing ability to know when I'm on a sinking ship and baby, this is starting to feel like the Titanic. Disaster is inevitable. Should I keep going to see just how epic it is? Maybe, by destroying my chances of completing a coherent post, I might somehow come back from the dark side and redeem myself.

I need to return to my theme, which as per my title is Winter Woes.

I'm sad that my feet are constantly wet. My own fault as my winter boots just didn't make it past last winter and my search for boots this year has been slow at best. Hard to think about boots when you've had no snow to battle with. But now, that we have snow and its half frozen and half melted, I suppose I need something. Cold wet feet just won't do it.

I've been dying to see Hunter enjoy the snow outside, but it's so wet and messy we haven't really had the chance to take him out that much. Kiddo is dying, I mean dying to go outside and make snow angels. He wants to slide down hills on his sled and drink hot chocolate outside. He hasn't had a chance to do much of that this season. He got a pair of ice skates for Christmas and we haven't even gone to get them sharpened as there is really no outside rinks to take him too.

There is hope, there is a light at the end of the winter tunnel. With the mild season we've been having, we won't be a frozen barren waste land for long. We are usually getting out first snow shortly after Halloween. The snow starts to stay around end of November. I remember going to the hospital to give birth to Hunter on November 25th and there was a soft dusting of snow on the ground, and shiny glittery snow flakes falling softly on my skin. Our six months of Winter will be cut to three or four. I can make it, I can deal.

So why the sad vibes? Maybe I just need some fresh air, some movement?

Christmas is gone from this house - the tree has been taken down, the stockings have been put into storage and I feel just that much closer to spring, that much closer to breaking free...

Is Anyone Responsible?

2012-01-01T19:19:00.000-06:00

A few weeks ago, I was listening to a podcast called On The Media. It's a great little show that examines the medias roll in our daily life and also tries to hold the media responsible when it does dumb shit. I can totally get behind that.

A few weeks ago, while at work, I had this show playing in my earbuds and heard and interesting conversation with some guy named Hunter Moore. Moore is the person behind the website Is Anyone up?

If you've been living under a rock (like me) and haven't heard of the website yet, let me fill you in. The website is a tumblr account of various personal nudes that people have taken of themselves. The majority of these 'nudes' I suspect weren't meant to go beyond the person they were being sent to. Moore accepts peoples submissions, puts them on the website and for an added kick, he links you to their social media pages (facebook, twitter, myspace, etc). The site has been tagged as a sort of revenge site. Been jilted by that guy you thought really, and I mean really loved you? Send that personal picture he took of his dick for you to Is Anyone Up and, ahem, expose him for all to see. Fell for a girl, only to realize that she fell for you, your brother, your best-friend and cousin? Send that lovely picture of her twat that she sent you to the site and have your sweet revenge.

I heard the episode with Hunter Moore and made a note to check this out. The podcast was grilling him as to the legal and moral rights he had to do this. To be honest, I don't remember the podcast that well, or most of Moore's responses. I do remember he had a kind of flippant attitude about the whole thing, giving me the impression he didn't really have any guilt with his actions or thought about the long term implications this kind of website might have for the people whose pictures have been submitted to the website without there approval.

I've checked out the site, and while I see it as completely immoral and totally outlandish, I can't get enough. It's like that proverbial car crash - the one you just HAVE to check out. I wasted most of my vacation going through that damn website.

It really got me thinking about the moral responsibilities of people. My first thought is really this - if you are dumb enough to take a nude picture of yourself and send it off to some dude you don't really know, then yeah, you have to understand that the likelihood he is just going to delete the picture once you stop talking is pretty small. If you take a nude picture of yourself, its pretty stupid of you to think no one else except those you want to see it, will see it. From what I can see, most of the people that have been submitted to the website and Moore himself are in the 18 - 30 age set, most on the younger side. Who the heck thinks of the long term implications of snapping a picture of yourself in all your glory at that age? No one. You know why? Because you're fucking invincible. That's right, nothing can harm you, nothing can ruin your chances, you have the world on a string. It's not till you get a bit older and some of these mistakes come up to bite you in the ass do you suddenly take the time to think that yeah, maybe it wasn't a good idea to take that picture and send it tall the dudes in my intro to psychology class.

Then that brings me to Moore. Is he a psychopath or is he just a sick motherfucker who likes tits? Is he doing it for a laugh, completely unaware of how this can really mess up someones future or is he just filling a niche that people want? I hate to admit it, but I've been addicted to that stupid website for the last few days. Deep down are we all just savages?

Where it leads me to is this - if you take the picture and distribute the picture, then you have to take responsibility for where that picture could end up. Don't want to see your ass on a website that exposes you to everyone? Simple - don't take the stupid picture. As for Moore - well, part of me thinks he's a pig for doing this and part of me thinks that he's one smart dude. I'm your typical 30 something gal and I can't tear myself away from the site. I bet most of the people my age are the same way...

Be responsible, I suppose, be careful and most of all, be smart when looking at yourself in the bathroom mirror after a shower - keep the iPhone outta site.

2012-01-01T14:58:00.001-06:00

Maybe it's due to the fact that social media has connected us all on levels never before realized, but it seems everyone and their dog are making New Year's Resolutions this year.

I've always given into peer pressure.

I'm expecting great things of myself in 2012. Bloated statement, I know. I'm thinking that if I overcompensate with vast amounts of confidence, then I will have no choice but to be successful in my new year endeavors.

1. Be healthy. This is a constant on just about everyones lists of resolutions. Who ever makes a resolution to be less than healthy?

2. Be happy. Sounds simple, but I can easily let myself fall into this strange emotional pits. Time to put a stop to them.

3. Be Peaceful. Time to connect with my Buddha nature a bit more. Maybe more yoga?

4. Be responsible. I just became debt free for the first time since University. So it's my goal to be a whole heck more responsible with all things financial. I do have some big purchases I'm going to be doing early this new year (glasses, new computer, possible used treadmill) and it's my goad to keep myself in good financial shape. I never want to be back to where I was.

5. Be loving. I sometimes forget to just be, well, loving. Need to work on that more.

Random Thoughs on Christmas 2011

2011-12-27T20:14:00.003-06:00

I honest can not wait for 2011 to be over. What a hell of a year. While some amazing things happened, most notably our move to the new pad, a lot of shit happened. I mean a lot. A friend of mine has a theory that years ending in odd numbers are usually crap years. 2011 delivered on that theory in many stupid ways. Here's to looking forward to 2012. I know many people will probably say that my attitude has a lot to do with my crap outlook of this past year and I wouldn't disagree. I do also know that a lot of the stuff that really shot this past year in the foot for me were out of my control. Fuck you, 2011.
I hate Christmas Trees. I can't believe the hassle and waste of time and money it was for us this year. Last year we got ourselves a really nice real tree and enjoyed it. This year, we get our stupid real tree and pay over sixty bucks for it, only to be warned by our new resident manager that real trees are no longer allowed. That was news we could have made great use of knowing sooner than two weeks before Christmas. Not only did I have to throw that expensive shedding tree in the garbage, I also had to go out and drop ANOTHER sixty bucks plus on a fake tree. Why? Because I knew our son would be devastated to come home to find no Christmas tree in the apartment. I was a bit glad to get ride of the live tree. I kind of had a bit of a hate on for it ever since it fell over and spilled water all over our carpet and presents. Fuck you, real Christmas tree.
Christmas this year was a bit, well, depressing. We lost Granny (my dad's mom) about a month before Christmas. While she was ill and in the hospital, her dead was a little sudden and a slight shock. She seemed to be doing much better. While we all knew she wouldn't be returning home, we thought she would move on to the old folks home. We thought she'd be around for this Christmas and for a few more after that. We have a small family and dinner on Christmas eve with my family was just that much smaller. We all did our best to smile through it, and our little guy was a great distraction but there was still tears. My heart was ripped straight from my chest when my grandfather, at 88 years of age started to weep opening at the dinner table. While it's hard for us, I can only imagine how hard this is for him. He is our last grandparent, our last patriarch. Was happy to get through the holidays this year, for sure.
I am on vacation until the new year. I've been off work from the 19th of December. The time has flown by to fast. There is both good and bad to taking vacation around Christmas. While I've had the extra time to do the shopping and wrapping without a child or boyfriend underfoot, that time has flown by. I am back to work in one week. Will I take vacation at Christmas again? I might. We'll have to wait and see.
I'm so frustrated with our son. While he is adorable and usually very good, he's starting to really act up these days. Tantrums, fits, hitting and screaming. Not only is it extremely stressful, but it's hard to deal with. What is the best tactic? Time outs don't usually work, I'm not really a firm advocate of spanking and I'm starting to worry it might be something deeper than just a three year old pushing his boundaries. He was a pretty good two year old - I actually started to wonder if there was such a thing as the terrible twos. Maybe it's the terrible three's. I'm not sure what to do about it. I'm almost at the end of my rope. Before I start to look at different methods and options, I am going to see if this is just some holiday blahs. That son of mine is very used to a routine and thrives on it. His whole routine has been completely thrown out the window this holiday season and I am hoping that with the return to day care and the usual routine that maybe he will calm down. I hate picking him up from day care and hearing that he has hit or thrown stuff at the other children. Today, while at a breakfast pot-luck brunch play date, he acted out and hit one of the children not just once, but twice. When I tried to remove him from the situation so I could talk to him about what he did and why it was wrong, he lost it and smacked me really hard a few times. I was mortified - completely and fully. I wanted to just take him outside, lock him in his car seat and sit down and cry. Am I that horrible a mother? What am I doing so wrong that is making him believe acting out like this is alright? I give him warnings, and I also follow through and take away privileges and things when he is not listening, so where is my plan of action going wrong? I need to do some serious parenting reading - any suggestions?
While I had a period there where I did not touch my camera in a while, I'm starting to fall back in love with it. Maybe it was the holidays, maybe it was just due time. I'm not sure but I'm thinking tomorrow might be a good day to go out with the camera, do some walking and take some pictures. Hunter is back in day care, Bruce is back to work and I'm on vacation, so why not spend some time doing something a little bit relaxing and fun for myself?

Bye Bye Flu, No Nano, Three Years

2011-11-14T08:57:00.001-06:00

I have seen death. It's not pretty. It's a fever induced hell that shows no mercy.

I despise Cold and Flu season. It got me in its horrible grasp a few weeks back and finally, after reaching the rock bottom of the flu, I've come out on the other side, feeling much better with only a slight cough to show for. How awful. Fever of 102+ on and off for four days. How ridiculous is that?

Regardless, it hit at the worst time. The start of November is the start of is National Novel Writing Month and I was to sick to get a good jump on this years novel, so for the first time in years, I'm not participating.

It feels a bit odd, to be honest. I used to be completely locked to my computer the month of November, which is completely nuts as my son's birthday is also in November. Makes for a busy month and I have to be truthful, I am liking the calm. I'm not stressed out, I'm not worrying about my word count and I'm not stressing out about my story being complete crap. It's a nice change. I guess had I not been sick, I probably would have started my novel. I'm a sucker for punishment like that.

November is a busy month. Hunter's birthday is next week. Kiddo will be three years old - where did the time go? It's been a stressful, but fun year since his last birthday. The best part of it was the move to our new apartment. It's made some things much better in our lives. Having space is a great thing when you need it. I think back and wonder how all three of us lived in that one bedroom apartment for as long as we did. I suppose you just make things work when you have to and we just made things work. Our lives feel much more normal these days, more organized. I walk into my apartment and I don't feel crushed by all the stuff around me. I just have to convince Bruce to STOP bringing home used furniture. He come home on Thursday with a hutch for a desk. A rough, used hutch that doesn't match anything in our house. I was excited for the extra long weekend I was going to have but then my mood went completely sour when I saw that damn hutch. I understood the reason he brought it home but my god, no. I want it gone, I want it out. It it's not taken care of by this weekend, I am going to do it myself. Why make all this ugly miss-matched furniture? I know its sometimes hard to see stuff that is still useful go to waste, but sometimes you just have to.

I'm feeling a bit crushed down by this hutch. Maybe I'll get rid of it today...

Monday Morning

2011-09-19T10:33:00.003-05:00

Monday morning. Almost as peaceful as a Friday Morning, really.

Working a short work week is a good thing. I've missed it a lot. I used to work a compressed work week before I had my son Hunter. I loved it so much. I'd work an extra hour an a half every day and in turn, I'd get three Fridays out of four off.. I used to stay out late Thursday night and would spend my Friday's sleeping in late, doing errands, and getting ready for the weekend, which would usually consist of more late nights, copious amounts of alcohol and late nights.

Then I switched offices to where I am working now, met Punk Boy and subsequently had a child. The compressed work week had to end. Once I returned to work, day care and responsibilities outside of the home made it almost impossible for me to even think of working a compressed week again. Sure, I was bummed, but one has to do what one has to do.

Now, as things have progressed and have gotten more level, I'm back on the compressed work schedule. I only work half an hour later than usual, and in turn I get one and a half Monday's off every four weeks. Today is my first Monday off.

I was excited. I was looking forward to the calm and the serenity of being home alone, doing things on my own schedule and maybe getting some extra chores done around the house. Hunter is still off a day care, Punk Boy is off at work and I'm here, listening to the hum of the dishwasher.

I had to take this opportunity to write, but as I sat here at the computer with a bowl of yogurt, I realized I really didn't have much, if anything to say. There in lies the problem, a problem I've been having for a while now, that I really am not sure how to deal with.

Basically, I have run out of things to say, out of conversations to make, out of ideas to share. I've become rather blank. My days are spent rationalizing with a two and half year old, and by the time I get regular adult to talk to, my conversation skills have been beaten to a pulp by my son. I suppose I'm just feeling the burn of motherhood and of course, some days are worse than others, but I feel completely awkward in social situations where I feel the need to take the helm as the conversation is waxing. I have issues with meeting new people as my verbal skills are just lacking and I find myself talking over and over again about my family.

It's normal, I suppose, as the family is what I am around most, if not all of the time. Sometimes I catch myself talking about what crazy thing my son did and I can't believe I'm doing it.. AGAIN.

As for the writing, I'm stumped. Moments of inspiration come when they come but my time is not my own. Sure, I make notes and now that Hunter is a bit older, I can actually set him up with some toys and write for a few minutes, but it won't be long before he comes over to see what I am doing. Then it's all downhill.

So now that I have these quiet moments, these times to myself where I could just let loose on paper, I don't have much to say. It scorns me a little bit and makes me sad.

I shouldn't give up. The day is young, its not even the afternoon yet, maybe some sort of inspiration will hit me later...

I hope...

Random Thoughts on the Last Day of the September Long Weekend

2011-09-05T21:01:00.001-05:00

Labor Day always makes me think of school and the evening of the holiday, I always find myself with this heavy sigh, much like the one I had in school, Labor Day really meant the end of summer, the end of free time and while I haven't been in school in ages, it still reminds me of it.
I think I hate Twitter. I really don't understand it. I've tried but to be honest, I think the site is to cumbersome (why doesn't the place where you type your tweets stay static at the top of the page? Then you can scroll through the tweets and not have to scroll ALL THE WAY BACK UP to the top when you suddenly decided you want to type something. I fucking hate that). I'm sure I'll use it here and there, but I have no vast love for the site and I don't think that will change
I'm surprised how much I have gotten used to the sounds of the trains outside of Union Station. Our apartment faces directly at them and the sound of the metal wheels on tracks echoes really loudly. I've gotten used to it. The first week in this apartment, the sound would wake me up, now I almost forget about it. Hunter will run frantically to the window when he hears it, yelling "Mommy, Train!" Most of the time, I've completely blocked it out.
Tomorrow is the start of a new diet plan for myself. I'm cutting way back on sugars and white flours. I need to eliminate how much of both of these things I eat. Going to cut back as drastically as I can and see if that helps me feel any better.
About that feeling better.. I've been pretty depressed for the last month or so. Not sure what it is, but I just can't seem to shake it. It's not an earth shattering depression, I'm not worried, I've just been in a funk that I can't seem to shake. Maybe some changes need to happen and I think starting with my diet is a good one.
I need new glasses. I also need more money to get these new glasses. Donations can be made directly to me. Expenses suck. I am really not looking forward to Christmas.
I'm very frustrated at my arms right now. I've been suffer with some nasty tennis elbow in my right arm for a while now and early into this long weekend, a heavy elevator door banged me on my left wrists, which have progressively gotten more and more painful. I've taken to wearing a tensor bandage on it today. It's not swollen, not bruised but it does hurt like a bitch,
Bruce is watching an Indiana Jones movie. I suppose I should join him. We tend to do agree on too many movies these days so when he starts to watch one I don't mind, I think I should join him.
My google search bar at the top of the screen currently contains the words "Piss Christ." You figure it out...

The Rise and Fall of Local Business

2011-08-13T22:36:00.001-05:00

It's getting harder these days to really make a go of things economically, isn't it? I have to admit, I am lucky. I have a sort of job security that many others just don't have and I am very thankful for that every single day. I know it will take something incredible, like the downfall of our whole system of government for my employer to go belly up. I am thankful for that, I really am.

Before falling into my current career path, I worked retail. I worked a LOT of retail and I was good at it. My parents constantly reinforced the concepts of respect and politeness, two characteristics that combined together, give you great success in that field of work. My first job was in a little hole in the wall burger stand in Lockport, Manitoba called Sonia's Stand. The boss there was a bit of a hard ass and did a lot of yelling, but some odd reason I respected that about her. She was a strong women, running her own business and making a great success out of it. She adored me, or at least I think she did. After my first summer of employment (the stand always closed up for the winter months), when I returned back to work in the spring, she seemed to warm up to me. I guess the fact that I survived that first season and came back for more made me realize I wasn't a complete push over. I worked at that small burger stand for three seasons before moving up and getting a job at Gaynor's, a locally owned grocery store in Selkirk, Manitoba. I was two years from high school graduation when I started at Gaynor's and I really enjoyed that job. So much so that I worked there until I moved on to my current career path. I took a lot of odd part time retail jobs while working at the grocery store (a few years after I started at Gaynor's, it was bought out by a retail chain, hence why I therefore call it 'the grocery store') - from odd freelance writing jobs to working in various clothing stores, both for men and women. I learned a lot about customer service during this time.

There was this regular lady that used to come to the grocery store all the time. I worked in the deli department and it seemed like all the staff would run and hide when they saw here coming towards the deli counter. At first I couldn't understand why, but soon after being stuck serving here, I realized. She was a bit of a pain. She liked things done in a very specific way (who knew people could be so specific and picky about lunch meat?) and looking after her always seemed to gobble up a good chunk of time. After serving her a few times, I also found myself hiding when I saw her walking our way. While driving home from work one day, I couldn't help but think about this lady (we called her the 'ham lady' as the majority of her order was this disgusting cooked, plastic pink looking ham that she liked sliced so thin it was falling apart. Made the most awful mess of the meat slicers). No one wanted to deal with her and in turn, she came to despise the staff as much as the staff despised her. But why? I sure there are things I do or want that seem completely outlandish, and when these demands are not met, I get angry and frustrated. I decided that I would buck up, and cater to her, be nice to her and meet her demands exactly as request, with a smile, no less.

Experiment was a success. She soon became nicer, smiled. She even started to carry on a rapport with me, asking me about University, about things I was doing. I found her to actually be a very interesting and wonderful women. I often think about her and wonder how she is, to be truthful.

Its simple. Its a very basic concept called Mutual Respect. It's a trait that you parents and community should instill in you at a young age and that you should never forget and never let it fall out of style.

It's simple, really.

Treat others how you want to be treated.

So, I suppose that's why I feel so indifferent when I hear about people who seem to lack this simple trait go under. Show some respect, show some class. I feel bad about my indifference (could it be my respectful nature playing with me? I hate to be spiteful to anyone having a hard time). I don't want to see anyone suffer, do not want to see any one's business close down, but when it could have been prevented with a little respect, I have a hard time feeling sorry.

The curse of retail is that you will often hate your clientele. They will grate on you and drive you completely nuts. I'd even go so far as to say you may even downright hate them most of the time. But despite all that, you have to show them complete respect, and cater to them. They are paying for that treatment, they will respect that treatment and they will return to your business over and over again. That is how small business succeeds.

Maybe your it was your attempt to be eccentric that made people view you as rude and sometimes nasty, or maybe that is how you really are. I can only go on my personal experience in these situations and from what I see, your habit of look down your nose at your customers can only add to a growing resentment that will lead to less and less customers coming through that door.

You have to offer more than an interesting environment or product to keep people coming to retail establishments these days. Money is tight, people are less likely to spend it freely so you better damn well make it worth our while. I am more likely to spend $15 at a store where I feel like my business was appreciated than a place where I feel like I am putting the people out by being there and supporting there business.

It all comes down to respect, to be truthful. Aretha said it best:

"You might walk in

And find out I'm gone

I got to have

A little Respect..."

Exorcist Moment

2011-07-12T08:22:00.002-05:00

I know two things about myself:

1. I have a high tolerance for pain. I used to doubt this was true, as it is pretty hard to measure how one tolerates pain, but I've been proven time and time again that my threshold for it is a little higher than normal. Getting tattooed never really 'hurt' as some would claim and when I suffered from that horrible epidural headache after giving birth to kiddo, well the doctors in the ER were surprised at how on earth I was able to function with one as the headaches caused by epidurals can bring people to their knees. So yes, I've accepted the fact that I have a high tolerance for pain.

2. I have a weak stomach. Strange combination, isn't it? You could probably sock me in the throat pretty hard and while I'd curse up a storm, I wouldn't really complain how much it hurt, but god forbid you throw up in front of me.

In my twenties, it was easy to avoid situations where I may have to see someone puke their guts out. We were adults after all and while I may have held my friends hair back while she puked, she was lady enough to shove her whole head in the toilet, making sure I didn't have to see the mess that was produced. I could hold my breath and hum loudly and all parts of the process could be closed off to me and I'd be fine. I'd be fine.

Being a mother has changed all that. Babies and Toddlers don't really have that 'puke' etiquette down. For them, the whole process is shocking, new and probably very scary. Hunter was the type of baby that spit up... often. In fact, it was a shocker when after a bottle he didn't proceed to spew it all back out again. For the first eight months of his life, a bib was part of his wardrobe.

The first time, as a toddler, than Hunter was sick was very shocking and scary for me. I knew the day would come where I'd have to deal with a sick child and I dreaded it. Sure, I was used to the spit up, but how would I handle the other? To be truthful, I can't even stand it when I throw up. I get very stressed out over the whole process and hate it more than I can explain. The first time it happened, shortly after his first birthday, is completely etched in my mind. How could one child have that much stuff in their tummy and how could all of that come out of that little tummy so fast? I like to think I kept my cool, and as I was home alone with kiddo, I had no one to really help me out when it happened. The distraction of my son being sick and distressed was enough to help me focus on just helping him and not what was coming out of him.

Yesterday I had to deal with a sick child again, this time I wasn't home alone. We both knew something was up as my pale little boy laid on the sofa. He called me, sat up, called me again and by the time I got there, he had enough time to look at me and then start to throw up a whole days worth of water and juice. The vast force and amount reminded of that scene in the exorcist where the girl spews pea soup all over her bedroom. Just gross.

Of course I had to put my weak stomach aside, which was easy to do as my child was crying, was sick and was sad. Very, very sad.

Amazing what a distraction can do. Amazing what a change in life's path can do. I suspect I'll have to develop a stronger stomach the older kiddo gets. There will be more disgusting incidents, I'm sure. Blood, stitches, broken bones. While I hope none of these things happen, I do have to keep in mind that they may happen and that I'll have to be prepared and be calm, no matter what.

Just Like Starting Over

2011-07-03T09:30:00.000-05:00

There is an inevitable cycle to things. I suppose this ensures a complete rotation of the good and the bad in life, and maintains balance.

I rather the cycle be replaced with a balance beam, one that requires both ends to be equal, much like a teeder-todder.Regardless of the picture you draw to discribe it, mine is completely out of sync right now. There is no balance, nothing really feels even.

Raising a child is a hard job, and while the older he gets, the easier parts of it get, some areas make me feel like pulling out all my hair from my scalp. There is a streak of defiance that grates on me complete, and pushes me far beyond my on common sense. Those are the moments the balance beam seems to tip and I find myself sitting aside for a minute, trying to calm myself down.

Being calm is the key, you see. I've learned this. It's a very simple lesson, but its one you can forget when wrapped up in the frustrated moments having at two year old can create. Never let them see you sweat, right? The moment you do, you have to start whatever process you were doing at the very beginning and I feel like a complete failure.

Bedtime is the most consistant example. If I can keep it cool, not loose my shit, things work out much better. Not always, but there is a better chance of success. As any typical two year old, kiddo just doesn't want to go to bed when you tell him, and if I stick to the plan of just taking him back to his bed every time he gets out without any conversation, without any anger or frustration, then the process usually ends quickly (if you consider doing this half an hour quickly). As soon as I show my anger, as soon as I start to talk to him, raise my voice at him, then the whole process starts over and it takes twice as long to get him to settle down.

It's a simple lesson, but one that is easy to push aside in a moment of complete frustration when your two year old just won't settle down. I shouldn't get so frustrated, but truth of the matter is a lot of my time after having kiddo isn't my time anymore. I'm up early in the morning, getting him dressed and fed before I get myself ready for work. I work full time, and when I'm done my shift, I got straight to pick him up and bring him home. Then I start to get dinner ready, and then we eat and then its clean up time, after that its kiddos bath and then his bedtime routine of being read a book or two starts and then the 'game' of keeping my cool with he constantly gets out of his bed for the next 30 plus minutes. I want him to sleep because I need some time to myself in all of that. There is nothing wrong with that, there is nothing I should feel ashamed of in that, is there? I love my son but I also love some time to myself.

Lately the battle is getting a chance to sleep in. But as soon as he is up, I'm up with him and while in compared to 5:30 AM wake up on the weekdays, 7:00 AM might not seem so bad, but do that for a month constantly and you start to feel the lack of balance come in and the lack of balance creates riffs that build up over time until completely throw the balance out.

I don't want that, that's for sure.

I would rather just start over, get back to the balance..

Settle Down

2011-06-18T08:47:00.000-05:00

Mid June - summer feels like it is officially here. The Red River Exhibition is in town, which brings not only rain, but the true start of summer here in Winnipeg. It's here folks.

