Not naming any names...

but just to clarify, you can now find me HERE.
Heh, heh.

Good-bye for real this time.
Bye.
Miss you.
Bye.

Some Endings

And sometimes things come together in their own way and push you into new directions. Like I said, I've been thinking about moving on. It's been a good two years here, and we've been through a lot together. I think you've watched me grow up a little. At least, I hope so. But I needed a space for class, and I wanted to put some things to bed and let them rest, or try to let them rest. They deserve a rest. And some peace. So, goodnight, my dear. You've been good to me. Take care, my dear. Take care. Maybe I'll see you around sometime. Goodnight.

And, hello.

Different Pile

I realized a few years ago that education has become our new class system. As far as I can tell, no one really gives a rat's ass around here about where your people are from any more. They do draw some mightily divisive lines between the university educated and the not university educated, and I'm, oh, so sick of it.
C'mon, kids. Haven't we been through this all before? Didn't we just call it a different name? Like dowry, or connections, or good breeding, or pounds per year? Are we really going to shift the shit to how many degrees you have or don't have? Is it really necessary for me to become more and more of an asshole the longer I am in school?
Seriously. I have no patience for this.

Ah, I'm such a sucker...

The Cleavage Issue (There will be no pictures.)

Let me preface this by saying right off that I think breasts are terrific, and though I can't completely understand most men's fascination with them, I do think they are lovely and I'm glad I have them, such as they are.

But I also think (generally speaking) that everyday cleavage is kind of gross. Now, there is a time for everything, but in most situations cleavage looks tacky and awkward and makes me uncomfortable, and I've got some ( or it, or them. Is cleavage plural?). But, I have this little problem. It seems that no matter how hard I try, I put on a big ol' pair of cleavage blinders when I shop.

I don't like wearing shorts. In fact, this is the only pair of shorts I own, and I wear them to bed. But I love sun dresses, so I wear them a lot, and I just went out and bought three pretty dresses, and twice I wore them to church, two different dresses, and twice I realized all the women were staring at my breasts, because only the women stare in church. Heh. The nasty cleavage brute had struck again. And again I thought to myself, "How in the heck does this happen?"
I can't even take my mom shopping to help me out because she's got even bigger cleavage blinders than I do. I think it's because she's the most innocent person I know. I could wear a dress with a neckline down to my knees and she would say, "Oh, no one will notice. It's cute." And my friends are no help either. It's like we all just lose our heads at the sight of a pretty dress and a great price, and ignore the fact that the only place I could wear it would be a monster truck rally.
I dunno. It's not like I want to wear turtlenecks all the time, but sheesh, I've got this closet full of dresses and no one to take me to the smash 'em up derby.
Woe is me. What is a girl to do?

In Praise of Labour Day

The worst jobs I have had:

Bartender
This was a bad job on a couple of levels for me since I don't drink very much, have never been a party sort of girl, and knew junk all about mixing drinks. Not that that mattered much, because they were mostly oil rig workers, and all I really needed to know was how to open a beer bottle or pour Kahlua in a morning coffee for the alcoholics that pounded on the door and demand to be let in before the place was opened. They were nice guys though as long as the liquor held out - always trying to buy me drinks, telling dirty jokes and tipping me $.25 since that was all they had left.

Door to Door Hospital Canvasser.
If you want to be emotionally abused, get a job canvassing for a worthy cause. I think people enjoy being mean to canvassers. It's kind of like watching boxing, maybe. You get to take out your pent up anger in a socially acceptable manner. No one likes people who ask for money for nothing. The funny part was that I was fantastic at the job. I always brought in the most money in my group because apparently I'm good at sincerity and begging. People seem to prefer that to slimy, fast talkin' money grabbers. Who knew?

Youth Worker
This weekend I was punched, kicked, slapped around, threatened, and close to being stabbed. I like my job. Really. But I also like my face with two eyes, and I'm not crazy about mopping up pee and poopy toilet paper. Or boogers. Hate the boogers.

Pizza Maker.
Hot, greasy, demoralizing. But, I came out of it knowing how to toss and catch pizza dough like a good Italian girl. No. I'm not Italian, but I could be, now.

Weed Puller.
I was eighteen. Needed money. The thistles were taller than I was and the sun was hot like hades.

Substitute teacher.
Hey, you all remember what it was like when a sub walked into class.

There are more. Lots more. I've been in school for so many years that I could paper my bedroom with all the throw away jobs on my resume.

You?

And now, my darling reader(s), I'm going to bed, 'cause this ain't really a holiday for me.
And goodnight.

