A Not So Typical Typical Night

Last night I went to bed rather late...1am ish. Approx. 20min. after achieving REM sleep, I woke up to my son coughing and moaning. I went into his room and he told me that his throat really hurt and his cough was keeping him up. I went and got some cough meds and after he took a spoonful, he lay down for sleep. I went back to bed only to awaken again to hear him throwing up in the bathroom. I went and got him changed since while he was puking, he wet himself. I then brought him to my bed. After rubbing his back for awhile, we both went to sleep. I awoke a bit later when my daughter came to the bed. The three of us went to sleep. I awoke a bit later. I was wet. My daughter was wet. She had pee'd the bed. I got her up to start the changing process, carried my son to his own bed (thankfully he was still asleep) and then changed her, my sheets and myself. I took her to her own bed. By this time she was coughing and I gave her some cough meds. I went back to sleep. Shortly after, my son crawled back into my bed. We fell asleep. He woke a bit later and puked on the bed. J was finally home from work by this time and assisted in the child/bed changing. He took Aryn downstairs and got him set up on the couch along with a bucket and slept beside him on the chair. I found a blanket to crawl into on my mattress and went to sleep for a couple hours.
This morning, both children seem fine. I'm a bit tired. J, after only 3 hours sleep has gone back to work. This is our life.

Sugar, Spice and Puppy Dog Tails

I like boys. Can't help it. Something about the cocky swagger. The 'I'm in control' outward personna masking an 'I'm scared shitless' inner turmoil. Yes, sometimes they can get pretty...what's the best word?...hmmm....dull. Yes, that's it--dull. Yet, nevertheless, their innate predictability is a comfort in an everchanging world. Boys want to know the answers. They will often act as if they do. Boys want to show the world they are tough but, at the same time, are desperate to open up to whomever they feel won't laugh at them. Boys giggle when they fart. Boys will often try to blame it on the dog (cat, child, neighbour, cooking etc.). Boys are sucks when they are sick. Boys will always work harder (even when doing the same job) as their colleagues, workmates, partners, lovers.... and, Boys will always have bigger scars, bigger losses, bigger near wins, bigger stories then those around them. Boys will fight for their independence as long as they never really have to be alone. Boys know things. Some of which are useful. Boys gossip. Boys engage in competitive public school type games with each other. Boys like to flirt. Boys will be able to perform complex physical and mental maneuovers but, are oft times unable to notice shit under the toilet seat. Boys are imperfect and will use this to their advantage. Boys would rather avoid talking about a subject if a drag down knock out tickle fight will work instead. I like boys. I married a boy. I used to wish I was a boy. In my early public school days, when the boys played against the girls to see who could rule the snowhills left by the parking lot ploughs, I worked to knock down the girls. They were easy marks. So I thought. They just played by different rules. I grew up with three brothers. I would much rather climb a tree and hook a worm than play with dolls or dress up. From early spring to the end of autumn I remained muddy. My brothers would only let me play with them if I didn't cry. I used to think I was a terrific soccer goalie until I realized that they were purposefully kicking the ball to my face in order to get me to bawl. I lost my top baby teeth when I acted as back catcher and one of my brothers swung the bat into my mouth (an accident...hmmm). In grade 5, a group of us were playing touch football when I missed the ball and it pounded my face. It hurt. I felt tears well up but, I refused to cry. 'I'm ok,' I shouted. 'Let's keep playing.' I saw what I thought to be respect on the faces of my team-mates. I was 'one of the boys.' Then L got hit. She was grazed really. It wasn't as if it was full on. But, all of a sudden, she started to cry. Great, thought I. Silly girl. But then, one by one the boys on the field ran towards her. Someone tossed me the ball. I was suddenly alone on the field. Everyone was comforting her. The foot ball game was over. The gender game, for me at least, had really just begun.

Who Am I? or Who Are My Selves When Mixed All Together?