The move is finished. We had the final walk-through of the old apartment last week and have only one or two more boxes to unpack. Neither of us are excited to unpack these boxes - filled with odds and ends just shoved into a box near the end of the move. They are cluttered with strange things and oddly disorganized. I do want to get to them as I have only found one of my heavy marble book ends and would really like to know where the other is...

Kiddo is adjusting well to the new place. While we still sometimes deal with the same evening gong-show (please see "go the fuck to sleep" on youtube), on the whole things have really improved. Today, Hunter didn't come out of his bedroom to wake me up until 8:30. In the old apartment, he would be up and causing havoc and getting us up at 7 AM or sometimes earlier. Now, even if he is up early, he can entertain himself in his own room, which is such a godsend. I forgot what it was like to be able to sleep in a little bit. I know some of you won't consider 8 AM sleeping in, but when I start my work shift at 7:30 AM and have a two year old child, well, suddenly anything past eight is sleeping in. I'll take it, thank you very much.

The new place is beautiful. Huge master bedroom with an en suite. Kiddo's bedroom and our living room have an awesome view of the Forks (for those not familiar with Winnipeg, the forks is the place in our city where our two main rives, the Red and the Assiniboine meet. The area has been developed into a wonderful tourist stop that even the locals enjoy hanging out at. Shops, beautiful walk ways, and awesome areas set up for events). There are a few kinks that still need to be ironed out, but all in due time, I suppose.

Today, being that the Red River Ex is in town and that it is truly summer, we are taking Kiddo to Tinkertown, a little amusement park for young kids. It's for a work associated family picnic,and seems like a great way to spend the day with the family. Being that it's fathers day tomorrow, it will be great to get Kiddo out of the house to run and play. Tomorrow will be breakfast in bed and lots of sleeping in on Dad's part.

So I stopped to write this to mostly update on the move. Things have good well, I know where 98% of my crap is and Kiddo has adjusted beautifully to his room. What more can you ask for?

Boxes, Boxes....

2011-05-25T22:34:00.000-05:00

I'm sitting in the corner of the apartment where my desk is located. Usually, I can turn around and look around the whole apartment very easily, but not so today. I turn and I am confronted with a wall of boxes.

There are boxes everywhere in this place, making its spacious living quarters seem squished and tiny.

Yes folks, we are moving.

Our family of three have been living in a large one bedroom apartment since Hunter's birth. We didn't have the means or the opportunity to move into a two bedroom apartment before Hunter was born and decided that since he was small enough, and our apartment was big enough, we would manage with him in our room for the first year, but that we would upgrade to a two bedroom by the time he was one.

Well, that deadline came and went and we still found ourselves making this one bedroom apartment work for us. Hunter's crib was moved into our large walk in closet, which gave him his own 'room' As he got older and transitioned to his toddler bed, we removed most of the clothing from the closet and made it more like a little room for him. Toys and books and a tiny toddler bed in that closet, believe it or not, and Hunter really didn't seem to mind. He liked his little room.

But now, he is two, and his father and I need our own room, need our privacy.

Trust me, would have made this move sooner had opportunity present itself to us, but it only did recently. How fateful it was, the whole thing. We've been on a waiting list for a large two bedroom apartment in our building since before Hunter was born and finally, things have come together and we'll be moving next week.

So hence the boxes everywhere. While we are only moving in the building and don't really have to pack up everything, we are still packing up what we can in order to make the move quick and painless.

I hate moving. It stresses me out. My last move into this building was a bit of a gong show (between a bitchy landlord at my old apartment block and movers who thought it was groovy to show up hours later than the schedule time). Will I survive?

Stay tuned...

Purple Toes

2011-05-09T15:41:00.000-05:00

What a weekend.

Glad its over, to be honest.

I'm at home with the kiddo, I didn't make it into work this morning. Poor child was so worked up last night I think him and I only got one, maybe two hours of sleep all night. At about one AM, we sent Punk Boy to the sofa to try and get some sleep while I stayed in the bedroom with Hunter and looked after him. I am lucky that I have family related time I can take to look after Hunter if he has to stay home, Punk Boy on the other hand, must go to work.

So why the restless night? Sunday night, after Punk Boy had finished cooking a lovely Mother's Day dinner and was cleaning the kitchen, kiddo got into some mischief. He started to play with the baby gate we have up between the kitchen and the rest of our open concept apartment. I'm not sure what happened exactly, but all we heard was a crash and crying and screaming from Hunter like we've never heard before. We believe that Hunter got his foot caught in the gate and squished his toe really good. It was red and the nail was starting to turn purple.

I've never seen kiddo in that much pain before. The howling continued on all night and no matter how hard either of us tried, we just could not sooth him. We both said to ourselves that soon he would get tired, and that all the crying would just wear him out but he seemed to have this boundless negative energy inside himself and the howling, screaming and crying went on all night.

He finally settled down at about 5 AM - 45 minutes before my alarm for work goes off. I knew at that point I wouldn't be going anywhere, and by the way he was limping all night, I knew he wouldn't be going anywhere, either.

He feel asleep on the sofa this morning for about 45 minutes. By the time I got off the phone with Punk Boy, went to the bathroom and laid down on the sofa myself, he had gotten up. No nap for me.

Not sure what to do with him. He is in a much better mood, and is playful but is walking very carefully on his foot. The nail is all purple and I am sure it will fall off in a matter of days. Currently, he is laying under a blanket on the sofa watching Yo Gabba Gabba. I'm wondering if he'll close his eyes for another nap. I could use a little bit of sleep.

Needless to say, it will be an early evening for me tonight.

Mom's don't rest, even on Mother's Day I suppose.

Rest

2011-03-27T15:03:00.000-05:00

Its been one of thos edays. I've put all my energy into doing some monster tasks early in the morning and now, come the afternoon,I've had it.

I spent the morning with Hunter re-arranging the living room. Mostly did this because I wanted a change and I could not find the remote control for the DVD player. Why do we constantly lose that thing? Oh yeah, I remember why. We have a two year old, that's why.

Suffice to say, I spent the whole morning moving furnature, vacuming and cleaning but did not find said remote control. It wasn't until Punk Boy got home at about 11:30 AM and pulled it out of the side pouch of the rocking chair. At last. Why didn't I even think of looking there? I could have saved myself all of this goddamn effort. But I do have to admit, the room looks amazing and I know that all that yucky garbage type stuff that falls behind the sofa in everyone's house hold is gone now.

But it leaves me tired. I just made brunch (pancakes, mickey mouse shaped ones for Hunter) and cleaned up the kitchen and then quickly feel asleep on the sofa. I awoke to find the house empty. Punk Boy and Hunter must have gone outside. I am going to call them. Maybe I can catch up with them.

But there is also a dishwasher full of dirty dishes and laundry. Loads and loads of laundry...

Sigh...

The "A-ha" Moment

2011-03-14T14:16:00.000-05:00

I was never a good student; learning never came naturally to me. I had to work hard to understand concepts and to get good grades in school. It was really frustrating, mostly because my sister was a pretty spectacular student and seemed to do this without much effort on her part. I would sit at the kitchen table, crying in complete frustration at my math homework. This scene wasn't rare - it would happen once, twice, sometimes three times a week.

I was, thought, constantly having "A-ha" moments in school - the moment when suddenly everything on the page doesn't look like Greek and suddenly makes complete sense. It's like watching the lake clear of mud before your eyes, like feeling a complete understanding with yourself and what your doing.

I strived for those A-ha moments because, to be honest, they were all that kept me going in school after a while. I didn't see much of a future for myself and I wasn't planning on continuing school once I graduated High School. I am glad my mind changed, mostly due to the pressure from my parents. It was my plan to take a few years off after High School, do some serious writing and if nothing would come of it, then I would maybe consider some form of post secondary education. With their pressure, I entered into University the fall after I graduated.

I still have trouble in University, but found it was of a different variety. I was distracted, I was disinterested and I was discovering who I was outside of high school, out from under my parents wings. When I think back about it, I honestly don't really know how I graduated from University. I suppose I did alright due to the fact most of the courses were things I were interested and the other, mandatory courses, were relatively short. I sucked at math, so I really didn't take it in University. I took the easiest, most basic math course to satisfy my math/science requirement and became fascinated with 20th Century Literature, Advance Creative Writing Classes and Studies in Popular Culture.

But I had lost the A-ha moments.

Was I not challenging myself enough? Did I take the easy way out?

Sometimes I think I do. There was so much more I could have learned, could have forced myself into. I could have expanded beyond my basic math knowledge but something stopped me. Fear? Probably. Numbers scare me.

So its strange that now, my entire career is built on math and numbers and sums. How the heck did that happen? And what makes it worse, makes it almost unbearable is that I am pretty good at what I do. It's analytical, its logical, and its math.

But still, day to day, I find I've lost the A-ha.

What scares me is I am suddenly really desiring that moment, wanting to feel that enlighten feeling you get when everything just suddenly makes sense. I want to challenge myself, I want to push forward.

Sunday Morning...

2011-02-13T10:16:00.001-06:00

In my mid twenties, when I first started living on my own, I found it hard to deal with quiet. I came from a family of four, and even when my older sister moved out and it was just me and my parents, it was still never really a very quiet house. Something would be on making noise - the T.V., the radio, or a conversation. I was so used to the usual hum of some kind of noise that sometimes, when I would wake up in my quiet apartment, I would freak out a little bit.

Now, I crave those moments, when you wake up and all you hear is the incidental sounds from the street, the hum of electricity in the apartment. My mornings (and most of my day, really) are filled with sounds - from start to finish. I have my own family now and that continual din of sounds now continues in my own home.

For the first little while living on my own, I had to find ways to deal with the quiet, make things more comfortable for me and I did that with music.

Sunday mornings used to be the worst for me. I naturally always get up in the morning, it was and is rare that I can slept past eleven in the morning, even after a night of drinking. Anytime before noon, the city just seems to be on snooze and the quiet is more pronounced. So, in my hung over state, I would get up and put some music on to fill the air with something.

Sunday morning radio was pretty stealer when I was in University and then first started to live on my own. There was a great show called Psychedelic Sunday that I would always listen to. I first really got into this while in University. I lived at home while I studied but my two closest friends at the time were sharing a large, slanted old apartment just outside of the Wolsey area and I would spend many a night on the sofa there after a Saturday night of drinking and partying with them. They didn't have a T.V., so Sunday mornings were spent listening to the radio, specifically Psychedelic Sunday.

I guess you could say the tradition continued when I moved out on my own. If I would find myself alone on a Sunday morning, shaking off the cobwebs of the night before, I would put on the radio and listen. Psychedelic Sunday then became The Sunday Morning Resurrection and I could be guaranteed to find good, retro music to sooth me.

This song, by The Velvet Underground, was one I hope they would play every weekend. It's an amazing song, and the soft soothing tune always made me feel somewhat better, no matter how hung over or depressed I was.

I can clearly remember listening to this song, kneeling on my sofa, coffee in hand to look outside my window to the view below on Assiniboine Ave. There was a little park across the street and always seemed to be some measure of traffic. Sunday Morning brings the dawn in, indeed..

Thank you, Lou Reed...

Naked Barbies Give Me the Creeps

2011-02-06T20:22:00.001-06:00

I played with Barbies growing up. I played with them a lot. At one point in our childhood my father had built my sister and I this huge play house for our Barbies. Of course, 'Santa' got us the play house and I believed that until my tween years, when it slipped that dad had made the house for us (yes, I held out on the Santa myth way longer than was probably healthy). I think its safe to say all little girls probably played with a Barbie or two. They weren't by far my favorite toys, but there were always there, among the Lego and the other toys.

I have no issue if my son plays with Barbies. In fact, I think its probably fine for him to play with a combination of boy and girl toys. After all, I played with Hot Wheel cars and loved playing catch with my father in our large back yard growing up. I was told by the lady that looks after Hunter at day care that one of the other slightly older girls there makes him play Barbies with her sometimes. She said he cooperates but you can tell by the look on his face he is not impressed.

I was really surprised, I must say, by the whole nature vs. nurture thing. I never realized how hard wired it was for some boys to play with boy toys, and do 'boy' things. I never grew up around little boys so had no idea it was perfectly normal for my child to sit his cute white, fluffy teddy bear up in the middle of the living room, back up across the room and then take a running tackle at it. I never did that. I've never seen anyone ever do that. You could put a tea set in front of him and a bunch of Hot Wheel cars and I'll be you fifty bucks he'll go towards the cars. So strange how that works.

So back to Barbies. One thing that always freaked me out and I think always will freak me out is the sight of naked Barbies. There is just something so wrong about it. They are, for the most part, anatomically correct, but their lady bits are covered by some strange, flesh colored panty and their ta-tas are completely exposed, yet look completely wrong, lacking any nipple or definition of a real boob. I'm not sure why it bothers me so much to see a pile of naked plastic Barbies piled on top of each other. Usually they look like the victim of a horrible sex crime, all naked with their hair usually matted and/or butchered by some little girl who thinks if she cuts her Barbies hair that it will magically grow back (we've all done this, I know. One of my closes friends when I was young cut all the hair off all her Barbies and stuck them in the closet because she believed if you cut their hair, and shoved them in a closet for four days, it would grow back a different color. After four days, when we carefully opened her closet doors, all we saw were naked, bald Barbies). I always made sure my Barbies were dressed, I always made sure they weren't exposed.

I can sometimes be a bit of a prude. It took me years to get over that when I moved out of the house and started living on my own. I can see now that it all started with how insistent I was that my Barbies be dressed at all times. I get a serious case of the creeps when I go to Value Village and see the pile of naked Barbies for sale.

I suppose we all have our hang ups and we all have our issues. I'm not a prude anymore - far from it. So why does the sight of naked Barbies still give me the willies?

I guess you just never get rid of some things...

Brainwashed...

2011-01-22T23:58:00.000-06:00

I like a good hoax. It's not easy to pull the wool over someones eyes, so when it is done and done well, I am colored impressed. It makes you question truth, question motive and question, above all, why?

I just finished watching Exit Through the Gift Shop - this film by street artist Banksy about the crazy and fucked up world of street art and, well, art in general. The movie goes down like this - this odd looking french man living in L.A. films everything, that's his 'thing.' While visiting family in France, he films his cousin, street artist Invader, doing his thing. French dude becomes obsessed with street art, spends all his time filming various street artist doing their thing. He hears about Banksy (honestly, who hasn't these days?) and by fate, meets up with Banksy while he is in L.A. and films him around the city, showing him the best walls to tag and helping him his whole visit. The two become friends and Banksy encourages French dude to actually make his documentary about street art that he's been saying he was going to do for the longest time. French dude gets his shit together, makes this stupid looking movie, shows it to Banksy who rightly calls it shit. For some crazy reason, Banksy encourages this guy to maybe go back and do something in the art world and dude takes this as his holy task and goes back to L.A. and reinvents himself as Mr. Brainwash, this crazy and surprisingly prolific street artist. Dude creates his first show, which sounds like its going to be a epic disaster, but instead pulls off one of the most amazing art shows ever and soon starts selling art like crazy, making millions.

So, you say, where is the Hoax?

It might not be clear at first and I have to admit, I'm still confused. Is it true? Is it a hoax? I kind of like to give myself into the films I watch and let myself be the target audience - in this case a fresh faced art fan who really believes Mr. Brainwash is this new and amazing street artist who suddenly made this huge name for himself overnight. But I also like to question things ,and not always believe what I see. The rumor is Mr. Brainwash is a front for the combined works of Banksy and Shepard Fairey, another street artist (The OBEY guy - come on. I KNOW you know him...). Banksy is famous for being a bit of a trickster, so I wouldn't put it past him and Shepard, I don't know much about him but there this glint in his eyes, my friends. You know he's up to no good.

I love it, to be honest and hope it is a Hoax. Art takes itself way to seriously and it could use a good punch to the ego now and then, you know? And the art? Well, the Mr. Brainwash art isn't crap, that's for sure. There are some interesting pieces there, but interesting for a new comer or for Banksy?

Also makes me wonder - just why are you so afraid Banksy? Or is this cloak over your persona just a game now? People grovel for your art, so exposing yourself wouldn't be dangerous or risky for the Street Art movement. Others have done it, others have succeeded so why not you?

The damn hoax, that's why.

Or is it?

Fuck ...

Trash TV

2011-01-13T22:56:00.000-06:00

I have a horrible confession to make - I love Trash TV.

You know what I am talking about, horrible shows like "For Love of Money," or "Rock of Love," or even, god forbid, shows like "Teen Mom" and "Jersey Shore" (the last two I don't really watch as I don't have MTV, but man, if I did...)

I was driving to the radio station today to do the show and heard a commerical for the new season of American Idol and felt this strange giddy feeling in my stomach. Does this mean the start of a new Trash TV season is upon us? Time for me to flop down on the sofa and watch horrible train wrecks like American Idol? The show has run its course, so why I am still so interested to see the first few weeks of episodes - is it because I just can't look away from the mockery it has become of itself.

When I lived alone, I watched whatever crap I wanted on the TV. Now that I am co-habitating with my partner and our son, I sometimes feel I need to put a cap on the Trash TV watching. I am the type of person who would leave the Celebrity Rehab marathon on all day. I find myself suppressing these urges for the sanity of my partner.

I miss my TV independence, but I also suppose its a good thing. By being embarrassed of my TV viewing habits, I have been forced to refrain from watching too much crap.

Thanks family...

Disjointed

2011-01-03T22:04:00.000-06:00

There are two things I need to do, and I should do them right now. First is to clean out my purse. It's a horrible mess of papers, loose change, and stuff I really don't need. The second thing I need to do is throw my journal back in there.

In the past few weeks I've had some amazing ideas of things that I wanted to blog about. These thoughts just hit me out of the blue and I am itching to get home and write about them. But I don't make note of the idea or I think that I'll still remember it when I get home. I seem to forget in those moments that I have a two year old son running around and even if the idea is still strong when I get home, there is no guarantee that I'll be able to sit down at the computer long enough to pound out the idea on the keyboard. Usually what happens is the idea hits, I think its beyond awesome and I keep repeating it over and over in my head, trying to have it impress itself in my consciousness. I swear that when I get home, I'll set Hunter up with something to play with, something that will keep him completely occupied and I'll sit down here at my computer and blog or write about this amazing idea. So I get home and Hunter needs to be changed, or he is hungry or he just will not leave me alone, not even for a minute. So I cave and give him my attention. I pull the wooden blocks out of his toy chest and we sit on the floor playing with blocks. Then, before I know it, its 5:30 and I need to start getting supper ready. Punk Boy comes home around this time so there is the distraction of him and my son. Supper gets on the table, we eat and then I usually clean up the kitchen and give the boy a bath. Then there is a little bit more play time and then a story before bed and then he's tucked in.

By this time, I've completely forgotten what it was I wanted to write about. Its a shame. Not only does it mean this grand idea is now lost somewhere far off, it also is a constant reminder that my baby brain still isn't completely gone.

I swear I got stupid when I got knocked up. The simplest things were so hard to do mostly because I couldn't retain a goddamn thing. Punk Boy said to me today that while I am 'book smart,' I'm lacking 'logical smarts.' Did I have these before the kid was born? Did I lose the logical side of me then or did it just never really exists and I was mostly kidding myself? I wonder about myself sometimes, really. Its scary to realize your brain doesn't function the way it used to.

I can relate a little bit to my mother, who in the last ten years or so, always talks about how she is losing her memory, and how annoying and upsetting it can be. I would laugh it off constantly and tell her not to worry, that it really isn't as bad as she thinks it is. Maybe I'm just falling down with her?

There are things I need to do. I need to get rid of the clutter - mentally and physically. My desk at work is spotless, but my desk at home is in chaos and I feel like I'm in chaos. I need to clean this shit up. It's a new year, I should be focusing on starting fresh and keeping better track of things and myself.

Maybe then I wouldn't feel so disjointed.

THAT mother...

2010-12-27T20:55:00.001-06:00

When I was first living on my own, in my early to mid twenties, I was pretty selfish and lacked a whole lot of understanding and compassion. At the time, I never thought any of that would be a true statement, but having a few more years and a few more experiences under my belt has really showed me that yeah, I was a knob.

I preached back then about how much I believed in the compassion of the Buddha and told people over and over again that I lived my life by the Four Noble Truths and the Eight Fold Path. And in my mind, I'm sure I really believed I was a shining example of compassion. But, heaven forbid a baby would start screaming in a store, then my compassion and sympathy went right out the window as I cursed the mother and child under my breath. Why didn't they just leave? Why didn't that mother have more control over her child? What a failure and how dare they ruin my day!

I now know that I really lacked compassion and understanding back then because I became THAT mother over the holidays.

One thing I never thought about or even considered back then while listening to that child scream in the store was how the mother was feeling. My thoughts mostly focused around the 'shut the fuck up' concept and never gave the mother much thought.

The day before Christmas Eve, I still had two tasks to do - go grocery shopping and go to the Liquor store to get a bottle of wine that was to be a Christmas gift. These were two things I could not skip out on as it was my last opportunity to do both before the holidays and the success of the holidays depended on me completing these two tasks. After work I rushed to pick Hunter up from day care and the child was in fine, fine form when I got him. I was told he was cranky and whiny all day long - completely not himself. I wasn't too surprised as he had a very late night and an early morning and looked tired to me. I kind of laughed off his crying as I took him to the car and started to drive to the grocery store.

We didn't even get two feet in the store and he started to scream... loudly. I had to pull the cart over and try to talk some reasoning to him, try to calm him down. I thought in the back of my mind that if I could clam him down a little bit, I could rush through the shopping trip and at least get some of the main things I needed. He just wasn't cooperating so I raced down the aisles, not even looking at my list. My whole goal was to just get the fuck out of there with him as soon as possible. Of course, it being the day before Christmas Eve, the tills were completely backed up. I was lucky that by the time I got to the checkout, Hunter had calmed down a little bit and I was able to wait in line with him without too many out bursts. As I walked him and the groceries to the car, I started to think that maybe the trip to the Liquor Store might not be so bad. He seemed happy enough after I parked the car and we walked to the store.

Once we were inside, it was another story. I kind of figured I'd have to carry the little guy as there was way to many breakable things in the story. Hunter, on the other hand, had a different idea. He wanted to walk around and touch everything. After about two minutes in the store, I picked him up and the crying and screaming started. It didn't stop either. I quickly grabbed the first bottle of wine I saw that looked decent (don't even ask me what the bottle was, I don't remember. All I know is the bottle was pretty and it was in the price range and it was red) and rushed to the checkout. Again, being one of the last shopping days, the checkout was backed up. Hunter, who was not happy, was screaming and yelling and fighting me worse than he did on our first airplane ride. I was so humiliated and frustrated. I felt eyes on me from all over and I even caught a few sneers and eye rolls from people. If it was normal circumstances and I knew I had an opportunity to finish this another day, believe you me, I would have high-tailed it out of that store with the kiddo and just gone home. But I really couldn't.

I do have to say that some people really show true compassion in those moments. The lady in front of me in the check out line was wonderful, doing her best to distract hunter and even holding his boot for me when he kicked it off. The lady that brought me the cart was a godsend. As soon as that car twas brought over I was at least able to put Hunter in it and not worry too much about the bottles breaking. Some of the employees were doing their best to help, offering little nick-nacks and peek-a-boo games with kiddo. I got out of that store as quickly as possible, buckled Hunter into his car seat and cried all the way home.

I cried for two reasons. The first - I was fucking embarrassed and felt awful about ruining everyone's evening/shopping trip. The second was that I cried for my own stupidity and lack of compassion in my younger years for mothers who found themselves in this exact situation with their children.

Becoming THAT mother made me realize a lot about myself and how far I've come with being compassionate. I think if I was in a store and saw someone with a young child who was melting down, I would for sure do my best to help out, and if that wasn't possible, I know I would not be pissed off about the situation the way my younger self would have.

I guess growing up is good that way, you know?

Quiet Mornings

2010-12-16T07:19:00.000-06:00

I sometimes loath the fact that I've become a morning person. My job has forced me to do this. I have to be at the office at 7:30 in the morning, and because I wanted to keep this job for a long time, I learned really quickly what I needed to do to ensure I was rested and coherent when I arrived at work. This involves such things as getting to be no later than midnight if I can help it and keeping my wake up time consistent.

I used to have lots of trouble sleeping. I often suffered from insomnia and when that finally started to go away, I was cursed with restless feet that started early in my pregnancy and haven't stopped since. To make matters worse, while I was pregnant, I suffered from horrible pregnancy insomnia (look it up, its a horrible truth) that lasted until I gave birth to Hunter. Thankfully it went away shortly after his birth, but guess what? Those horrible restless feet decided to stay around and haunt me every once in a while.

To be honest, my sleep troubles are no where near where they used to be. I wake up in the morning and usually, I feel rested and ready to take on the world. The odd night where I am annoyed by the restless feet, I can deal with. Besides, it usually means I need to up in iron intake, that's all.

So, why the change? I started working for my employer back in 2005, so since then I've been getting up between 5:30 and 6:00 AM every weekday. We can't attribute my good sleeping to popping out the child. Ever thought Hunter is a fantastic sleeper, thank god, my nights are not as peaceful as they used to be and those rare days when I can sleep in till noon, it doesn't happen as kiddo is usually up no later than 8:30. No, my good sleeping came with a lot of difficult and adjustment. It also came with some personal sacrifices. I work early, so no late week nights for me. It would be rare to see me out past midnight on a weekday. I keep things consistent and here I am, awake and dressed at seven AM. I was up at six even thought I didn't need to be. I could have gone back to sleep but why? I enjoy the peacefulness of the morning. I love the hum of traffic 21 stories below me. I like the quiet. When I sleep in now, I feel the day has been wasted. I do love to sleep in sometimes and on weekend, when I am able, I will sometimes curl up in bed till almost eleven. But over time I've become a believer in the tune 'early to bed, early to rise.'

This knowledge of my sleep patterns and misadventures is coming in very hand. Punk boy has started a new job that requires him to leave the house at seven in the morning, the same time I am usually starting my walk to work. Anyone who reads this or knows me can understand what a shit storm this could be. Punk Boy loves to stay up super late and sleep in super late - ever since I've known him. This is mostly attributed to the fact he used to work nights, so some of it is ingrained in him. Weekend nights I would kiss him good night at about eleven, crawl into bed and wake up at 4 in the morning to find he isn't in bed next to me. A quick step outside the bedroom would find it locked into his computer, playing video games or just checking out things on the Internet.

