Knick Knacks - This & That

Dear Mr. Kelly ...

2012-02-15T00:06:00.001-04:00

Dear Mr. Kelly:

I know you are probably getting bombarded with a lot of very angry emails from the residents of this city. I wanted to add to that list in hopes that you’ll understand that you’re inability and blatant incompetency at handling this strike is affecting more and more people daily. I don’t make a lot of money and the little I do make with my seasonal job is hard earned. I’m a single mother of three children, not by choice but by chance. I didn’t choose my situation but circumstances dictated that this was the life I was destined for. I do not rely on social assistance nor handouts. Everything I own I bought with money that I earned by working. My children know that when I’m gone twelve hours a day, leaving at 6am it is to make sure there is food in the belly, clothes on their back and a roof over their head.

I was laid off from my job on December 23, 2011. It’s seasonal and I expected it but I also expected to get called back come the spring. It turns out that I could have been called back sooner but now my employer is looking at hiring someone with a more reliable means of transportation. You see, my normal day when I’m working is to wake up at 4am, get ready for work then get my kids up at 5am to feed them and get them ready for the day and they are off to the sitter at 6am when I leave to catch the bus. I catch the 80, transfer in Cobequid to the 88 to get off at Bedford Commons where I walk another 45 minutes to my office building. Then at 5pm, I turn around and do the same thing backwards. I have a decent job for the level of education I was able to afford and it pays me more than an average administrator so that my family and I can get by. Now, that job is in jeopardy and so is the livelihood of my little family. The only option I have now is to look for another job but in my field, construction and engineering administration, the jobs are few and far between so now I’m looking at taking two jobs to support my family. And why is this happening to me?? Because YOU failed to resolve an issue that is affecting over 96 000 residents of the Halifax Regional Municipality per day. Because YOU want to save $85 000 per day. Because YOU refuse to bend on any concessions that are offered. Because YOU refuse to allow an arbitrator in to resolve this situation for your and your council’s own greedy, book-balancing purposes with no care to the people who use the public transit system. This includes workers, employers, students, seniors and so on.

Oh, let’s not forget those transit employees who are standing in the bitter cold striking to get what they believe is fair. Now that I see how willing they were to work towards a resolution with you, I have quickly changed my opinion of them and what they are doing. Was it right to strike? Maybe or maybe not depending on the angle you look at it from but they sure as hell have a right to stand up for what they want and the changes they want to see. Is it right for you to refuse to sit with them and come to an agreement? Absolutely not. You're refusal for binding arbitration or to even set a date for a meeting plus all these closed door council meetings and secretive decision making is questionable at best and not the way an elected government should behave.

What this city's council is doing is reprehensible. You are turning your back on many of the voting public who rely heavily on this service without a care in the world about what is going to happen to these people if this strike continues. People and businesses are losing money daily. People are losing jobs or having to lose this semester of university. People who need to see their doctors or get to a clinic are unable. We don't all have money for taxis, we don't all have friends or family who are able to drive us wherever and whenever we need to go somewhere, we aren't all living within walking distance to the things we need.

You should be ashamed of how you are handling this but that's just my opinion. As a resident and voter in this city, I have every right to tell you exactly that.

Sincerely,

Alyson

No Point Making Apologies ...

2011-11-27T15:26:00.001-04:00

So here, let's sit down and set the record straight: I'm not perfect. I know, what a shocker eh? I, as a mother and as a person, make mistakes on a daily basis and sometimes even at a rate of several WTFs per minute. That's human nature I suppose, I just wish that we all could realize that. Wouldn't it be nice if we all came to the conclusion that we're not all perfect, omnipotent sentient beings that roam this earth with infallable moral code and sense of right and wrong? Honestly, I believe it's impossible considering it's the fallacies and imperfections that make ups all human and beautiful. I know I personally live life with my face in my palm and asking myself "what was I thinking?".

I'm not 100% sure where I'm going with this, how this post is going to pan out but I decided to let my brain go and just write. I guess my point is that I've been looking square in the face of judgement and finger pointing for a little while, at least that's what it feels like. Any of you, dear readers, ever feel like you were at a heightened sense of awareness just because it felt like someone was constantly looking at you and criticizing every move you made? Ohh paranoia but I'm sure you know what I'm talking about. Living in a fish bowl or rather, a terrarium (I don't know about you but I can't breathe underwater). We go through this at work, at home, with friends and family and neighbours and those crazy people in the grocery store who give you the side-eye when you threaten your children with leaving if they don't stop arguing with each other. It's annoying and gets our backs up. Some of us let it roll, some of it take it to heart. None of us like the boss breathing down our necks when the pivot tables are having errors, our siblings looking at us over the rim of their glasses in wonderment of the next stupid move we're going to make or our friends shaking their heads as we reason with ourselves and make our excuses. Sometimes we can almost feel the gossip oozing out behind our backs and the discussions of our behaviour without our presence to confirm, deny or defend. Most of us just don't want to to know when that happens but we can't help our gossip "Spidey Sense" from tingling and whether or not we're giving the opportunity to defend ourselves, it doesn't hurt any less.

But it goes both ways!! See, right now you're judging me for starting a sentence with "but" and I'm judging you for being so uptight that you'd really care about that. My point is that as much as we hate feeling those fingers pointing at us, we do it ourselves. We point our perfect fingers at the lesser people who we believe are totally f**king up (sorry for the lack of a better term there). We decide what they should and shouldn't do behind their backs without them sitting beside us to either defend or discuss what is being said. I bet the people we talk about behind their backs feel the gossip ooze coming from us. My thinking here, my idiotic logic, is that maybe we should all just stop. I'm trying at the very least, finding my sense of peace in my own little world with my babies and my animals but some people will always make me raise an eyebrow.

But then we have to look at it this way: would we want people to tell us exactly what they think all the time? What would hurt more: the gossip or someone in your face about your mistakes? That's a tough call. Sometimes I think I'd rather live in ignorant bliss about what people think of me or say about me and sometimes I think I want to face it. Of course, my Ma used to say that I should just let people talk because if they were talking about me, they were leaving someone else alone and how very right she is. So, we can easily discount the gossip but what about when you're faced with it and what about when someone angrily calls you on a mistake that you made? How do we deal with that? I know what I do, I turn and walk away. There's no point in getting into an argument no matter how hurt we may be and until nerves are calm, there's no point in discussion. Screaming may feel right in that moment but I know myself well enough that I'm going to make it worse if I stick around, especially if I'm hurt. I know that making me angry is one thing and I can effectively recognize it and deal with it but hurting me is a completely different ball of wax. I can quickly forgive being angered, I have trouble with forgiveness of being hurt.

I guess my point is that I am who I am, I'm not perfect and nor do I claim to be. I do the best I can with what I have and there are things that are important to me that may not be important to others. My house is never polished clean, my laundry is never finished. I've been known to manipulate and tell a fib to get me by. I can be just as boisterous as I can be withdrawn. I'm not thin, I'm not beautiful in the conventional sense plus I've got scars and marks and wrinkles. Most of the time I don't realize my stupidity until the mistake is over, it's never intentional or malicious but I can seem that way. I'm aloof. I can be flighty and hard to get to know. I guess no one really does know me. My relationships are usually fleeting because I can be demanding but sometimes much to complacent. I'm a loner with a fragile ego, self-conscious but can sure as hell fake confidence when I need to. I'm still coming to terms with who I am and discovering the process of becoming a better person. I do what I feel is best with the little bit that I have and sometimes it doesn't make sense but hey, at least I'm doing something.

There, that's about it I think. I make no apologies for the person that I am and dammit, none of us should. We are all perfect human beings and by that I mean, we're all nuts. Let's just remember our own flaws, deviations, mistakes and quirks before we appraise the value of another by their actions. Maybe if we do that, we'll find compassion and acceptance, not anger or cynicism.

Drill Sergeant or Mrs. Cleaver?

2011-11-11T17:06:00.001-04:00

I'd like to think that I'm going to look back at some of the things my kids do with a sense of humour and have a laugh about it all. Does anyone have any idea about when exactly that happens? Do I have to wait until they're grown and out on their own or does it come sooner? I know the teenage years are out of the question for that to happen considering my own mother's curse of "I hope when you have kids they are just like you" is already coming at me in wonderful karmic justice and since my worst years were the teenage ones, I've concluded that I'm on a downward spiral. Thank you Ma for reminding me all those years that what goes around comes around. Those are your words of wisdom that ring in my head every time one of my kids tells me they hate me or I find that drawing on the counter in permanent Sharpie fine point marker. That is my ultimate **face palm** moment; my mother's wish came true, it sure as hell came around ... times three.

I do have to laugh at most of what happens. I went to the washroom earlier to find a really pretty purple line tracing around the trim of my bathroom door. Pretty pastel purple and squiggly, the handiwork of a six-year-old girl. When I asked the nervous faces of the little motley crew of children in my living room, a unanimous finger pointing indicated that my detective work was correct. Plus the much too emphatic "It wasn't ME!" was all the proof I needed. So, Little Miss Picasso was sent to her room for a time-out only for me to putter into the kitchen and find my son's birthday cake had gone through some sort of ritual sacrifice. Once again, the work of a tiny, female Van Gogh with the help of her brother, Vlad the Pastry Impaler.

It seems lately that my pleas of "don't leave that on the floor", "dirty underwear don't belong in your bed", "stop ripping the legs off of your dolls", "leave that last sip of milk for my tea please", "stop hitting/kicking/slapping/screaming/whining/banging/pounding/throwing/tossing/spitting/grabbing/pinching/gouging ..." are going unnoticed. No matter how many times I stress to not to make that face/grab that toy/throw stink eye/pitch attitude/put that back/take that out ... it falls on small, selectively deaf ears. Please insert a mental image of me with two handfuls of my hair and boiling blood pressure.

Time Out has run it's course, it doesn't work anymore. I almost mourn the many years that Time Out and I have spent together but, in true universal fashion, everything has to come to an end. Spanking and I never had a good relationship, we kind of just stare at each other Me on one side saying that any violence isn't worth it and it on the other saying, "C'mon, it'll get the point across. Just remember 'Mom's Helping Hand' ". Scolding, talking and the eventual barking like a drill Sergeant are all part of the Mommy Repertoire but they are failing me. And yes, I know hollering is not a good thing but dammit, they sure as hell notice once I bellow and dearest readers, I haven't been referred to as "Roseanne" for nothing. Along with my friend Time Out, Confiscation of Coveted Goods is also running away. Taking the toys, the crayons, the fun away for a set period of time used to be my charm. It worked so well the first few times that just the threat of La-La-Loopsy living in my bedroom for an undetermined amount of time would stop any radical behaviour (e.g.: colouring the bathroom and some paper with a brand new tube of bright red lipstick). I miss the days where threats of Time Out and Confiscation would work or a bellow would stop my animals, er, kids dead in their tracks.