Sorry I've not been around. My mother has been in town. It's actually been quite a good visit. It's helpful that she has come alone. It's much easier to relax when it's just her and not her and her husband. At dinner last night (she took me out for a fantastic steak dinner with crab cake apps topped off with a really yummy Shiraz to bring to an end a full day of museums and knick knack shopping) she mentioned that she enjoyed our time alone together because she could recognize me best on a one on one level. I was her daughter during those times. When at home, she saw that I became (also) a wife and mother. Interesting eh? My self as an individual doesn't even really register on the radar. At the same time, I am guilty of the same. I recognize her as my mother when she visits alone. When she comes with D, she is his wife as well (and D is then not just my dad but her husband). As more people enter the equation replete with their own labels and self/imposed definitions of selves, the time spent sifting through the chafe to get to the actual wheat becomes an involved and exhausting process. No wonder family events such as holiday meals, reunions and the like are met with giddy excitement oft times bordering on the hysterical. The measurement of error becomes too difficult to calculate with anything but uncertainty (yup. I have an older brother working on completing his Masters in Physics--and I love taking his 'serious science' and bastardizing it for my own literary allusions).

A Very Bad Idea

To Whom It May Concern:

Whoever thought of putting raisins in otherwise yummy oatmeal muffins please stop. It's a very bad idea.
Yuck.
Thank you for your attention.

Not a raisin fan.

Arrrrrrrgh

I bawled my eyes out last night. Made the mistake of watching the news. First 2 items did me in. The breaking story consisted of a description of a child sex/porn ring uncovered in Winnipeg (alleged). Ok, I thought, I can get through this. I'm strong enough. Most disturbing for me was the statement by one of the interviewees that things like this were indicative of a growing market for this type of crap. These things are not isolated happenings...and there is something seriously ill in our society if there is a growing market...something seriously fucked up. Fine. Our would is screwed up. I can deal. But then, good ol CTV threw in a description of a trial going on wherein grandparents are being accused of allowing a 3 year old to starve to death. I've heard about this case before. I was not prepared to here a taped interview with his sister (11 years old) and her description of what had been done to the poor child. I mean...FUCK. I'm angry, scared, dumbfounded, ... at a loss. This world we live in seems to have lost a moral compass. Not everything is fucking relative. Some things are wrong. From every angle. There can be no justification. And, certainly, there can be no justice.

It's All How You Play the Game

The last day to withdraw from Fall term classes is Nov. 7th. I know this because I finally got around to flipping the calendar page here at work. The picture shows a campus under snow. Odd to think of snow just yet while the temperature remains, during the day at least, in the double digits...but I digress. Thinking of withdrawing from classes brought to mind that I haven't had my economics dream for quite a while. Perhaps you may have had dreams like this? I am about to graduate and realize to my horror that I hadn't properly withdrawn from an economics course--taken on a whim--and am therefore faced with not only an F on my transcript but am not eligible to graduate. I would wake from this dream in a cold sweat and, it would take a good 5 minutes or so for me to convince myself that I was in no danger of not graduating because I had never signed up for an economics course. Well, not since highschool and that experience was enough to tell me that the pseudo sciences just weren't for me. I'll expand a little. In my highschool course, 60% of our final grade was based on a business 'game.' That is, grouped in pairs, our teams were to create and run a business. We were to study market forces and then make decisions that would (hopefully) increase our profit margin. Now my partner N and I had similarly ignorant views on the world of economics. My first question to the teacher was 'Why do we need a stock market?' His answer, as I remember, was not very satisfying. Anyway, my partner and I set about creating our business and making decisions. Looking around at what other groups were doing, we noticed them making charts, doing statistical analyses and the like. We decided on an alternative approach. We brought in a deck of cards, a pair of dice and a quarter. Yup. Our business was run on chance and luck. Some days we'd even dress up like fortune tellers. Why did we do this? We were brats. Plain and simple. As well, however, we were curious to see how we'd do. Much to our teacher's chagrin, we won the game and were awarded an automatic pass in the class. I must admit to having felt a bit guilty for not putting in all the work that the other students were doing. On the other hand, however, it did teach me/reinforce within me a healthy skepticism for:
a) teaching methods;
b) economics and other quasi/pseudo sciences;
c) what is deemed to be important;
d) business 'ethics,' and;
e) so-called experts (in any field).
This type of learning has proved invaluable.