My darling has had to change his sleep habits completely. He wasn't looking forward to it and I know he wasn't confident that it could work for him. I shared a few things with him that helped me get over my insomnia and work towards getting to bed at a decent time and waking up feeling rested and read for the day.

Use your bed only for sleeping (and, well, other 'bed' sanctioned activities). What I mean by this is don't use your bed as a desk, or as a place to talk on the phone. Your body needs to associate 'sleep' with your bed and by doing other activities in it, it is harder for your body to make that connection
Try to do the exact same thing every night before sleep. For me, I read. It doesn't have to be a lot, even a page or two, but try to do it every time before you go to bed. By doing the same activity, your body will realize that its time to start shutting down for sleep. It works best if this is an activity you can do in the bed, like reading, or writing in a diary or watching the late news.
Go to bed around the same time every night. We hammer this into parents heads that if you want your child to sleep well, you have to be consistent with bed times. Why do we forget for ourselves? There is really no reason for it. Do we somehow thing we are beyond having a regular bedtime? We really shouldn't be.
Take the time to learn the cycle your body is on. I am a firm believer that everyone's body goes on a sleep/awake cycle. Most people it's about seven hours. You sleep seven hours, you wake up and in about seven hours, you hit a bit of a wall where you feel a tad tired. This is the exact schedule my body works on. I wake up at six AM and usually between 1 and 2 in the afternoon, I get a bit tired. Pay attention to your body and note what time you wake up and what time during the day you feel a bit tired or played out. Use this to judge how many hours of sleep a night your body needs. This used to be about five to six hours for me before, but its changed to seven to eight. I don't know how scientific this is, but I find if my sleep is crazy, I pay attention to this sleep/awake cycle my body has reassess how much sleep a night I need and I usual feel better.

I had to admit we are having success with Punk Boy. While mornings are not really his thing, and he does need some help from me to get up and get going, it is a vast improvement. And its nice to go to bed with a warm body next to you then to sleep half the night away alone in bed...

#reverb10

2010-12-05T21:23:00.000-06:00

Today's prompt:

December 5 – Let Go. What (or whom) did you let go of this year? Why? (Author: Alice Bradley)

Did I let go of anyone? No, I've been lucky that this year I didn't lose anyone close to me. It's a relief to know I still have everyone close to me who I started the year off with.

Of course there has been losses, but they are distant, removed from me. A lady I used to work with was killed in car crash a few weeks ago. Her and her husband were killed in the crash while the four children with them (they have five) were all injured, but are alive. This horrible loss is distant from me but it still makes me sad, still makes me cry.

I think that I've decided to let go of the attitude, of the horrible state of mind I was in. I decided to let go of all that and embrace my mothering instinct. I need to do this. The past 30 years of my life were all about me - its time to give up being selfish and make it all about the child. This is a new leaf I am turning, now that I feel somewhat mentally healthy. I'm not completely better, but I am getting there, that's for sure.

Today, I even did crafts with my child. I am not a 'crafty' person, not at all, but I sat with him got my fingers filled with glue and glitter as we made Christmas Tree cards to give to our family. This is not my usual way to spend a Sunday afternoon, but I did it and I think both the kiddo and I were better for it.

Nothing a little water can't get rid of, or a quick vacuum.

#reverb10

2010-12-04T20:57:00.000-06:00

Another month, another writing challenge. I can dig it. I do better when motivated by things out of my realm of control.

Heard about #reverb10 from someone on Twitter, so thought I'd check it out. You get daily prompts about things to write about. I'm a few days late, so I figured I'd catch up in one evening and get set up to write every day after that.

For more info on #reverb10, check out the website

So let's start:

DECEMBER 1 - ONE WORD: Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you? (Author: Gwen Bell)

Hectic.

Simple and to the point - my life this year was a complete whirlwind. I can't believe the year is almost over as it really flew by. Between watching the kiddo grow up, numerous weddings, working, DJ'ing and writing, I've really had a lot on my plate this year.

For next year, I hope the word to be 'healthy.' I want to feel both mentally and physically well. I'm slowly getting there on both fronts but I want to be enraptured in a years time.

December 2 – Writing. What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it? (Author: Leo Babauta)

That's tough. I do lots of things each day that don't really contribute. I work full time, and am a full time mom. That gobbles up the majority of my time. After that, its spending time with my partner and then my music. I suppose I could cut down on the DJ'ing gigs, which is something I am planning to do anyway. I need to spend a bit more time at home, need to be with the family a little bit more, so that would help give me some time towards writing. I suppose I could also just stop playing Wii, but suck that.

December 3 – Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). (Author: Ali Edwards)

Wow, one moment where I felt completely alive.Hard to pick something so grand, don't you think? This year for me was to busy and to much of a bumbled mess to really remember any such moment. Why is it that the negative just takes over completely? Why is it all I can see?

Any moment where I felt completely alive has been a moment of utter panic, or stress, or distress. I hate to say it, but part of its true. This was a year of complete adjustment to a new way of life - working mom. It ain't that easy, let me tell you.

Of course there were fantastic moments spending time with my son, my family. I spent a great week in Ottawa with my sister, I had a fantastic second birthday for my son.

But one fantastic moment? I'm honestly at a loss. Can I just write off this year?

December 4 – Wonder. How did you cultivate a sense of wonder in your life this year? (Author: Jeffrey Davis)

I decided, probably in the last little bit of this year, to look at life through the eyes of my son. There is a constant sense of wonder in his daily life and I miss that. I miss being so amazed and so in rapture of everything that I've really decided its time to get onto his level.
To look out the window and be amazed by snow, to get excited about going out for a drive - I want to feel that happy. I don't remember the last time I was THAT happy and I need that sense of wonder in my life. He gives it to me and I thank him every day.

Can't Write...

2010-12-02T13:03:00.002-06:00

Playing Lego Batman...

Nanowrimo update

2010-11-29T20:52:00.000-06:00

Ta da!

50,053 words in 29 days..

I need a beer

Nanowrimo Update

2010-11-05T17:07:00.000-05:00

How does this always happen? Not even a full week into the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and I'm behind.

Fuck, I know exactly why I'm behind.

The start of November has been a bit crazy, with my Story Telling event taking priority over everything. With that out of the way (it went off without a hitch last night - was great!), I can now focus on the challenge at hand - finish a 50,000 word novel in a month.

I don't think I'm really stressing as I've done this twice before - I know I can do it.

This year, I am writing a journal of sorts for the kiddo, something he can hopefully discover when he is my age, parenting his own children, so he knows and sees what things were like.

I'm stressing because I really have nothing else to stress about right now.

Here is a taste of what NaNoWriMo is producing from me.. enjoy:

I was listening to a podcast called Radiolab on the way home from work on my iPod and they were re-visiting an old question that the two had discussed on a morality show a while back. The question was this – its war time, your hiding in a basement with some of your villagers and the enemy soldiers are outside, with orders to kill everyone they find, no questions asked. You are huddled, holding your young baby, who has a cold. If your baby coughs, and they find you and your baby, they will kill everyone who you are in hiding with. The only way to hide you and all your villagers is to cover your baby’s mouth so they don’t cough. This would smother your baby and end up killing it. So what would you do? Would you kill your baby to save the mass amount of villagers hiding out with you, or would you let the child cough and in turn, damn everyone to death? While walking I thought of you, sleeping, peacefully. I thought of you laughing, smiling as you tried to tickle me and while I understand how dangerous it is and how not right it is for me to take the lives of all those people in my hands, but I just couldn’t kill you. I’ve developed this crazy protective instinct when it comes to you and I would rather die than see you die.

It scares me how true that last statement is. I never would have ever thought I’d get to a point in my life where I’d really and truly care about something more than I cared about myself, but I am here and its completely fucking with me. For the last 29 years of my life, it has been completely about me and I was more than fine with that. I worked hard to give myself everything I wanted – I pampered myself. It’s hard to change that view when you aren’t really prepared to do it. When you came around, kiddo, the last thing I wanted to do was to have to share everything about myself with someone else. I wasn’t ready to let go of it all. Not only did I have to change how I spent my time because of someone else, I also had to share the focus of my partners affections for the first time. I can admit to my selfishness in wanting him all to myself – the though of sharing him made me worry. Would I be able to? Would this faint feeling of resentment I had go away eventually?

Of course it did, and I know now I was a complete fool for thinking it might not. What was wrong with me?

Countdown

2010-10-31T21:11:00.000-05:00

Time is ticking downwards. In less than four hours, I'll be able to steam right into another year of Nanowrimo.

I have been doing this for the past three years, not counting 2008 when I moved during the first of November and just couldn't get it together enough to write anything at all that month.That move STRESSED me out completely - it took me a while to recover.

Apart from my one year of absence from Nanowrimo, I've dong it constantly, and have completed the challenge every time I've singed up for it.

I'm nervous about it this year. Trust be told, I get nervous about it every year. Last year was the first time I did it with a attention grabbing child in the house. The year before that, Hunter was so little that I was able to easily find a way to work Nanowrimo into our schedule. Again, this year will be a challenge with Hunter being almost two. I will have to spend most, if not all, of my time writing when he is in bed for the night or napping. This is pretty much the rule for last year as well and I was able to get the novel finished.

So why am I freaking out? I know I can do it, I did last year. I even finished a bit early last year and THAT was while fighting some horrible writers block.

I've got a plan this year, am using a really easy concept to write my story and have been having success with motivation when it comes to writing. I should be more positive than I am.

I suppose I'm afraid I won't live up to my own expectations. Every year that I've put my mind to doing Nanowrimo, I've completed it. It would be a shame to fail at it when I've really got everything going for me this month. Apart from one event on November 4th, I've left the month open. Why am I so worried?

I think to me failure would be awful, considering I'm setting myself up NOT to fail.

Wish me luck...

You can keep up with my process here in my blog. Please feel free to give me all the support you can, I feel like I might need it.

My Cookies Don't Look Like the Picture

2010-10-21T13:52:00.007-05:00

I love to hate and hate to love baking.

I find these groovy little cookie recipes and whenever I make they, they never look like the picture. It's annoying and completely frustrating.

I follow the instructions completely (alright, in this case, I cut back a little bit on the chocolate chips in the cookies due to the fact they wanted two cups and all I had was a cup and a half) and I always end up with something that looks like a five year old made.

On the taste front, the things I cook and bake are usually delicious, but mostly, they look like crap.

Today's example, a chocolate crackle cookie, smells and taste fantastic (so far, I only had one that has been sitting out of the over for about fifteen minutes), but look nothing like the picture. Annoying!
Take a look at the recipe in the cook book - cute little round cookies, with a nice, broken and crackled looking top.

Now, look at my attempt. Flat, messy and not at ALL like the picture. What gives?

My second batch were a bit closer to the picture, but still not as beautiful. Yes, I know they hire people and pay them stupid amounts of money to make the pictures in the cook books look amazing. But it's an unrealistic expectation of the common suburban mom who just wants to make some home made cookies for her little brat.

I think someone should make a cook book with pictures of the dishes as made by NORMAL people. Maybe I wouldn't be so hard on myself then..

P.S. the cookies are killer good.. if you want to give them a shot, here is the recipe:

Milk Chocolate Fudge Crackles

1/4 Cup Crisco All-Vegetable Shortening
1 Cup Semi-sweet Chocolate Chips
1/4 Cup Sugar
2 Eggs
1 - 150ml can of Eagle Brand Regular or Low Fat Sweetened Condensed Milk
1 Tsp Vanilla Extract
1 1/2 Cup All Purpose Flour
1/2 tsp Baking Powder
1/4 Tsp Salt
1 1/2 Cups Milk Chocolate Chips
2/3 cup Icing Sugar

Heat oven to 325F

In a glass bowl in the microwave, melt shortening and semi-sweet chocolate chips on medium. Add in sugar and eggs one at a time, stirring well after each addition. Let cool for five minutes.

Mix in sweetened condensed milk and vanilla. Add next four ingredients. Mix well. Cover with plastic wrap and refrigerate for 1 1/2 hours up to 8 hours.

Sift icing sugar into a shallow bowl. Between palms of hand, roll pieces of chilled dough to form 1 1/3" balls. Drop balls into icing sugar and toss lightly until well coated. Place on prepared baking sheets and flatten very slightly. Repeat with remaining dough.

Bake each sheet in preheated over for about 11 - 13 minutes. Cookies are done when they just begin to feel firm when pressed in the centre. Let cool on baking sheet on wire rakes for five minutes. Transfer cookies to wire rack to cool completely

NOTE: I used blocks of semi-sweet chocolate, worked just a swell. I also found, don't smoosh the cookies with a fork, doesn't make them look 'pretty.' I experimented a bit after writing this and found that if you cover the balls REALLY well with the icing sugar and then smoosh just a little bit with your hands, you get a nicer, more like the picture, looking cookie.

Enjoy!

UPDATE: my last batch looked more like the picture! Success! Guess my complaining was all in vain...

Relating

2010-10-20T11:32:00.003-05:00

I will be the first to admit that I have a short fuse when it comes to my temper and being annoyed. Sometimes, I can draw the fuse out, but in moments where I am not in a good mood or am under the weather, that fuse is short and there is nothing on this green earth you can do to change that.

This is something I have know about myself for years. Growing up, I was quick to anger. My mother would then lecture me, while I was mad, about my temper. This, in turn, would ignite my short fuse again and I'd be off. I remember sometimes not being able to calm down for hours after those arguments. It got to the point where, even before we got into the heated argument type stuff, I would tell her to not talk about me and my temper because it would just irritate me more.

I do have to admit, things have improved with age. I like to think, I have worked hard on this. I'm all for self-improvement, by the way.

But still, in my adult life, I find myself igniting and my fuse is burned down in a quick flash and there I go, off on something that, most likely, shouldn't warrant me getting frustrated and angry over.

Motherhood has digressed me a bit on this. Hunter is almost two years old and true to form, he has hit that stage where for ever five good minutes, there is one of pure annoyance with him. Terrible twos, or something like that. Every minute of every day, he is testing me, trying me and working on me. He is seeing what he can get away with, what his boundaries are and its my duty as a parent to provide walls and boundaries to him that are impenetrable.

It's hard. I get frustrated with him, and sometimes I know I shouldn't.

He's been sick for the last week or so, and I know that him not feeling well has been adding to his sour mood and the increase in crying and 'hissy fits.' The issue is that I can't relate to him. I don't understand what is going on in his head, his body. I can offer no sympathy to him when he crumbles a cookie up into a million pieces and throws it on the floor because I can't relate to how he is feeling.

Well, I couldn't relate, that is, until this morning.

I've been pretty susceptible to all of Hunter's colds since he's been born. If he gets it, it's pretty likely that I will be getting it at some point, at some level. I woke up this morning at five AM feeling like someone had shot all my sinus full of cotton balls. To top it all off, my right eye was dry, scratchy and leaking. It wasn't until I finally looked at myself in a mirror a few hours later that I realized that said right eye is red, crusted over and puffy. The skin around the eye is also red and dry. Fantastic. It is bothering my like a motherfucker and the cotton-ball sinuses aren't helping either.

But, let me tell you, I can now relate to how the kiddo has been feeling for the last few days and all I gotta say is this.. I sure as heck feel like crumbling something to a million pieces myself and throw it around.

MKULTRA

2010-10-18T23:01:00.003-05:00

If you know me, even on a very basic level, you know my love of all things subversive. It's this strange, almost pathological obsession that compounds itself in these small ways in my life.

I'm fixated with Ken Kesey, yet my knowledge of him, apart from the basic, is limited. I know he wrote One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, and I know he used money from the sales and marketing of that book to fund his many adventures with the merry pranksters. I know he was an acid head and found himself associating with the likes of Tom Wolfe, Hunter S. Thompson and the Beat writers.

These things I know.

What I didn't know is how he came to write One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. I had no idea his seemingly inside view of what life was like in a mental hospital in the late 1950s came from personal experience from working late nights as an orderly in one. I didn't know he had such a strong connection to the characters he wrote about. I should have known this - his view is so personal and honest. I didn't know he volunteered to be a part of a top secret CIA project called Project MKULTRA, where the effects of such drugs as LSD and Peyote were studied. MKULTRA's main goal was to see if you could create a 'Manchurian Candidate,' via drugs and mind control who would do exactly what you told them too. Scary shit.

I sometimes feel my heroes are perplexing. They are even to myself. Did Kesey have any idea the inherent dangers of Project MKULTRA when he signed up, or was he just interested in the opportunity to experiment with the drugs he later became synonymous with? It's hard to say where ones logic lies. History tells us that the CIA failed in MKULTRA, and no Manchurian Candidate was created. But I can't help but think what if?

What if Kesey, or anyone did become warped to the point where they lost themselves completely? Where would we be? No Merry Pranksters and no One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest.

Fate is a very strange thing. Karma, maybe, is a better word for it. Things have to happen in a very specific way, at very specific times for a specific outcome to be produced. Take, for example, the conception of a child. Everything has to be so perfectly matched between man and women at that very specific moment for conception to take place. It's crazy how specific you have to be. It must be the same way with the way Kesey's life evolved. The CIA learned you couldn't control minds with drugs, but Kesey found some other uses and helped spread the word of LSD across America in the 1960s.

Fucked, no?

I'm probably thinking to hard about things. I can't get the circumstances out of my head. Being surrounded by mental patients, some being treated with electric shock therapy, others lobotomized and then subjecting yourself to a CIA experiment that goes right for your main control system, right for the brain. This crazy and fucked up combination gave us the glory of Kesey and One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, which if you haven't read, I recommend you do.

Where is my line of fate leading me? While I subject myself to more ironic situations, such as this? Probably. My life appears to be full of ironically juxtapose situations.

What's next?

Prorities

2010-10-09T21:19:00.006-05:00

Crap, why is when I know I should do something, I get sidetracked by the state of my desk?

I'm horrible at keeping this thing organized lately.

Cleaning it now.. lets see how long this takes...

Done - took all of about ten minutes and I suddenly feel a little bit calmer. I love my work space. I always have. I find something soothing and comforting about my desk, when its clean of course.

This is where I work when at home, where I do all my writing. This is where I have done all my writing from the time I was in University. When my sister first moved out, my parents decided to purchase a futon for her now empty bedroom and a desk for me to work at. The one I was using was beyond help - falling apart and wobbly. My parents found this desk and after looking at it once in the store, I feel in love with it. It's heavy wood, sturdy and classic. There was something about it that screamed 'CREATE' to me and I couldn't wait for it to arrive.

This desk has traveled with me just about everywhere. When I moved out for the first time to live with my sister, due to space, I had to leave it at home and use one of her old desks for my own. It never felt right. There was something about it that just didn't fit. The creativity didn't happen and I stopped writing for the short time I lived with her. When I moved into my own first apartment, I originally came without the desk, as my parents didn't think it would mesh in the apartment or that I would need it. After about one week of living without it, I pleaded with my dad to bring me my desk.

It wasn't an easy task for him. This desk weighs a ton and it wasn't easy for him to move from Lockport to Winnipeg. It changed things for me, and I was more creative than I had been in a long time. I decided then that this desk would never be left behind, no matter how difficult it was to move around. Something about it was a part of me. It's hard to explain, I suppose. Or maybe its not. Creativity is sometimes brought on by the environment you are in and whats around you. This desk surrounds me in the written words I love.

In the alcove, right about my computer monitor is books, many books. These are the words I love, I read over and over again or have touched me in some meaningful way. I don't think you can see by the picture, but here is what's always at a bit above eye level for me:

Third Edition of The heath Anthology of American Literature
The Complete Works of Shakespeare
Euripides "The Bacchae and Other Plays"
R. K. Narayan "The Ramayana"
William S. Burroughs "Exterminator!"
Sophocles "The Three Theban Plays"
Penguin collection of Greek Literature
John Lennon "In His Own Wright & A Spaniard in the Works"
William S. Burroughs "Naked Lunch"
Benjamin Hoff "The Tao of Pooh"
William S. Burroughs "Interzone"
J. D. Salinger "Nine Stories
Lewis Carroll "Through the Looking Glass"
Allan Ginsberg "Howl and Other Poems"
A collection of Zen Poems
J.D. Salinger "The Catcher in The Rye"
Ayn Rand "Atlas Shrugged"
Pauline Reage "The Story of O"
Viveka-Chudamani "Shankara's Crest-Jewel of Discrimination - Timeless Teachings on Nonduality"
Ayn Rand "Anthem"
Jack Kerouac "Poems All Sizes"
Sixth Edition, Volume Two of the Norton Anthology of English Literature (I lent the first one to someone, not sure where it is now...)
Fifth Edition, Volume Two of the Norton Anthology of American Literature

Massive list.

It doesn't end there.

To my right, on my desk are the following:

The Oxford Concise English Dictionary (which was part of the Book Award I received in High School)
The Canadian Writer's Handbook
Hunter S. Thompson "Better Than Sex"
Hunter S. Thompson "Hell's Angels"
Eco "Six Walks in the Fiction Woods"
Hunter S. Thompson "Generation of Swine"
Hunter S. Thompson "The Proud Highway"
Tom Wolfe "The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby"
Hunter S. Thompson "The Great Shark Hunt"
Hunter S. Thompson "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail"

To my left, on my desk is a mini shrine. I have a Tibetan Buddhist Bell and the head of a Tara. I used to keep some Buddhist prayer beads out here as well, but now that the kiddo is old enough to reach my desk, they have been moved to a place where he can't touch them.

This is where I create and where I usually feel most comfortable. Why am I thinking so hard about creation and the space I surround myself in? Two reasons, I suppose. First is that my Story Telling event will be happening in about a months time.

I'm nervous but I also feel somewhat ready for it. I need to send an email to all the people who have so graciously volunteered to tell stories to give them a run down of what I need for them and what they should expect of me. I am nervous to do so in case any of them have suddenly decided they aren't interested anymore or have forgotten that they have made the commitment. I promise myself to get it done by the end of the long, Canadian Thanksgiving weekend.

The second reason is I am starting to think and prep for Nanowrimo. November is coming up fast and I am in the prep stages for this challenge. I tried it last year and was able to complete it, even with a one year old running around. It was difficult and I shut myself in for one month but I think I can do it, I feel I can do it. I have the start of a solid idea that, if done properly, could turn into something fantastic for the kiddo. I plan to write a diary of sorts, which will be a record of the second birthday of my son. He will be turning two on November 25th and I want him to remember and know about all the funny and crazy things he did at this age, because my god he's incredible. The amount he talks and knows and does blows my mind on a daily basis. I want him to know about it all. I also find that I constantly ask my mother "did I do that at his age" and she can't remember. She once said she wished she has kept some sort of record so she could answer me. I am going to do that and I will use Nanowrimo as my starting point.

I'm excited about the concept, but also nervous about it. Am I up to the challenge?

PostFiction

2010-09-22T22:30:00.003-05:00

A friend of mine at work informed me of a really cool art/school project a friend of his is embarking on and I really wanted to share it with everyone.

The project is called PostFiction. PostFiction is similar to Post Secrets in form, with a few slight differences. For those of you living under a rock for the past few years, Post Secrets is a project where people send in their secrets, anonymously, on postcards. Please do check out the website, which is updated with new secrets every Sunday.

PostFiction is the same concept, except instead of secrets, the people behind this idea are asking for your stories, poetry and other works of fiction. Here is the information my friend passed on to me about the project.

-First Issue will be publishing in November 2010
-To be a part of PostFiction, submit a 4 x 6 photo or postcard with a poem or a very short story written on the back
-Please keep the story under 250 words or about 25 lines
-Writing and the image should relate in some way
-All styles and genres are welcome
-Deadline for submissions is OCTOBER 31, 2010
-IMPORTANT - include a brief biography of yourself with your submission

PostFiction submissions can be mailed to:

POSTFICTION
758 Beverly Street
Winnipeg, MB R3E 2A6

I mailed two postcards today to the project. One is an old Beatles postcard I had kicking around, of the boys out promoting the Sgt. Pepper album. I wrote a very short story about Ringo's dissatisfaction with the group.

The second piece I created was on a crazy postcard I bought years and years ago but never knew what to do with. I picked it up because I loved the picture - Salvador Dali and Alice Cooper in 1973.
The poem I included on the back is as such:

To be surreal
Is more than using
Crutches to support
Phallic images of your mother
Or pretending to pick
Someone's Brain, literally

To be surreal
Is to defy
The common code of conduct
And to break the barrier
Between fact and fiction
With sharp strokes
On canvas

To be surreal
Is to be completely submersed
In the oddity you have created
Did you really use
That Lobster Phone?

To be surreal
Is to be as you were
As you are
As you will always
Be - surreal

TELL - Tales from the 204

2010-09-21T17:46:00.001-05:00

I'm planning a story telling event in Winnipeg in early November. The event is titled "TELL - Tales from the 204" and is a live, story telling show with people telling personal stories, live and without notes! Check out the facebook event HERE.

People seem really interested in the event and I'm excited to see that from those who are fans of the facebook page, and anyone I mention the event too.

I am looking still looking for Story Tellers for this event.

The concept is simple. Story tellers will tell a story, no longer than 10 minutes, on the theme of firsts. This theme is open to how ever you wish to interpret it! Stories must be personal and will be told without the aid of notes.

The event is going to be a fun and casual evening at Aqua Books in Winnipeg on November 4th.

Interested in getting invovled? I'm also looking for a few people to help me run the evening.

Drop a line at TELL204@gmail.com

Dandy

2010-09-20T20:47:00.002-05:00

I'm obsessed with Sebastian Horsley. It's starting to verge slightly on unhealthy.

He was brash, he was beautiful, he was horse, he was a performance, he was a Dandy.

Maybe the last true Dandy, I don't know. I think Dandies want the whole world to know they are dandies and be recognized for that. When I think of the world 'Dandy,' I only think of two people - Oscar Wilde and Sebastian Horsley. If there was another Dandy around, I'm sure I would have heard of him, and I haven't.

I first heard of Sebastian a while back. He did some crazy stunt where he crucified himself while in the Philippines as a part of an art project. I was interested in an artist living in the states at the time and he mentioned the name Sebastian Horsley to me, told me about his Crucifixion and how he wanted to do that on stage as well as part of a performance piece he was working on. The name got filled away in the recesses of my mind and I soon forgot about it.