Now, don't get me wrong here, I don't punish and take without explanations as to why I did what I did. I ensure that after the inevitable dramatics of some little drama queens and my son's wide-eyed shock and awe have dissipated, we have a sit down to discuss what they did and why they should not, can not and will not have a repeat (oooh, rephrase: hope we don't have a repeat). We talk about respect for others, adults, friends and most importantly, themselves. Considering that their mother is a fledgling Buddhist, it's important that values of consideration, empathy/sympathy, understanding, non-judgement, acceptance, compassion, honesty and awareness are taught. It may be in small doses but hey, I'm still figuring this shit out for myself too.

I think there is also the unpreventable confusion of being raised by a single mother who happens to be working full-time from Monday to Friday almost twelve hours a day sometimes. Some days it feels like I have evening and weekend custody with child care costs being a twisted form of child support. I'm sure a lot of parents feel that, even in unbroken or blended families with two working parents. Balance isn't easy, especially when you're lop-sided like me. I have to try to balance the cookie baking, sweet as pie, fun-loving June Cleaver with the hard ass household dictator. How the hell do I do that? Wear fatigues and oven mitts? Do I make up drill songs to the tune of songs from the Sound of Music? Am I Mary Poppins who repels in from a Sikorsky C-148 Cyclone helicopter wearing a house dress and an apron instead of floating down on an umbrella? Okay, you have my point. Now just think, if that oxymoron role of easy-going disciplinarian is confusing and frustrating to me, how must it feel to them? I need a resident psychologist, behaviourist, yogi, meditation specialist and a monk to give me all of the answers to the questions I have. Blech and pout.

So, I'm told consistency is key and consistent I am, or at least doing the best that I can to maintain it. I have all my fingers and toes crossed, insight meditation, loving-kindness meditation and the proverbial rabbit's foot at the ready in hopes that someday my house will find peace, harmony and Roseanne will be able to leave with Time Out. I'm sure they'd make a great couple.

For now, I have to go let the girls know that dimes do not belong in their brother's nose.

Let the search begin ...

2011-10-23T17:06:00.000-03:00

For a long time I've been looking into a mirror and wondering where I came from. Yeah, I know that sounds a little silly but it's a normal thing to question in my circumstance. You see, I have never known my biological father. My mother had me very young, at twenty years old and my father, through either his decision or that of my grandparents, was never in the picture. I've had conflicting stories as to what happened and it leaves me pondering what is the truth and what isn't. Nobody talked about my biological father during my upbringing and I was too scared to ask.

When I did ask at 16, I was driven out to Sand Lake for a quiet chat in the car over tea and told that he was the one who walked away and he was the one who gave up on my myself and my mother. I was told that trying to find him was pointless and that all I would accomplish by doing so would be to break my parents' hearts. You see, my mother was diagnosed with MS when she was 16 and, as a result of her disability, I was adopted and raised by her parents, my grandparents. I never wanted to break their heart, I never wanted to hurt anyone but it still didn't stop my wanting to know where the other half of me was and where I got pale grey eyes when my mother's were so brown they were almost black. Why was I so almost blonde when my mother's hair was chocolate brown? Why was I so short when my mother was tall? Now don't tell me that it could have been from my grandparents because it can't be, it's impossible but that's not a story for right now even though it does tie into this one, it's not my place to spill those beans.

I was told years ago that I wasn't planned, I was an accident. Years later I was told that wasn't the case and I actually was a planned and wanted child. I was told that there was a hard time choosing my name. Years later I was told my name had already been chosen long before I was born. Years ago I was told that my mother didn't know she was pregnant until well into her sixth month but years later I was told different and that she kept her pregnancy a secret to avoid being forced into terminating the pregnancy due to her medical condition. Years ago I was told the plans for my adoption by my grandparents were almost immediate but again, years later I was told that Child Services workers were at the hospital when my mother was in labour and ready to take me to an adoptive family with only my mother's pleads for her wanting so much to keep me being the reason I was allowed to stay. I was told that when I was 18 and away at university my biological father tried to contact me but was told I wanted nothing to do with him and that couldn't be farther from the truth.

There are many other examples of these things and it's hard to know who to believe. Do I believe the women who became my default sisters through the adoption or the woman who was one of my mother's closest and dearest friends who admitted to holding these secrets until the time was right to tell me. I'm sure, dear readers, you can understand my confusion and my want to be loyal but to which side? I can't ask the parents who raised me, any of them, as they have all passed away. My mother/grandmother lost a battle with cancer in June of 2000, my mother succumbed to MS in April of 2005 and my father/grandfather fought a great fight but lost to ALS in March of 2008. I can't go to them now for answers but only hope that now they can look down and understand my want and need to find the other half of my DNA. They know how much I love them, they know I would never try to replace them but I just hope they also know that I want to understand the other side of the story, the other side of me.

My whole life I felt as though my existence was a burden on my family but that's not the case. Even if I was to be given up for adoption to a strange family, the decision was made for me to stay, even if it was last minute. Regardless of those circumstances, I was taken in and loved by everyone. My mother, my grandparents who became wonderful parents and three sisters (I can't call them my aunts, they're my sisters regardless of paperwork or circumstance) were and are an amazing family. I think a lot of the feelings of burden were placed there by myself and not knowing exactly how exactly I fit into the dynamic. I remember telling my friends at school that my "real" father had died before I was born. My family environment was an anomaly in the early 1980s, I felt very out of place and very much on the outside of my circle of friends because of it. I had to have a reason why I was different, so I made one up.

I do want to clarify before I continue that I had a great childhood. My parents, all of them that I was allowed to know, did what they could for me and raised me well. I wasn't easy on them, not by any means and especially not when I became a teenager. I held a lot of confusion and anger with my family dynamic as well as a lot of other circumstances that don't need to be discussed here. I had a great family, a loving and a happy home. It was full of affection and gentle caring and I could not have asked for better. So, please don't think of me as complaining here, I'm not. I'm merely questioning some of the circumstances of my birth and why my biological father was not a part of it, whether it was his choice or he was forced out. I have so many questions that for many years I was afraid to ask but now, there really isn't any reason why I need to hold back and ask them. I am a grown woman with a family of my own, it's time I got the balls and started the search in earnest.

Aside from using the excuse of wanting a medical history since I'm trying to build one for myself and my children, I want to ask him what his reason for walking away was. I want to ask him the hard questions that I've been too afraid to ask for far too long. I don't know if I can trust the answers that I was already given and I want to hear it from the horse's mouth, so to speak. If I find him and I get turned away then so be it but at least I tried. A big part of me is screaming to start searching now because I don't want to find him when it's too late and our first meeting would be me visiting his grave. Part of me thinks that maybe since he missed out on my entire life thus far, that he might want to get to know his three beautiful grandchildren. And can I believe that my children deserve to get to know their grandfather in some capacity? Regardless of what happened thirty-one years ago, things change and people change. If it turns out that he wants nothing to do with us then that's the way it will be. I won't force anyone into trying to build a relationship with me or my family. As disappointed as I would be if that were to happen, it would be another case of having to accept it and keep moving on.

I was given the name of a long-lost cousin to try to reach who could give me some clues to my father. I found her, we talked and it was wonderful. I was accepted by her with open arms and we chatted about my little family here and my father only slightly but she gave me the biggest surprise: my father has five other children, three daughters and two sons. Holy crap!! My kids have a whole ton of other aunts and uncles!! After some wriggling and with the benefit of having an amazing friend with a hardcore case of "get it done" OCD, we think we may have found my siblings. They're beautiful and look accomplished and so happy. I'm being completely creepy here because I don't even know if they know I exist and here I am looking at pictures of what may or may not be them. Resemblances are uncanny though and a photo of a man who may be my brother looks way too much like my son to not be related somehow. It's such a resemblance, it's eerie. I haven't contacted them and I won't just yet. I want to find my biological father first and hopefully talk to him about everything and ask my questions before I consider approaching my siblings. I've never done this before, never really talked to someone who has and as a result, don't know the delicate etiquette of saying hello to someone who probably doesn't know you're their daughter or their big sister.

I keep hoping and having the fantasy of a wonderful reunion that answers all of my questions and brings on the beginning of what could be a great relationship with a side of myself that I've been questioning my whole life. The side I was told to ignore ... but how can I ignore someone who, in one way or another, made me and regardless of relationship, is part of who I am? There is a whole family out there that would be wonderful to get to know. I was always an advocate of the more people there are to love in your life, the better especially when it's family. I know I'm getting my hopes up and as much as I'm trying to be my usual self and expect the worst outcome, I can't help but wonder what it will be like, what it could be like. I will say again, I'm not trying to replace anyone. I never could but wouldn't it be nice to have the extra? Maybe I'm greedy, maybe this is a selfish search but I just want to know ... everything.

So, readers, here are my questions for you: where the hell do I start? My long-lost cousin has all of my contact information that is hopefully going to be passed onto my biological father but I'm getting impatient and don't want to wait. Do I wait longer? Do I take the information I have and start making calls? I know his name, his age, where he's from and approximately where he's living now. I know people who may be related to him and the town where he's from is not a big town. What do I say when I call and who exactly do I call? Do I start where he's living now or do I start in his hometown where a lot of his/my relatives still are?

Am I completely insane for doing this??

Just for Sharts & Giggles ...

2011-10-21T22:13:00.000-03:00

Yes, you did read that correctly, the title of this post is "Just for Sharts & Giggles". Sharts. That, my friends, is a scary word. It is one that we try to avoid using in reference to ourselves because nobody on the face of this earth really wants to admit that they "sharted". Really, who do you know proudly proclaims that they shit their pants while trying to fart? Okay, some of us know that special someone who tends to share too much but we love them anyway. We just make sure to add a helmet under their name on the Christmas gift list.

So, to get to how this little post got started: this day seemed to be full of shit. Well, the smell of it, talk of it and the finger pointing as to who left the smell in the bathroom. It all started this morning with the smell of a fart on the bus and carried on through work with all of my asphalt boys blaming one another for the smell in the bathroom. (Very important lesson to learn ladies: when you're the only woman on a work site, no one ever blames you for the horrendous smell in the unisex bathroom). The poop talk continued all the way to my son trying to get to the bathroom to poop only to have a little girl race him there so she could do her doody. Get it? Doody = duty? Nevermind, that was horrible ... and funny so, dammit, laugh.