A Stitch in Time

Yup. I'm feeling pretty gosh darned good about myself today. First and foremost? It's the best day of the year. The day not yet ripped away from us by our sometimes not too neighbourly neighbours down south. It's the day that our hour is returned. Standard time. The time when one can wake up feeling rested and not late. It's a personal tradition that I wait for as long as possible to change the clocks at home so that I have a continual reminder of this timely bonus. In years past, I've actually waited a week to change the clocks. Try it sometime. It's fun.
I have other reasons to feel good today. The sun is shining. The fall leaves are brilliant. I figured out how to make a tutu for my daughter's Halloween costume (yup. she wants to be a ballerina). My son will be Bob the Builder. J and he will go out later this morning in search of some overalls and a plaid shirt. I have to work a couple hours this afternoon but, afterwards, there will be pumpkin carving and last minute costume prep in order to get ready for tomorrow. The kids will be wearing their costumes for the entire day. I think that I may be just as (or even a bit more) excited about this then they are. Well, I'd best get off this machine and indulge in some more real life. No rush however. I've got all the time in the world!

Pass Me the Mushy Red Peas Please

I love the CBC. Keeps me centred through the very nature of its leftness. I can picture most of the annoucers sitting in my living room drinking wine, scotch or coffee (even beer if it's imported) and engaging me in fierce yet playful debate on all manner of topics. The CBC keeps me in touch with the rest of the country (although I'm always mindful of its evident bias) and provides news and information that interests me as a thoughtful and wanting to be informed Canadian. For example, this particular news item recently caught my eye: purple carrots . It's brilliant. To link a Newfoundland gardener's find to such issues as the Orange Lodge and food manipulation ... I love it. It's also a tad disconcerting. The very idea that carrots haven't always been orange and that the beta carotine that has been used as an excuse to get kids to eat them ('if you want to see in the dark you'd best eat your carrots!') is a pleasant? side effect of cross pollination for aesthetic purposes frightens me. If this is the case for carrots what about my other favourite veggies? Are beets supposed to be yellow? If Communism were to sweep across the nation, would scientists be attempting to make peas red?

A History of Smoking (Part III)

I loved smoking. Loved the feel of forced smokey air filling my lungs. Loved the exhalation. Quick or drawn out. Leisurely. Luxurious. One by one, I introduced my new 'self' to my friends. Their reactions? 'Why would you do this?' and 'Fuck!' and 'Want one of mine?' I met new people because I smoked. There was an entire underground culture sitting in the smoking sections, and standing outside of government buildings of which I had previously been unaware. Conversations were as easy to start as 'Hey, can I bum a light?' Friendships weren't long to follow. I learned to butt out properly so as to not leave a burning ember and, subsequently, I learned to mock those 'posers' who weren't so deft. I smoked a lot. I lost weight. Smoking is a fantastic diet if one is short on funds. I was constantly left to make a choice between food and cigarettes. Rarely did I ever choose the food. Why would I? Smoking made that food craving go away. It is amazing, really, how quickly smoking became a part of my personna. I experimented with different brands. I started with Players Light King Size. King Size made sense to me. More 'bang for the buck' as it were. Then, I shifted to the occasional American cig. These were smokes for tougher chicks. Going to the bars ordering Jack straight and smoking Camels made me feel invincible. I dabbled with Indian clove smokes. Great for after dinner. These made my lips numb. As long as I had coin for smokes, I was set. I began to wonder how I had ever been able to write a paper without an ashtray beside my keyboard? Smoking provided it all. It gave me time to collect my thoughts. It allowed me to relieve stress. It allowed me a social 'in' in group situations. It was the perfect companion to my morning coffee. It kept my bowels regular. It was better than chocolate for dessert. I loved smoking. I even began to love the crunchy spew filled cough that soon developed over time. I looked forward to a bit of hacking in the morning. It jump started my system. Got me ready for a new day. I loved watching my hands as the held, tapped, lit cigarettes. I loved watching the smoke curl from the tip of my fingers as I pondered the meaning of life. My life as a smoker was good.