It wasn't until this interview played on the Q podcast the first time that I became more intrigued.

His views were interesting, the tales he told of his live sucked me in and I wrote the title of his book on a sticky note and posted it on the wall on my cubical at work. I looked at that note day after day, trying to make a mental note to remember to look for the book, "Dandy in the Underworld." I never had luck finding the book. Chapter's never seemed to have it and the smaller book stores were out of the question.

This past year, when I read that he had passed away due to a drug overdose, I made a better effort to find his book. I'm completely enraptured by it and complete obsessed with this swine.

I love him...

Channeling my Inner Foodie

2010-09-01T22:31:00.011-05:00

I've decided I need to embrace my ability to cook and bake. I'm not as bad at it as I think I am. I need to remember than when taking risks in the kitchen. Tonight, I tried two new dishes - a main course and a sweet bread for after super.

First - the main course Recipe

Spicy Scallops

2 heaping tablespoons of Mustard Powder
1 tablespoon Wasabi Powder
3 tablespoons sugar
2 teaspoons dried red chili flakes
2 minced cloves of garlic
2-4 tablespoons finely chopped scallions
1 - 2 tablespoons of good oil (peanut or olive oil)
12 Jumbo Scallops, muscles removed

I was cleaning out the freezer and found a small bag of shrimp in there that really needed to be used up. I honestly didn't think it wouldn't make too much of a difference. It didn't, but this recipe is way better with scallops, and next time I make it, trust me, I will be using scallops. I also used a regular onion instead of scallions, which really didn't make much of a difference.

First step is to combine the mustard powder, wasabi (I didn't have any, so didn't use it), sugar and dried red chili flakes in a shallow bowl and set aside. It looked awesome! The sugar gave it a great sheen, and it smelled really good. The wasabi powder would have given it an extra kick, but I had a feeling it would be spicy enough with out it.

In a large pan, I started to saute the onions and garlic in the olive oil. To make it taste a little richer, I added a good dollop of butter. How did I survive without butter? I used to always have margarine in the house, never butter, until I started to live with Punk Boy and my food experience has been greatly improved since then. My hips, not so much. I let the onions and garlic cook until soft. I love the way onions frying smell. So amazing.

After the onions and garlic reached the right point, I dredged the shrimp in the mustard mixture. Its important not to do this in advance, as the coating will become clumpy and just end up a mess. Only dredge as you are adding to the pan. I saute the shrimp for a few minutes on each side and started to get seriously disappointed as the coating never got crunchy as the recipe claimed it would. It stuck to the shrimp and cooked, but also became slightly sticky. I tried not to get frustrated and tended to the spaghetti noodles that I placed in big pot of boiling water and sea salt.

I think that is my main problem when cooking. When something doesn't turn out exactly how I think it should, I get upset. I need to roll with the punches. Just because my dish wasn't turning out exactly how I had hoped, doesn't mean its going to be a mess. I decided fuck it, I was going to make this work.

Once the shrimp were done, I removed them from the pan and put them in a warm metal dish (I filled it with hot water and dumped it, leaving the bowl nice and warm). To be honest, it looked disgusting. The coating wasn't sticking and did not crisp up the way I had hoped. I figured some Parmesan cheese would fix it, so sprinkled a good amount on top and waited for the pasta. Once the pasta was done, I drained it, added a touch of butter and then tossed it with the shrimp mess I just made.

After tossing with the pasta, the dish started to not look that bad. The coating that didn't stick on the shrimp got all mixed up with the pasta, onions, garlic and cheese and was tasty. The shrimp could have been better as they had been in the freezer too long, but tasted pretty good. I think the best part is I was able to make something pretty awesome with a few changes and some improvisation on my part. I'd do the dish again, for sure and would recommend the recipe to anyone, but would not use shrimp next time. Besides, I do like scallops better anyway.

For desert, I made this awesome strawberry banana loaf. I prepared it before cooking the shrimp and pasta dish and let it cook while making and eating supper.

Strawberry Banana Loaf

2 cups flour
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 cup brown sugar
1/2 cup white sugar
1/2 butter
2 eggs
1/2 cup sour cream
1/2 teaspoon vanilla
3 mashed bananas
1 cup (or more) of chopped strawberries.

I found three bananas and a little over a cup of frozen strawberries in the fridge that I wanted to use up. Every time I opened that stupid freezer door, those damn bananas would fall out and I'd do this crazy jumping dance to make sure they didn't hit my sensitive toes.

The bread is easy. Heat over to 350F. Mix all the dry ingredients in a small bowl, and all the wet ingredients in a larger bowl. Slowly add the flour mixture to the wet and mix well. The frozen strawberries actually looked really fresh and ripe. The gave the mixture this pretty pink color. Also, if you are a lover of the sour cream, as I am, let me recommend the Olympic brand. It comes in a black container (green if you get organic) and is the best sour cream I've ever had - rich and thick.

So, once the mixture was together, I poured it slowly into a greased bread pan. The whole thing was popped in the oven and timer set for one hour. By the time we were finished dinner, the loaf was ready to be pulled out of the oven.

The idea is to let the loaf sit in the pan for about ten minutes, then flip it out carefully onto a cooling rack. I always slice the bread to early, but I love that warm, soft banana bread and the way the butter just melts even before contact. I cut into the thing way to early, but it was wonderful. The sour cream gave the loaf a more mild taste, cutting the banana flavor down a little bit. The strawberries were a great addition. The best part of the loaf is that our apartment smells amazing, like I slaved all day in the kitchen, when really it was just a few hours.

So the house didn't burn down, no one is sick and I feel some sense of accomplishment. Amazing, isn't it? I used to hate cooking. I was the type that would use my stove to store sweaters in the summer - no lie. Whats become of me? Do I mind it? Not really, to be honest. There is something intriguing in this whole process. We'll see how long this lasts...

Roots

2010-08-26T22:09:00.002-05:00

It's strange. The older I get, the more in touch with my heritage I become. When I was a teenager, the thought of getting my kitchen full of flour from one end to the other to make a couple dozen perogies didn't entice me in the least. These days, I'm just about itching to do it.

I think, since I am off this week, that it is time to make a few dozen. My friend Sonja is expecting a baby soon and I'd love to pass on a few dozen for her to keep stored in the fridge for those days when you just don't have the time to cook. Also, nothing, and I mean nothing, beats home made perogies.

I grew up with a vast amount of authentic, home made Ukrainian dishes. I didn't even know what store bough perogies tasted like till I was in my mid twenties. I was dating a chef at the time who, and I never got this, thought cooking me a good meal was taking a bag of Safeway brand perogies and cooking them up for us. Yeah, he cooks all day so probably the last thing he really wanted to do was come home and cook for me, I get it, but really, buddy. I would have rather taken one of your quesadillas over that shitty dinner. We would stumble home drunk and he would make the most amazing quesadillas and grilled cheese sandwiches I ever had.

So the older I get, the more 'motherly' I become, the more I want to teach my child about his culture. I want to feed him all these Ukrainian foods that I grew up with, and I want him to be proud of that part of his family.

So I'm thinking next week I might just take a day and go for it.

We'll see if I still feel this way in a few days...

Purgatory

2010-08-25T23:00:00.004-05:00

It's quite in the house. I'm debating turning off the TV, but after that quite background noise, all the would be left is the hum of the computer and the slight buzz when the air condition in the suite kicks on. I leave the TV on because I need more than that. I need to hear other human voices, as distant and removed from as they are on the TV.

Last night was rough. When knocked up I got a wicked case of 'restless foot' syndrome. Shortly after having the Sea Monkey, it faded away, but ever once in a while it rears its head in my direction and simple things like working at the computer or sleeping become monster tasks that I just can't handle. It's hard to sleep when your feet want to do nothing more than move around like that stupid dancing penguin's feet in "Happy Feet." I hate it. I must be low on iron, that seems to be the only time it kicks up.

Punk Boy is sleeping. We had a little bit of a tiff - both of us are on edge and some time away from each other lead to him falling asleep early. He's sick, so his body needs the sleep to recovery. I'm glad he is in there. I checked on both him and the little one and they are both sleeping soundly. But their sleeping leads to me sitting in this strangely quiet room.

I've been thinking a lot lately, about life and love. It's this crazy cycle that moves long, no matter what you are doing in your own little world. You forget about people, you get distanced from them and just like your life, their cycle goes on with out. I sometimes wish I could hold everyone I meet close to me, so I never feel like I am neglecting them. It's funny how I used to feel the opposite, how I just wished I knew less people so I wouldn't have to deal with the stress of trying to keep up with everyone. I'm remembering today that it's a good stress and being social with all sorts of people, all kinds of friends is GOOD for you.

Inglorious Bastards just started on the Movie Channel. I'd recognize that beginning music anywhere, where the girl is running away from the house where her family was shot to death below the floor boards. It's intense - tight thundering strings, going on forever, in that constant hum. I'm to tired to watch it right now, but the noise, yes that great noise, is keeping me interested, and pulling me away from writing.

I need to get more focused on the writing. I was reading this blog the other day and realized that the last few times I posted was when I was sick. I need to make the time to write, not just do it when I'm sick and I HAVE the time. Writing is important to me, anyone who has known me for years knows that. I've been doing nothing but writing since the fourth grade. How many kids know what they want to do with the rest of their lives in the fourth grade? I did. I wanted to write. I still want to write and I still do write. I've found a different career path and you know what, that's alright. I work my mediocre job five days a week because it allows me the time and the funds to do the things I love, to spend time with my family and to keep up with my radio show, my music, my DJ'ing. Getting older, you learn to take an opportunity like a good stable job with a please and thank you. It's not so much selling out anymore as it is being responsible. And it's become so hip to be a responsible, yuppie type, hasn't it?

Not really.

I refuse and honestly, if I fall prey to yuppie-ism, please lock me up in a dark room and deprogram me.

Bug

2010-08-09T14:25:00.002-05:00

So I've caught another bug. There is something seriously work with my immune system these days. Felt crappy all day Sunday and by 9 PM, I was a huddled, shivering mass on the sofa, covered with two heavy blankets. I refused to let Punk Boy take my temperature.

"Why," he asked. "Are you afraid of what it might say?"

I really was.

When I finally relented, the thermometer read 102F. Not good. We started to pump me full of Tylenol and liquids, and I collapsed in a shaking mess in our bed at about 11 PM. I woke up at five this morning, not feeling any better. Temperature had dropped to 99.9, which I assume is better, and its been hovering there all day. I feel a little bit better, not so shaky and out of sorts, but I still feel pretty cruddy.

I don't get it. I've been walking more, eating better and even the sea monkey hasn't had a cold in ages. So what the fuck is going on?

I personally think it's stress, yet again. Stress has become a constant theme in my life these past few months. I just finished doing a two week stint at a higher classification at work. I loved the work, loved the pay, but wasn't a huge fan of our temporary team leader who would hound me at my desk every two hours. It was beyond annoying and I was starting to antsy about it.

It's over now, I would have started my regular duties at work today had I gone in. Hopefully I'll be healthy enough tomorrow to go in. I'm aiming for it. Did lots of rest today and am trying to drink lots of liquids.

I need to unwind. I have a two week vacation from work coming up that I am really looking forward to, and then about a month after that, Sea Monkey and I will be going to Ottawa for a week to visit my sister. I'm looking very forward to the time away.

I gotta get the kid in about 45 minutes. I just put a pork tenderloin to marinate in the fridge for supper tomorrow. It should be interesting. I don't eat meat, but as I am home usually before Punk Boy, I am the one usually cooking the dinners. I've become a meat cooking master. I should take a picture of this marinating loin for all you out there who don't believe I touch meat. It looks tasty.

Stress

2010-07-16T20:16:00.003-05:00

Its amazing what stress can do to your body. I've never had a panic attack in my life, but let me tell you, I felt close the last few days.

Have you ever been unable to unstress yourself? I have always been pretty good at handling stressful situations and have always been able to bring myself down to a state of peace, but yesterday I was unable to see the common sense right in front of my face and I could not bring myself down off my cliff. I called my mother, a hysterical mess yesterday. I was out of control, completely nuts. I did not feel at all like myself and even today, even after I've reached my apex and receded, I'm still on edge and completely baffled with myself.

I was a mess and I'm almost afraid to admit how weak I felt. I was at a complete loss and could not handle anything - the disarray the apartment was in, the lack of proper food in our fridge and the screaming toddler who would not chill. My lack of control has fucked me up and scared me. I'm lucky that I had someone close to call, that my mother was there and was able to talk me down. I can't help but think where I would be had she not been there and wasn't able to give me the time I needed and the soft, encouraging words. Thank god for mothers.

The little guy is asleep. I am fighting the urge to check in on him as he was just laid down about half an hour ago. He is probably sound asleep as he had a super active day, but I shouldn't risk it. He is reaching this stage that is starting to drive me nuts - the terrible twos. Kid is not even two yet - I'm not prepared for this. He is a bit nuts these days, throwing fits and screaming and crying like its the end of the world when I take something away from him that he shouldn't have. Makes me feel like a complete failure when he wails like that. The fits are short lived, yes, but they are swift to come and so intense that I fear them. I'm sure, like anything to do with him, I'll learn how to deal with these moments and how to handle them. I also need to not be so worried about them and stop caring what people say when he throws one of these fits in public. They are short, so I know they will be over soon, but I know how horrible my thoughts were towards young, screaming children before I became a mother. I know what people think...

I can't help but feel that judgement. Its instinctive and natural and I don't blame people at all for being pissed off around my screaming toddler. I was the same way when I was younger. The only thing that really forced me to change the way I thought about screaming children was to become a mother. People who were like me - completely against children, won't change their view unless forced too and its these people I cringe when I see in public. You can tell who they are. They give you this disgusting look as soon as your child raises their voice a few decibels above normal and god forbid the child throws something, as you could hear the scoff from miles away. They are harsh and quick to judge and have no sympathy for the mother frantic to calm her over-active child.

I Find myself avoiding places where the childless spend most of their time. My life now revolves around restaurants that have a collection of their own highchairs. These are the places that are somewhat safe. These places are child friendly and its the other persons fault for being pissed off around a screaming child in one of those environments, as the welcome signs were sitting in a pile by the cloak room - a mess of high chairs a booster seats. I feel a little more relaxed in those places but am still not at ease, not at all.

It's quite in the house. Punk boy is out painting a house - taking advantage of the nice weather and good health that he's been given today. I'm fine with that. The time apart is soothing for me as what little time we did spend together this morning was less than lovely. It sure didn't help with my mounting, uncontrollable stress, that's for sure.

I'm ready to call it a night. Do some reading and relax on the sofa with some stupid TV...

Random

2010-06-24T21:52:00.002-05:00

I'm sick... again. Fuck this.

Punk boy just got over whatever sickness he just had and now here I am, functioning at half my normal range.

Stayed home from work today and spend most of it sleeping. Not normal for me. I have a good, strong nap about once a week and that's all I need. I felt I could have slept all day, all evening and all night.

I've reconnected with a few people over the last few weeks. I really distanced myself from people and I have no good answer as to why I did it. I've reached out to a few, have a few more to reach out to and pull back.

I'm starting to have a strange relationship with my food. I'm wanting to cook, make these amazing things. I want the Sea Monkey to eat, goddamn it. Today, he wouldn't touch the peanut butter and jam sandwich I made for him. Probably was a good thing as the little bit he did eat caused him to break out in splotchy red blotches all over his face. He started to get a little puffy in the cheeks. We were pretty worried. Decided peanut butter might not be the BEST thing for him until we get a chance to visit the doctor again.

Punk boy was playing his guitar earlier. I wish he would do it more. I love listening to him play and now that his hand is fully healed, I think the guitar would be good therapy for him.

I'm on the fence about going to work tomorrow. All depends on how I sleep and how I feel in the morning. I'm yawning but not to tired...

Alright, time for some old journal entries. I realized today why the bottom draw in my desk wasn't closing - a good chunk of my recent journals fell down behind the back of the draw and were causing it not to closed.

I've changed my mind.. I'm caught up in reading them. Found more recent journals 2003 onward... maybe next time

Mortified Shoebox - The Penny Lane Edition

2010-05-18T20:59:00.002-05:00

I am addicted to this podcast called The Mortified Shoebox show. Basically, this guy asks people to dig into their past, find the things they wrote, made, etc when they were younger and share them now, when they are adults. Most of the stuff is downright mortifying (hence the name) but wonderfully insightful and touching. We were all idiots when younger.

I don't know how many people know this about me, but I am journal/diary writer. I started writing in journals when I was in 4th grade and have kept it up, on some level, ever since. I'm not always consistent and I don't write in them as often as I'd like, but I have a huge stack of journals stashed around my house. I thought that sometimes, in my blog, I'd take a stab at sharing the things in my mortified shoebox....

The following is from June 7, 1999. I had turned 20 a few months ago and wrote this in some horrible day-glow pink gel pen, showing that even at 20, we sometimes revert to childhood...

I am surrounded by a bunch of idiots. The people I work with, specially the boys are the most annoying people god has planted on his Green Earth. I am beginning to doubt I will find anyone mature enough in this tiny city.

Hard to phantom that these boys are older than me, yet they act like children, squawking and making half-brained comments. You seriously began to think that these 'boys' don't think at all.

The trip to Chicago is coming up quickly. In less than one month, Warren and I will be on the road to adventure. It will be an event we both won't soon forget. I'm thinking this trip might change my life for the better.

So yeah. Short, not to embarrassing. Lets dive back a bit farther.

Here is an entry from one of my diaries, dated October 16, 1990... I would have been almost 12 years old.

I SPIT ON ANDREW!

Want to hear the details? Too Late! I'm going to tell you anyway (seriously, that is how I wrote it, like I was talking to someone... I was one fucked up kid)

Andrew was bugging me because I like Kristine (NB, Kristine and I met in Kindergarden and we are still friends to this day). When it was home time, Me and Kristine were walking together and all of the sudden he pushed us! He said to me that I changed from a prep to a slut (HAHAHA, Nice). You know, if it was not for me, these people would not even know the difference between a prep and anything else! I don't mean to brag, but... Well when we were walking down the stairs, I spit on Andrew!When we got the to the bottom, he kicked me twice! THAT JERK.

Today I met Dave. He is very nice, he is okay looking too. Today I also got a coupon for a free ticket to the Bomber Game! It's against the Rough Riders. We all might go!

Poor Kristine! At gym today I sort of bumped into her. She was upset about something all day. She was about to cry in gym so I asked if she would like to go to the washrooms (I assume I asked to see if she wanted to go someone private to talk, not to see if she wanted to wash her hands or something. Maybe she was upset about how dirty her hands were? Who knows?) We went and she told me what went wrong. She said "Everyone is dying on me!" Then she explained. She said first her dog died, then her grandpa died then her grandma died. One of her aunts is in a wheel chair and her other dog is sick! On top of that everyone is bugging her! Can't they give it a break!? She is very sensitive right now and everyone is pounding on her, like Mike Tyson punching a punching bag (HAHAHAH nice one). Everyone is so dumb! If they don't like her, don't bug her!

Today Jacqueline phoned me and we made up. She is blaming this all on Kristine. One time Kristine's Mother had to force Kristine's father to go to a dance recital. He wanted to go to her brothers hockey practice. I really feel sorry for her!

Man! Eleven years old and already boy crazy. My poor parents. How on earth did they deal? Also, let it be known that I am the worst speller on the face of the earth. I am over 30 and can't spell, so imagine how bad of a speller I was at 11? Shit was almost unreadable, but somehow I was able to muttle through it and figure out what the heck I was talking about.

I remember Andrew. I actually ran into him at the Cavern a few years back. We were both wasted drunk and acted like old friends. We kind of were friends on and off during grade school. It was high school when many of us went our different ways as we moved from our small school to one of the largest schools in the province and met a whole slew of new people. Many of the people I went to school with from kidergarden onward were left behind as I made new friends. It's crazy, really. I still talk with someone of those people and Kristine and I see each other often. We actually both have son's that are about seven or so months apart.

Go figure.

So that's enough embarrassment for one night...

Sick

2010-05-06T10:12:00.002-05:00

I'm sick.

And in being so, I realized that I haven't touched this blog in a long time. Not fair. Apparently Penny Lane has fallen.. off the face of blog existence.

So here is a list of things, relating to now as I don't have much of a mind to type a very long winded blog entry.

-Started a new writing project that is going slowly, but its going. Check it out, it's a bunch of letters I am writing to people that I won't send. People alive or dead. People I know personally or don't know at all. Check it out at unmailed!

-Punk Boy is cooking something fantastic in the kitchen. I feel I've been hit by a snot truck, so I'm really surprised I can smell anything, but whatever he is making me for breakfast smells better than anything right now. Fuck me, I'm hungry.

-I'm in the middle of some strange situation with my family. I'm sure this will all work out, and it needs time to work out. I hate that. I want to snap my fingers and have everything back to how it was one week ago, but that's not going to happen.

-Sea Monkey is growing like a weed. Discovered that he possibly has Asthma. Puffer twice a day. Breaks my heart that he might have this but its so funny how he laughs when we give him the puffer. My baby is awesome

-Trying to make a plan to improve my life. I've ignored some things for too long and its time to make a plan of action and follow through with it. Enough is enough. I am going to be proactive and make a list of things I want to improve about myself and work on it. Maybe that list will come out here, maybe not. Depends if I actually do it or not.

-It's so awesome how a fizzy pop drink feels so damn good on a sore, phlegm throat.

-Mother's day this weekend. Taking the Sea Monkey to visit my mom for lunch. He will get to play with his grandma and great grandma. Should be interesting. I hope I'm feeling better by then.

-Punk Boy is talking to me about some crazy Japanese movies he got off the internet. He says they are crazy but unfortunately, no English. "Future X Cops" has subtitles but "Robo Gashia" has no English. "Just crazy - honestly I think this guy thinks he's the Stanley Kubrick of Japan. Stanley Kubrick meets John Carpenter. Wow.. Food's ready!"

Random Thoughts Before Work

2010-01-14T06:45:00.003-06:00

I know there is a huge pile of recycling in the closet that needs to get dealt with today. Hope the other half takes it out
Feeling like my hair is becoming this wild, horrible thing and am so anxious to get it cut and colored this weekend. I am beyond mop top
Sea Monkey is sick and going to day care, again. Germ fest, those day cares
Forgot to run the dishwasher last night, so listening to the hum of dishes being cleaned in the background
I have time to put on make up but not really in the mood. I spend all day staring at a compute screen and I want to rub my eyes constantly, which makes keeping makeup on almost impossible
Freaky warm weather for mid January. My walk to work in a few minutes will be in -14C. I can deal with this
Doctor told me I have irritable bowels. No shit. No pun intended. Way to fix it? Don't be so stressed... yeah good luck
Praying my iPod doesn't crap out on me today, or that I have enough battery juice to make it through the day. Work is boring and I want to listen to mono beatles
Fuck it, I'm going to put on make up...

Frustration

2010-01-07T19:55:00.003-06:00

There is this never ending well of Frustration in my life - at work, at home, in my car, in public, in private. Things are just frustrating me. I know it all stems from something, but what?

Winter is being rather harsh on me and my positivity this year. I fucking hate things right now. I hate this over-stuffed apartment, ready to burst at the seams. When I first got this place, I was beyond myself with joy, now, at times, I can't stand the sight of it. Home is in a constant state of flux. If the laundry is finally done and put away, then the kitchen is a mess. The kitchen is finally cleaned up and my desk starts to look like a bomb went off. The garbage's finally get taken out and the recycling is barley contained in the bin. If it's not one thing, it's something else.

This is not normal for me. I despise my ability and need to do things this way now. Time with the sea monkey is cut down to just a few small hours in the evening and on weekends and I want to take advantage of that time as best as possible, so that sometimes means letting the laundry sit, folded, on the sofa for a day or two, or letting the mess on my desk fester for a few more days.

Once the kid is in bed, its only a few more hours for me till I'm done for the night. My job, as fantastic as it is, requires me to be in the office at 7:30 every weekday. Not only do I have to be there, but I have to be awake and ready to work. This requires me to go to bed at a decent hour most of the time. There is no staying up late, there is no nights of doing my own thing till three in the morning. That luxury does not exist for me.

I may sound resentful and sure, part of me is. I'm aching for my time to be my time again I'm sure this is normal. Parents probably don't talk about it too much for fear they would sound like hateful people who despise their own offspring. I don't despise my rug rat. I adore him but I also adore my time.

So there is this ongoing frustration, mixed with a subtle depression and the recent fear that I might be suffering from Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD). I'm slightly hypocontraical at times and have been reading a book on the subject lately and find some of the symptoms make me raise eye browns. I do suffer from slight waves of depression at times, and many of the listed symptoms of the two are similar, or is that wishful thinking?

Time to finish the laundry. I really don't want it to be sitting there, on the lounge part of the sofa at this time tomorrow. I really want to be able to sit on that lounge part. I hate the fact that it has become a sort of 'dumping' place.

Changes must be made...

Thank god I'm visiting my doctor next week. Work's cheep-ass chair is giving me shoulder and back pain and I've run out of pills to keep my thyroid in check. Could explain the exhaustion a little bit. I also need to talk to her about my emotions. Punk Boy says I'm exhausting him with all my emotional crap these days so I'm going to talk to my doctor next week. I don't think I'm that depressed, but I do have to admit, I'm not as happy as I used to be. I cry way to often. My sleep is completely screwed up, but that may have something to do with the thyroid. So many questions.

Alright, off to clean up the laundry. Sick of the state of this over-stuffed place...

November's end

2009-12-13T13:35:00.002-06:00

November is past. It was a crazy month that just about split me in two. I now offically remember what its like to have just way to much on your plate. I did it all because I wanted to prove to myself that I could do it, that I was able to juggle a mass amount of different situations and projects at one time while being a mother in much the same way I used.

I learned a hard lesson. I can do all these things, but its at a personal cost, and the personal cost is great. Being a mom requires me to be on point, and alert. All the projects I had taken on in November, along with returning to the workforce, really pushed me down to the ground and raped me.