Between all of that mess, there seemed to be an incessant talk about poop, farts and other things related to all things rear-end. So, here's an ettiquette on farting, sharting and pooping.

Farting

Rule One: Always blame someone else unless it's a distinct impossibility. If you can't place blame, be proud of your emissions.

Rule Two: Sounds of a passing train and a forklift are wonderful for hiding the sound of a fart but always check the direction of the wind. If the wind is blowing directly in your friend or co-worker's face and you are upwind of said friend/co-worker, hold the fart or move downwind, otherwise they are going to taste the nitrogen and carbon dioxide.

Rule Three: Asking someone to pull your finger is ALWAYS acceptable.

Rule Four: Remember that if you can hear people having a conversation from 300ft away, they can also hear you fart.

Rule Five: Farting during sex is inevitable and unavoidable. Laugh and move on. Sharting can be inevitable and unavoidable as well so be aware after you eat the extra spicy chili or the suicide wings.

Rule Six: Make sure it's just a fart.

Rule Seven: Keep in mind that silent is always deadly. It's the secret 11th commandment that they all must be that way.

Rule Eight: Don't light them. Third degree burns on your ass brings new meaning to the term "ring of fire". Try explaining that one to the ER nurse.

Sharting

Sharting doesn't have rules. We don't shit our pants on purpose so there can't be a rules surrounding it. When it happens, and it will, just pretend it was a really stinky fart and go to the bathroom. While you are in the bathroom, throw out your bloomers (preferably wrapped in a plastic bag), wash your ass and pretend it never happened. If you're home, take a shower but if you're out, it's okay to go commando just remember that the next time you feel a fart, excuse yourself and fart on the toilet just in case there's more to the story.

Pooping

Rule One: No one wants to see a picture. I don't care how big your turd was or what weird shape it was in or the fact that you managed to shit out Jesus' face, don't point your Blackberry/iPhone/Android in the toilet. Aside from the fact that you're probably going to be going on a really nasty fishing trip, it's just gross.

Rule Two: It is perfectly acceptable to bring your cell phone to the bathroom.

Rule Three: It is always acceptable to blame the smell on someone else: your dog, your cat, your kid but never your mother. Blame your father, he's usually guilty anyway. In fact, blaming any man will work because most don't realize that the more they protest, the guiltier they look. Plus, it's fun to watch the antics while you have a funny little stinky secret.

Rule Three: Never accept blame when everyone else is blaming another person. Unless you love the smell of your own scat and think everyone else should too. Or, you're a sadist and thrive on olfactory forms of torture.

Rule Four: "I need to shit" is perfect for getting out of any conversation but can be over-used. Before you know it, you will have a doctors appointment and a trip to day surgery for a very large tube with a camera being shoved in your bum. One word: BARIUM. **shudder**

Rule Five: When answering the phone while on the throne, just keep in mind who you're talking to before you tell them where you are. New love interest? No. Old friend from highschool? Yes. Boss? Depends on how much you like them and your job.

Rule Six: It is okay to hang onto whatever is closest to you while you pinch a nugget.

Rule Seven: Don't hang on so tight it all falls down.

Rule Eight: When you have to yell for toilet paper, don't tell the person bringing it what you're doing. Their reaction when they pass it to you will be priceless.

Rule Nine: Always look after you wipe. Only you can prevent skid marks!

Rule Ten: It is totally acceptable to use an entire roll of toilet paper to prevent skiddies.

Rule Eleven: Never drop the kids off in someone else's pool and leave immediately after. They will never look at you the same way again and it is impossible to ninja a poop unless you're a bonafied ninja.

Rule Twelve: If you must take a steamer in a public bathroom, do so with class and dignity. Stink up the joint and leave like nothing happened!

Well, that's all I can think of for now. I hope you enjoyed this horribly written post and please, if you know of any other rules, please send them along! And before anyone asks, not all of these are personal experience but mostly second hand knowledge.

Goodnight dear readers and please, read this on the toilet.

Drastic Changes ... At Least on My Head

2011-09-22T20:35:00.000-03:00

So, if any of you lovely readers know me well, you all know that my hair is huge. Seriously, huge. It's down to my butt, thick as old hell and curly. I decided to change it.

When I changed it I started thinking about the correlation between women and their hair and how our hair can drastically affect our moods or how when we know our lives have changed in some drastic way, changing our hair somehow helps us women overcome the obstacle that's facing us. We go through a bad break-up, we change our hair; new job, change our hair; new baby, change our hair. I was one of the few women I know that rarely, if ever, changed their hair. I was known as "Alyson with the hair". Always big, always curly, always long, always my secret love, my security blanket. It made me feel safe, it made me feel sexy, it made me feel different from all the other sheeple out there. It's gone and I feel wonderful and new and alive. How weird is that?

What I find strange is that sometimes we change things not realizing how much we needed the change, how much we needed that turn of events. Whether it's deciding on a move, a new job or even something as silly as a damn haircut, there are times that we don't realize how much we needed it until it was done. Sometimes it is the change itself, welcome or otherwise, that makes us wake-up to the realization that the change was needed. We break-up with someone and it's not until we're going through the healing process that we realize just how f**ked up that relationship was, just how much of a drain it was on our emotional psyche. We move and we realize just how much we never really felt at home until we're in that new place, surrounded by new people who start feeling like a lost and welcome family. We women cut, colour, curl, straighten, weave, blow out, tie up, bun, streak, or shave our damn hair while men, well I don't know what men do, they defy my logic.

Anyway, my point here is this: sometimes, during snap decisions (like a haircut) we look up and realize just how much our lives have changed, sometimes over extended periods of time and sometimes, like me, in just a few short months or weeks or days. When I looked into that stylist's mirror the first time, I wanted to strangle her, she thinned my wonderfully thick hair, she cut off too much and gave me bangs to look like Blossom. I lost who I thought I was in that moment, the old me was gone and an aging banker was left behind. I got home fighting tears and ran to the nearest drugstore and did another drastic and uncharacteristic move, I dyed the remainder of the the curls on my head. It was when I looked into the mirror after what looked like the murder of a Smurf did I realize how much my life had changed, how much I had changed. I realized how much I needed to reconnect with who I was, who I am and who I want to be. I am becoming me. It's a long road after 31 long and tumultuous years but I'm going after things that I want and barely even realized, even if it is starting or maybe ending, with a damn haircut.

So I guess my point is that sometimes we need a kick in the ass to remind us of what's important and to remind us of who we are as a person. Sometimes we need a change to wake us up to who we need to be or remind us that we are becoming the person we want to be.

Sometimes, a stupid haircut can remind us that all the past bullshit is worth the happiness we have today.

The Transformation:


Before

Ahhh!! I LOOK LIKE BLOSSOM!!!


The real process begins!!

Almost there ...

And there it is ... almost finished, just needs some fine tuning!!

My Own Personal Time Travel Revelations

2011-06-19T05:52:00.000-03:00

My sciatica is acting up horribly tonight and sleep is just not an option. I'm just laying in bed and listening to music. Music is that beast that brings back memories more than any smell or sight or other sounds ever could. It tends to bring back every emotion or memory of what I was doing when I first heard it or it was one of the songs that was constantly looping through my speakers. When a certain song plays, I'm taken directly back to that place or that person, the smells and the touches of what happened during that time. I know, I'm a freakshow but music has always done that to me. There are songs I refuse to listen to because I just don't want to remember those times. It's my own personal time machine.

Anyway, I'm sitting here on my bed, twisted in my blankets from trying to find a spot that keeps my leg from aching to the point that I want to cut it off. At first I just layed here with the volume low and random songs playing in my ears to try to help me drift off. I eventually found that I was singing along and thinking and turning the volume up while my aching toes kept a steady rhythem with the memories that came flooding back in. It seems that all of my relationships - work, family, friends and otherwise - are incredibly intense but incredibly quiet. Fierce but silent. I'm having a really hard time explaining this and it's mostly because I keep the intensity to myself. It's not something that was every spoken or put into words but could be felt in the room; seen and experienced and felt but never spoken. I don't think I really realize the intensity until I look back at the situation, and I usually don't look that deeply back until the memory is triggered and this is usually through music.

Sometimes music says all the things that we can't and the music we choose to listen to in each other's presence somehow subconsciously says all those things for us. Mostly it's for our own amusement of course but next time you're with someone you care about, pay attention to the songs you feel like listening to as I am sure you'll be surprised what your choices are. I have one song that insanely reminds of the last time I spoke to someone ... yeah, I was "counting bodies like sheep to the rhythem of the war drums" that afternoon and from the slam of that car door, you'd think I really was. Other times I was the "queen of pain" to the "king of cowards" but "saw forever in my never" only to come to the conclusion that "we could've had it all, rolling in the deep".

I turn it up, I get lost in it, I find the intensity that I once had for the situation I was in and the feelings I had for
whomever I was with. Lady GaGa always makes me smile, I just close my eyes and dance with my babies again, all the laughter and love that was in the moment of dancing to her with those three "little monsters" comes rushing back. Great Big Sea's "Chemical Worker's Song" brings me back to giving my Dad a hug when I was kid and still smelling the coal mine off of his neck. That smell was there no matter how much he washed and I can always feel his strength and smell him again when I close my eyes and hear that drum. And there are so many others that bring these intense feelings and memories back, countless to be honest.

Science says that our sense of smell is our strongest memory trigger but I call bullshit on that. Our strongest memory trigger (mine anyway) is listening to someone else sing everything you want to say but are too scared to say it; find the words for you to help pull that fondness and warmth to the forefront of our mind; allow us to close our eyes and relive some of our greatest or saddest moments. A song can create a mood where just eye contact with someone you've been wanting can say everything you want to say, whether it's your devotion, passion and/or energy, enthusiasm. I've been told once to "stop looking at me like you love me". Hahaha, I just remembered that and you know what? I'm listening to Billy Talent. My lovely readers may not get that reference but that's okay, I do and I'm sure the gist is there.

But, it's 5:37am and I'm rambling like an overtired fool. I think I'm going to take my Blackberry and limp down on the front step to finish watching the sunrise with some tunes blaring in my ears. I think it's time to make another memory, one of enthusiasm for the things to come and the experiences to be had. (I'm such a dork at this hour.)

Loose Ends

2011-06-14T19:43:00.000-03:00

Over the last few days I went back to places and spoke to people that I swore I would never speak to again in my lifetime. People that I parted ways with on bad terms, midst an argument or feelings of hurt with no closure and no resolution. I never realized how good it would feel to run into two of those people, talk, forgive and move on. It's nice to move on without holding those feelings of resentment and anger. The animousity we carry for people who have wronged us or that we feel have wronged us really can eat away at our soul.