Ok. So I really wasn't fond of how my fingers would smell after smoking. And, I hated to smell my clothes after taking a shower. I knew I stunk. I was also beginning to get a bit creeped out from my cough. And, when I caught a chest cold, it seemed to stick around forever. Plus, I didn't have the nerve to tell my parents that I smoked. Didn't want that added stress in my life so visits from/with them were frought with tension and subterfuge as I had to keep my secret life as secret as possible. The drain on my spending budget was becoming more evident with each government tax increase. I was also becoming aware how dependent I was. As a person who prided herself in being able to 'go it alone' as an independent spirit, it was distressing to realize how the mere lack of anything smokeable in my home would send me down into a tailspin of panicked need. I began to see my habit for what it was. An addiction. Internal dialogues began to take shape. I would begin questioning my need for a smoke. I would rationalize with myself that it was ok. I would reward my self for having had gone an hour without a smoke with...you guessed it, a smoke. The honeymoon stage was ending. I could no longer enjoy my cigarettes in total oblivious abandon. If this relationship was going to happen, I was really going to have to work on it.

Naval Contemplation

For all those awaiting the next installment of the 'History of Smoking' series, fear not. There will be more. It is interesting, to me, that I can piece together a sort of auto-biography by just focusing on one main thematic element from my life -- in this case smoking. This also illustrates (quite effectively I feel) that biographies and fictional accounts are much closer than one would first presume. Stories are, after all, stories. Fact is fiction when placed in the proper context (and vice versa).

I'm feeling a bit more literary at the moment. I finally finished 'Runaway Mistress' by Patricia Carr. Definitely not literature per se ... junk food for the brain. Good to have on hand beside the toilet. Get the point? Don't know why I was avoiding my McEwan, Turner-Hospital, MacDonald stuff. I guess I needed a break. I'm very glad the break is over. I've missed my friends. My books. My books always seem to link me closer to my friends...especially the ones who love books. It's a cycle that has done me well over the years.

Non sequitor. I bought a new computer today. On line. It will be my very first very own computer (to be shared with J with the express understanding that he is not to open it, reprogram it or, in any way, shape or form, alter it). It should arrive by the end of this week or early next week. It's strange to plop down money in such a cavalier fashion. Yet, I've always known that I'd never really be rich in the monetary sense anyway.

I feel the need to end this post in a witty or thought provoking or end tying sort of way. I'm at a loss. I think I'd rather fall asleep with a good book and then dream of oranges ripening on a tree.

It's a job and a living

Interesting coupla days in terms of interpersonal relationships and the art of compromise. At work, I'm a couple techs down. Like any good td I have a plan b and c ready to go but, it's always a bit stressful getting things organized. Especially when faced with possible last minute cancelations. My crew is not full time. They are a fantastic group of folks to work with but, it's impossible to tie them down. They work free lance for a reason. They like the 'free' part of it. For the most part, I have had no problems. A few times a tech might blow me off for the bigger money offered by a sweet union post but, overall, the people who are working with me accept the 'first call gets the service' mentality. Loyalty is important in this industry. It's not a big enough job pool to start blowing off gigs. It'll get around. That said, however, there are times when I'll get that phone call the night before a gig that goes something like this:
'ummm nk? I just got offered a really cool gig'
'oh yeah? That's really great.'
'Thing is...it's tomorrow night. The night I booked with you.'
'I see. Well, I guess you have a decision to make eh?'
'Well, I don't want to put you out but...well, can you find anyone else?'
Now depending on my mood/level of desparation I will answer in any number of ways.
1) 'Well, you were the last possible choice I had left when I booked you. I'm outta options.'
2) 'I really would rather not put someone else on this. I trust you and know you'll do a great job.'
3) 'I'll call around and see but, the situation doesn't look hopeful.
4) 'Fine' and then hang up the phone muttering profanities and swearing never to call them again.
There are other options but, I guess you can get the idea.