I did finish the Nanowritmo challenge - a 50,000 word novel in the span of November. I even finished early. This is my second time taking on the challenge and my second time completeing it and I'm stoked to do it again. It was hard, it exhausted me, but I'm glad I did it. I'm also glad I'm fucking finished it. It was draining me, keeping me up and making me feel chained to my computer. It was fine in the first half of the month when I had not returned to work yet, but once I was back at the monday to friday grind, the challenge really became difficult. I would come home from work, spend time with the Sea Monkey, make dinner, spend more time with the family, clean up, wash the child up, and then chain myself next to the computer. It was exhausting and the writing did suffer as the month wore on and as my body became more and more exhausted.

Returning to work was a challenge in its own. The weekend before I was to start work, I became super sick with a flu. I had chills, my guts felt like they were revolting against me and I couldn't do anything to make myself feel better. This sickness led to crazy strain in the household and as such, fighting ensued. It was the most stressful time - writing, being sick, returning to work after being off for a year. It created horrible tension and even today, I'm not sure where I stand in this family.

Its not as horrible as it sounds. Words were said, things were implied but they have never really been visited since then so I'm not sure.

I'm still battling the sickness - both physical and mental. The flu turned into a horrible cold, which turned into a horrible cough which, finally, has turned into Bronchitus. Beginning of this week I finally saw a doctor and got some strong antibiotics to fight the thing. I'm feeling better, but the pills are making me super gassy.

The little guy is having a sickness battle of his own. Possible Croup, then a cold, then a skyrocketting fever, then a horrible cough and finally, a nasty ear infection that wakes him up at night, crying in pain. His fever came back this afternoon, and now he has been napping quietly for the last forty minutes. My poor baby.

Money has been an thorn in the side lately as well. Christmas is coming, and funds are lower than usual. Punk Boy's work is not offering him steady, full time hours and we are starting to feel the strain of that. Money - I fucking hate it...

NaNoWriMo

2009-11-02T22:30:00.002-06:00

So, I've taken on the challenge again - NaNoWriMo Write a 50,000 word novel in the month of November. I did it a few years ago and completed the challenge so I am up for it again this year. The theme of my book - Writers Block. I've had a horrible case of it and I'm using NaNoWriMo to helpfully discover why I'm blocked and ways I can break through it.

I'm writing different ways, doing different stories and things during the month. Today, I started writing a story about a Vampire (something I haven't done since high school - seeing if going back to my roots help) and it somehow turned into a tale of an artist... well, here is some of it.. enjoy.....

I’ve been spending too much time in the studio these days. The oils are encrusting themselves on my skin. I refuse to bathe when I am on a creative role as its usually bad luck. I believe it’s true that the people around you can inspire you and push you. I’ve been lucky enough these days to be asked to attend a few functions with Mr. Picasso. It started innocently enough – being at the same shows, knowing some of the same people, being in the same places by circumstance. It was only a matter of time before we talked in person, really. I spoke with his wife first, a lady by the name of Jacqueline while having some port in a bar when I was visiting the south-east of France. We talked long that night – she noticed the oil paint staining my pants and when she mentioned she was married to Mr. Picasso, well, I was enthralled. She had told me she had seen me around, cavorting with friends of theirs, strolling along the streets of Mougins with a mutual friend. I told her I was thinking of moving to the area and was looking for someplace suitable for an artist to live. She asked for the phone number of the hotel I was staying in and told me she knew the perfect place. She said she would call me with a time when I could view it.
Jacqueline didn’t disappoint. She called me two days later with the address of an apartment block over-looking Cannes. The space was perfect – almost like two villas stuck together, separated by some French doors. The rent was perfect and I moved in that weekend. After that, we talked often, usually a few times a week and when we saw each other at functions, we kissed and talked like old friends. It was shortly after I moved into my apartment that she introduced me to Pablo. He was soft spoken at first and surprisingly spry for someone in their early 90’s. It was a hot afternoon in a café; we both happened to be there at the same time and shared some cool wine. Beautiful afternoon, the sun high in the sky, some old soul by Otis Redding playing over the bistro’s speakers, beautiful beads of sweat covering our knuckles. Jacqueline told Pablo I was a painter, working with oils and that she was dying to see my work, only catching a glimpse of it when she brought me a bottle of wine as a house warming present when I first moved in. We were only two blocks from the apartment, why not come over, I suggested.
We finished out drinks, Pablo paid the bill and after a short walk in the summer heat, we took the rusty fright elevator up to my apartment, on the fifth floor of the building. I was nervous, not sure, feeling some strange pressure coming down on my shoulders. This was Mr. Pablo Picasso. I studied his ‘Gluernica” over and over and over. I even had a worn out poster print of it hanging on the wall in my studio. This made me blush horribly as they both stepped into my studio. I saw him smirk slightly at the poster and continue on into the room, not saying much.
They were both quiet as they looked through the canvases and sheets of paper all over. I really didn’t have a ‘style’ back then; I was all over the board – some still life, a few horrible attempts at cubism, some Art Deco style sketches and a few huge canvases of Dali-type craziness. I felt suddenly embarrassed by my lack of focus in my works. I’ve become the personification of an artist factotum and I was disappointed in myself.
Pablo stopped at a canvas resting behind my old desk. It was about a foot tall and featured a simple picture of trees in a forest, with pages of script attached to the trunks. It was natural, yet surreal. He stared at it a long time, soon Jacqueline joined him and they both stood silent, heads both tipped to the left as they studied.
“How much?” Pablo’s voice broke the silence softly, with a slight frog-like croak.
“Pardon?”
“How much do you want for this painting? Or is it not for sale? If it’s not for sale, then I would suspect it to be in a place of more importance. If it is for sale, what would you like for it?”
My thoughts were swimming, and my mouth suddenly felt dry. I stared at the painting, one I wasn’t too proud of, that I always was touching up, always trying to finish.
“Um, I’m not sure. I never thought...”
“I’ll give you four hundred for it.” I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out, just a hiss of air. I started to stutter. Pablo sat down at my desk, pulled out a cheque book and started to write a check. “Here,” he said, handing the cheque to me. “Four hundred. Please sign the painting and bring it to me next week. My wife and I are having a dinner party. Just a few people. We would love you to join us. You can bring me my painting then.” They both started to walk to the door, smiling and make small talk with me while they gathered themselves and headed back down in the elevator. I watched the elevator disappear into the darkness of the shaft and walked back to my studio, sat at my desk and stared at the cheque before me.

For the next few days, my attention was always drawn to the painting. I always felt it was never finished, that I had so much more to do to it, but now felt like I had run out of time to perfect it. After drinking much wine and smoking too many cigarettes, I decided to sign the painting and put it in the front hall, picture facing the wall so I wouldn’t think of it anymore.

April 8th was a surprisingly warm day. One week had passed since the Picasso’s were at my studio. The painting they had purchased was still leaning against the wall. I had not touched it since I signed it and when I turned it around to have another good look at it, I suddenly regretted my decision to sign it and put it aside. The leaves needed work and one of the papers coming from the tree was left completely blank. I was embarrassed and felt like a child giving one of the most famous painters in the world a horrible picture I did in crayons and markers, with no thought or reason behind it. I was beyond disappointed. I sat looking at the painting, opened a bottle of wine and started to drink. The more I ingested, the more I hated the picture. I knew if I drank enough, my hate would turn to some kind of bloated, egotistical love for the thing, knowing that I, James Herbone had sold a painting to the great Pablo Picasso.

SCENTS

2009-10-29T22:21:00.002-05:00

I just made brownies. The apartment, which was filled the lovely scent of a chickpea pasta sauce has been replaced with this sticky-sweet smell that reminds me of my mother. Baking should be it's own scratch and sniff sticker. The scent is wholesome, warming, happy. I hate baking, but to get that smell, that scent that is so distinct, with its unique undertones as to what you are preparing, makes it worth it.

Amidst the baking smell, there is the underlay of warm chocolate, of coca hardening on the outside, while its inside remains soft, gooey and inviting. I want to bathe in it.

I am waiting for the brownies to cool a bit before I try to ice them. I hate the melty mess icing can become when the brownies are too warm. I want to break into them but I have to wait.

It's a reward for the day, a reward and cheers to my ability to mother my son and be prepared for anything. Today, for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was in control and had a firm and resounding grasp on this 'motherhood' thing. I know that next week, or next month, something might happen to make me second guess my abilities, but for now, I am confident and I am proud. My chest is pumped up, and I feel pride for the virtues I've instilled and the lessons I have given. Its these little things - the behaving well in public, my ability to be prepared for anything, the respect (or as much respect as an 11 month old can give). We have given these things to our son, we have worked to make them a part of his nature and I can see the seeds have been planted and now need tender care and nurturing for them to grow.

He's sleeping peacefully. I just went in and tried to take a picture but the sounds of the camera was disturbing him to much and I couldn't get a good shot - maybe another time.

The brownies need my attention.

Awakening, Preparing

2009-10-23T11:30:00.003-05:00

I just woke up from a 45 minute nap. I had a whole plan of things I wanted to complete this morning and none of them got done because I became a slave to my bed. Oh bed, how I love you. I love you too much, you are like a dirty lover I hide from my friends and family. I am attached to you and the way you give, just enough, when I lay with you. You summon me, I think of you in the most inapproporiate moments. I long for you, I want you all to myself, I hog you.

So now, I'm wishing I was still in bed, dreaming. I blew my morning so I better not do the same to the afternoon. The Sea Monkey is in day care and I planned to come home and do a workout and some laundry. Neither have been touched and now I feel a bit more rested but guilty. Ah bed, you are just like an affair - we know its wrong, we try to stay strong, but we give in and the other things in our live suffer.

Lunch with a friend shortly. I've just cleaned myself up and am kind of stunned. It only took me about 20 minutes to get ready, shower and all. I forgot how quickly I could do things before the baby.

Sea Monkey had a better day at a day care yesterday, but all I heard was him crying as I walked out the door today. Its amazing to know he loves me so, but gut wrenching to hear it expressed in that way. I'm sure he'll get used to it soon, he's a very adaptable and independent little boy. I have full faith.

I am going to be using my next week of free time to prepare for the nanowrimo challenge. I completeled it in 2007 but was baby busy in 2009. I will be back on track this year. My brain is a wash with ideas about what I should write about. I debated writing about the mod scene in Winnipeg in the early 2000's, when I first got invovled, but think an idea like that needs more research and planning than I am ready to give at this point. My current plan of action is to write the hipsters guide to childbirth and rearing. That's where I stand - a sort of personal tale of my struggle as a 'hipster' mom. Sounds weak to me, but my idea train has been derailed. I always did better with social commentary pieces than straight fiction, I've found. I need to base things on reality or I'm in for trouble. I believe I can do it this year, I have a strong urge to show that I can still do these things, even with newborn babe in tow. Event starts in 11 days.. I better be ready.

Intention

2009-10-07T09:51:00.001-05:00

I'm taking the camera out today. I've fallen out of love with photography - yet again. This upsets me because I know deep down in my heart I love it and I love seeing things through my camera's eye. It's brunch today with the ladies and babies - my baby will be staying home with daddy. It's a nice break he's giving me. I will play photographer with the ladies, knowing the Sea Monkey is in good hands with his dad.

Child starts daycare tomorrow. I'm filled with excitement and apprehension. Part of me is starting to feel guilty about looking forward to the time alone. I will miss the kiddo, I am sure it will be hard, but I'm also going to take the time to get used to me again.

I'm working on myself. It's been a rough few months here and I'm trying to come out on top. The negativity surrounding me was horrible, drowning me deeper and deeper. I'm making changes and I'm working on fixing me. I've started to dissect my negative nature, my anger. I'm exercising on a regular basis, I'm meditating again. Small changes will lead to big changes and I'm looking forward and ahead. Things are improving and they will get better.

So Tired, Crying, Proverbal Fire

2009-09-13T21:29:00.004-05:00

I'm feeling a bit winded today. Not sure exactly why or what is causing it. Most likely it has to do with my fucked up sleeping patterns. I hate it. I need some stability in my sleeping again, none of this hogwash that;s been going on. It's very counter productive. I go to bed at about one in the morning, sleep until about 6 AM. The Sea Monkey usually stirs sometime between 7 and 8 AM. I'm then up with him till about 10 AM, when he gets his first nap of the day. He usually falls asleep pretty easily and I then curl back up in bed with Punk Boy. When Sea Monkey wakes at about 11:30 AM, Punk Boy gets up with him and I sleep a bit longer, usually until noon. This royally sucks. I've been trying hard to skip that morning nap and go to bed earlier, but once you start in a bad habit, it's very hard to break. I'm having trouble and my will-power just isn't what it used to be. I cave as soon as I walk out of the Sea Monkey's closet and see the soft and comfy bed. It's so goddamn inviting that I just can't resist. I need to adjust and stop doing this. I've been good, but then I relapse and before you know it, I'm hooked. I need nappers AA...

The Sea Monkey has been crying, a lot this evening. Yesterday we noticed that his top tooth has decided to come through. I think its giving him some trouble and when he put him down for bed at eight, he proceeded to cry and cry and cry until we took him out of his crib at 8:30. We played with him, fed him a bottle, tried to wear him out. By the time we put him back in the crib at 9:30, he was tired but still teary and cried a few times. It's now almost 10PM and no noises from the bedroom. I think he is sleeping.

I love my son. There is nothing I wouldn't do for my son. He is my everything and its strange for me to feel regret or remorse about the changes he produced in my life, but I suppose its normal as well. Every so often, I mourn the loss of my past life. I feel extremely guilty for these regretful feelings and beat myself up every time I have them. I need to stop doing that. I look at pictures of events my friends have attended, I talk to people who are going to dinners, parties, outings and I sometimes get so envious as for me to attend any sort of function requires serious planning. There is no 'spur of the moment' anymore. I can't wake up at whatever time I want to on a Sunday, decided to talk a walk to the village for Sushi. I can't just call someone up and see if they want to see a movie. These things, though possible, are not as accessible as they were before the Sea Monkey. I was the life of the party, I was at the center of it all and at times, I really miss it. But to be fair, at times, I also am glad to be slightly removed from it, to be doing this 'family' thing. It's a cliche, but it is rewarding and it is fulfilling. I think anyone who doesn't mourn their past life hasn't adjusted at all to the new life around them or they just aren't being honest with themselves. It's part of the growing process. I sometimes feel a bit cheated because the Sea Monkey wasn't planned. I never decided to change the direction of my life, it changed for me.

To be truthful, I am fine with the way my life is and I find motherhood very groovy. Sometimes I just wish I was at the center of it all again, I wish I was a part of it.

I am lucky. I have the best people around me, people who try to include and who keep me in their heart. Thank god for them. They make me feel like everything is going to be alright...

Blister and Napping

2009-09-10T10:22:00.002-05:00

I have a blister on the big toe of my right foot. It's not a bad one, but it's annoying and throbs slightly. I got it from pounding the pavement yesterday looking for the mono Beatles box set. My search didn't yield any positive results and now I have this blister.

It feels better now that I've popped it.

Sea Monkey is sleeping, Punk Boy is sleeping. I am therefore enjoying a moment of solitude this morning. I topped it off with a homemade (not by me) grilled cinnamon bun. I'm debating crawling back into bed for a little nap. It's pro-active to my sleeping pattern, but its so glorious all the same. Napping is such a gluttonous thing to do, it is a completely selfish thing to do. I know these moments are rare and with Punk Boy being off work, I know this is a rare thing and I should take advantage. But I feel awful sleeping in until noon. Something so nice about crawling back into that bed, burrowing under the covers and closing my eyes. I started writing about this topic in order to convince myself to stay up, but instead, I think I've convinced myself to go back to my warm bed...

To nap...

Random Thoughs for September 6/09

2009-09-08T10:39:00.002-05:00

Beatles re-releases are coming out this week and I'm giddy. Beatles Rock Band is also on the release list and I have my reserved copy coming in from Amazon, hopefully by the end of the week. I am itching to get my hands on the re-issued, vinyl pressing of the mono mix of Revolver and Sg. Pepper (that sentence alone solidifies me as a music nerd.. next!)
First pedicure this week. Both nervous and excited.
Over halfway done the AE Sport 30 day challenge and I am not feeling pain as horribly in my legs as I have at the beginning. Maybe the damn thing is working?
Trying to train the Sea Monkey to sleep without a soother is going to kill me, slowly. Screams and screams but as soon as I give him that damn soother, he's out like a light. Punk Boy isn't here to help me with keeping to my word during nap time, hopefully bedtime tonight will go better.
I'm freakin' shocked at our latest Hydro bill. Why the fuck is it for over $300? I thought the point of a budget was to even out the payments over the year and not to get dinged later on? Fuckers. I'm paying you this full amount in two payments this month, MB Hydro and if you don't like it, you can suck my cock.
Daycare is starting to really wear me out but I think I might have a lead on a place in Wolsey that may have daycare for November for the little guy.
I am loving this rain today. It's dark and heavy and has made the sky a hazy mess that I find stunning and incredible. The city has developed a thin layer of dirty late summer dust and this rain is going to clean everything up so well. Fuck yeah!
I need to clean up my potty mouth, seriously. I keep razzing Punk Boy about the swearing so I need to clean up my lingo as well.
I need to start taking more pictures again. This always happens. I go crazy with the pictures and then I get bored and take about a month off. Time to get finger snapping picture happy!
Odd items currently on my desk: A dirty plate with wrappers from some sweet Baklava I had last night, the handle to a swiffer duster, metal martini glass (empty), about $130 in cash, tons of pamphlets about baby immunizations, hair clips
I have Jerry Springer on the TV. I'm not watching it but when it comes to having the TV on for background noise, Springer is the best.

Um, huh.. what?

2009-09-02T21:09:00.003-05:00

I think I've lost all desire to be interesting. I've become, well, simple in my conception. I've become domestic. I am Betty Crocker.

I just made a killer dinner tonight. I'm a regular 'mom.' Today's dinner included some fantastic fresh local Brussel Sprouts, steamed perfectly and served with a slightly spicy cheese sauce. Also included was some fresh corn on the cob, baked with salt and butter in the oven. Lovely cod fillets (they were frozen but freakin' good) and some noodles on the side for energy. Lovely colors on that plate and I wish I had twice as many of those Brussel Sprouts. Tasty suckers.

I am now rewarding myself with a piece of baklava.

I will be very sticky by the time I am done this yummy piece of butter, nuts and honey.

Punk boy and I have started house hunting. Only been a few days and I am already frustrated. Why do things have to be so difficult? I also think this house hunting has helped me with my desire to put no effort into being interesting.

Shits been pretty surreal these days. Friends house got broken into, the Sea Monkey is almost walking, two months and I'll be back at work, Punk Boy off for about another four to six weeks because of his broken hand (but on the good side, he has no cast. Broken that sucker pretty good and has to do some serious physiotherapy to get everything tip top). Still without day care for the rug rat and I'm starting to get pretty stressed out about it. I feel like I'm alone in this hunt for it and am finding it so difficult. There's a lot of responsibility trust on my shoulders and they ache. I need a massage.

I'm boring. It pains me a little bit. I have nothing to say to my friends when I see them as my life is all diapers and baby milestones. I'm sure they are sick of hearing it, but that's my sun right now, that's all I revolve around. I've become so completely boring even I wouldn't want to spend time with me. I'm not offended, I completely see what I've become.

My posture is completely negative. I have a horrible roll in my shoulders as a type this. Even typing about it isn't forcing me to correct the issue, like it usually does. I'm rambling about it and yet, here I sit, shoulders slumped and rolled forward. I probably look pretty dejected.

Truth be told, as negative as this all may sound, I don't feel all that negative. I have a sort of subtle acceptance of the issues here.

Daycaredaycaredaycaredaycaredaycare...

This is how my brain works these days. I'm off thinking about something and my lack of day care suddenly pops into my head. I give myself heartburn...

Workin' it

2009-08-25T09:36:00.004-05:00

September is almost here. Fucking summer, where did you go? Where were you to begin with? I shouldn't complain so loudly. I'm not a fan of scorching hot weather and have actually been enjoying the cool summer. The constant rain I could do without.

Being stuck inside, I have found some sort of sick joy in the Wii console I recently purchases. Those whole know me well know I only got it for one reason - so I could play the Beatles Rock Band when it comes out early September. Silly, I know but I'm obsessive.

Punk Boy, being the big gamer he is, has totally embraced our Wii and quickly expanded our collection of games. He's picked some really good ones that I enjoy and I've been able to get some fun ones I've had my eye on. He actually talked me into getting the AE Active for the Wii. It's this sort of personal trainer that was designed by Oprah's personal trainer (insert oh and ah here) and I've heard good things about it. Thought I'd give it a try. It was recommended by me to try the 30 day fitness challenge first as it teaches you how to do the exercises and walks you through some great routines. Sure, why not, right? I'll give it a go. A friend told me that the workout was intense and she was unable to walk for a day afterwards. I called bullshit and jumped right into the damn thing.

She wasn't bullshitting.

The work out is about 25 minutes a day, but fuck me, its intense. After my first day of the 30 day challenge, my thighs were so sore that sitting on the goddamn toilet was a challenge.

I'm now on day five and feeling much better. I've Incorporated some stretching after the workouts are done and feel more limber. I almost hate to say it, but I'm enjoying the damn thing. I can give up 25 minutes a day. Its quick, really. I need to do more for myself and I am determined to not only finish the 30 day challenge, but to make this a habit.

Yeah, yeah sure. We all know how I am with new habits. Didn't I state months ago I was going to make a new habit of writing a little bit each day. Well, we all know where that went. Right down the crapper. I find it hard sometimes and with the baby and Punk Boy still at home with a broken hand, well, when I get some 'me' time, I sometimes just want to lay down. This too, will improve.

Things are moving rather well. I am really missing my friend ferocious Sonja, but I'm not worried. Life is crazy. She's a busy girl and so am I - we will connect soon. What I adore about her is that even with these periods where our contact is limited, we both understand why and we both don't take it personally. I will talk with her soon... She is having a sex toy party at her new apartment, so I know I'll see here then.

My sister has been in Ottawa almost one whole month now. I called her last night for a quick talk. I should have planned it out better as it sounded like she really wanted to talk more. Lots to catch up on. I miss her. Could always count on her for some company or some help and that's been taken away. I'm sure she feels the same way. I'm excited to see her this coming September long weekend.

I need a shower. The workout today, which wasn't as intense as the other days (mostly upper body, not a lot of cardio) still made me sweat. I need to get clean before the Sea Monkey's doctors appointment this afternoon. He's nine months old today...

Free Weekend

2009-08-15T12:06:00.003-05:00

Yesterday Punk Boy and I dropped the Sea Monkey off to spend the whole weekend with my parents. Yes, the whole weekend. We will go and pick him back up on Sunday. I have been looking very forward to this weekend for a long time. Two, count them, two days in a row where I can sleep in and not feel guilty about it. Honestly, the only one who makes me feel guilty when I sleep in is, well, myself. But that's just how I am. I'm the soul care giver for the little guy and it's my responsibility to make sure he is cared for and that his needs are met - even if his need is to be awake and playing at six in the morning. I have to bite bullet and do it. I heard someone say that putting baby's schedule before yours can be the most difficult thing about motherhood - that, in the end, your time really isn't your own anymore and when you do get some 'me' time, you better cherish it. I didn't believe it, really. I had no issue doing what baby demanded of me but after about the six month point, I really started to get exhausted from it all. Not physically (well a little bit physically) but emotionally. My time, really, was not MY TIME anymore. Once the Sea Monkey started to sleep better and through the night, sure I was given some of that 'me' time back, but somehow it just isn't the same. I was used to doing what I want, when I wanted it. Now I am given options of what to do at specific times. I can't just really get dolled up and head out to the pub when the baby is sleeping. I'm not just able to jump in the car and go clothing shopping. These things require planning, timing, and help from others.

This is something we take on as mothers, I suppose. Remember that movie "A Christmas Story" about the kid who wants to BB gun for Christmas? There is one part in the movie where the family is at the dinner table eating and the mom is just constantly on the go, filling plates, getting drinks, etc. The narrator says something along the lines of "my mother hasn't had a warm meal in about ten years.' I can relate to that now, I can understand that now. You are at the whim of all these elements, all these demands and your demands just get pushed a little bit aside. I used to think that scene in the movie was fucking funny.. now, I ain't laughing so hard.

Don't misunderstand. I have totally embraced motherhood, but at times, I miss my old life and the things I used to do. It's a hard balance to try and keep and I suppose that I just couldn't go on living the way I was before. I had to grow up. Nothing like taking care of another life to jar you a bit, I guess. There are these crazy rewards that make the sacrifices completely worth it of course:

First time Baby smiled at me. I'll remember that moment for the rest of my fucking life. I had just finished changing him, and put him on the bed and was leaning over the little Sea Monkey, being my stupid self when suddenly, he just smiled. That's it - smiled like he'd been doing it his whole life. I broke down into tears.
First time I made the Sea Monkey laugh. Again, being my stupid self and playing around with his soother (because it always makes him smile) and I popped the thing outta my mouth, made some stupid noise and there it was, that goddamn cute little baby giggle.
First time he said 'MaMa.' I don't really know if its more the first time he said it or the reason he says mama. When he needs to be comforted, when he's hungry or upset, he starts to chant 'mamamamamamama.' My baby NEEDS me. My baby comes to me when he needs something. That's soul shattering, man.

They may seems simple, fuck they may even seem silly but to me, they are Earth shattering and all emcombasing moments in my life. I never used to believe that a baby's smile could melt you. I hated children. Now, being the one who receives that smile, my whole attitude has changed.

So today, is day two without the little one. We both slept in (Punk Boy, as a matter of fact, is still sleeping) and today we are going out together to the Cavern to catch some music. Haven't done that in ages.

My stomach is growling. I think I should make some breakfast. I know exactly what I want. I will take six eggs and whip them up with some cream and make some fantastic scrambled eyes. I'll then take two potatoes, shred them in the cheese shredder. I'll go and fry some onions and a little garlic in a pan, then add the shredded potatoes and cook until the potatoes are crispy (my mom's way of making hash browns that I just loved as a kid). Maybe cut some fresh fruit up with that and make some toast. Punk Boy and I picked up this incredibly fresh and delicious looking Pumpkin Seed bread yesterday. Can't wait to break into that.

Time for breakfast...

Sticky, Otis, and Bigger Spaces

2009-07-22T22:25:00.003-05:00

It's hot and humid outside. I'm sitting at the computer, not doing to much, and I can feel a thin layer of ugly sweat on my forehead. It's doing its job; my forehead feels cool, but the wetness is uncomfortable. Now that I think about it, I can feel that sick sweat between my fingers and between my toes. A small bead is even dropping into my ear at this very moment.