While out for a walk downtown, I doot-dee-doo'd my way up Spring Garden (commonly known as Skin Garden Rd due to the amount of nearly nude people there in the summer) and when I looked up from switching the song that was blaring in my ear, there he was. OOoooh, all I wanted to do was gaffle his short self and toss him out into traffic then take his wallet to get back the money he owes me. I wanted to freak and scream about how much his words had hurt people that I love and his actions caused a lot of upheaval in my life. Like a movie flash, I could see myself hurting him and I wanted desperately to make him cry.

The Buddhist in me came to my rescue. Meditation sessions and self-control (possibly medication) saved me from my impulse to draw blood. I thought it better to let bygones be bygones and suddenly realized that the past deserves to stay exactly where it's at. I walked up to that stumpy bastard and hugged him, apologized for the way things ended and was met with seemed to be a sincere apology back. It was a good chat and I walked away knowing that even though the friendship was over, it ended respectfully this time. I made peace with the situation and feel very at peace. The demons of that situation are finally at rest.

Two days later while attempting bonnach bread, which turned out horrible, my MSN starts flashing. Lo and behold there is the asshat to trump all asshats, King Arsehole himself. Someone I had hoped was long forgotten along with the heartache, the broken and empty promises and his selfishness and inconsiderate behaviour. A childhood heartbreak, my very first one from the first person who told me he loved me and then, seventeen years later, the purveyor of another heartbreak after leading me to believe that love, even immature love of teenagers, can come full circle and turn out wonderful. No, lies and bullshit and loans that were never repaid and visits to fill my ear with promises and hope while he left to go back to his girlfriend that I had no idea wasn't really an ex.

Another moment of wanted to squeal and scream and type in bold, capital letters. I deleted him, forgot to block him and there he was, appearing on my screen in his cocky self-assuredness to slime his way back into our "friendship". King Asshat asked to bring me tea and I, like a fool, said yes with every intention of pouring burning hot liquid over his head.

Damn you Buddhist philosophy for making care about peaceful endings!! Instead of pouring it over his head when he walked in, I sat down with him and we talked. Talked about everything from the relationship that followed him (doomed as it was), the relationship he's in now and everything that happened in the meantime. I was met again with sincere apologies for behaviour and craziness and the heartache that was caused. I was met with laughter after that and a promise to keep his distance. I don't have to promise to keep mine, that's a given. I may have forgiven and forgotten but trust is hard to rebuild and I certainly don't have that fight in me, at least not with him. Another set of demons laid to rest as he hugged me goodbye, another surprisingly easy ending to what was a tumultous, angst-ridden and seemingly unending (thanks to the moron that followed him) "relationship".

I'm breathing easier. I didn't realize that these two friendships and how they ended weighed so heavily on my shoulders. I thought I was over the fights, I thought I had moved on from the foolishness but, the teachings are very true in that forgiveness heals. Carrying around that burden of anger was destroying a little piece of me that I didn't even realize and now that forgiveness has been given, on all sides, a sense of peace has poured in. These two will never again be a part of my life again but I do thank them for giving me the opportunity to find the truth behind forgiveness.

I do have to say that it's amazing but I have a lot further to go (ending the violent mental images of things I'd like to do to people who pissed me off would be one thing to start with) and a lot more people to forgive and, more importantly, ask forgiveness from, including the moron. Buddhism and it's teachings have given me the foundation to find myself, my heart, my strength and my confidence. I'm a very happy girl now that I finally realize that one small action can make a world of difference.

UFOs? Aliens? Where's the tinfoil?

2010-10-14T22:36:00.000-03:00

I started writing a lot today but it was all bits and pieces, half finished thoughts that were typed out between wiping a poop covered bum or switching laundry or fantasizing about sweet, chocolate, sugary goodness. Everyone in my house is asleep, except for me of course and the only noise is the TV and the dryer. I am dangerously alone with my thoughts and some strange little ideas floating around me.

I watched a documentary today about aliens, UFOs, extraterrestrial life and questioning whether or not they exist but also if they have visited our little planet. Food for thought. I honestly think it would be naive to believe that life would not exist on other planets. Let's face it, our sun could very easily be a star in someone else's sky. Wouldn't it be interesting to think that when we look through our telescopes at the night sky that someone, at a distance hard to comprehend, is also looking back at us.

It seems lately that there is a lot of information being released to the public from many governments, including our own, sharing all documents (military, civilian, local police, observatories, etc) relating to UFOs and their sightings. This does not include the United States, sadly enough because wouldn't we all love to read the real information regarding Roswell and Area 51. There are many high ranking government officials and professional people coming forward with information of things they have both seen, experienced and took part in.

One would include Dr. Steven Greer, a recognized medical doctor from the state of Virginia and North Carolina and the former chairman of the Department of Emergency Medicine at Caldwell Memorial Hospital in Lenoir, North Carolina. He is credited as the founder of the Center for the Study of Extraterrestrial Intelligence as well as The Disclosure Project. He believes that it is imperative that governments release all their knowledge of UFOs and alien life as it is believed that these foreign species may hold the key and the technology to free humanity's reliance on natural gas and help us to curb our ongoing fight on pollution, global warming, etc. In my humble opinion, this is a valid argument.

Another notable person speaking out about the existence of alien life and their presence on our planet is Dr. Edgar Mitchell, an astronaut on the Apollo 14 mission and the sixth man to walk on the moon. He claims to have first-hand knowledge of aliens and also claims that many governments, including the United States, have had contact with alien species over the last sixty years. It all sounds crazy but when reading about this man's history including his work with both the US Navy and NASA as well as being educated through numerous science degrees including a Doctor of Science Degree in Aeronautics and Astronautics from Michigan Institute of Technology (MIT) and numerous honourary doctorates from multiple universities, it could make even the most skeptical raise an eyebrow and pay attention.

Recently, on September 27, 2010, a news conference was held where Robert Salas, Charles Halt, Robert Hastings, Bruce Fenstermacher, Dwynne Arnesson, Patrick McDonough, Gerome Nelson and Robert Jamison (all retired) give testimony about their UFO encounters while they were on official duty in the US military at nuclear weapons sites. These men all held high ranks and security clearances. They are trusted and educated which makes this conference a little creepy and an interesting watch.

Another interesting new conference had the former Canadian Defence Minister Paul Hellyer speaking about full disclosure of governments regarding UFOs and alien life which he claims to have a vast, first-hand experience and knowledge of. He is another believer that aliens could supply the knowledge and technology to stop and possibly reverse the effects of our pollution problem by helping us develop clean energy sources to replace our use of fossil fuels.

Does the fact that Mazlan Othman, a Malaysian astrophysicist has been named the head of the United Nations Office for Outer Space Affairs make you go "hmmm"? Yeah, me too. She is the first Malaysian astrophysicist and credited with creating the curriculum in astrophysics at the Malaysian national university. This world renowned mathematician and astrophysicist, oversaw the development of Planetarium Negara, Malaysia's national planetarium in Kuala Lumpur at the directive of the nation's president. The United Nations claims that this position is regarding space debris, laws between countries regarding independent space exploration and possible catastrophic events such as asteroids approaching Earth. It also makes her the first person to speak to an alien race if one should make it's presence known. Hmmmm ...

There have been retired NORAD officers, British, Mexican, Argentinian, Australian, etc military intelligence officers, numerous highly educated scientists and multiple government officials speaking out in recent months. Could a disclosure of the existence of alien life be coming? Maybe. Nothing is impossible I guess.

There are things that could be sketchy or skeptical. Recently on a CNN broadcast, two young men proved how easy it is to fake a UFO sighting. Add to that how easy it is to manipulate still and video shots and sightings can be called into question very easily. Genius and insanity also border very closely so could all of these people be bordering on insanity and reading too much into vague documents from the 1940s and on? I guess that's possible too.

I suppose one has to decide for themselves what their level of belief is going to be. As for me, I think they're out there but to what extent I actually believe that they're also here, I'm not sure of. I want to believe as much as some people already do believe. Some to the point of wearing their tinfoil helmet and filming every shooting star in the sky while fantasizing about being abducted to the mother ship. Sadly, the belief in UFOs and life off of our planet is ridiculed and sometimes grounds for being committed.

Is it possible that if we were more open to the idea of alien life being an absolute truth that the absolute truth regarding alien life would be confirmed? Maybe.

The Art of Transit Naps

2010-08-11T19:52:00.010-03:00

I stood at the bus stop this morning for about ten minutes watching the rain drops fall off the leaves on the trees beside me. While I waited the eternity of ten minutes I also dug the toe of my shoe in the gravel, adjusted my leggings, tried to whistle (until I realized I looked like a crazy person) and snapped my fingers. Snapping my fingers and whistling. Now that I think of it, I probably looked like a five year old standing beside the broken vase doing the "I-Didn't-Do-It" dance.

I finally broke out of my stupor when I heard the familiar "psssh" of the bus' air brakes and noticed how gray the sky was. Gross. Doors opened, climbed on and put my bright orange bus ticket in the thingy (what is that thing called anyway?) and sat down. A big empty seat by the back door was calling my name. It was perfect. Can't watch the sheeple from the front of the bus. I thought about reading and even went as far as taking my book out of my bag.

"Liar's Poker". Wall Street in the early 1980s, bond trading, stock exchange, mortgage garble I can barely understand. I know paperclips and document control numbers, mastered the intricacies of the photocopier and document compiling in Adobe, I'm not a money person. Just look at my cheque book and bank statements, it's obvious that money beguiles me and bamboozles me with it's quick waltz out of my pocket. The book seems drab and bland, the kind of book I'd usually snub my nose at but it's surprisingly good and exceptionally well written. It's the only book I've read that can reference a "Big Swinging Dick" and not sound like pornography. So far I've devoured close to seven chapters in two days and considering I've only been reading to and from work on the bus, that's pretty good. It almost makes me want to learn more about this money beast and the men and women who so cleverly throw it around. But, this morning I managed only one paragraph.

My book ended up on my lap, my sheeple observations ceased and my eyes closed. I started the timeless art of bus napping. By the time the 21 reached Dutch Village I was out cold. My head was bobbing with the bounce of the bus on the uncertain up-and-down of Halifax roads. You're never really asleep on the bus but it sure as hell feels like it. You get a little nudge whenever you reach the next stop or the PeeMan sits close enough to you that you get the occasional waft of his cologne of choice - urine. I have that silly one eye open glance to make sure I'm where I'm supposed to be and back to sleep. Today I woke up on Gottigen Street, yawned and put my book back in my bag after deciding to continue my nap on the ferry. I took a quick peek out of the window to make sure the sky was still gray. I know where I am, time to sleep but not without a peek at a balcony to bring a little grin to my sleeping face.