Thing is, as I mentioned above, I always have a plan b. One of my claims to fame is that if any of my crew for some reason or another cannot make it to a gig, I can step in. Lights, sound, front of house, carps you name it and I'll manage. I don't really want my crew to think that as an option though. I kinda like going home when the show starts. And, since I've been here in this position, I've only had to fill in 3 times. Not a bad record and, it shows I have some pretty good crew loyalty. (and it's not entirely the money either...I can't afford to compete with union wages...I do offer more responsibility and...here's that word again 'freedom.')

It's hard to do the dance though. I need people to work but, I can't say 'you have to or else.' Worse thing I can do to them is not hire them. But, if I'm short a tech, I'll need to hire them. So, I have to tread carefully with the end goal always in mind. Get the show on!

In a nutshell, the tech decided to do the gig. All is well in theatre for another short while.

Raise your hand

Way back in one of my present past lives I studied history. This probably has something to do with my distrust of all things sociological. Sociology has come to represent, for me, much that is evil in academia and in the world in general but I digress. Back to history. Anyhoo, one of my assignments was to write an essay on the political/military climate existing between the United States and China post WWII. The week after handing in my essay, the scheduled lecture was focused on this very same topic. As I settled into the lecture I became increasingly uncomfortable. In front of me and the rest of the class, the professor was disputing each and every point I had made in my paper. It was as if he had my paper in front of him along with his own notes and had as his intention that day to not only disagree with a few of my points but to utterly annihilate my entire argument. When he finished speaking I felt numb. After a short pause, the professor looked around the class and, I swear, ended up looking right at me. He said 'well, that's it for me. I have a feeling that I may have said some controversial things. But, one of the things you should all know about me is that I love a good controversy. If anyone would like to challenge what I have said, the floor is open. So,...' he continued to look at me...taunting me... 'so, is there anyone who would like to comment upon anything I said? Anyone at all?' No point in staying silent I thought. I raised my hand.

A History of Smoking (Part II)

University. The time to expand one's horizens. The time to try on different 'selves' to see what fits. Basically, in many respects, a snooze button for life 'out there' in the so called 'real world.' I embraced my University career. I also picked up the smoking habit. Unlike before, this time I even inhaled. It took some convincing on my part. My roommate in residence started smoking. I hated it. I thought I hated her. I really didn't though. For more info on that situation look to badminton-going-home-old-friends-part II .

Anyway, there I was stuck in a room with a smoker. Ick. Funny thing happened though. I swear that I became addicted to the second hand smoke. I would start getting headaches when she wasn't around. Still, I stuck with my healthier addictions -- alcohol and caffeine -- and time went by. Flash forward to a frat party. Don't ask why we were there...I still can't figure that one out. Anyway, some jerk cornered my friend. Some people really shouldn't be allowed to breathe. Anyway, we left and, in some perverse need to share in the moment, I asked for a cigarette. I really didn't know much about brands and such so, when handed a camel filter I thought nothing of it. I know different now. I thought I had literally turned green. Nope...smoking just wasn't for me. Or, so I thought.

