All I Wanted was a Pepsi, Just One Pepsi...

So.

 

I’m going to talk about suicide.

 

If this is a trigger for you feel free to move on, and accept my apology for the trigger, the last thing I want ever is to negatively affect a person.

 

As an introvert, I take things internally and they roll around and around in my brain as I process them and it takes a long time for me to put what I’m feeling into words. I have been distraught and in anguish trying to comprehend my thoughts and feelings and cannot fully let them go until I’ve put them in order in my brain and can express them adequately. This is me getting the things that have been bouncing around in my brain out of my brain so that I don’t go insane.

 

Last week, a member of our wonderful Utah cosplay family took his life. I am grief stricken for our community; especially for those that I care about that cared about him and are deeply affected by this loss. Unfortunately, I did not know him but I still feel the void in our community because of it, and I am so sorry for those that loved him that were left behind.

 

I have had people I care about choose to take their life, and I myself attempted suicide when I was sixteen, so I know both sides; I know what it is to grieve, and I know what it is to feel like I no longer deserve to exist.

 

I’m going to get into how one feels when they are in that deep, dark abyss and want to end it all. This is a paralyzing gloom. It is the darkest of feelings. This is the blackest of black moods. When I have been in this place, and I have felt like this several times in my life – I did not see the light after my failure at my attempt and my life has been perfect and roses since - so when I have been in this place, I have felt that I am worth nothing. That the world would be a better place without me. That I should never have existed and I most definitely should not exist now. The mental pain is excruciating and numbing all at the same time. My brain shuts down and it is impossible to do anything to heal myself. The self-talk is horrendous. The worst thing is that because I truly believe that the world would be better off without me, and that I never should have existed, the thought to reach out for help never occurs to me. When my brain becomes this numb and dysfunctional, it is impossible to reach out.

 

I’m sorry if I offend anyone by saying this, but the words “feel free to reach out to me at any time” are worth nothing to a person who is suffering with suicidal tendencies. They are in the deepest darkest of places and are incapable of reaching out. There is nothing that they can do because they are frozen in despair. They are drowning. It is important for us to pay attention to the people we care about. It can be difficult when people cocoon and push others away and just need to be in their cave. I am one of those people, but sometimes when I’m in my cave it is because I am desperately lonely, yet incapable of putting my feelings into some sort of comprehensive communication and all it takes is a “r u o k?” text, or chicken and salad, or a silly meme on my wall with a “saw this thought of you” comment, or a hug to pull me out. I’m not saying this is on you, but if you want to know what you can do, this is something you can do. Telling someone who is suffering, drowning, and sinking to reach out any time can sound like nothing but lip service. It is extremely difficult to ask for help when you do not feel like you deserve to breathe, let alone have someone come to your aid.

 

I want those who are grieving to know that this is not your fault. He was in the deepest and darkest of places, and the fact that you didn’t know is NOT your fault (regardless of what I just said). Sometimes we hurt and we can’t get out of it and no one else can help either. We feel like this is the end and it should be the end and there’s nothing else to be done but to end it all. We are without hope. And we leave. We do this because there is nothing left inside of us, and no external stimulation can fix that. Suicide, unfortunately, is not one hundred percent preventable.

 

If you are feeling the blackest of blues, are considering leaving this existence, and you are reading this: Please. STAY. You are worth the air you breathe. You are loved. Take a deep breath, hydrate, do something that makes you breathe hard and your blood flow, look outside, GO outside, listen to music. You deserve to exist. You are important. I’m sorry you feel this way, I know how you feel, and if you want to talk, comment. I’m here. (if you’re local and you need a hug, PM me your address, I’ll be right there, I also have excellently absorbent shoulders)

 

These are the things that have been bouncing around in my head since last week. It’s been difficult for me because whenever I hear of a person taking their life, all the feelings that I had when I wanted to end it all come flooding back to me; I know how that person felt and I feel all the hurt all over again. I also know how hard it is on the ones that were left behind and I hurt for them too.

 

I love you.

That Time My Mum Thought I Was a Guy

Remember that time that I told you about when Toby busted me for sneaking out? Well, I snuck out a lot.

I had a really good friend named Ashley. She went to church with me, but she lived in Abbotsford, an hour's drive away, so I only saw her at church dances mostly. This one time the monthly dance was hosted at my ward building, so we made a plan for Ashley to sleep over at my house after the dance. When we came home from the dance, we planned on sneaking out and going off on our own adventures, hopefully finding some boys on skateboards.

We had come home from the dance, and were changing out of our church dance appropriate clothes into sneaking out of the house and seeking adventures with boys who rode skateboards clothes. We were discussing our plans and options while talking in low voices, when I heard my mom hissing from the top of the stairs; "KELLY!!" Ashley and I exchanged glances, and I went to the bottom of the stairs and stared up at her innocently, "Yes?" "Who's down there with you?" she demanded. I blinked up at her, did she forget Ashley was sleeping over? "Ashley" I responded. My mum put her hands on her hips, cocked her head to the side, and rolled her eyes. "Kelly, who else do you have down there?" I didn't know what she was talking about. "No one!" I answered. "Kelly," she said again, shaking her head, looking exasperated that I thought she was so stupid. "What?" I asked. She was acting as if I was hiding something, which technically I was, because we were planning on heading out soon. She smelled a rat and I could tell, but I knew she was smelling  the wrong rat. "Kelly... do you have a boy down there?" she seemed so annoyed that she had to spell it out for me. "What?" I asked - phew, she could not be more wrong. "Kelly, (she was really annoyed now) I can hear a boy talking down here." It took me a minute to figure out to what she was referring. "Mom,  that was ME!!" I cried. She just put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to the side again and gave me a sarcasic grimace. I was mortified. My voice sounded like a guys, how lame is that. She still didn't believe me. "Come down and look, Mum, it's just me and Ashley!!" By this time she could tell that I was telling the truth.