Dear Winter,

Alright, old man. I'm a ready for you, now.
Sorta.

Showering is Overrated

Going to do a lot of this:




















Enjoy a lot of this:






















Love all of this:


















See you all in a couple of weeks!

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

And the best part of working the night shift?


Getting to sleep in the middle of the day.
G'night, all.

Lay it down, child.

Let's not kid ourselves, shall we? At this stage in the game we've all got baggage.
"Thunk."
But that's the sound of me leaving some of it at the station.

The Crazy House

This is my sister, Tammy. She's sixteen years old this summer, and though she has all the hormones and emotions of a sixteen year old, she's got the reasoning ability of, say, a three year old. I don't know if "hole in her brain" is actual medical lingo, or if it's just code for, "her biological mom did too many drugs when she was pregnant with her," but either way, Tammy has difficulties that the rest of us don't have to worry about.
She's a bit rough around the edges, which is to say she sometimes doesn't make it to the toilet on time, bosses people around when she doesn't know what's going on, speaks in her own hard to translate version of English, goes to special ed classes, and is planning on marrying the boy in her school with cerebral palsy, but, "Me wont have no babies, 'cause I be too busy taking care of him." She sometimes rubs people the wrong way, but she's a good kid. She means well and I love her. I'm grateful for her place in our family.

My mom is away on holidays this week and so I'm taking care of Tammy while she's gone. We've had a rough go of it today. There were tears and raised voices and slammed doors. She was mad. I was mad. We both went for walks in the opposite directions. When I came home I put India to bed and went to the kitchen to make some coffee and relax. I found this.


And again, and as always, I am amazed by the generosity and grace in my life given to me with such open handed kindness. I went to her bedroom and told her that I still loved her, too. We hugged (we never hug), talked, and went on with things: I made coffee. She called her boyfriend so that they could happily shout into the phone at each other.

I told my mom the other day that my dad was right. He used to call this place, "The Crazy House". It is crazy, I think, but in a way that portions out difficulties with a double measure of blessings. This is not easy living here. Three teenagers, a four year old, a million pets (we're getting another dog next week), and two women.
Yes. What the say is true. The family unit has disintegrated, but in this case it has fallen apart into something beautiful.

In the Mirror Every Thing's Reversed

Let's get in my car and just ride, I would say. Please.
We could drive south, south, south. It's only August and the air is winter again.
I'm afraid of the cold.
I'm too smart for my own good. My own bad. Own salvation. Tonight, I could go the way of my dad. I could snuff up a thumbnail of the stuff and stuff those little plastic bags down deep in the trash (I know all the tricks). Or, better yet, I could drive, drive, drive myself downtown. Stamp the back of my hand, have a drink, and shake it don't break it in any of the four corners to go home to some version of a marriage for a night, to some Johnny-Come-Lately, come early, come what the hell. Done so soon? And divorce in the morning with only the clothes on my back.
I could'a could'a, could'a. These things aren't so difficult, I know. They come in side steps taken with sideways glances, narrated in the newscaster voice behind my eyes saying, "This wont change me. This wont change me.
"In other news today, Angela gave in and said, "To hell with it all."

But then, I ask, what the fuck are all the rehab centres for? Could'a, should'a, would'a. You can never go back, kiddo. And if the struggle for the good asks, "What's the point?" then so does the struggle for the bad. It'll still be the same old, same old, but with broken eyes and dissolved cartilage.

So then, dearest friend, dear God, the question tonight is when does being saved begin to feel like some sort of salvation?

Let's drive.

Makin' Pies

There's this kid. He's one of the kids from the group home I work at. One night a couple of weeks ago all the other kids went out to a movie, or to friends, or whatever. He had to stay home because of bad behaviour, so I hung out with him at the house and we picked saskatoon berries in the back yard. The berries hung in juicy purple clumps and were so ripe that they fell into our palms with the lightest brush and stained our fingers purple. I've never seen them so round and fat before.

I couldn't reach the tops of the trees, so he grabbed the branches for me and held them while I picked. He held the branches and told me about how he used to go camping with his mom and brothers and sisters. About how his dad lifts weights. About how he's teaching his little sister to respect their baby sister. How he wishes he could go camping again.

When our bucket was full we went inside and I taught him how to make a pie. He did it all, step by step as I told him. And when I taught him how to pinch the top crust to the bottom one he spent half an hour pinching it just so, pricking the crust with the tines of the fork, sprinkling sugar to make it crunch. We baked it and it looked so pretty and he did such a good job that I took a picture.
"Smile," I said, but of course, he wanted to look tough. In oven mitts.

I sure like that kid.