Enter M. M was a boy. I had a crush on M. He seemed to have a crush on me. We would give each other smirks and come hither looks across the cafe where I worked. He came to the cafe counter one day and invited me out for a drink...as soon as my shift was over. I played it cool. Said 'sure' and, after he left, rushed around like a mad idiot to cash out. We went to Cafe Rosie Lee. No longer around. Best food/server/cook around. We split a bottle of red and giggled and smiled and felt the emergence of an instant bond...the kind that only hunger and alcohol can make. He offered to drive me home. He had to go to Barrie that night to pick up some photographic equipment from his father. When we got in the car, he said 'where to?' I said 'Barrie.' He stared at me, smiled and off we went. It felt like love. When we got to Barrie it was well over midnight. I still hadn't eaten anything since that morning and, the red wine was now doing some nasty impromtu performances in my gut. I wanted food. I wanted sleep. M's dad was up. M and his dad both smoked. A lot. They immediately lit up in the kitchen. His dad was watching late night t.v. repleat with late night escort type commercials. I commented. Negatively. Forcefully. I wish I could remember what exactly I had said. In my defence, I do not normally insult people when I first meet them (not all the time anyway) but, I was drunk, hungry and getting sick off the smoke. M brought me to the guest bedroom and I passed out. I woke up hours later to the smell. The smell of grease. The smell of dead pig. The unmistakeable smell of bacon. I thought I was going to puke right there and then. You see, one of the personnas I picked up at Uni was that of a vegetarian. Needless to say, I declined the meat filled breakfast. None other was offered. M and I got in the car and drove off. I spent the ride home apologizing for my behaviour. M told me not to worry about it. No harm done. He dropped me off at home, kissed my cheek and told me he'd see me later.

Later. M wanted to talk. He told me that he like me but, we just wouldn't work as a couple. He gave me 3 reasons: I was a radical feminist (based on my comments to his father regarding the late night escort commercials), I was a vegetarian (guilty), and, I was a non-smoker. I looked at him and said 'you're kidding right?' He shook his head. We can still be friends right?

I was furious. How dare he. I needed to leave town. I called a pal up in Toronto and told her to expect me. I jumped on a bus and took off. At the first rest break, I bought myself a pack of Players Light Regular and tried to smoke one. I nearly threw up but I persevered and managed to get most of it down. I started sharing dirty/sexist jokes with my fellow smokers. When I arrived in Toronto, I went to the first hotdog stand I could find and proceeded to choke down the largest polish sausage there was. I spent the weekend going for long walks and smoking like a chimney. I had to take the walks cuz my pal was a non smoker and didn't want me smoking around her home. The cigarettes gradually began to taste better and by the time the weekend was over. I could do this. I could smoke.

Back home, I went out to the local. M was there. I took out my smokes (same brand as his). He lifted an eyebrow and lit my smoke for me. So there, I thought. He just looked at me. It was then that I realized that his reasons for us not being together were, as I had suspected, full of shit. But, as I sat there slowly exhaling it dawned on me. I was hooked.

A History of Smoking (Part I)

Like many a pre/early-teen wanker, I thought it was 'cool' to smoke and drink bad scotch behind the supply shed beside our school. I would sneak into the liquor cabinet at home and swipe some Rothman Kingsize from a pack that my dad had set aside as his 'just in case I'm dying for a cigarette even though I've quit' supply. You see, my dad had been a smoker since his youth. Smoking was cool. My dad was cool. I remember walking into the bathroom and being nearly knocked over by the whoosh of blue haze. My dad would spend what seemed like hours sitting on his throne/ashtray reading magazines. I remember being nearly asphixiated in the car...especially during the winter...especially after having my lungs full of fresh athletically induced air (we went cross country skiing as a family) and...most of all...I remember hating it. I remember taking smokes from my dad and smushing them up in my hands and then flushing the evidence down the toilet. I remember hiding his ashtrays. I remember refusing to kiss him good night cuz he stunk so bad. I remember when he finally quit. Instead of seeing him with a smoke hanging from his mouth, my dad became addicted to life savers. Rum and Butter seemed to be his favourite. He did, however, leave one pack of smokes on the second shelf of the liquor cabinet in the kitchen. He explained that whenever he had tried to quit and not had any smokes conveniently on hand he would start craving them so bad that he would rush off to the store, buy a pack and smoke one right there and then. With a pack in the cabinet, he could always tell himself that if he needed/wanted one, all he had to do was reach for it. He would then promise himself that he could have one in '5min.' When 5 min. were up, he would tell himself to wait another 5 min. The 5 min. gradually became 10...then 20 and so on. He is still, to this day, delaying the pleasure of that next smoke. His pack, however, is no longer waiting for him. You see. I smoked them. All. Well, I didn't really smoke them. I was 13 and wanted to look cool. My friends were smoking. It was something to do that was wrong. We had to sneak. We could be punished. Was anything better? I, however, could not inhale. I 'puffed' the smoke in, held it in my mouth a couple seconds and then blew it all out in what I thought was a slow and sophisticated exhalation. Like in the movies (not that I think that people smoking in the movies caused me to smoke...they just showed me how to smoke 'well.') After the pack was empty, I 'quit.' I left the empty pack in the cabinet. My dad didn't ever discover that it was empty. He and my mom got a divorce and my mom ended up throwing it out without a second thought. I didn't want to try and buy more. My dad wasn't buying more. I was starting highschool and, my friends were changing. There were new ways to be cool. For all essential purposes, I had kicked the habit.