I hate humidity. I'm not one for summer. I prefer cool weather, sweater-weather as I call it. I could do without the heat. No, scrap that. I could do without the humidity. I just want to hide in shade, I want to loaf. Fall and spring make me feel more active, way more active. Its been like this most of the day and I don't see a change in the very near future. We are supposed to get some nasty thunderstorms soon. Weather like this doesn't break until the clouds do.

I'm listening to some Otis Redding, and it's late. I am thinking I should go to bed soon. Punk Boy went to lay down at about 5:30 PM and I stayed up with the Sea Monkey. He ate a good dinner and we played together on the floor in the living room for a good few hours. He is finally learning how to hold his sippy cup, which makes me happy. My god, he's progressing. Just a few days ago he figured out how to pull himself up on his knees on our furniture. Yesterday, he pulled himself up to standing. I hear walking isn't far off when they get to this stage. What the fuck? It seems like he just learned how to crawl and I am just learning to get a handle of taking care of him at this stage. What's going on? He's a constant joy in my life, my little Sea Monkey. His two bottom teeth have come in, one almost completely, the other has finally broken the skin and just needs to come in a bit more before its done. I suppose we'll just get used to him as the calm baby before he starts serious teething again. It just never ends. Punk Boy just emerged from the bedroom to use the bathroom. He looked at me, said with shock "Is it 10:30 at NIGHT?" and then turned around quickly and hid back in the bedroom. He must be tired. He broke his hand last week on Friday and I'm sure the pain killers are doing a good job at exhausting him. I feel horrible as I should be more understand. I mean, a mere eight months ago I was unable to do much of anything due to the emergency C-section needed to get the Sea Monkey out alright. I'm doing my best to take care of him and keep up with the house work and keep Hunter entertained, but truth be told I'm exhausted and need a break from, well, everything. I've been feeling this way since about the start of July. Luckily, my parents offered to take the Sea Monkey for a whole weekend in mid August. I'm excited but not sure how I will handle being away from my baby for so long. Something tells me I'll be fine, just fine.

Punk Boy and I went today to check out a two bedroom apartment in our building today. Sad to say, we were disappointed. The suite across the hall from ours recently became vacant and the guy doing the painting and what not let us take a peak in it. The think is freakin' HUGE. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and tons of room. Would be perfect for our growing family. We called about it and found it was rented, but that another two bedroom on the fourth floor was available. We went today to check it out and were disappointed. Not only did it not have the huge storage space that our suite has, it seemed much more crammed. It was basically the same size as our suite, but split into two bedrooms, kitchen and living room. The suite also had a balcony which gobbled up a good two feet or so of living room space. Our suite is on the top floor and sans balcony. And the view from out home = in-fucking-credible. The view from the suite we checked out today? Not so great. Needless to say we will not be giving up our haven for something new just yet. We are on the waiting list for the next two bedroom, two bathroom suite that opens up. Damn... would have been so nice to just shuttle all our stuff across the hall...

I think I should head to bed. The Sea Monkey has gotten into the habit of getting up early again - 6:30 AM and sometimes even earlier than that. Not happy about that. I feed him a bottle before bed, so we'll see if that keeps him asleep longer in the morning. I have my fingers crossed.

Thinking, Beet-breads and Sleep Training

2009-07-16T09:34:00.003-05:00

I've got a lot to think about these days. I suppose most of that is my fault and my inability to just work on one task at a time. I always feel this need to pile on the work, find myself involved in more than I really need to be at one time. None of these things I need to think about have time limits so why do I feel this urge to combine so many issues at once?

I went to a farmer's market yesterday afternoon with Punk Boy and a friend of mine. Out in St. Norbert, during the summer, they have fresh wares from sale on Wednesday and Saturday (Wednesday is a cut back version of the Saturday extravaganza). Lovely fresh, local produce. I'm excited. Got some small new potatoes, zucchini, onions, garlic, other vegetables and some awesome kettle cooked pop corn. My friend picked up some beets, so I traded her some of our dill weed in exchange for the tops of her beets. Strange, I know but there is a great family recipe I have that requires beet-leaves and if you don't like the beets then you tend to be shit outta luck for making them. It's a Ukrainian dish called beet-breads. It don't if the dish has a Ukrainian name (probably does, but for as long as I remember, we just called them beet-breads), I will have to ask my mother tomorrow when I go visit. The recipe is very simple:

Take the beet leaves, cut off the long stems and wash. Lay flat to dry (on paper towel or a clean dish towel)
While these are drying, start to make some bread dough. This is way easier if you have a bread machine to make the dough for you. A normal, light dough is best but any dough can work
Once the dough is ready, pinch off a small amount and roll it into a small tube-shape (usually about the thickness of two thumbs and a little bit longer). Take your beet-leave and wrap it around this tube of dough. Place it on a cooking sheet, stem part of the beet leave down. Continuing doing this until all the beet leaves/dough is used up.
Brush or drizzle the little doughs with some oil to keep them moist during baking.
Bake until the bread is golden brown. The beet leaves on the outside will become a tad crispy - that's alright.
Remove the pan from the oven and put the beet-breads on a cooling rack. Let cool completely. Store in the freezer in freezer bags or prepare them for dinner as follows:
Heat up some butter in a deep, big frying pan. Dice an onion up and fry until translucent. Add some heavy cream and fresh dill weed. Bring to boil and then let simmer. Cut the beet-breads in half and place in the simmering cream mixture. Mix well to coat all the beet-breads (there should be enough cream to cover the beet-leaves well). Cook until the beet-breads are warm and then server.

It's damn tasty. Next time I make them, I will take a few pictures.

This post is disjointed. I am re-sleep training the Sea Monkey. He's going to be eight months on the 25th and I think it's time to cut down from three naps a day to two. He seems to awake to need the full three naps so today I am starting a new schedule for him. He used to nap at 9 ish, 1ish and 4ish. Now, I am going to have him nap at 11ish and 4ish. It's hard. He is a very scheduled baby and when the schedule needs to change, he resists at first but will get on board. So this post has been constantly interrupted by me going to check on him and try to get him to nap. It's now 11:30 and he is finally sleeping.

Back to thinking... I've been thinking about eating healthier, making more things from scratch. It's very easy to get stuck in the simple way to cook and I need to take the time to do the things from scratch. I enjoy it, really I do. I just hate it when it doesn't work out or the mess that's involved. I guess I am taking inspiration from my friends Catherine and Sonja here. They both are always making interesting dishes, trying new things. I need to be more pro-active.

I also need to think more about my relationship these days and the path it's going on. I am taking a break from the idea of being 'engaged' right now in order to focus on what I want from the relationship and to check if it's progressing the way I want to.

My lunch is ready. I can smell it in the over. More on the relationship progression later....

Crash

2009-06-22T12:52:00.003-05:00

Yesterday was Punk Boy's first fathers day. We didn't have much planned, just brunch with my family at around noon. There was crazy construction on the normal route to my parents house, so we took the much slower number nine highway to Lockport, drove through Lockport, past the floodway and to my parents house.

Just before going over the Lockport locks and dam, a girl on a motorcycle turned in front of us. We both noted she seemed to be driving really slowly, then both noticed that she was actually just doing the speed limit of 50 KM per hour. We followed her as she drove out of Lockport, hitting highway 44 and increasing her speed to the posted 90 KM per hour.

We drove over the floodway bridge just outside of Lockport and quickly caught up with the girl on the bike. There was a big bend in the road after the floodway bridge and I noticed I was quickly coming up on the girl on the bike. I dropped my speed as Punk Boy and I both mentioned that she seemed to be slowing completely down. Before I even realized what was happening, her break lights flashed, her leg came down on the right side of the bike, as if to steady herself and suddenly, off she went directly to her left and into on coming traffic. She darted past the car that was coming directly for her and drove into the ditch where she disappeared beyond the grassy bank.

I was surprised I didn't scream. I did gasp and quickly pulled over the car. From our angle, it appeared that the girl on the bike just missed having a head on collision with the oncoming Kia. I was stunned and not really sure what I should do as I put on the flashers. Bruce grabbed his phone and jumped out of the car and ran across the highway to see if the girl was alright and if she needed help.

I sat alone in the car, my heart racing. I replayed the incident in my head, trying to figure out what went wrong. Maybe she hit some gravel? Maybe she just lost her concentration? When Punk Boy didn't coming back to the car right away, I really started to worry. The Kia had stopped as well, along with another car at this point. I could see Punk Boy and the other two men's head above the ditch, but no sight of the girl or the bike. I prayed she was alright, and talked myself into believing that she was. She was going rather slowly when she hit the grass off the shoulder and the ditch is rather a soft spot to land in compared to the hard pavement of the highway or the hood of a car speeding at 90 KM per hour directly at you.

I then saw Punk Boy running across the highway in my review-mirror. He didn't seem completely frantic or upset, so I believed she must have been fine. He got in the car and told me she was alright, a little shaken up, but okay. The bike, on the other hand, didn't fair to well. Punk Boy told me that in the fall into the ditch, she broke the break and throttle on her bike, pretty much cancelling the rest of her bike trip. I asked if we should stay and Punk Boy said no. He explained to the other two fellows who stopped that we had a baby in the car and all assured him that the situation was under control.

The rest of the ride to my parents house, my heart was in my throat. Punk Boy relayed what the biker girl told him - that she just got the bike that day (or was it the day before) and this was one of her first rides. Punk Boy, who used to drive a motorcycle, thinking that the girl didn't lean enough or properly into the turn and the bike wanted to go the wrong way and she was unable to adjust it. Rookie mistake, he commented, stating she is super lucky that the other car didn't hit her head on.

Scary.

Makes me almost glad my scooter isn't road ready yet. I now have 'the fear.'

Heat, Lonely, Pride, and the Cranky Sleeping Baby

2009-06-14T23:47:00.007-05:00

Its been a helluva weekend. My back is scorched from being outside in the sun. There is that familiar tightness between the shoulder blades that tells me, even without looking, that my flesh is a rosy pink. Punk Boy is away this weekend - out of town with work, so the sunburn is his fault. If he was here, someone would have been able to grease up my back with sunblock. Instead, I had to try by myself to smear the shit all over and get all the spots. Obviously, I failed.

It's the silly things that remind you of what life would be like if you were alone. With Punk Boy gone these last two days with work, I'm reminded every fucking moment just how much I rely on him and enjoy having him around. When the baby cries and I start to get frustrated, I can pass him off to Punk Boy. When I just don't have the time to take the two big bags of garbage down to the bin, Punk Boy can do it. When the knob on the shower in the bathroom breaks and I can't get it to turn, Punk Boy can do it (I haven't had a shower since Friday. I feel gross. I did sponge bathe myself in our sink yesterday but come on, we all know that's not a full clean). I miss him. Sure, he's gone away with work while we were dating and I've been fine with it. Heck, I probably relished it a few times. But now, with the Sea Monkey here, I miss him more than I realize. Watching some stupid movie last night, and right in the middle I cried because I realized he wouldn't be here to kiss me good night. Fuck, love hurts.

I really want to sleep but can't. Today was the first hot and sunny day of the summer and the sunburn on my back is only matched by the slight headache being out in the sun all afternoon has caused me. Nothing major, just need to drink more water. It is 17C right now - still fucking hot for night time and I'm finding it hard to sleep. The humidity is rising and I can feel it stuffing my nostrils. Not only am I fighting with sore skin on my back and a slight sun headache, but now I have to fight with a stuff nose as well. Fuck this.

Today was Winnipeg's Gay Pride Parade. I was down at the Legislative Grounds today with a shit load of other people for the Pride Rally and then the official Winnipeg Gay Pride Parade. I didn't march in the Parade as I had the Sea Monkey with me and was worried about the excessive heat and lack of shade on the parade route for him. So I stood back and took pictures of the event.
I'm not Gay/Lesbian/Transgendered/whatever else, but I usually go to the parade. At first I went because it was hip to be a single, young girl in the city with gay friends. It was the place to be. It was edgy. Over the years, its become a little bit more than that. I go because I believe in Gay Rights and I find it awful that people who love each other so deeply can't have the same rights as I do and can't have the same freedom to love as I do. I go to show support for my best friend, Ferocious Sonja, because I love her and support her in all she does. I don't tell her this enough. Shit I probably don't tell her at all, but that girl is a hero of mine. As long as I can remember, she has done things her way, with her head held high. She learns from mistakes, finds great joy in her adventures and just fucking lives, man. She fucking lives. I respect that, I am jealous of that.
I go because of her and this moral fiber shes created in me. Shes opened my mind up to things that I would probably not have given much thought to had our paths not ever crossed. Its rare, really. It's really rare to meet people who influence you so much in so many fantastic ways. I cherish it.

Maybe its my lonely mind talking... Who knows? Even if it is, it's coming from the heart and that's what counts. I miss Punk Boy when he's not here and I cherish my Ferocious one.

Sea Monkey was a great baby through the whole event, making me an even prouder mom. That kid amazes me. I pass him off to strangers and he goes with it. It's amazing. He had never met Ferocious Sonja's girl friend and dang, that baby just took to her. I can't blame the child - she's an amazing women with such a soft, gentle nature.
She seems wonderful for Ferocious Sonja - this calming mature lover. Their interactions are beautiful, so natural.

It's past midnight. The Sea Monkey is still sleeping. He was cranky this evening. Probably the heat, the lack of a father figure in the house. Hall and Oats are playing softly in the back ground. I've had this fucking song stuck in my head all day.

I can`t go for being twice as nice
I can`t go for just repeating the same old lines
Use the body, now you want my soul
Ooh, forget about it, now say no go, yeah

I, I`ll do anything that you want me to do, yeah
I`ll do almost anything that you want me too, yeah

But I can`t go for that, no no can do

I was afraid to put the Sea Monkey to sleep in his crib. I expected it to be a struggle. I laid him down, covered him with a light blanket, read him a short story, kissed him and left the room. There I waited for the battle of wits to begin, but not a peep was heard out of his little room. A check fifteen minutes later proved that the sweetheart was curled up on his side, sleeping soundly.

Peace.

And now I can't sleep.

Will have a tall, cool glass of apple juice, will blow my nose and try it again...

Punk Boy comes home tomorrow - I can't wait.

Hoarding

2009-06-08T12:47:00.002-05:00

I've been thinking about Hoarding lately.

Taken from some online dictionary:

the acquisition of, and failure to discard, a large number of possessions that appear to be useless or of limited value
living spaces sufficiently cluttered so as to preclude activities for which those spaces were designed
significant distress or impairment in functioning caused by the hoarding

Peoples spaces fascinate me. I love walking past apartments with basement suites because then I can sneak a peak how other people live. I am almost obsessed with seeing how people live in my apartment block. Right now, to me, nothing is more fascinating that seeing how someone else is using the exact same space I have.

But this is not why I've been thinking about Hoarding. Growing up I had a friend whose Mother, I am now convinced, was a Hoarder. Their house always seemed dirty and cluttered to me as a child, mountains of stuff everywhere. I used to just think it was hard for them, having a family larger than mine, or chalk it up to just being plain old disorganized. Now, when I remember that house in my head, it reminds me of a hoarders paradise. I have this crystal clear memory of being over once and walking towards my friends kitchen. To get there, we had to cross through the dinning room. If there was a dinning table in there, I never saw it. Basically, there was so much stuff in that room that the only way to get to the kitchen was to follow the small path that someone made through the stuff. As I got older, I remember my friends mother constantly apologising for the mess, the mess that seemed to choke you. The clutter sometimes even spilled over on to their outside deck.

I wonder what it was like to live in that. I lived in a clean, organized house. Not spotless, not show-home clean, but neat and tidy. The difference was just so astounding to me.

I heard someone say once that Children look up to their parents as role models and do their best to be just like us. I sometimes feel like I could hoard everything I've ever touched. Keep everything forever and leave us no place to move, to think. Sometimes I feel like that now in our apartment. But I know it's just a lack of room that's keeping me on the edge of insanity in the hoarding department. I actually purge possessions that aren't needed quiet easily.

Hoarding.. so fucking strange.

Rainy Day

2009-05-25T09:49:00.003-05:00

I love writing and reading on rainy days. Its coming down hard in Winnipeg - soft rain. Its been raining all night, so everything is a dark grey color with it's rain wash. Days like today I usually turn off the lights (which are needed due to the dark sky), turn off the TV. I then turn on the radio and either grab a book to read by a window or turn on my computer and write. Something about this weather that makes me want to sit still, listen to the sounds around me and connect with the written word. Today, I am sort of doing that. Right now as a matter of fact. Punk Boy has the day off from work, and is going through the aforementioned box of clutter right now on the sofa. He needs the light, so both the kitchen and the floor lamp are on. Also, the TV is providing background noise. I don't think he's really watching it, (Jon and Kate plus Eight is on and I don't think he's a huge fan) but hasn't made any effort to change the channel - he is too deep into what ever he is doing. I know he woke up this morning to the screams of our Sea Monkey in the bath (he spit up his breakfast all over himself and I had to administer an emergency bath) and stated he needed to get his time sheet done and into work around ten PM. It's ten to ten and I don't think he's even started to fill it out. I should remind him but then I take the chance of being a nag. I think I will.

"Hey, Punk Boy, did you do your time sheet? Its almost ten."

Alright - negative response. Raised voice telling me that's why hes going through the box of crap, tells me I'm not being helpful.

My new response is to cut off the conversation when he yells. I am now refusing to listen to him in said situations.

Worked alright.. hrm, why haven't I been doing that sooner?

The Sea Monkey is six months old today. Can you believe it? Where has the time gone? He's doing crazy things, rolls around the floor like a log and I am pretty sure that any day now, the little beast is going to be crawling. He does these crazy 'baby push-ups,' where he gets up on his very tip-toes and pushes up hard with his hands and will hold his body stiff like a board. He will hold himself in this position for a few seconds before either letting himself go to the ground or trying to move his legs. Soon he will be crawling.
In fact, this morning he was doing these strange push ups and somehow moved himself forward as he fell down. Only a matter of time now.

I'm hungry. Maybe I'll make some eggs and toast for me and Punk Boy.

Tired

2009-05-19T10:40:00.002-05:00

My eyes hurt and I know they will be puffy later today. My allergies combined with the massive amounts of dust in this apartment along with the argument punk boy and I had this morning ain't helping matters. Its a lethal combination for puffy eyes. Not that I care. I'm a mother and found that my sea monkey has become the be all excuse for not taking care of myself.

"Wow, your hair is a mess!"
Sorry, I'm a mom.

"Wow, that piece of stir fry tofu has been sitting on your counter for a week"
Sorry, I'm a mom.

"I had no idea laundry could pile up like that!"
Sorry, I'm a mom.

"Wow, you have such bags under your eyes!"
Sorry, I'm a mom.

"Fuck, you look like shit! You alright?"
Sorry I'm a mom.

I've come to rely on it in moments when I just can't (or won't) be bothered to make myself super presentable. No shower for me this morning. I went to the garbage shoot looking a bit more ragged than usual. It's a risk, really, weather or not I'll run into any of my nieghbours. They all know about sea monkey and they understand but part of me just hates that look people give you when you look like shit with a newborn around. Its that half "yuck" half pity look. If you get it from a women, specially a mother, then you get a twing of sypmathy in there.

My stomach is grugling. The noise coming from it lately would scare any person. I'm stressed out and its going right to my bowles. The heartburn seems to be under control (thanks for all the suggestions) and now I'm just working on the other end of me. Fixing me physically is harder than I thought as its the mental me that needs repair.

Sea Monkey is alseep and has been for an hour already. He had a busy weekend so he may nap for a while. I am cleaning house. It's my goal today to get this apartment into a livable state. I realized something about Punk Boy this weekend while visiting his parents house - he lives in clutter. His parents house has pockets of clutter and so, Punk Boy has pockets of clutter. Right now, next to his desk is this annoying pile of, well, clutter. A pile of papers, shoeboxes, various contstruction tools, a half rotten apple (it has been tossed) and more papers and crap. Its been there for a month now and I am slowly learning that this Punk Boy. No matter how clean I make our house, he will have these pockets of messy clutter that he keeps promising to go through. We are carbon copies of my families, I suppose.

Speaking of family, I just got off the phone with my mother after having about an hour long conversation. I was upset, I needed to vent at someone regarding the events of the morning. Punk Boy and I argued over something stupid - a missing key to my car. Its always the small arguments that explode into the big yelling matches. A key, for christsakes! I am using the frustration to modivate me to clean this apartment. Vacumn, dust, wash and if I can, get some laundry going. I am going to do it all today in order to keep myself from thinking about the real things I should. Knowing me, I'll think about them anyway. It usually comes to me when I am lying in bed, right before I drift to sleep. Like last night. Lying in the dark my mind went back to a small incident yesterday between Punk Boy and my sister that pushed me over the edge. Of course, I was to busy to deal with it until that moment. Anyway, once I got home and was in bed, thinking, I realized how much the whole situation just pisses me off, royally. I'm stuck between two children who just both won't smarten up. One doesn't think before they speak and the other got all pissy because they were called on something rude they did. We're adults, act like adults for fuck sakes. Sea Monkey is six months old and he acts more like an adult.. fuck.

I'm pretty annoyed, I guess. I'm sure by this evening, when I go off to do the radio show, I'll be better and most of this will be processed, save that which I need to discuss with Punk Boy. I have to before my intestines explode with savage, stress filled bile.

Just checked on the little one - sleeping babies are beautiful. I know I shouldn't do it, but at least once a day I let the Sea Monkey have his nap on me. I love the way his lips form a perfect little heart and how soft he looks. It's beautful.

Smootherin' Motherin'

2009-05-15T09:44:00.002-05:00

I've been thinking a lot about motherhood these days. Kind of hard not to - its become how I 'define' myself. I am now and forever will be 'mother' or 'mom.' Fuck, I bet at one point in my life, I will be referred to as 'my ol' lady' by my little sea monkey.

They say prostitution is the oldest profession. I say screw that, it's motherhood. I am labeling it as a profession because its a fuck load of work. CONSTANT work. Your on the job 24/7 and breaks are few and far between. Mom's need to set up a union. Better rights...

Its incredible that my actions, no matter how small or how grand, are going to affect this babies life forever. Fucking scary concept. I've fucked up, I've lost my temper, I've cried, I've thrown things and I've yelled. I get this way without a vacation, even at my old office job.

Life seems to be put on hold. Punk Boy asks me very so often if I'm regretful about the fact now I'm stuck at home with a 'soon-to-be' husband and baby. It usually does not bother me but sometimes, like today, I feel the smothering affect of motherhood. Is it normal to feel like you need to escape sometimes? Like if you don't get out from the fold, alone, for a good chunk of time, you don't know what you'll do? Maybe pull out all your hair.

But the kicker, the real kicker is when you do get that break, when you get out alone, all you do is sit and wonder about the home life or what baby is doing or if dad is doing things the way you would or if the babysitter is paying enough attention to our son or if they are just putting them in the circle of neglect (AKA the exer-saucer) and gabbing on the phone all night? Horrible double edged sword.

I'm learning to let control go a little bit. Sure I'm a strict kind of schedule person and Punk Boy understands that about me and respects it. I know when I'm away he does his best to stick to that but one thing I've learned about Punk Boy is he is unscripted and unscheduled. He is a 'seat-of-his-pants" kind of guy. Keeps me and Sea Monkey on our toes.

Sea monkey will be six months in a about one week. Six months. I was flipping through old pictures the other day, looking at ones of him when he was very little, about three weeks and I had a huge rush of how I felt in those days. Helpless, tired, lost, confused, depressed, so on and so forth. Amazing how, somewhere along the way, things just sort of clicked with sea monkey. I suppose its like meeting any new person, you need to adjust to them and they to you. Maybe now we are just comfortable with each other and I know that I can't 'break' sea monkey. He's a tough baby and a good baby. I'm really lucky for that and I count my blessings every day.

Its another grey day outside and I do need to venture out to the bank and the grocery store. I'll do it after noon, when sea monkey should be having his second nap. Maybe he'll be tired and just sleep through all the errands...

Breaking Promises, Saying Goodbye, Realization

2009-05-05T10:13:00.003-05:00

Well, I broke my promise. Remember when I made that very obtainable goal to write every day, even if it was just for sixty-seconds? Yeah, well, that didn't happen. I'm not going to beat myself up about it, instead I am going to regroup and focus on things a bit more this time around. When the baby is in bed, I need to making writing my way of de-stressing, not playing stupid flash internet games on the computer. I need to return to my roots. Its very hard, having changed so much in the last five years or so, to return to those roots. They've been augmented and transplanted a few times. Still the same, yet oh so different. I broke the promise to myself but I am not giving up hope on me, not just yet. I am trying. I am able to recognize that I've fallen a bit short and the events of the last week have made me think hard and I think, will push me forward.

Punk Boy and I attended a funeral on Monday. A friend of his, someone he played with in a bad and kept in touch with over the years had died after fighting cancer for 14 or so years. I only met him a handful of times and found him to be quiet, soft, and interesting. I wish I had the chance to know him more, to be honest, as he seemed to have left some impression on Punk Boys life. So much so that we named Sea Monkey after this friend (middle name). He feel ill sometime last week. Bruce and I drove to visit him in Hospital as he hadn't had a chance to meet the Sea Monkey yet and Punk Boy was really wanted his friend to meet the child that carried on his name. We were told by family that the Sea Monkey might not be able to visit, as he was in a very delicate state and all those who went to visit were required to wear surgical gear. We brought the tyke anyway. Punk Boy donned the robe and mask while I waited with the baby. We were allowed to bring the baby to the doorway of the room so he could get a good look at him, but we were not allowed to enter. I said hello, showed the baby, made soft conversation and then left Punk Boy with his friend again.
Two days later Punk Boy received the message that he had died. Funeral to follow in a few days.
I'm not exactly sure what about the whole event, besides the obvious, that made me cry so. I still want to, feel the need to, sit down and just have a good sob about it, away from Sea Monkey and Punk Boy. To see Punk Boy so distraught, to see him trying so hard to hold it together and having that raw emotion sneak through a few cracks in his exterior crushed my heart a little bit. At one point, during the ceremony, they played this song. This stupid, little song that I've heard a hundred times before, but for some reason it just killed me, made my chest collapse a little bit - same with Punk Boy. We both cried together. I felt awful, forgetting the kleenex in the trunk of my car. But some wonderful lady standing next to us handed me a few sheets of kleenex from her purse. Such a kind gesture. Fuck, why couldn't I be more on the ball at times? Kleenex - in the trunk. What good does it do there?
Of course there were other moments of united grief and I do have to say thank god for the Sea Monkey. When I thought I would crack (and what good would I be cracked for Punk Boy?) the little Sea Monkey would do something that we couldn't help but smile at, or would try to grab something he shouldn't and both of us would spring into action, being temporarily distracted from the situation at hand, enough so to pull it back together.
Once we got home, once we were relaxed, Punk Boy had a moment. While holding each other, crying, I reassured him he was an amazing person, a fantastic friend and he just replied that he 'didn't do enough, didn't visit enough.' Ferocious Sonja has a good point, she that we always feel we can never do enough, but we do what we can. She drops pearls of wisdom like that - I love her for it.