My New Favourite Colour

Watch Out. I'm Gonna Mess You Up!

Your results:
You are Dark Phoenix

Dark Phoenix 80% Poison Ivy 77% Mystique 76% The Joker 71% Venom 66% Apocalypse 60% Mr. Freeze 57% Riddler 55% Magneto 55% Two-Face 48% Catwoman 46% Dr. Doom 45% Green Goblin 40% Lex Luthor 39% Juggernaut 36% Kingpin 14%

A prime example of emotional extremes: Passion and fury incarnate.

Click here to take the Supervillain Personality Quiz



ummm. I might be a Dark Phoenix, but that doesn't mean I know how to fix the weird layout of this post. Shut up, or I'll alter your molecular structure.

Don't Tell Me This Isn't Sacred

Something to Say

When my parents split up last year I was the lucky duck who inherited the collection of leather bound, gilt edged, satin covered classics that they bought when I was just a kid. They sat on a bookshelf in our family room for years collecting dust, until I pulled Ivanhoe down off the shelf sometime in Junior High. I was equally surprised that I understood it and that I loved it. So I started to read a few more of them with the intent of working my way through them all. Of course, I haven't made it all that far, though I think I've read almost everything Jane Austen wrote. I had such a crush on her in my early twenties. I've kicked around some Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. Some Grimm's, Milton, Poe and Bunyan. Some I finished, some I gave up on. In high school I used to sit around with my boyfriend and we would quiz each other on the authors and titles of the books just for fun.
"Quick, Leaves of Grass?"
"Uh... Walt Whitman?"
"Moby Dick?"
"Herman Melville."
"The Poems of John Keats?"
"Uh... heh."
"The Jungle Books?"
"Rudyard Kipling. Hey, if we get married and have a baby we should call him Rudyard."

It's a different reading experience with these books. For one, they're so heavy that it's a commitment to carrying it around. You don't just toss it in your bag and go, and you've pretty much got to read it lying down with a pillow for support. Also, they smell special. Like leather and ink. And they make a cracking noise when you open the cover to the thick, creamy pages.
It's all saying, "This here is a great book. Now sit up and listen. I've gotta story for you."

I like it.

Nobody Said it Was Easy

What I don't understand and what I could really use some help with is what we are expecting here.

The answer is no. "Should I accept only good from God and not bad?" The answer is no, no, no. And yet, I find that it's gotten to the point that I only expect difficulties from God and I feel naive and selfish hoping for the good. I was on the phone with one of my best friends this past week and we were catching up because it's been so long, so long, far too long, and she asked, "But how are you really doing?" and I had to try and not cry because, of course, I hate to cry and because I hate the phone and I said, "If my face were my self it would be flinched, ready to be hit."
I'm all scrunched up, bracing myself for whatever is next.
And
it
is
so
exhausting.
AndIdon'tknowhowtostopitandrelaxandexpectsomenicefathappinessthisway.

Really.What are we expecting here? When we get past these lives focused on our selves and our success and our drugstore magic books on The prayer of Jabez, and The Secret, and The Power of Positive Thinking and all that shit, when we get to the heart of ourselves, our lives and it's quiet, so quiet that you could hear a heart string pop, and God's face is right there in front of my nose that I wish he would have made cuter, then what the hell am I hoping for from him? Because I think I'm broken and all the king's men haven't a clue how to help. Because I want it to come easy for a while. Because this is the truth, the grind, the everyday, and I'm sweating here, and it's hard, so hard. Just like my dad said it was.

Cat's Ear

"There are things to be said," said the girl to the cat, "that fall apart when strung into sentences." The cat purred and blinked once. "Like the way I'm afraid the moon is a hoax and the News a poorly written play. Or, the way I need love, or hands, or all my lost, 'Screw it. I'm sorries,' that get caught up in twisted stomachs and sweaty palms. Or sex. Why so quiet all the time about sex?"

The cat slid his nose under the girl's hand and pushed his head into her palm. She scratched between his ears and worked her way under his chin where the skin was thin and tight. "Like in a dream where a lover becomes another, and then home unknown." The girl stopped her hand and looked up. "I'm rhyming. I'm not supposed to rhyme in prose, not hardly even in poetry anymore. How does everyone remember not to rhyme all the time?"

He licked her palm and she laughed. The cat rolled over onto his back and the girl put her face to his ear, her lips to his ear. "I'll drop them into here, in your ear, my dear. And no one else will be the wiser." And so she did, and so did he, and no one was the wiser.

Is that the same as Cutie Pie?

Seriously rethinking if I can stomach a trip to India.