Tired

Tired of people calling themselves victims instead of going that one step further to help themselves (thus taking focus away from real concerns had by real victims out there)
Tired of passive aggressive control freaks who claim to be only acting out in the best interests of others
Tired of spiders making webs in corners just swept
Tired of hearing the same complaints followed by the same excuses followed by the same inaction
Tired of inaction masquarading as protest
Tired of being the first one to call
Tired of not being able to share the big picture
Tired of really crappy television
Tired of the CBC strike
Tired of all things overpriced
Tired of all things undervalued
Tired of not taking responsibilities
Tired of being tired.

A do do do A Da da da

I'm feeling a bit naughty. This morning I took a bra out of the trash (it was in the washroom garbage can...nothing else in it...it had been placed there because of a broken underwire...ouch!!) and put it on. Laundry has not been done for a while and so, when faced with putting on the bra I had on last night and the one form the trash (loved last night...thank you steenblogen but the bra was too smoky come morning--one of the downsides of having quit nicotine), I had to choose the trashy one (luckily, I own a leatherman which is really a must have to all those who need instant access to underwire twisting pliers). Ok...I had on my garbage bra, now what? Obvious. For Christmas last year, one of my sound techs got me some swag from his band...black underwear that have written on them 'Mall Punks Fuck Off.' Done. I forwent the fuzzy pink bunny socks (an Easter treat? from my mother in law) and found a pair of almost matching blacks and was good to go. Tonight, I will be Steenblogen's date to a pre-do of a do. A pre do do? Wondering what to wear.

Work and Play

So many threads, so little time. Hmmm... I'm beginning to sense a theme here. I haven't posted to this blog very regularly as of late. I have a couple options. I could back date a number of posts and sneak them in with no one being the wiser. This, I fear, would be a bit too duplicitous for my tastes. I could, when I get a moment each day, start draft posts to be worked on and posted later. This, I fear, would lead me to being in a state of constant catch up. I would always be behind. And, if perchance, I were able to get back on track and completely caught up would I really want "I've caught up on all my blog posts...hurrah" to be something that I celebrate? I think not. So, I think I will carry on as I have been. At times prolific. At times dry as desert sand. It's worked so far.