"Just put the razor up your nostril and turn this way, then that way. That's how I take care of the nose hairs." I'm on a tangent and that's a story for another time.

I woke up again in time to jump off the bus and stare for a minute at Freak Lunchbox wishing to hell it was open so I could get some goodies. Finally strutted my chubby ass to the ferry terminal ... missed it. I guess I should've avoided staring at the candy store. On days like this when I miss the ferry I usually walk the boardwalk, today I sat in the ferry terminal half-assed reading a newspaper until I heard the familiar robotic voice telling me that the Woodside Ferry is now boarding.

No one interesting today. No strange conversations, no marriage proposals, no weird shoes or horrible haircuts. There were no interesting tattoos, shockingly beautiful people or anyone that made you question their gender. Like the guy who cleans the ferry that I eventually realized was a girl when I found him cleaning the woman's washroom. Still makes me raise an eyebrow. I thought for a minute that maybe she was transgender and if that was the case, good for her/him but no, just a very manly woman with a moustache and mutton chops who speaks very highly of her husband and children.

The ferry was uneventful and lacked the completion of my nap. Just couldn't stop staring at the damn Chemul wondering what that shipyard was going to look like with that big orange beast gone. Moorings are coming off soon. Sea trials and commissioning are beginning within the next week or two and then it's done, gone, over, adios. End of a brief chapter.

All in all, I made it to work today which, on any given day, is a great feat of persistance and timing. I'm just glad I've finally mastered sleeping on the bus.

How honest is too honest??

2010-07-19T20:07:00.007-03:00

Here I am again, pounding out a little blurb of nonsense. Lady Gaga played John Lennon's famous white piano. Lucky b*tch. Not that I can play the piano but playing Chop Sticks on John Lennon's piano, the one that he wrote Imagine on, would be quite the experience. Oh, I could also play Mary Had A Little Lamb!! Far cry from an unarguable timeless classic, but Mary Had A Little Lamb sort of is in it's own right. Isn't it?

It's late and I should be in bed but I have a bizillion (I know, ridiculous number) questions floating around in my head. I'm a little pissed off. Well, maybe a lot pissed off but that's beside the point. I'm trying to figure out whose place it is to determine how honest I need to be with my kids. Whose job is it to figure out how much they should or shouldn't know? Oh wait, that's right, that's me. Seems there are people who are not to happy that I'm completely honest with Miss Lily regarding the circumstances of my upbringing. Those who know me, know the story so there is no reason to repeat it here. The thing is, Miss Lily is questioning her upbringing and who everyone is in her life, where they stand, how we're all related and why things came to be that way. Do I hold this information back from her the way it was held back from me? The way it's still held back from me, certain pieces of it anyway. If my baby girl is hurting and questioning things her life that I can relate to, is it not my job as her mother to symphathize with her and tell her that I understand? I've had some of the same questions growing up that she has. I can answer her questions the way that no one answered mine. I still have a lot of things I want to ask and I'm still nervous to ask because it makes me feel like that little kid who was told things just are they way they are and don't bother.

I don't want any of my kids to feel that any part of who I am, who they are and what makes us a different and extra special kind of family is anything to be ashamed of. I don't ever want them to be afraid to ask me a question or wonder if the answer is truthful. I have three beautiful babies whom I love dearly, without question. As their questions are asked, they will be answered as honestly as I can. Of course I'm going to edit according to age but never will I hold back. Who I am, who their family is, who their parents are is all a part of their history and they deserve to grow up knowing it. I think their situation, being so different from other families, may give them a different perspective on life, family and what constitutes a family. Families now are so varied, so mixed and so diverse that me, being a single mother of three, isn't an unusual occurance anymore. I don't want them to think that there is something wrong with the way that I grew up or the way that they are growing up. How else can I do that if it's not an open topic?

Could I be wrong? Absolutely. I promised myself I would always be honest with my children about everything. Is that wrong? Should I avoid questions? Should I not volunteer information even though I think it might make my little girl feel better and that she's not the only one in the world that has wondered and worried and asked? She has a sister and brother coming up behind her that I'm sure are going to be asking the same questions she already has and how can expect to have an open and honest relationship with them if I haven't had one with their big sister? How can I have an open and honest relationship with any of my children if I avoid or redirect any questions that they have? I think if I don't answer them honestly when they're younger, they're never going to ask me anything when they're older. As they grow up and the questions they ask deviate from family to sex, drugs, friends, relationships, etc I want them to know that Mommy is always going to answer as calmly, truthfully and best that she can.

Is it possible to build this kind of relationship with my children one piece at a time? I don't want to be their best friend, that's not my job. I want to be their mother, someone to be respected and, in some cases, feared (especially when you're giving your sister a nipple twister). At the same time, they need to know they can come to me with anything. I think that trust is built step by step, even in parent-child relationships and starts from day one.

Dear followers, in atypical fashion for me, I went on a serious slide to somewhere that I ponder quite often. So you guys tell me ... would you answer your children's questions as honestly as you can or would you avoid or redirect them? Do you guys think there is any other way to handle the hard questions other than be as honest as you can based on how old your child is and what you know they can handle? If you do, please share.

Love and hugs xoxox

PMS is a funny little period.

2010-06-20T15:23:00.005-03:00

Oh am I ever on a rollarcoaster today. Thought it best to pull back on the brake and let things slide a little slower. This way I'm still riding the ups and downs but allowing myself to have more control ... maybe. There's something to be said for being an absolute trainwreck of emotion, hyper-sensitive and overly analytical while being unable to be passive until these days of bipolar madness subside. Welcome to the hormonally charged time known as premenstrual syndrome. The big P M S. Ugh, gross and way too much information. Sorry.

I have a tendancy to take the unwilling on this unpopular ride with me when I know better but my mouth doesn't get the message to shut-up, it just keeps running it's foolishness while my brain and my common sense are waving their arms and screaming "NOOOO". Sort like what your sober friends do when you have your handy beer goggles on and try to leave the bar with the stangest science speciman there. In reality, someone should just grab a hold of you and simply scream "MISTAKE". Oh, I need that person today except they need to tell me to "SHUT UP"!

At the very least, it's a beautiful quiet day at home. Miss Lily is snuggled up on the couch reading a book, Princess Chloe is drawing pictures and hanging them on the fridge for me, Everett is racing his cars on the coffee table and periodically hugging me. I'd like to take them for a walk but I'm afraid I'd bite somebody. They're safe, the rest of the world isn't. The brain-to-mouth filter is busted and the thoughts don't make much sense. It all hurts. You could tell me you loved me and I'm the greatest thing ever but I'd break down and call you a filthy liar. I even yelled at the TV today but seriously, no woman is that happy on her period and those damn commercials have to stop misrepresenting that fact.

Wow, I made my point about being completely irrational.

This is getting comical to me now. The foolishness of it all. I'm laughing now, give it five minutes and I'll either be cranky and accusing people of hurting me when there was no intention of it or crying over the fact that I have no idea what the hell to make for supper.

Well, it's not really that bad but it's crappy. Two days and then release, back to normal. I feel really friggin bad for all those horrible men I have to work with tomorrow. May as well paint targets on the all and start slinging the mud.

Hey K, got an extra chair I can toss for some brief deliverance of this silliness?? I know you get it!!

Ode to Public Transit

2010-03-04T21:47:00.004-04:00

I'm sheeple. I came to that realization today. I'm just like everyone else in the daily grind, I'm a sheeple. Every day when I get to the ferry terminal I watch a herd of people running off of the ferry, bolt up the ramp and sprint as fast as they can to the waiting buses. I sit in a spot where I can watch the event, which I equate to a lower scale Running of the Bulls. Running of the Suits is what my twisted little brain has been calling it.

Today was different. I watched the Running of the Suits in my usual spot and smiled at the rush. Hey, it's amusing, you'd giggle too. I boarded the ferry as usual and sat in my usual spot. On the right, at the back, closest to the window so I can watch the Chemul get smaller as I get farther away and closer to home. I like watching it get smaller lately, the Chemul has definitely lost it's charm for me in the last couple of weeks. That's a whole other story though that we're just not touching it.

Anyway, as usual, I digress ... when my choppy, windy ride was done I started running for the bus. I became a player in the Running of the Suits. Only I'm running in pigtails, a toque and pink work boots. I'm a sheeple. A twisted one, but a sheeple nonetheless. All I could do was laugh at myself while I showed the driver my transfer slip and sit my chubby white ass at the back of the bus.

I watched a very young girl with a cane; listened to a conversation about the differences in Quebec versus France conversational French; saw a young couple display the fact that they are very much in love (blech); listen to art students discuss a new sculpture project and how they prefer photography and it's many avenues of creativity; and, was asked where I bought my eyelashes because they were great. Kind of fun to tell that poor overly made-up girl that they were mine with a little mascara, no fakies here. I sort of felt sad for her though, if you slapped the back of her head her face would fall off. Too much make-up is not a good thing.

So, today I discovered I'm just like everyone else. Only I'm the everyone else who sits and the back and watches the group, takes in the sights and sounds and behaviours of the other sheeple around me. Loves the older couple at the bus stop who hold hands while waiting for their bus that she passes every morning. Loves the driver who tell every single passenger to have a lovely day in her British accent when they get off the bus. Loves the gentleman who works at the ferry terminal who holds the door for me every afternoon. Loves the guy with the huge fro that stands about a foot off of his head and out passed his shoulders who listens to his iPod much too loudly while he waits for his ferry to Alderney Gate. Loves the chilly, salty air in the afternoon. Loves the city lights across the harbour. Loves the homeless man that smells like pee who asked me to marry him.

Loves the city.

I don't mind being the same as everyone else, they're all different just like me. All our own quirks and habits, experiences and lives. I don't want Alyson Metro Transit anymore, that would be one hell of a lonely ride.

Just a rant ...

2010-03-01T21:11:00.012-04:00

I'm supposed to be working. Not doing a very good job of it though. I guess that's the problem with being trusted to get work done from home is that it's very easy to slack off. Truth is, I just don't have it in me to pay enough attention. I spent all weekend thinking about the stuff I had to get caught up on at work; spent Sunday trying to figure out what time I was going to get to work after my appointment with the school and the errands I had to run before I got on that ferry; and then, spent this morning thinking about either getting to work earlier than expected or running around downtown for a little while enjoying a crisp March morning in the city.