So what does this have to do with realization? A lot actually. We can never do enough, it's true. We always think we should have done more, but sometimes, we just need to be happy with what we've done and end the habit of beating ourselves up.
We're taking it step by step - that's how you heal

2009-04-27T21:08:00.004-05:00

My body feels heavy.

I can't explain it, but it starts at the very top of my forehead with a constant pressure that seems to drip down my body, rest on the tops of my cheeks, my shoulders, hips and the top of my feet. No matter how I rub these body parts, the feeling of heaviness stays. It's like I can feel the full pull of gravity from 24 floors up.

It's annoying. No matter how I shift, shake or rub myself, the heavy feeling stays. I noticed it about fifteen minutes ago. It just kind of showed up with a determination that makes me wonder if it was always there and I have just been ignoring it.

I don't have time to notice these things anymore - the way gravity feels on my when I am in our high rise home, how the rough souls of my feet scratch and catch on the rough carpet. It's so quiet in here that I'm almost afraid to breath, because breathing will disturb something, anything.

I was out in the country today with the sea monkey, visiting the new grandparents. It was a great afternoon, even thought sea monkey was fussy and whiny. He's had some very long days in the past week and a bit (maybe I need to take it easy on the going out - seems to be affecting him), and I think he is feeling a bit out of his element. To make things easier on him, I told my parents I would be hauling ass home so he could be in bed by his bedtime of 8:30. I arrived home at about 7:45 PM to a silent and dark house. Things seemed undisturbed from this morning when I left with sea monkey. Lights were on and the kitchen was still clean from when I took the time to straighten it up this morning. All this lead me to believe one thing - Punk Boy has not come home from work yet. I put the sea monkey to bed ( he went down with little to no fight) and then cleaned up some odds and ends that I didn't get to this morning. I played some music softly from the computer - Elvis Costello, and listened to the sound of the cars on Assiniboine street below. The weather is cool, but the apartment was too hot and I opened the window to cool it down to a bearable temperature. It's now almost 9:30 PM and Punk Boy is no where to be seen, no where to be heard from. I'm enjoying the quiet, almost amazed that I have the time and the solidarity to feel the gravity pull, but am slowly starting to worry about him. Two phone calls, one text message since I've arrived home and no response.

I'm not completely worried yet, just a bit unsure.

The air conditioner just clicked on, the hum competing with the cars from down below. I'm not used to this quiet, to this freedom. I lived alone before moving in with Punk Boy and having our Sea Monkey. All I knew was solidarity and now that I have it again, I'm feeling a little bit like a fish out of water.

What did I do when I was alone, before all this change? I can barely remember these days. I use to write, waste my time on the internet. I would read and if I had a bottle of wine, would drink it. Sleep, masturbate, bake cookies, watch movies, debate going out - there was an endless list of things I must have done. I loved my time alone, I completely enjoyed living with out anyone around. I wish I would have done more to capture moments like this - pictures, prose, anything. They are rare now, and not as familiar as they once were. I almost miss all the action.

Sea Monkey is sound asleep. He is down for the count - fine by me. Tomorrow is a busy day, I should take advantage of this quiet time and watch the videos that the public health nurse left behind. Some crap about feeding your baby. Sea Monkey is so easy going that getting those first spoonfuls of food into him was not that difficult. Not sure I have need to watch the stupid thing.
I'm just lazy - that's what it boils down to. I don't want to spend what little alone time I do get watching a movie on how to feed my baby. He seems to have a handle on that - I'm not worried.

Still no Punk Boy.

Should I be scared? I'm not scared but am feeling a bit uneasy. What's the deal?

I can hear shouting in the street. I think it's time to close the window and change tasks. Maybe moving will make the gravity pull feel less strange...

2009-04-22T14:55:00.004-05:00

So it's time, I've decided.

I've sat on my laurels long enough. The little guys is going to be five months old and many of the tasks I have set out for myself to do while on Maternity Leave are collecting dust in some storage center in my brain. Now, I know taking care of a baby is a full time job and that any spare time I get, like these moments when he naps, are mine to get shit done and then recharge my batteries.

Well it's been about five months now and I'm feeling recharged. I think it might have to do with the shift in weather. With my hay-fever always comes this rebirth and this urge to do, well, more.

I've decided to try and dedicate myself a bit more to my writing. I'm making it my goal to write something, anything each and every day. It can be a part of this blog, part of my other blog or I'll finally start to get cracking on that second novel of mine (or maybe just work at re-writing the first one). I'm setting my goals low as I know there will be times when I just won't have the energy or the time to sit down with my thoughts for more than an hour to bang something out. Ferocious Sonja was right - I do sometimes set my goals to high. Even two minutes of writing is better than nothing at all. Use any time I have, don't get discourage if all I am able to spew forth are some under-developed ideas or a response to some one minute writing exercises. All of it is worth something.

I've been playing around in my head for years with a novel idea. I've been reading some locally focused sub-culture books these past few days and have been thinking that I need to embrace my rotten city for all that it has to offer and maybe its time for me to write about it. Maybe it's time for the real Rise and Fall of Penny Lane to be told.

The idea is tantalizing. I have seen so much and have done some incredible things in my youth. Why not commit them to paper in some tribute to my city. My fair Winnipeg.

I don't loath it, you know. I think the people who live here or have spent many a year here have developed the perfect definition of the 'love-hate' relationship. We are not complacent, nor are we push-overs. We just see what the city has to offer, and love it's gutters and it's sprawling parks. We threaten to leave, some of us do, but we always seem to either long for the city, or end up back in it. We idolize it as much as we hate it.

Listen to a track called "I Hate Winnipeg" by the Weakerthans and you'll know.. you'll know...

2009-04-13T10:34:00.002-05:00

I have heartburn.

It's become my silent killer - this horrible bubbling acid in the my throat. It's starting to taste like a battery exploded back there. No hope for it anymore. I eat tums like candy.

I never used to have heartburn. In my early twenties, friends would complain of it often and I remember being unable to relate as I've never had it myself. I remember once saying "I don't know if I've had heartburn ever before - maybe." To which a friend replied, "trust me, you'd know."

She was right. You do know when it's heartburn.

The first time I started to get the heartburn was shortly after that conversation. I was working a job that I hated, and after being promoted in it, became so completely stressed that day after day my throat was coated with this horrible acidic feeling. I came to expect it after a while, hating it with such a lust. It was painful and didn't subside until I quit that job and removed myself from the stressful situation that employment caused.

Now, almost ten years later, it's back with a vengence. That horrible bubbling in my throat every morning, sometimes waking me up at night. I can actually feeling the tums bubbling in my throat as I swallow them, doing their best to cut that thick muck inside me. The burps are the worst. I'm always fearful that something more than a horrible sound will come up with them.

It's stress, I know it is. Just like it's stress that is causing the rash to reappear on my throat. I know what I need to do. I need to de-stress. I'm slowly making a mental list of things in my head to help me de-stress, things I need to work on that might help:

1. Allow myself not to be dissapointed - I expect to much at times, I think. I am starting to believe it is better to expect nothing and be suprised with what you get than to expect something, not get it and forever be dissapointed.

2. Drink more water - I know it hurts in the heat of one of my heartburn attacks but I need to flush out my system and am going to me a huge effort to drink more water.

3. Try to meditate more - Meditation is a fantastic way to centre oneself and I tend to fall out of that. Even if I do just three minutes a day, its better than nothing. Fuck, I'll do it while on the crapper if I have to.

4. Avoid acidic and spicy foods - You know things are bad when you have a small glass of orange juice later in the evening and wake up with the juices acidic aftertaste stuck in your throat.

The list is slowly developing - its new and my plan of action has just started. Cross your fingers. Tums are getting expensive.

2009-03-25T16:34:00.004-05:00

I want to write a new post, but I'm pretty sure the baby is going to wake up from his nap any moment now...

It's snowing like a bitch outside. I'm not happy. Spring has fucking sprung on the calender, can someone please inform mother nature? Winnipeg is getting dumped on and it fucking sucks. PERIOD.

Everyone is complaining about it. We should not be surprised it's here, really. Winnipeg - this shit happens. Regularly.

I'm itching to get outside, walk around, burn off the last bit of the baby weight. I get slightly nervous taking the baby in the car when the weather is like this but I also refuse to let it keep me locked inside this apartment another day. Tonight, when Punk Boy gets home, I'm taking a short trip to return some movies and fill two prescriptions of mine. Also need to get diapers and formula for the wee one. Tomorrow, Baby boy and I have our first play date. Getting together with a few fellow co-workers. We all had babies around the same time (I believe there is maybe like two weeks difference in age here) and one of the ladies though it would be fun. I'm game. I don't know these people that well, but having children is a big thing in common and damn it I want to see how other mothers are with their babies. Maybe next time the public health nurse visits here, I'm gonna ask her about mom and me drop in sessions. Maybe it's time...

Just checked on baby boy - fuck he stinks. There is a diaper change, a nasty one, in my near future, but I'm not going to wake him up to do it.

Everyday I'm feeling a bit more comfortable with the new title Baby boy has given me. Mom, never thought that would happen but it's here and it's not that bad, really. My mother told me today that my dad mentioned to her what a good mother I am. Nearly made my heart cave in. My father and I have a past, and not a very good one. He never seemed to approve of the way I lived my live and I didn't care or need that approval. But with getting older comes the desire for the praise, and though he doesn't give it openly to me, to hear it via a third party is more than enough for me right now.

Baby boy is four months old today. Four months of this have gone by. Four months of winter, with the occasional nice day for walking. Four months of having spit up on every article of clothing, of cleaning it from the beige sofa (note: if you are planning on having kids, don't get a beige sofa), four months of diaper changes, of odd hours and rewarding smiles from baby. Where has the time gone?

Took Baby boy for his four month check-up yesterday. He's a hefty 15 lbs, which is perfect for his age. He's come a long way from the 6 lbs he was at birth. Doctor says he's doing fantastic, and also told me he can still hear the heart murmur. He said that the sound of it is very faint, and that he's not too worried about it but wants to send us for an ultrasound of baby boy's heart, just to make sure its developing as it should. He told me not to worry. Its hard not too. Baby boy seems so happy and, well, normal to me that I sometimes almost forget about his little ticker. Then there are those times when it's all that I can think of and it races through my brain like a fright train. I love this little being so much, and I feel awful I gave him a bad heart. I want the best for him and I want him to live a great, full life. I don't want him to suffer.

Ah snow, you make me think of things I shouldn't. I can't help it. I don't want to blame myself for his heart, but I have to. My body made him, I did my best to nurture him from the moment I found out he existed - did I make a mistake? Did my frustration and the stress I felt during my pregnancy affect him? I can help but wonder what the stress did to him. I know it fucked me, so what about my little, little baby boy?

These are silly thoughts. I despise them but them keep coming back. I still hold great stresses that came from my pregnancy. Maybe, maybe sometime soon I will blog about them and what they did to me and how angry I recently got about them. It is very personal, very hard to discuss but sometimes, by discussing, I feel better about things. I hate it because I feels selfish when I think about those actions, those words and those things said. I feel selfish because I''m thinking completely about how I felt during those moments and what other's actions did to me.

That's fucked.

There's no need for me to feel selfish, goddamnit.

Crap, Baby is crying..

Crap indeed...

2009-03-17T13:47:00.005-05:00

I haven't felt much like doing anything too creative these days. I've lost the urge that seems to have exploded in me just a few weeks earlier. It's hard to explain, but suddenly I just don't want to be creative, I don't want to think hard, and I don't want to be blamed for not feeling this way.

Things have happened to beat me down a little bit. I'm not completely upset by them - as soon I'll crawl forward from this battering, this 'my anger is more important than your anger' scenario I keep finding myself in. I'm not used to being this angry at, well, anyone. I have this urge to just about completely stamp out the source of my anger, keep them at arms length and only associate with them as much as is necessary to keep up the airs that I don't hate them.

Ever felt that way? About a friend, about a family member? Just had it completely up to here with them and you just don't have the heart to cut them completely out of your life, but part of you, some deep part of you, really wants to. It's difficult - I'm usually the 'shut-up-about-it' kind of girl. I roll over and let the situation walk all over me for fear that I might upset the other. I'm feeling done with that now and am throwing caution to the wind on it. I think I used to do it out of fear of being alone. I don't fear that anymore.

Part of me doesn't fear that because of the baby. I'll never, ever be alone. But I also don't want to leave the responsibility of my mental well-being on a developing baby. NOT FAIR.

Speaking of baby - he is doing so well. The last two days, he has seemed to do nothing but smile at me and it warms me completely. Makes me think that even though I am completely winging this motherhood thing, that I am doing something right - I am making him happy. I worry about dumb things. He sleeps like a dream a night. Three months old and he'll sleep soundly from nine PM till six AM. I'm afraid letting him sleep through the night like that and miss a nighttime feeding might not be good for him. Is it better to let him sleep or should I just wake him up? I'm afraid I'm not feeding him enough. Afraid that when I take him back to the doctors next week, I'll get another one of those negative report cards and have to bring the poor child back for weekly check-ups until he is in the clear about, well, whatever it is that is hurting him.

It's a sick experiment - first time parenthood. You do what you think is right and you can be inadvertently hurting this poor, helpless soul. Fucked up, if you ask me.

2009-02-25T09:28:00.003-06:00

I love my new camera. The only thing I hate about it is the lack of subject matter. Hunter is great subject matter, don't get me wrong, and I love taking pictures of the little tyke, but I ache to get outside with him. I want to take pictures of his little toes in tall grass and I want to see how he reacts to the outside world - catch it all on film.

We got dumped on again last night - another heavy dusting of snow to make everything more difficult. Walking, driving, getting out is now ten times harder again. It was just starting to become more simple, more plausible and now, we are pushed back ten steps. It really sucks. I am anxious to get out walking, taking Hunter for long walks in the stroller, but fuck that. Mother Nature, you hag.

I believe this is called 'cabin fever.' The last few weeks of February is always hard in the prairies. You are so close to the end of this long, dry, hard winter. You survived another one and the dawn of something warmer and easier is just on the horizon, and then you get goddamn dumped upon again, pushed back just a few more steps.

Completely frustrating.

Unless you live on the prairies, then you have no idea about how hard then can be, how draining. The land has no topography. nothing interesting to look at - just a long line that the sun rises and sets on over and over again. I once heard that Manitoba is the only place on Earth where you can see the sun set and the moon rise at the same time. Just find a nice, long open field (and trust me, that ain't so hard) and at dusk you can see the spectacle - the round shinning orb of the sun on one side of you, the cold metallic circle of the moon on the other. When the wind picks up, there is nothing to stop it and the cold can chill you to the marrow of your bones. No mountains, trees only seem to grow in clumps in special areas, farmland everywhere. If it weren't for the tall buildings of the city, Winnipeg wouldn't be much different than the country-side.

You can hear the wind howl here. Growing up, I remember how the wind would make that whistling sound on those blustery nights, outside my bedroom window. You knew when you heard that howl that it was deathly cold outside and I always hated it when the dog whimpered to be let outside. I would stand in the garage, and the howl would be amplified. The metal garage door would rattle, and my toes would freeze on the pavement while I waited for the dog. You could feel the water on your eyes ice up, the tiny moister in your nostrils freeze and sting the tiny nose-hairs that they clung to.

I hate the prairies sometimes.

I also love them. Driving down the country roads, specially during the fall harvest is stunning. The colors of the fields, the bushes and trees are stronger than any painters pallet. The long, amazingly long field and the way they met the sky and formed that beautiful straight line of horizon - crisp colors, no mixing. It's breath-taking.

I'll always be a prairie girl, this is true. The flat-lands have seeped into my blood and there they will always remain. I love the mountains, I love the valley, I love the Canadian Shield but I will always be home on the prairies.

2009-02-20T08:54:00.003-06:00

FOUR MORE YEARS...

It's so strange, but I remember exactly what I was doing four years ago today. I was living in my small, one bedroom apartment on Assinaboine and it was a cold Monday morning. I was battling a slight hangover, caused by one to many bottles of stander lager beer that I consumed at the Kings Head Pub the night before. Sunday night was always busy at the Kings Head in those days - shoulder to shoulder people, usually those in the service industry, celebrating the end of another hard weekend.

It was close to nine in the morning when I crawled out of bed. I had to work that afternoon - closing shift at the deli in the grocery store, so instead of putting on normal cloths, I put on the ugly uniform I was required to wear - black, burn-your-skin polyester pants, black V-neck sweater and that hideous blue-green apron. I had the radio playing while I puttered around the apartment, making something for breakfast. What I ate that morning doesn't really matter (it was probably something simple like a bowl of cereal with vanilla Soya milk), nor does the fact that it was extremely sunny that morning. I remember the light just filling my small apartment. It was glorious and instead of surrounding myself with a blaring TV, I had the radio on, playing softly.

I had it on one of the University radio stations, the one out of the University of Winnipeg and was listening to one of my favorite radio shows back then - a music program called 'Department 13.' I always listened to it Monday mornings, the hosts mixture of soft indie rock and blues music was the perfect way to ease into work on Monday's and since Monday was my time to work the closing shift at the deli, I could always listen to it while getting ready to leave and in the car on the way to work.

I turned it on a bit late, missing the start of the show at 10 AM. He was playing something strange for his show, I thought. Instead of the usual music, he was playing a audio recording of Hunter S. Thompson's book, 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.' I had the CD myself. It was a glorious reading of the book by various people, almost like a radio play, which sound affects, clips of music and distinct characters throughout. It was odd to hear on the show, I remember, but I didn't think much more of it. I turned it up a bit louder and listened as I got myself ready to go to work.

I was comuting to Selkirk at that time for work, a long 45 minute drive every day. I hated it. I stopped at Burger King on the way out of the city to grab lunch - something about greasy food and a hangover that is just so perfect - and continued on my way to work.

The store was quiet for a Monday afternoon and I felt lazy and achy. I was thankful for the slow pace of that day. I went into some task and was soon greated by the Meat Department manager. He was a strange man, about my parents age, but he and I shared many of the same interests. We both loved photography, had similar taste in some music and both appricated fringe writers.

"Did you hear the news?" He asked me.

No, what news?

"Hunter S. Thompson died."

I remember feeling a bit suprised.

"He apprently shot himself. Don't know much more than that."

The news numbed me a little bit and I spent the whole day at work in a bit of a head-bubble. I was half concentrating at work and half wondering about HST. What happened? Why? Was what I hearing a mistake?

When I got home, I had a few message on my answering machine. A few friends had called to ask if I had heard the news and if I was alright. I was confused and bewildered and suprisingly upset by the whole thing. I adored HST's flair for the dramatic and his wonderful way of writing. Many mistook him for a drug writer, someone who told these crazy tales of excessive substanice abuse, but he was a smart man, a completely whitty man and a man who could write the most beautiful paragraphs I had ever read. He was able to look back and laugh at his excess but also able to sit down and pick apart all that was foul and rotten in this world and find the core of gold it may have had or was able to present it as the disgusting piece of shit it really was. He was the most amazing writer and person I had ever been exposed to.

People are still confused at his actions. Apprently he killed himself in his home while his son and grandson where there. Apprently he did it while talking to his wife on the phone. Apprently it was done with a bullet to the head. There was a note, but it didn't say much...

"No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won't hurt."

Some people remember where they were when Kennedy was shot, or John Lennon. I remember exactly where I was when Hunter S. Thompson died.

RIP Gonzo.

2009-02-11T03:25:00.003-06:00

These mid-night feedings are getting easier. When we first brought baby home, I barely slept and was up at all hours, ready to feed the little guy. I had strange dreams and visions when I did fall asleep that I had taken the baby into the bed with me and I'd wake up in a bit of a panic, wondering where he was. I would be afraid to move and would pat around for a few minutes in my tired haze before realizing that I never took the baby into the bed with me, that he was safe in his crib like he always is at night. It took a good month for these incidents to subside.

Now, I don't envision him among us in the sheets of the big bed. I know he's in his crib and I am free to roll and flop around as much as you can with another adult sleeping beside you. I am not afraid to sleep. I would lie in bed listening for the baby's breathing, would strain my ears to hear him. SIDS scared the shit out of me, still does.

He's safe in there now. This evening was exceptionally good. Changed his diaper and put him in a sleeper around 10:30. Placed him in the crib, covered him with a few blankets and let him snuggle the strange blanket-with-an-animal-head-attached toy that he drooled all over earlier. I read him a book about Animal tails, turned on the nightlight and the mobile, turned off the lights and left him. He whined, not cried, for a little bit and after about half an hour, I gave him a soother. He feel asleep shortly after that and slept soundly until I woke up him at 2:45 for a feeding. He sleeps more and more at night and I am slowly feeling more and more rested, returning more and more to myself. There is still high tension in the house that are caused by a lack of serious sleep, but they are getting better, so much better.

I do, however, find myself getting into a habit that I should break soon. I get hit by a wall of tired at around four PM every day, and it appears that baby does as well. I feed him and then hold him upright, usually resting him on my chest and I tend to doze off, fall asleep with him in my arms on the sofa. The problem with this is when I come too, I check if he is okay (usually he is sleeping too) and go right back to closing my eyes. I have done this two days in a row. I need to change that.

He's beautiful. When he is full relaxation mode in his bed, he sleeps with his heart lips slightly agape, his arms up on either side of his head. Sometimes I find him clutching the blankets to him. I check on him too many times at night - I am afraid I am becoming an over-bearing mother but I need to know he is alright. I want him to be independent and to not feel smothered. It's a hard line - you want to mold them and shape them into these great little people but you are afraid what your doing is just going to fuck them up. These are the most important years for development and we have no real way to communicate. He can't tell me if he really likes being placed in the psydo-babysitter or if he hates it. He can't tell me when he just wants to be held for a few minutes or if I am smothering him. I'm walking a fucking ledge here.

He smiles, so I must be doing something right.

He also cries, but don't all babies?

2009-02-10T08:59:00.003-06:00

It's 8:59 in the AM. The baby is laying on the 'psydo-babysitter,' which is this green mat type thing with an arch above it with some fucked up looking toys hanging from it. Keep the little bugger entertained for, well, hours sometimes. He's laying there and I am here, eating cheesecake for breakfast.

What kind of mind-state must someone be in to have cheese cake for breakfast? It's the Sara Lee varity, chocolate chip and I'm not even using a plate. I am eating the damn thing directly from the tin foil pie plate it was baked in. It's sweet, verging on almost too sweet. You know, the too sweet something like cheesecake gets when it's bad cheesecake. This isn't bad, yet. It's mediocare.

When I think about life decisions and things that have moved past me without much of my input, when I get sentemintail about my grudges, I eat cheesecake for breakfast. I didn't want to touch the yogurt. It's healthier. I did contemplate it, but the fact that it's stamped so dark with the expiry date of JAN 30 made the cheesecake an ever eaiser decision.

I've written about my grudges before, the way I don't tend to keep them around for long but there is one or two that seem to stick like glue. Some are actions, some are a collective of actions. I'm sure that the small ones I am still harboring will fade away with time, infact I know they will. I can see a glimer of hope in that, but there are ones that will never go away.

I'm tired and the baby is sleeping. I can't concentrate on grudges anymore. The cheesecake is done and so am I.

2009-01-15T07:30:00.004-06:00

THINKING

I've been thinking about the path these days - where my live is going vs. where I thought it would be going. I'm coming up on have spent thirty years wandering this specific plane of existence and have ended up on a path I never had the foresight to see.

I've always imagined my twenties would bleed into my thirties, but would be a more sophisticated sequel to the original. It would just have a better job, better apartment, better clubs and better sex with better men. I always saw myself as the single girl, living alone and bringing home different men at my own whim.

My twenties were a roaring time. I finished University and moved into my first apartment - a cruddy little sound-proof place with a closet kitchen and no air-conditioning (but amazing heat). The place was verging on ghetto but I loved it. The elevator never worked properly, the laundry room was in the dark and dingy basement and sounds from the front steps seemed to amplify up to my apartment every night - the sound of drunks and degenerates yelling and screaming at each other till either they passed out or the cops came to haul them away. I never wanted to believe that Eden was a dump, but it was made abundantly clear to me the morning when two police officer banged on my door to ask me about the apparent fight that happened in the apartment next door. I was too drunk that night to really have paid much attentention and spent the evening drinking water and watching the horrible remake of "The Dukes of Hazard" that, for some reason, I rented.I loved that place, from the cracked walls to the beautiful tiles in the front hall and kitchen. There were parties, visits and many notches made in my bed-posts in that place. Punkboy was brought there with the intention to just add one more and somehow, he became the last notch.

Thinking that I would have continued that lifestyle into my thirties and now being faced the with reality that I won't be isn't upsetting me or confusing me. I'm content and somehow finding solace in this new lifestyle. I envisioned the constant flow of lovers, some staying longer than others, and I pictured my life as solitude. Shit, when I moved into my new apartment over one year ago, I did it with the intention to impress other men. Punk Boy was angry with me that I didn't talk it over with him as he wanted to live with me and wanted to find a place together - complete commitment was not on my mind.

But somehow I find myself completely committed to him - as lovers, as roommates, as parents and as partners. How strange this life has become. What next, will I be a re-born Christian? Will I suddenly start to cut coupons? Shit, I already notice I am listening more to the 'easy listening' station while bored in the car. What next, country music?