What's been going on with me? Well, two things come immediately to mind. (this isn't true...many many things are coming to mind but, there are two things that I will write about here and now).
A very close friend came to visit. Love her. As a sister and more. (not just cuz she reads this am I writing nice things about her...she really does rock). So, she, another friend and I went to the mall to shop around for clothes. Ok. So she and S are thin. Not gross ewww too thin but instead 'we use our bodies for sporting type purposes and are generally fit' thin. I, on the otherhand, am not thin. This became more evident to me when, in the entire store, the only things that would have a hope in hell of fitting me were wraps and large sized mens' clothing. I have a love hate relationship with my body and its weight. At the moment, it is definitely hate. I don't like the way I feel physically and I certainly am not a fan of my larger sized thighs and waist. This said, I wasn't feeling particularly joyous in the store. Then, as my friend was trying on a lovely pair of black trousers, another woman (larger...like myself) commented 'I'd kill for a body like that.' Hmmm. I looked at this woman. She was shorter than me and a bit plump. Nothing wrong with her. She was wearing clothes that were a bit too small...that never helps. Nothing seems to make me more body conscious than wearing something that doesn't fit comfortably. I also wondered at her statement. Would she really 'kill' for a new body? My friend works out on a daily basis. Hard. She runs, rows, climbs, jumps, swings...she uses her body. I don't do these things. Does this woman? I mean, it's all well and good to want the perfect body/hair/vocabulary/job but, it isn't all luck and genetics. Choices need to be made too. I have been a slug for a bit ... my body is showing the results of this. Perhaps I wouldn't kill to be thinner, but, I think it's perhaps time I started moving a bit more. If it's a bit about choice, I think I'll take some time to choose to focus on body health for a bit.

The second topic is a bit of a rant. J and I work in the same industry and have links with people within the industry. Problems arise when people see us as a unit instead of as separate entities. J will get questions from people about shifts in my space (what their call times are, what the show is, and the like). He responds by saying 'I don't care. I'm not her secretary.' Fair enough. A client wanting my space but used to working with J actually left a message on our home machine about looking into booking my work space. J informed client, again, that they needed to contact the theatre directly. Now, this morning, J tells me that a company that he does free lance work for and that I, on behalf of one of my clients, purchased a service from, wanted the signed copy of a receipt that they had given J to pass on to me. Hell....this particular receipt spent about a month in the car (it never actually made it to my work desk) and, ended up getting tossed. So, J tells me to call them. Sigh. I did but, it would have been easier had they sent the receipt to me directly here at work. I told them that. If it weren't for J, I would have ignored their requests completely. I mean. Business is business. My accounts here at work are properly reconciled. I deal with company receipts at the office...not at home. I don't think they would appreciate it if I called them at home to book equipment. They will fax me a duplicate receipt for me to sign (which I will) and then wanted me to drop it off in person. No, I responded. I'll be putting it in the mail. What is it about snippy people that brings out the uber bitch in me? Ah well. It's only work.

Can I have a copy of the memo please?

Yes...2 posts...one day. I really couldn't resist however. As the world becomes increasingly insane I have to wonder if it's because I didn't get the memo. You know the one? The memo that states clearly why people are hell bent on turning simple situations into complicated ones and how complicated situations are becoming over simplified. I really don't have time right now to go into any details. I'm sure, however, that you will be able to pick from a myriad of examples yourself. Oh well...back to the desk.

Life's Essentials

I love September. I love the crispness of the air in the mornings and evenings. I love the colours just beginning to bloom on leaves. I love being able to wear a sweater and sandals simultaneously. There is an energy that comes with September that is unlike any other time of year. This has to do, in part, with my memories of embarking on a new school year but there is more to it than that. I feel ready for anything. Bring it on. I can take it. I've shaken off the summer sluggishness and am now ready to harvest my potential. This said, I have been finding that my energies are focusing away from writing these days. Just a phase I think. When I actually sit down to do this, I have fun with it. I am, I believe, just enjoying other things more at the moment--making creative dinners, playing football with kids, dancing in the living room, remembering how to run barefoot ... life's essentials.

New Beginnings

This morning, J woke me up with a coffee and went off to work. I got up and began readying the kids for school. The first day of school. Their first day at the new school (they won't actually start until the 14th but, they did transfer to the new building and daycare this morning). ' S' wore a purple cordoroy skirt with flowers on the pockets set off by a light pink long sleeved shirt. 'A' sported new light beige khakis and a turtleneck covered in pictures of construction trucks. Last night, I made their lunches and, this morning I put them into their lunchboxes (Dora and Spiderman) and these, in turn, were put into their knapsacks (Dora and Bob the Builder). This morning, I woke up one day older. Somehow, the kids managed to get in a couple years last night.