I opted for getting there earlier which was good because I spent the rest of the day getting caught up on emails, server back-ups, burning photo DVDs, taking meeting minutes, chasing inspection updates, scratching my head when trying to get my filing in order and making lists of stuff I have to move to the server in the morning before I update again. I still have to clean out my drawer and put my coveralls in the dirty basket to be taken to the cleaners along with the rest of some pics I have to file.

OH EHM GEE!! I am obsessed! Work. Good ole work. Here I am, at 21:19 hours on my work laptop trying to type up meeting minutes before I start updating a spreadsheet that will only have to be updated tomorrow when I get back to my little shipyard trailer. I think I'll give up and type up some of the notes before I forget how to read my swiftly scribbled, far from neatly written hen-scratch of personal shorthand. Other than that, I'm done. I don't get paid to work from home anymore so honestly, I'm going to lay on the couch and watch some guilty pleasure TV while I ponder other things. Things that don't involve the refitting of an oil rig. Excuse me, accommodation and supply rig.

The house is eerily quiet except for a few small noises. I can hear Chloe talking in her sleep. The hummm of my washer. The TV is mumbling away. The keys are clicking while I type. An odd tiny meow from the kittens. And every now and then, a whistle from my budgies. All that noise and I'm still finding it quiet. Weird.

I have to go grab the phone ... this quiet is driving me crazy ... I think I'm getting used to hustle and bustle of busy mornings getting the babies ready and out the door which is quickly followed by listening to strange conversations on the bus. Once the bus is done, it's the ferry terminal and smiling at the Tim Horton's lady while she makes my tea. They're getting to know me and my order but I'm thinking that's because I tip well. Then the ferry ride which is usually quiet but it's off the ferry and down the hill to the shipyard where I spend my days doing what I already listed in the beginning of this post. Once I'm in my trailer I'm surrounded by people and rush and conversation. The day ends and I either jump in the car with Superman where I stare at him singing along to music and wonder what happened to us and why I still feel so close to him even though we're no longer together and just clinging onto a friendship. If it's not Superman, it's the ferry that is followed by a half an hour wait for a bus to go get Little Miss and my Little Man. Conversation about their day and we're off to get Miss Lily. Home. Homework. Showers. Pajamas. Snuggles and bed lunch. Goodnight kisses and hugs. Retrieving cars from the floor and finding a good story for Miss Lily to read because she has to read the stories now. She's a damn good reader and much too smart for her age at times. Downstairs I go when they get in bed and snuggle in to watch TV or work or eat my face off. Maybe a phone chat. Check Facebook. Read stupid, vapid, shallow celebrity gossip. Then this happens ... the quiet. Most times very welcomed and other times, like tonight ... just nice, just right, just weird.

Oh yeah, I almost forgot the laundry ...

Spreadsheets & Shit?

2010-02-24T21:50:00.009-04:00

Oh my. Here goes another one. Nothing really happened the last couple of days. That doesn't sound quite right but seriously, it didn't. Little interesting tidbits of crud peppered between having my head down in spreadsheets or shit. Literal stinky baby diaper shit. Spreadsheets and shit. Why am I now singing that to the tune of Liquor and Whores?

Yesterday started with me learning that Karma has a sense of humour. I had the early morning rush on Miss Lily to get her tiny behind out the door to get to the sitter's so she could then get to school and, subsequently, me to the damn bus. They should really run every three minutes so I can slow down a little in the morning. No matter how early I get up or how much I get done the night before, I still end up running around like a fool in the morning. I should also have my own ferry. One that takes me right to work, drops me off on one of those pontoon things on the rig. Oh that'd be nice: Alyson Metro Transit.

Anyway, I digress from my point. In shooing Miss Lily out the door, I ended up having the brush check (hair & teeth). Teeth were good but hair wasn't so I gave her a speech about how it's important to always be washed with your teeth and hair brushed before she leaves the house. I helped her brush her hair and out the door we went. I may have been a little hard on her, we were both rushed, cranky and tired.

She got to the sitter's place; I got to the bus stop -- late. Sooooo, while sitting at the bus stop, Superman swung by and picked me up which was great since it meant Tim Horton's and a warm car with loud music to wake me the f**k up. What did I discover in the Tim Horton's drive through? I forgot to brush my damn hair when I got out of the shower. Ugh. Karma has a sense of humour. I made sure to give my girl a big hug when I got to see her.

It's getting late and I think I'm finally getting tired. Aside from that, I've had a long night last night with two very sick little people. Little Miss and Little Man both ended up at IWK emerge with horrible coughs and what sounded like fluid in their lungs. Ended up that both were perfectly fine aside from Little Miss having a double whammy ear infection but a 4am arrival at home wiped us all out. I did get to work from home today so I could stay home with them which was great. I love my job. I seriously love my job. Weird eh? I almost think I'd do it for free. Wait, I don't love it that much. I don't even love it enough to still do it with a pay cut. Maybe I don't love it as much as I thought I did.

Well, my babies are getting healthy again. They're all asleep and happy. Little Man woke up a little while ago but he's easy to get back to sleep when he's not feeling well, a toy car and some Tylenol. Easy as pie. Snuggles don't hurt either although I'm pretty sure they're more for me than him.

On that note, my battery on the laptop is dying and I'm too lazy to plug it in right now. Just to end this thing: I bought a brush at the drugstore next to shipyard and took care of the matted, wet, unbrushed shower hair.

Goodnight.

Chemul, Valentine's, DIRTY THIRTY!!

2010-02-13T21:02:00.006-04:00

Holy crap. It's been way too long since I actually posted something. It's been since the beginning of October since something has been posted on this little blog o'mine. I've written quite a bit here and there, little diddies (ditties?) but nothing that was either completed or I was comfortable with posting. Odd for me, I'm a pretty open book.

So, where did we leave off?? GWAR/Lamb of God was amazing. Not much else I can say about it. Got some GWAR goo on me from the mosh pit, almost got sucked into a Wall of Death or Hate or whatever the hell it's called. Interesting to say the least. Bands were great and discovered that I do like Job for a Cowboy, they were pretty damn good.

Okay, what else? I got a job. Working a real job now, not just writing and working temp secretarial jobs. It's temporary for now but I'm loving it. I get to sit in a trailer at a shipyard and watch the day to day trials and tribulations of a small company (who I'm working for) take on a multi-million dollar refit of an accommodation rig. It's like an oil rig only instead of gigantic drill it has some gigantic cranes. I'm still not sure what exactly it does but I do now know what a flange is and I'm starting to understand the differences between all kinds of different pumps and motors. The boys got me some pink work boots and now I'm able to crawl around on the PSS Chemul. It's fun. It's more than just the paper pushing I was hired for. I'm seeing both sides of the job -- the office work and all the shit that goes with that and then the actual work/labour side of things and all the bullshit that comes with that part plus how it all ties together. It's long days but I'm sure it's going to be worth it at the end. Wheee.

Oh and I definitely love all my rig pigs too. hehehe

Miss Lily is seven! Little Miss is four already!! And Mr. Man, my little meatball turned two!! It's crazy watching them grow and become little animals. Today they were literally swinging from the curtains in the living room. Swinging. From the curtains. I was scrubbing the tub thinking they were dancing to the music I put on but no, they were Tarzan and two little Janes. The curtain rod bent and decided to break when I was trying to fix it so now my curtains are hanging up with tacks, looks great. I guess working with pipefitters all day made me bend a little harder than necessary. It's not a pipe, it's a flimsy piece of stuff. What the hell are curtain rods made out of anyway?

Other than climbing the walls, the babies are great. I couldn't ask for better and regardless of the amount of laundry and no matter how many dinkies and dolls I trip over on a daily basis, I couldn't ask for better monsters ...er ... kids.

Valentine's Day is tomorrow. Rather it's Half-Price-Chocolate Eve. Not looking forward to it but I am at the same time. It's an over-rated holiday but an excuse to have ice cream cake with my babies. The three best Valentines I could ask for. Fun tinged with bitterness? Definitely. I've once again boarded the bitter bus but we're not going there.

I'm turning 30 in three days. Thirty. 30. Big birthday and I'm looking forward to it. Looking forward to The Dirty Thirty. That's all fine and dandy right now, but please, don't mention it to me Tuesday. I have a funny feeling I won't want the reminder.

And with that ... I'm tired ... goodnight readers ...

Fat Kid with Cake, Farting Bus Ladies & GWAR

2009-10-01T21:12:00.000-03:00

Today was the day. Yesterday was supposed to be the day but I got lost and chose to get some supper instead of continue the adventure. Doesn't matter though because this morning I got up with one mission in mind: get my GWAR tickets. I didn't realize just what an adventure it would be but it sure as hell turned out to be an interesting one.

The day started out normal, just like any other morning of any other weekday. Miss Lily got up and ready for school; I showered and dressed. Little Miss and Little Man are visiting Big Cranky back in the Place I Don't Speak Of so, there was no extra rush today. It was nice, relaxed and I was damn wired about leaving the house. Miss Lily and I walked to school and once the bell rang I gave her a kiss, a hug, an "I love you" and watched her walk into her school before I bounced through the schoolyard and off to the bus stop. Seventeen minutes until the next bus came along and all I could do was stare at my watch.

I transferred buses and waited impatiently to reach the ferry terminal downtown. The ride seemed like it took the far side of forever and the guy beside me singing to himself made it a little worse but I made it. I skipped off the bus, took a deep breath and started walking. I thought I knew where I was going so I strolled happily thinking that within the next few minutes I was going to be holding those damn concert tickets. No, I was mistaken. That street is a lot longer than I had anticipated and the road that I thought I was going to find was turning out to exist only in my imagination. But I did come across a nice tourist couple who took their picture with me because they wanted their picture taken with a local. They were very sweet and I was very happy to oblige although I'm not technically a local Haligonian but the friendly Caper part of my twisted personality came out and I told a little white lie so as not to disappoint. That part doesn't come out that often anymore, seems I've been walking with jaw clenched and fists ready lately. Not really sure why that is but it is what it is. ... That was a lot of "is".

Anyway, once I left the nice tourist couple, I kept walking and believing more and more that I was dreaming this whole concert and there was no such venue. I meandered into a Tim Horton's for a cup of tea and a pee before the trek continued. The place was crowded with steel-toe booted/coverall covered men from the docks. It was interesting to say the least. The place smelled like coffee and hard work which was an oddly enjoyable experience. I got my tea and started walking again but reached the end of the road with no sign of the road I was looking for. Panic. I really was dreaming this whole thing. Why didn't I ask for directions in Tim's? I guess hard work intimidates me. Joke people, that was joke.