The new path is drastic, almost the complete opposite of the way I imagined it...

More on this later - the baby is fussing...

2009-01-09T11:19:00.001-06:00

MOTHERHOOD

Time to define this word:

moth⋅er⋅hood:[muhth-er-hood]

–noun

1.	the state of being a mother; maternity.

2.	the qualities or spirit of a mother.

3.	mothers collectively.

–adjective

4.	having or relating to an inherent worthiness, justness, or goodness that is obvious or unarguable: legislation pushed through on a motherhood basis.

So, this is what my life has come to - in a mother state, having the spirit of a mother and having a inherent worthiness. How crazy. Here has been my definition of Motherhood:

moth⋅er⋅hood:[muhth-er-hood]

-Definition as per Penny Lane - noun nor verb nor adjective nessecary
1. Odd satisfaction through difficulty
2. Lack of personal schedule
3. Dueling adults
4. Pure bliss and love

2008-12-28T13:09:00.003-06:00

BIRTH AND EVERYTHING AFTER

The last month has been crazy - to much action and not enough time to stop and take it all in. There are other things I could be doing - cleaning off all the clutter from my desk, finish folding the laundry that's been sitting for about two days, clean up the coffee table. I've just cleaned the entire kitchen so I think I'm entitled to some 'me' time.

The sea monkey was born on November 25th. A tiny squirt at six pounds, six ounces and only one day early. Amazing how accurate my doctor was able to predict my due date even though I had no idea when I got knocked up. The whole birthing thing was just, well, an ordeal. Punk Boy and I went our seperate ways on the 23rd to watch the Grey Cup - I to my sisters place and him to his friend John's house. About halfway through the game, I started to get a strange cramp in my stomach - nothing to crazy. I chalked it up to all the snack foods I was eating during the game and really didn't pay much attention. When they started to come back every so often, I started to think that maybe it was something a bit more. I went home and called Punk Boy, let him know that I might be going into labor but wasn't sure and that not to rush home. By the time he made it home, I was pretty sure I was in the start of labor with contractions being very minimal and coming every twenty to forty-five minutes. It was late - about eleven, and we decided we should try and get some sleep because if this was indeed labor, we knew we would need to be well rested.
Sleep did not happen. When we crawled into bed, my contracts were coming more and more frequently, about every fifteen to ten minutes and were getting stronger. We both laid in bed but I was up every five to ten minutes, groaning from the pain. At about five in the morning on the 24th, I decided we needed to go to the hospital.
There was a strange calm in the air when we arrived at the hospital. Soft snow was falling on the groud and no noises of the city could be heard. I remember thinking how damn peaceful it was and how beautiful it was. Great day to have a baby.
We checked in to the ward and I was put in triage, with a baby monitor wrapped around my belly and and IV put in my hand (which I was completely suprised that they were able to get in, considering I have the most stupid viens around). I spent the next five or so hours there. Laying down, taking my IV pole for a walk and then laying down again. I could hear women coming in and leaving the ward all around me, and was wondering what the fuck was going on - why wasn't I being put in a room? I had been in Triage, laboring on a bed there for what seemed like forever and I had only dialated to about three cm's.
When I was finally moved, it was to a small little room that had a fold out chair for whoever would weather the storm with me and all the stuff needed for the new baby (scale, warmer, etc). I knew almost as soon as they wheeled me into that room that I was being considered 'high risk.' Well, not really high risk per say, but not normal. After being in hard labor since five AM, and it now being sometime in the afternoon, I had only dialated till about four cm's.
I won't go into much detail about what happened next - the epidural that went wrong and turned into a spinal, throwing my lower body into complete entropy for a few hours. The emabressing way my water broke while getting the epidural. And who can forget about all damn things there were shoving inside me (head monitor on the baby, damn pee-bag, a monitor to mesure my contractions). I think I just about cried when they said that they wanted to try the epidural again because the first time not only froze me, but made me vomit. I shouldn't complain as the second epidural worked fine and I laid there, for hours, in labor, pumping myself full of drugs with each contraction. Punk Boy went home at this point to try and get some sleep. I was a bit upset at him for leaving me but I understood why and really, I was not alone. My mother and my sister were there with me.
The started to give me some drug to help my contractions strengthen, thinking it would help me dialate a bit more. After pumping me with that drug for hours and at about three in the morning on the 25th, I knew the gig was up, I knew what was coming next - C-section.
I called Punk Boy back to the hospital. He was pretty upset about the prospect of me having to have a C-section and wanted us to wait it out. I tried to explain to him that they did everything they could to move this along and things aren't working and I AM DONE. I've been in a completely uncomfortable state for HOURS and I was ready to get this baby out.
I went in for the C-section around 5:30 in the AM. I was scared-shitless. I've never had any sort of surgery before in my life, never mind one that I would be completely awake for. I was scared shitless. The whole incident was very surreal and I was scared, anxious and ready for it to be done. It's so odd to know someone beyond this big green curtain is cutting you open and the weird things you feel are them tugging and pulling at your insides. It still freaks me out to this day. But all in all, it was worth it as Baby Hunter was born at 6:33 AM on November 25th to Punk Boy and I.. and he is beautiful

I think he looks completely like his father...
Who, in turn, proposed to me on Christmas Eve....
What a year...

2008-11-21T12:44:00.002-06:00

Care of the One Minute Writer Blog:

A new Broadway musical is about your life. Come up with a title for the big show, and write a mini-review of it.

MODERNISM: A women comes to terms with love, life and change in a rock musical about mods, rockers and musical knowledge. The music nerds love story, finally told!

2008-11-20T13:00:00.003-06:00

DISAPOINTMENT

I had a doctors appointment today. I am officially due to pop out this baby in one week and went it to be 'checked' by my OB/GYN. Exams of that sort are never anticipated, or welcomed. They can sometimes be cold and, well, obtrusive.

My appointment was for 11:30 and I arrived downtown with ten minutes to kill, which was a good thing. Finding parking was murder. People were driving like clowns and all the spots were taken. When I did find out, just outside of Bison books, the meter was broken and I took the chance of getting nabbed with a ticket because I could not give the city it's godddamn money for parking on it's goddamn street.

I didn't wait long in the waiting-room at the office. So many fat bellies in there. The place looks like it's full of human ducks, waddling around the chairs and other obsticals, the odd rug-rat nipping at someones ankles, the one or two new borns in strollers or on mommy's lap.

I was taken in quickly and told to strip from the waist down. I sat, nude with a paper blanket on me, waiting for the doctor. I had some hope - that she would come in a check me and tell me that I've been walking around two centimeters dilated and that I would pop this beach ball out soon. Instead, she told me I wasn't even one centimeter dilated yet. She must have seen the dissapointment in my face and in some odd attempt to give me hope, did tell me my cervix is thinning, which is a very good sign.

"It needs to thin before you can completely dilate"

Blah, blah,blah.

I was so frustrated from that appointment that I didn't even stop in at Bison books on the way to my car.

I picked up a few groceries and came back to this messy apartment. I have no desire to clean. I feel like I'm working against someone in that regard. Two of us live here - one of us cleans. Maybe, if I want to be passive-agressive, I'll start cleaning house when Punk Boy gets home from work and maybe, just maybe he'll fell obligated to help me. He told me to make a list and we'll tackle it but he works very hard durring the day and I don't want to pester him. Maybe this weekend... My mother has offered to come over next week and help me give the place a good clean, which I accepted who heartedly. I just don't have the energy or the ability with this baby-belly to do everything that needs to be done.

I have lunch in the oven and I am starving. Veggie chicken pattie and french fries. I don't want to eat healthy these days, I just want whatever is easy. There is nothing on the TV, so I might put in a movie to occupy my time... we'll see...

2008-11-19T10:14:00.003-06:00

Care of the One-Minute Writer website (thanks, ferocious one...) : http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/

Today's exercise is to write about what you are hearing for one minute. Here we go...

The TV has a hum or children running. I am sitting next to Bruce's computer - it's on and there is that soft electrical hum from that. There is the clicking of the keys on the keyboard as a type and the sound of smeone opening a door in the hallway. I can hear the, close, must be across the hall. Man on the TV is discussing taking his wife out for dinner for Valentines day.

Well, that's it. One minute....

2008-11-18T12:35:00.002-06:00

There is something a bit off about me.
I keep sneezing. All the damn time - it's annoying and I hate being congested. Punk boy has a hard time falling asleep at night. He comes to bed much later than I. I am already deep in sleep and apparently my new bad habit of SNORING is keeping him up.
I, according to him, rattle the mattress with my deep snores.
He just doesn't have the heart to wake me up when he knows sleep has been difficult, but with me off work now, that luxury is being taken away. Now he has to be up for work and my bad habits are a horrible distraction.

So this is my first official week of being off work. I spent yesterday sleeping in and then visiting with my sister. Today, I have spent it tied to the stove thus far. I've been cooking - two quiches and a batch and a half of toll house chocolate chip cookies. The quiches look lovely. Broccoli with sauted mushrooms and onions with two kind os of cheese (cheddar and swiss). I noticed half way through cooking them that I also had a block of feta in the fridge that would have been a nice topper to the them but fuck it, why mess with something when it's almost done? The cookies were hit a miss. The first few to bake were flat and overdone. Added more flour and reduced the time and suddenly I'm the toll-house-cookie-fucking-master.

I'm feeling slightly restless these days. Sea Monkey is due any day now - offical due date is November 26th - one week away. Punk Boy believes that this weekend might be it as both he and his father were born on the 23rd of their respective months. I am just not sure what to do with myself. I've been staying close to home, been taking it easy and have been trying to keep myself sort of active. I'm afaid to go out in public and suddenly Sea Monkey decideds to make an appearance. I rather be somewhere familar and comfortable when it happens. I sometimes debate putting my suitcase for the hospital in my car as a percaution, and a towel...

The apartment smells wonderful - as much as I can smell through my congested nose. I sometimes wish I was more of a domestic goddess, but I am happy with the amount I do get the urge to do. Maybe this is my form of nesting? I've had no desire to change around the bedroom or the living room, but lately, I do want to bake and cook things. Not a lot, just a few. I am not so opposed to cooking dinner, which, trust me, is my least favorite thing to do. Is it nesting or just boredom?

2008-10-04T11:03:00.002-05:00

I wanted to write about this last night, but but the time I got home and crawled into bed, it was getting to be past two AM - I promised Punk Boy I would be home before one.
I DJ'd what is probably going to be my last gig for a while. I spun some great tunes at the birthday party for an old friend. Small crowd, great vibe, lots of love, and this strange moment of akwardness. A person I used to be close to, used to spend all my time with and thought I'd have in my life forever, only to be pushed aside by them in a non-chalant kind of way was there. This person and I haven't really talked in almost a year, which is very suprising to most people who knew us as inseperable, the best of friends and all that shit. She was there, alone, for our mutal friends birthday party. I know she had knowledge I would be there. If she heard about the event, she knew I would be spinning tunes. Me, on the other hand, did not have confirmation she would attend, but believed in the back of my mind that she would be there. I didn't get the idea much thought before going, thinking what I would do or say if she was there. And what little I thought about it, I figured she would be there with someone - a friend, maybe a date if she had one. I never expected her to be there alone.

Part of me felt a twing of nervers when I first walked in and saw them there. Should I say hello? Should I let them approch me? I was at a bit of a loss as to what to do, how to act and I figured since this person's last contact with me was rude and somewhat hurtful to me, I decided that no action on my part was required and that I didn't need to do anything...

I will touch more on this later today.. I have a lunch date.. lunch for them, breakfast for me. This feels like the good ol' days, minus the nasty Gin soaked tongue and headache.... I need to give this more of my full attention later on today.

2008-09-19T12:57:00.002-05:00

Time is flying.

I am officaly 30 weeks incubated, baby arriving in t-minus 68 days and offically on the home streach of this pregnancy thing, now being in the third trimster.

Punk boy and I set up the crib this past week. The goddamn thing is so huge that I think my plan of placing in the close isn't going to work. We've made room for it on my side of the bed but it has become pretty apparent to me that we will need to find a new, bigger place in the next year or two.

Putting the crib together and getting the mattress was another slap in the face for me this week. When I found out I was pregnant, it wasn't the joyous occasion that most people rave about. There was no 'cute' way that I told punk boy, I wasn't walking on cloud nice, clutching my belly and smiling like a mad women, itching to tell everyone about our bundle of joy. There was none of that for me. There was tears, anger, fear, frustration and a depression so deep I just didn't know what to do with myself. Later on, when my support system finally got me back on my feet, I started to become amazed with everything and the depression about my pregnancy slowly disapeared.

Now, things are a little bit backwards. With the crib, the baby matress, the first box of diapers.. well, I find myself backing slowly into some sort slump. I'm not completely depressed. I'm not completely happy about it either. This whole situation is confusing for me. No matter how many books I read, how many podcasts I listen to, or how many people I talk to - no one can relate to my experience. I got pregnant without wanting to.

Everyone had a plan, or as it seemed, wanted children so preparded themselves to eventually have children. I don't regret my decision to keep this child and I find it hard to talk about this with people in case they get the wrong idea about how I am feeling or about my situation. I couldn't live with myself if I didn't continue on with this. How fucking selfish would I have been? I just wish there was someone I could compare these crazy feelings with...

Last night I was crying while in bed with Punk Boy and he told me he was sorry he runined my life, in reference to the baby. That scorned me even more. He never ruined my life and I couldn't imagine having this baby with anyone but him. I hate myself for making him feel that I am so upset about this baby when I'm really not. I'm scared shitless and a bit confused and feel things are moving so fast, but never, ever did I feel he ruined my life.

If anything, he has inhanced it beyond belief.

2008-08-30T14:06:00.002-05:00

THE LIST

I've been thinking about things I need to start doing in the near and not so very near future...

1. Be more enviormentally sound - recycle more, walk more, be more aware of the world around me and what I am doing to it.

2. Stand up for myself - let people know when I don't really want to do something, or if I feel I am being walked over.

3. Learn Baby Sing-language - so I can teach it to my child so we can start communicating as early as possible.

4. Be expressive in my love everyday - Kiss Punk Boy every day, let him know I love him, value him and respect him on a daily basis. Let me friends know how much I cherish them as well

5. Wear more make-up - it's very vain but damn it, I fall out of love with the damn stuff sometimes and I like the way I look with it on.

6. Give up some control - Don't be afraid to let Punk Boy do the laundry. So what if a shirt I love gets thrown in the dryer and shrinks? It's a good excuse to go buy a new one.

7. Be constantly purging - get rid of things I don't need, remove people who bring me down. Purging is not a negative aspect of life, but part of one of the eight buddhist noble truths - right livelyhood. Do I need eight pairs of black pants? Three which I haven't worn in about six years? No - purge these things!

8. Eat Better - I get lazy regarding food because I hate cooking and I end up eating crap 50% of the time. I need to make a better effort, keep a better stocked fridge and make better choices. Soon these choices will be reflected in what my child eats.

9. Get in shape - after I pop out the sea-monkey baby, I want to start with the gym again, move around more and start to feel more healthy.

10. Breath. Meditate. Relax.

2008-08-22T11:54:00.002-05:00

SNOOPING

I want to snoop.

Punk boy has started the 'moving in' process earlier this week. Him and a friend moved in a van full of stuff into my apartment on Thursday. Mostly bags of clothing and towels, a few boxes of records, a beat up old guitar case and guitar and some books.

But there is this one box...

It's a wooden box, painted white a long time ago with a few 'cow spot' accents on it. On top is a faded "My Name Is..." sticker with Punk Boy's full name written on in quick, yet clear script. The box is heavy, yet lopsided. When you pick it up by the handle on the top, the weight in the box is seated more to the right and the box tips. There are chips on the corners and the paint has seeped so much into the wood that the grain is starting to crawl forward.

I've seen this box before in Punk Boy's apartment. For some odd reason, when we first started to see each other, it was the only thing in his apartment I noticed. It was quietly tucked away on the bottom of the book shelf in his room and to me, stood out due to it's paint job. I never asked about it, but my eyes always darted towards it when ever I was over to visit.

On Thursday when it was moved into my apartment I was instantly draw towards it. There was not a chain from the handel to the clasp on the box - a chain I never noticed before. I wonder if it's a silent message - a 'do not touch' message. Maybe the fax that it's 'his' and closed also means that I should not touch it.

But I want to open it - very badly.

What are my entitlements here? Am I 'entitled' to open it as we will be living together and the box is, currently, in my apartment? Or should I be respectful of the fact that Punk Boy is in a situation that forces him to have some of his possesions out of his site and I should be respectful of that? I'm fighting my urges...

2008-08-17T14:53:00.002-05:00

FAMILY ISSUES

I got a bit of an issue with respect. Not that I am not willing to dish it out, I am and do when it is required and when it is expected and when it is earned. I do, however have an issue when respect should be given and it isn't.

I've been thinking a lot about families lately, be it that I am will soon be starting one of my own and have found that my mind often wonders to the topic of respect. It's fair game to expect children to respect their parents, is it not, when those parents have done everything to raise whole-hearted and good natured children in a loving and productive enviroment? I think respect is not just earned in these cases, but that it should not wane with age and it should not dissapate when life changes. When parents do all they can to make a good, happy, healthy home for their children and love then and give them all they require, put them on a good path and molds them into fine, young adults, you have to completely respect and admire that kind of dedication and (sometimes hidden but there) love that it requires to do so.

When those children grow up, move on and start their own lives and answer to themselves, the decisions they make are reflections of the enviroment and morals they were instiled with as children. For every good decision they make, for ever step forward in life, they need to sometimes take a minute and reflect on where they came from and how they were raised.

When those parents get older, when they go through these changes near to the end of their lives and they do not function as well as they used to, I believe the healthy and happy children are required to continue to give that deserved and aquired respect. This person, this elder changed your diapers, held you when you cried, taught you important life lessons and when their life changes and they become a shadow of themselves, these children are required to keep the hope going, and should give respect, no matter what.

It pains me to see the family unit detriorate in this way. An elder so upset with the treatment from his children that he refuses to hang their potraits in their home, that they feel belittled and unapprciated by those they have reared. It pains me to see blantent disrespect from children to an adult, special an adult who did all they could and continued to do so until life beat them down a little bit at a time.

I'm seething from the display I've seen today.

2008-08-16T14:10:00.004-05:00

It's been ages, really, since I've updated here. My obsessions come and go.

This one has risen again.

What has been going on since the last rise and fall of penny lane?

1. I'm still together with Punk Boy. Almost two years. He is definatly a keeper and I'm sure he'll be around for a while

2. Punk boy knocked me up. My belly is getting bigger and the sea monkey inside me is now about 25 weeks incubated for birth. Crazy fucked up shit is going on with this temple of a body of mine.

3. I am not longer a confused and worried term/contract employee. I am an offical permanent civil servant and the job security is fucking incredible. How did I survive contract to contract before?

4. I am still rocking my radio show and plan to be for years to come. I've started up a new music blog at djpennylane.blogspot.com which I will hopefully post musical ramblings and the like. Right now there is a pretty mundane post about me being with child. That will change soon, as will the whole lay out of the damn thing.

5, I finally got the much desired scooter:
Electric glide in Blue, she is and the thing is amazing, when it works correctly. It tends to stall on me sometimes while stopped at lights but I am giving up on taking it in to be fixed and just call it part of my baby's 'characture.' I know my time this summer is limited on the blue beast, so I am taking full advantage of it, using it as much as possible. Doctor gave me the thumbs up to ride away until I noticed my center of balance change and when my belly gets a bit too big. It's slowly all starting to change - fuck.

6. There's been a sort of purge of some unwanted associates in my life. I've become more of a recluse and I'm fine with that. I am actually looking forward to being shacked up with child for a while, maybe getting more writing done and maybe become domestic - make bread or something.

7. I'm become a family unit with Punk Boy. He is moving in shortly, which will only increase when the spawn is born. My, how time files...

2007-05-13T20:18:00.000-05:00

I haven't felt such a rush of rage in a long time. I am usually a fairly benign person devoid of those calluse behavoirs that are saved for the wicked and the cruel. Anytime these feeling well up in me, I feel awkward and completely left of who I am. My stomach knots both with the intense anger and guilt that follows.

Why?

Because I feel guilty for feeling so angry, so enraged. My dosile exterior shakes and I feel the steam coming through the cracks. I am too stone on the outside sometimes and that makes it easy for people to trample upon me. I am rock to them, I am hard and unchanging and unmoving. There are no cracks in me, I am safe to walk all over because I won't crack and I won't go anywhere.

You need to look at me as something else that a thick slab of limestone.

Look at me like rice paper.

Look at me like I was made leaves and flowers.

Look at me and see a crumbling river bank.

Look at me like I am a thin layer of ice that forms overnight on puddles in the first cold days of fall and the last cold ones of spring.

I need to be seen for what I really am. I am not a statue. I am not something to be forgotten about and I am not something to be trampled over. I break. I crack. I rip. I tear.

My rage is justified when it comes. These feelings are not welcome in me but I can make sense of their presence and I can understand where this has stewed from. Why do I feel guilty when I get angry? Should I not be justified to curse at someone or to not agree with their actions. It's hard to draw that line, I find. What I draw and what you draw are different. Pictures of landscapes done with different colors, sceans of oceans done with different horizons.

Understanding is a two way street. I come one way, the person I am connecting with comes another way and we do our best to meet at some intesection that is respectful to both sides. Sometimes the intersection is not needed because there is just an underlying understanding that is so perfect and pure. Other times, you zip around completely unaware someone else is trying to catch your gaze and other times you sit there, confused on the sidewalk, wondering why everyone else is driving together in such fine form and you have no understandings of the rules of the road.

I am social awkward at times.

I lack the ability to be completely comfortable with everyone

I hate when these two facts come to the surface

And they come to the surface in moments when I am place in situations beyond my control

Beyond my scope

There are times when I can make these moments my own and I feel competely at ease in where I am and what I am doing, but there are also times when my own anxity of rejection comes and stings every inch of me and I just can't ignore it.

I fear rejection more than I fear any other thing in this world and the possiblity of being rejected, on any level - small, medium or large creates such anxity in me that I freeze up, I clam up, I choke up and I become inward.

And then when it happens, when I am pushed aside, when I am dumped along the road, or when I am just plainly forgotten about, I cast off everyone and I turn inward. My silence becomes deafing. This trust level, which has slowly increased and has become strong, suddenly gets the wind knocked out of it and it's supports crumble. I am wrecked internally because of rejection. There sometimes seems to be a need to rebuild this wall of trust and mutual respect but I am scared. I have seen the building collapse due to lack of concern and I have a very hard time lending my hand in to build it again.

It's the rejection fear. It debilitates me. It takes me twice as long to come back out again and twice as long to trust again.

I fear it more than death and I can feel it's claws rake at me and I can feel it's sideeffects slowly killing me.

Rejection + lack of trust = D E A T H

The equation of my life.......

2007-04-20T12:49:00.000-05:00

Soft Sphynx

With grace untold

I loved the way

You sat in the middle of

My english text book

When we first met

Soft Sphynx

You are far from

A Nemesis.

There is no devine retribution

That comes from you.

Soft Sphynx

You craddle your thoughs

And walk with prowse

That demands my respect

And Love

2007-03-24T19:39:00.000-05:00

I want to scream

and bang fists

and break forth spring

Love you

all of you

And for a moment

you are all perfect

I want to yell

and stomp feet

until the grass grows

and you it comes to

you and your ways

I'm forever smitten

I want to cry out

and break everything

full of ice

and see green

and red

and colors

that make me not want to quit you

2007-03-09T06:45:00.000-06:00

Has it really been that long

Since lips touched

and tasted your acidic metal?

You always remind me

of asprin,

the way you tasted

was bitter and dry.

Often I've likened your lips

to the warm mouth piece

of the trumpet I used to play

in junior high.

It was warm and used

but harsh and hard

and often left an odd taste

On my lips

Hours after the contact

Was over.

It didn't have any give,

Neither did you

And I've locked up both

You and my Trumpet

For good.

2007-02-17T11:04:00.000-06:00

Sometimes its nice to feel like the

Eye of the Storm

There is Chaos in everything

But I'm still

Detached

and

Connected to both sides

I am purposely

Leaving out the punctuation

Because I want you to think

what I am really

Still

All about.

I want you to ponder

My place in this picture

and if I am Still

Detached

Connected.

The eye of the Storm

Only comes in moments

Of unscripted glory

Where my wisdom is found at the bottom

Of a Bottle

and My Art

Is given little Thought.

Amist that all

I am Still

Detached

and

Connected.

2007-02-03T11:57:00.000-06:00

I like to think that you've neglected me

Have completely forgotten about me

And my heart aches a bit

Everytime I realize that you haven't

You ensure I am safe

You make sure I am around

You need to know that I am

living, breathing, being

And because of that

I've never been stolen

I've never been miss used

and come spring

I will be free from

the snow

and open to

everything

2007-01-25T23:34:00.000-06:00

I'm going to try something different today.
I just pulled a journal out of my drawer. For those of you who know me, you will know the infamous "drawer," the one that holds all my journals and all those little bits of paper I have written stuff on over the years.
I am opening it to a random page:

Lessons from a time when I wanted to learn about myself in ways so removed from normality.
I refused to see a pyschatrist, I denied reading self help books.
I went towards the stars and have never turned back...

2007-01-20T19:49:00.000-06:00

I am a beat

Wearing the sounds

of my drum

for all to see

I don't hide what I am

And my words are not

cryptic

You are reading between

the lines

when all you need to do

Is take it all

at face value

I don't have much to offer

and I don't have much to share

but what I put forth

Is pure as top-hat

and shiny as cymbal

and my beat

is clear

2007-01-10T07:00:00.000-06:00

When I call your name

It doesn't mean anything

Because your not there

To hear it.

It's sound is lost among something

And there is no way of retrival.

I'm not sad by this fact

By far...

Instead I wonder if

And when

You'll hear those cries

And what you will do

When they resonate

In your ears...

2006-12-29T13:33:00.000-06:00

My minds

Got a heart

And it's beating

Beyond my sphere

There was a

Mixture of

Everything

Left behind

And it curdled

And made the world

Spin a little to fast

And made me

Crash a little to hard

Now it's morning

In the afternoon

And light batters me

Into conciousness

And I smile to remember

The laughter,

The flames,

The ideals and

The mutal respect