I turned my butt around and found a taxi parked on the side of the street. I felt like a complete boob jumping in the car because I knew I was close but I was lost. Totally and utterly lost. The cabbie laughed at me, gave me directions and assured me that this place was not a figment of my imagination. He also refused to drive me since I was so close. That was a good thing though, saved me five smackeroos. So, I started back towards Tim's and back to the end of the road. I walked through one of the creepiest, longest, ominous pedestrian tunnels I have ever come across and popped out at a dock. It felt like a gopher coming out of a hole. I looked to my left and voila, there it was: that foolish, well-hidden site. Skip in my step again, I was home free...

Not so much.

I walked in and found a strange group of people setting up tables with highfalutin’ tablecloths, plates, silverware, etc. I asked for assistance with finding the box office but they looked at me like I was a talking gopher. I mean, I just walked out of a hole but I wasn't a zoo display. They got me a manager who looked a little scared and I asked again where I could pick up tickets but was told very plainly that they don't have a place to get them. There is no box office. Huh? My reaction was that of a tired, cranky and disappointed metal head.

**"Bullshit. I called this place yesterday and it was YOUR administration that told me I could pick up tickets right here."**

"For the wine and cheese event here this evening?"

Standing in my short sleeve t-shirt, tattoos on exhibit, I flung up my arms, "Do I look like I go to wine and cheese parties?" Oooohhh sarcasm is a wonderful weapon.

This manager stepped back from me and replied quickly that I was misinformed and he was sorry but I'd have to get the tickets through the TicketPro website or the local large-chain grocery store.

Then some acid spilled out of my mouth before I spun on my heel and tramped out of the place, "You might want to check your staff and make sure that they're damn well informed about these things before they pass on the wrong fuckin' information to people. That way, people like me don't have to take four or more hours out of their day to get lost and find out they went to the WRONG FUCKIN' PLACE and end up spending even more time finding the right one!!"

I’m pretty sure my left finger was pointing while my right hand stayed balled in a fist at my side. Interesting mental picture of myself. I’m such a crab lately. Hmmm … could be the raging hormones from my … nevermind.

Done. Totally not the way to handle things but I was feeling a little extra cantankerous this morning. Cantankerous is a fun little word isn't it. I left that snotty place and headed back to the ferry terminal. Walked the boardwalk this time though and enjoyed it. Bagpipes, tourists taking pictures, kids playing on the little playground, the smell of beaver tails being made, the gentle sound of waves on the dock. I loved Halifax for a few minutes. Even stopped to sit and watch the harbour for a little while. I stared at the shipyards across the water, watched the traffic on the bridge, the ferry making it’s crossing; enjoyed the sites and sounds and smells of the waterfront.

I got to the bus where the only problem I had was the woman next to me with her gas issues (please people, don't fart on the bus) and I amiably went to that disgustingly large and intimidating grocery store. Strutting myself directly to customer service, content again that I was finally going to get my tickets but I was Wrong. (Typo on the capitalization of wrong but it works.) The clerk at customer service was friendly and I restrained myself from swearing at him because he's going to the concert too and loves Lamb of God and GWAR. He kindly explained that they only handle Ticket Atlantic and not TicketPro events but pointed me in the right direction. We even had a nice discussion about how the administration at the concert venue doesn’t know what they're doing because they keep sending people there for tickets and providing the wrong information.

I called TicketPro, they told me exactly where to go and the phone number of the place so I could call myself. I called them too and they assured that they really do have the tickets and could pick them up any time before 4:30pm. I'm sure the lady on the other end of the phone was confused by why I asked her so many times if she was sure that she had them, could she see them, could she hold them if she wanted to. I was going to make sure she could smell them but stopped myself since that may be a little too weird.

By this time I had to go get Miss Lily at school. I couldn’t believe that it really did take that amount of time for this adventure. I picked up Lily and she was happy to come on another ticket retrieving undertaking with me. Bus again, another bus terminal and transfer. The box office. The tickets. We did it. Miss Lily is a little upset that I won’t get her a ticket but I don’t think a concert that will have a mosh pit known affectionately as the “Wall of Death” is an appropriate place for a seven year old. The little girl does know every word to “Sick of You” and “The Road Behind” though. Ahhh, my budding little Scumdog. That’s not an insult my dear readers, that’s a compliment.

I now have my tickets for one of my favourite bands. A band I have listened to for the past eighteen years, GWAR. Check them out at http://www.gwar.net if you're not sure who they are. YouTube them and watch some of their live stuff. Theatrical. Fantastic. I am sooo damn excited and even more excited to share this concert with one of my best friends! His favourite and one of my favs playing the same show. so who could ask for better? Watching amazing, talented bands with a great friend is the best recipe for an intense and amazing night out.

Here I am, the fat kid with cake. The rocker chick with her rock tickets. Now just for the adventure for Megadeth and Slayer concert. Awesome.

Quite the Intricate Entanglement This Is…

2009-09-30T19:12:00.001-03:00

Complications?? Oh there are so many complications. There is so much I want to spew and spill and discuss and open up about BUT it’s way too personal. Too much is too close and I will end up telling too many secrets. I’m good at that. Just feed me rum and I tell all. Yes, there is more to that story but we’re not touching it. Sorry.

I do need to vent a little tonight and this is the place I seem to love the most. At least going back and reading these silly things when my head is a little clearer I can see my immaturity and stupidity which allows me to correct myself. And sometimes, most times, I find that I need to trust my own instincts and follow what my gut told me to do in the first place.

I’m just trying to piece together the last few months and stop my head from spinning so I can finally get a grip and decide whether or not to throw up my hands in a disappointed, catastrophic fit of defeat. I need to decide whether or not to cut my losses and bail out completely or just ride out the storm and see what comes. In the end it really comes down to which is the more respectable avenue of choice.

You see, my conundrum is this: I’m almost enjoying this ride. I’m almost enjoying the spinning head and everything that is coming with it. However, the ride has to eventually come to an end, the spinning has to slow because fantasy and reality never mix, never touch and most certainly leave us confused and burned and out of control. But cutting my losses leaves me at a great loss and waiting it out could also lead to a great personal cost. Do I beat the inevitable to the punch and jump off the rollercoaster? At what point does this personal sacrifice become too great?

Decisions. Decisions. Hate those damn decisions.

Got my shitkickers on & ready for the wall …

2009-09-15T19:36:00.001-03:00

I guess it’s time I sat down and wrote another one of these little ditties (is that how you spell that?). I’ve been avoiding it, hiding from it for fear of a bunch of crap spilling out. It’s happened a few times already and they’re sitting in my Drafts folder waiting for me to decide what it is that I want to do with them.

There really hasn’t been much going on for me to make quirky observations about. The babies are fine and perfect and destroying the house on cold rainy days the way kids usually do. Haven’t been out of the house much except to do errands and go to the playground which always proves to be an adventure. Waiting for my landlord to hurry up and cash my rent, he’s now fifteen days late and I keep staring at my bank account balance and dreaming about the gigantic grocery order I could buy or the tickets to the GWAR/Lamb of God concert in October.

GWAR and Lamb of God. That is one concert that I have to get my ass to. I skipped KISS because of my hateful stomach, I certainly do not want to miss this. I’ve been listening to GWAR since I was about 13, loving them in all their Scumdog glory and now, at almost 30, finally have the chance to see them live and loud. I’ve only recently started listening to Lamb of God and must admit that I do enjoy them. The only thing is that I have had to promise myself to completely avoid the Wall of Death. Don’t know what the Wall of Death is?? Look it up on YouTube, you’ll avoid it too … that is unless you’re a lunatic who likes to fight. I guess it could be an interesting way to get out some pent up aggression but I’m too stumpy and girly for that. Regardless of the benefits of Walls of Death, one broken nose in a mosh pit is more than enough for me so I won’t be travelling that road again. The Road Behind. Hmmm…good song.

Now I’m hearing that Megadeth and Slayer are playing on November 9th. I think I just had a mini aneurism of over- excitement and glee. Glee?? What’s wrong with me today??haven’t been my usual turn-the-air-blue/make-a-sailor-blush swearing self. Ahh well, maybe it’s a good thing that I’m learning to curb the cussing.

But fuck it: GWAR! Lamb of God! Megadeth! Slayer! It’s all my childhood, angst-ridden, moshing in my bedroom and wildly playing air guitar fantasies come true!!

I’m sure as Hell getting my ass to those concerts … whose in???

Catharsis: Not Just for Purging Your Bowels …

2009-08-14T23:38:00.001-03:00

I’m finishing my tea, eating a chocolate popsicle and contemplating my navel. Okay, well I’m not looking at my belly button as much since I’ve decided to write but I did discover that if I suck in the leftover baby chub just the right way, my belly button looks like a sad face. That was way too much information wasn’t it?

I’ve got a lot on my mind the last couple of weeks that I’ve been trying to avoid but now I’ve decided that there’s really no point and I may as well get it all out. So far this move and this city has been nothing but positive and amazing. It’s been healing and cathartic and wonderful. Let’s list shall we:

Painting this apartment has made it home. The actual painting leaves me with a sense of empowerment and accomplishment because I am a dork who hasn’t really painted before. Mind you it’s half-assed and messy in places but I did it!! (A few carefully placed pictures can surely hide the places that are obvious I’m an amateur at this painting thing.)

My apartment is a welcoming place, I feel like I’m home when I’m here and I’m positive my babies feel the same way. We’re all comfortable, settled, content. We had a picnic today on the back step with fruit and Nutella, granola bars and juice. We were all fine until Mr. Wasp decided to visit us and haunt poor Meatball (now the proud owner of a Mohawk hair-do). Poor Mr. Wasp, his incessant need to buzz my son brought out Momma-Bear and he ended up getting swatted with a dust pan. I feel really bad about it and held a little waspy funeral when no one was looking.

My neighbourhood is quiet. I couldn’t ask for more. There are no crazy people running through the yard screaming for someone to hide them from the cops; drunken fools falling out of cabs with a different man every second night; crazy landlords, ahem, slumlords who don’t care if you fall on your ass on the ice … and so on. Once 9:30 pm hits this place, there isn’t a sound to be heard or a soul to be seen. Just a thought: could everyone be on house arrest??

My family is in this city. Sure, I left my “real” family back in The Town I Refuse to Speak About but we were never really all that close. My friends, the family we choose is here and has really been here for me when I needed them. I’m having quite the dating dilemma as of late and these poor girls are being wonderful about listening to all my whiny, “poor single me” revelations and the bitter Fuck You attitude that comes with a broken heart. A broken heart that is all my own damn fault but that’s a story for another time. Dammit. Moral of the story: people from your past are better left in your past and Goddamn people, head games are for teenagers and the socially impaired.

Onward and upward. My friends here are amazing. Seriously. Absolutely 100% impressive … stupendous even. Thank you girlies, for all my rants about kids tearing my house down, men who don’t know what the hell they want, my issues with the digestive system and all the toots that come with it plus all the other nonsense that spills out of my mouth on a daily basis. And thank you for not letting me punch anyone in the throat. That’s another long story not meant for this forum.

Long story short: I LOVE HALIFAX!!! Karma smiled on me and allowed me to reach a place where I can heal in peace and quiet.

Oh you dirty, dirty dishes …

2009-07-06T15:09:00.001-03:00

I have a “To-Do” list as long as my arm of things I’d like to either get started to have finished today but instead I’m sitting on my ass and blogging. I would love to make a “Honey-Do” list but it’s a little difficult when there is a lack of a honey. I’m not complaining about the lack of one, quite enjoy being single actually, I just want someone else around to take over sanding the damn kitchen wall. Is that so much to ask? Besides, I’m short and I don’t have a step ladder so the tops of the walls are a little beyond me at this point. Standing on a chair works but even then I still have to stretch.

My list includes painting. I don’t want to paint, it’s lost it’s charm now. I just want to close my eyes and it’s over and painted and pretty. Colourful and wonderful and done.

Then there are the dishes. The everyday, three times a day chore that is the bane of my existence. I hate those things to the point where I’m actually considering becoming a scourge on the planet and buying disposable crap. But the pots and pans, still stuck washing those suckers. It’s not a bad job, not horrible and it only takes a few minutes but it never ends. They are always sitting on the counter staring at me with their dirt. I can almost hear them in a whispered sleazy voice: “oooh we’re dirty, dirty dishes, clean us silly woman, dip me in the hot water and wash my dirty off.” Okay, that was weird.

Dishes are usually hand-in-hand with laundry. They are the dynamic duo of the “to-do” list. They are the ones that you write down just because you’ll have to do it anyway. Sort of like bread and milk on a grocery list, you always have to buy them so you just write them down first. At least I do anyway. Laundry is a dark place that I don’t want to go right now … shudder…

The housework isn’t bad, I don’t mind it. Keeps my busy and makes the day go buy a little faster but it does get overwhelming since I’m the only one doing it with a house full. All the cleaning, all the cooking. I’m going to start my training of the babies. Meatball is almost two, he can start cooking breakfast from now on, hehe. Little Miss can do the dishes and Miss Lily can do the laundry … there, it’s settled …

Oh if only it were that easy.

My list also has budgeting, cancelling (don’t ask), a giant list of phone calls to make and lots of other stuff that I really don’t want to do today.

HA!! I figured it out!! I’m avoiding my list because I have a horrible case of the “THE MONDAYS”!!

Sleepy Much??

2009-07-05T23:30:00.001-03:00

I’m half asleep. It’s almost time to start cooking supper and I’m laying on the couch under a blanket listening to the kids play while forcing my eyes to remain open. I look slightly psychotic at the present moment – wide eyed with the occasional head nod into a semi-slumber. I’m doing well in the no drooling department although I’m sure if I did allow myself to nod off, I’d be in a different situation. Eyes open = no drool.

You know, if I was on the bus right now, I’d be the crazy person. There is always that one person who looks a little out of their mind on the bus and right now, that would be me. I am a little better dressed and I put deodourant on today so I at least I smell better than the other half-asleep loons on public transit.

Where the Hell is this post going?

I’m not too sure so I’m going to blame it on my fatigue and just go with that. People can blame anything on fatigue. “Sorry officer, didn’t realize I murdered my roommate, I was really tired.” Okay, maybe not that far but you get my drift here. Sometimes lack of sleep or even when we do get enough sleep but are tired for other reasons causes our brain to become ever so slightly catatonic with a speckle of functionality. I’m at that point right now. I’d probably agree to just about anything right now.

“Hey Allie, gonna rob a bank, need you to drive the getaway car.”

“Sure, no problem, just gotta pee first.”

See, the thing with that situation is that I can’t drive. Or maybe the problem is that the last sentence didn’t say I wouldn’t do it because it’s blatantly wrong and illegal, just that I can’t drive. Ugh. Time for a nap.

It’s about time I wrote again …

2009-06-29T18:57:00.001-03:00

Another post. I started one earlier today and wrote quite a bit but I didn’t like the direction that it led. The gloomy, rainy city weather sort of left me on a sour note that as much as I tried to hide, ended up shining through like a ray of much wanted sunshine. The exception to that comparison is that it was the lack of sunshine breaking the rain that brought the foul and lazy mood.

This rain is getting old. The fog is ruining my view of the Bridge so much that I can’t stand in my bedroom window and watch the traffic the way I like to. I can hear fog horns which, oddly enough, I’ve been loving as they are a nice compromise to my distorted view. The noise and sounds of the city are a great comfort. I know that sounds strange but it’s true. I’m far enough out of the downtown core that I rarely hear a siren or traffic but when I do I just sit and listen and enjoy the interrupted silence.

I don’t have a lot of humour today, just full of (shit … no no, not that) nostalgia and contentedness. Good conversations with great friends. Everything is coming together better than expected and karma is finally shining a little bit. Aside from the fog, drizzle and rain, it’s a very bright place to be. Oh my, I’m getting to the gush factor point where I’m turning my own stomach.

Now it’s time to start new plans for Greece, finish plans for Seattle and, the most important thing, celebrate with Miss Lily all the A’s she got on her report card today. My girl is growing fast, heading to the big Grade Two with her “advanced intelligence” and “willingness to learn”. Another bright spot, my little smarty pants.

Halifax....

2009-06-05T20:14:00.007-03:00

Silence.

That's it. That's all I hear right now and I'm loving every minute of it. The girls are in bed, snuggled up for the night with their dolls. The boy is asleep in his crib, curled under his blanket and twitching in a dream. They're tired from the playground and the walk and the excitement of a new home, a new city.

There are older kids outside playing basketball, I'm watching them from my living room window while they laugh at each other's failed attempts at stealing the ball or missing the basket. A man is walking what looks like a German Shepard up the road and the lady the next house down is waving to him while she plants her flowers.

Almost feels like a twisted Norman Rockwell painting.

I'm finding it hard to believe I'm in a city at all while at the same time I'm loving the anonymity of it. There are still smiling faces and friendly hello's but no one cares to look twice. No drama. No expectations. I'm simply the new girl who moved into #84; she has three babies and a big tattoo. And the talk is over at that point.

This week has been one huge sigh of relief. I feel stronger, capable and resilient. I feel like I'm becoming myself again, laughing again, singing silly songs while I wash the dishes again.

I forgot what happy felt like. I'm positive I'm remembering.

After only a week I can honestly say that it will be a cold day in Hell before I would even consider going back to that Island....

Halifax is home.

Flower Chucking Glory

2009-05-11T21:12:00.005-03:00

That bouquet left my hand with the typical comic book "swoosh" and landed with a very gentle "thud" before skidding across the gravel in the driveway. My arms went up in frustration and I stomped back to my step where the neighbours were waiting for me. I was met with the obligitory "are you okay?" and I just shook my head. I couldn't tell you if it was up and down or side to side but it was shaking.

The situation is comical to me now and I wish I could've seen myself but at the time I was so mad. My brain was swirling in a fit of "how dare you!" and ... well, that was about it. It would be so liberating to just blabber it all out here but I really don't want to. We'll just say that Big Cranky (the ex) came by with flowers, presumably from the kids for Mother's Day but a slight, quick conversation happened that ended in a way that made me feel as though I still had a special place, that I still had a piece of his heart in some weird way. It was nice to know that I was still cared about and thought about. A couple of weeks earlier I was shown something else by him and told a little story that made me think that all those years weren't in vain after all and that we both still held onto the good memories.

No so much.

I walked outside with him thinking I was walking him to his car, flowers in hand, smelling them and smiling, feeling special and like I was still an important part of his life aside from being the mother of his children. When I looked up, there she was. The Icky Pixie. Smiling at me in that too-young-to-understand coy "I've got your man bitch" kind of smile. He knows that after the name-calling, the midnight hang-ups and the emails of the two of them together from her and her friends, that I didn't want her around. I didn't want to see her, meet her, know her. Not yet, I'm not ready. Don't get me wrong, I don't want him back but seeing the girl who was (from what I am told and don't know if it's true) sleeping with my fiance while I was pregnant with his son, hurt like a sonofabitch. Even if it's not true and he didn't cheat, I find it odd that they were together in a serious relationship only a week after I left ... fishy fishy.

Insert Alanis Morrisette here: It was a slap in the face, how quickly I was replaced ...

I'm standing there feeling ambushed by reality. My own little world crumbled and my newly found confidence dwindled away. My self-control supply depleted and I gripped those flowers to keep from screaming. I looked at my neighbour and she looked at me, we were both thinking the same thing and I turned on my heel, ran my chubby ass to that driveway as they were pulling out and swwwwoooossshh. It was slow motion, watching those flowers fly through the air and plop on the gravel. Oddly enough, I watched the bouquet and not their reaction. I can see them flying, petals falling off and floating to the ground below them. Beautiful at first and then falling apart, much like our relationship had been. That analogy is almost ironic isn't it ...

Maybe I would've been less angry if it was any other day and the visit was for any other reason. Maybe it would have been easier if I knew what I was going to see. Maybe I would have reacted better if I had been given the chance to decide when my first glimpse of her would be. If I had known she was there that day I would have declined the visit until another time, when I could gather myself and be a little bit more open to the idea of meeting. In any case, showing up like that, saying what he said to me and doing what he did only to have her in that car waiting was inappropiate at best. That kind of surprise would only lead to an emotionally charged situation and I honestly don't know what either one of them were thinking.

Now that I think about it ... they're lucky I still had enough self-control that I didn't pick up a rock. But let me tell you, I have my biffin' arm all warmed up and I'm ready for the big Flower Chucking Competition. And, in an odd sense, I feel relieved. The flowers are in the dumpster and it felt good to put them there, watching them fall apart as I dropped them in felt like letting go. Sometimes getting that proverbial kick in the teeth makes you realize that being alone isn't all that bad, makes you take stock in yourself (again) and realize that rebuilding your life on your own can be an amazing journey. We all do stupid things like chucking flowers but in all honesty, I don't think I was throwing them at the Crank and the Pixie, I was throwing them at my own hurt and the situation as a whole.

With that said, I'm off and running to clean my house. Smile on my face and a skip in my step. Will I throw flowers again? Only if it feels as good as the last time ...