We still snuck out after that, but the fun was sucked out of the adventure because I realized that I sound like a guy.

That Time That Toby Totally Told on Me.

I one hundred percent was not going for alliteration up there, but what can you do?

So I used to do this thing where I would sneak out in the middle of the night and go off on little adventures. I would go for drives with my friends, go to Mac's, hang out, walk around, go to the beach. Fairly harmless stuff, but it was awesome because it was the middle of the night. I did it a lot.

My bedroom was in the basement and there was a door down there that lead to the backyard, so I didn't have to worry about going upstairs and risk waking up my parents. I would just go out the back door, through the gate, through the carport, down the driveway, and then either to the top or bottom of the street to meet whomever I was meeting to go off on my adventure. It was a great setup.

My stepfather was a Teamster and left for work really early in the morning - 4:30 am. My goal was to be home before Stepfather left for work. Many times, I was tip-toeing through the carport and I would hear the shower running.

This one time when I came home, THE BASEMENT DOOR WAS LOCKED.

I could hear Stepfather in the shower, so it was guaranteed that my mum was up making his lunch, so there was no way I was going to be able to come in the kitchen door. I had no choice but to come in one of the basement windows.

We lived in this older house and the windows in the basement were wood and didn't open very freely. The one in the family room was the easiest to open and didn't have a screen on it, so I used that one. As I was attempting to open the window, it was sticking and scraping and making much more noise than I wanted it to. As this was happening, our Sheltie/Poodle mix, Toby, discovered me and started barking at me. I whispered, "Toby, it's ME!" to try to quiet him down, but he would not lay off. It wasn't until I was in the house and he could smell me that he calmed down. I managed to close the window silently and make it to my room. By this time, my mother heard me and called to me asking what the dog was barking at. I told her it was me, that I had gotten up to go to the bathroom and he freaked out. She gave me this weird look from the top of the stairs like she didn't believe me. It had been very lightly drizzling outside. She said, "Let me feel your hair." Of course I knew I was busted, so I explained myself and earned a week's worth of grounding.

Thanks a lot dog.

SUP-er Rantgirl!

I've ranted and whined about my desire to be supernatural once or twice. Well since all things come in threes (especially when you're dealing with me), I'm going to whine about my need for superpowers.

If Rantgirl were a super hero, what would her powers be? I'm so glad you asked!

1) Invisibility. This is my number one wish. If I could have only one power, it would be this. I need this for the bad hair days, and for the times that I can't function in public, but I have to go out in public because I have other people that I'm responsible for. I also need this so that I can know what people are saying when I'm not in the room.

2) Jeanie-blink. (or for those born after the seventies, this could be also known as Disapparating) I would love to be able to just fold my arms, blink my eyes, and , boink, be somewhere else. It's not that I mind travelling, sometimes I just don't have the time to fly to Paris, and I would love to see the Eiffel Tower and put my lock on that fence.
This would be especially helpful for those moments when I say something terrible that I wish wouldn't have flown out of my mouth. I could just Jeanie-blink out of there and maybe everyone would just forget that I was even standing there.

I would also like to be able to open doors with my mind so that I can make a grand entrance. I would like to be able to speak any language. You know, like C-3PO. Then I would like to have the power to download my brain. I wish I could just take a USB cord and pop it into someone else's head because my powers of communication aren't the best.

Oh, and time travel. That would be cool too.

The Thin, White, Duke

The other night as we were sitting around the dinner table (a very rare occurrence), I asked Huey how his crazy hair worked out. It was crazy hair day at the Jr. High, and he had tried sleeping with a hat on to give himself crazy hair, but it didn't work out so well. He was born with perfect hair: parted down the side with lovely waves, and the most gorgeous golden blonde. He rarely has bed head, and when he does, it usually calms down after an hour. I have the same issue. My hair pretty much stays the way I put it too. We can't relate to Harry Potter in this way at all.

The conversation led to DH asking what the next day's theme was, and Huey couldn't remember. We looked it up and it was Music. The kids were supposed to wear a music tshirt. Huey doesn't have any band tshirts, so he had to turn to his parents. DH has a number of Chicago and Steve Martin tshirts, but they would be huge on Huey, not that he would have minded the size, he was just not interested. I mentioned that I have a number of old concert tshirts, maybe one of them would work out?

There was a little discussion about these shirts as far as how did no one know that these existed, and a wager regarding whether or not I could find them. I went straight down to my craft room, moved a couple of boxes, and came upstairs - triumphant. Huey decided to wear my Cult shirt from when I saw them open up for Metallica in 1989.

Two things came out of this:

1. I got up from the table and said, "I have a ton of old concert shirts downstairs, I'm sure you wouldn't be interested in the Duran Duran ones, but maybe something from INXS, or David Bowie?" Huey said, "Who's David Bowie?" What? How could this happen? How could my child not know who David Bowie is? Where did I go wrong? The Let's Dance album was the first album I ever owned!! I instructed DH to educate him immediately while I ran downstairs to obtain the box of shirts. There were many YouTube videos, I couldn't find my Sound and Vision shirt, and my The Glass Spider Tour was too small, so he went with The Cult.
2. Huey had one of those moments where he got to get a view of his mother from before she was a mom. I'm pretty open and share lots of stories with my boys, but without evidence, I'm sure they are not very tangible. Plus, now that he's older, he gets it a little more. Watching him look at my shirts in wonder, and seeing his dad's reaction, and observing him soaking everything in was cool. I could see the gears ticking in his head and realizing that I had a life before I was a mom. That I was an actual person, not just someone who made him sandwiches and took every available opportunity to embarrass him. He may have been a little jealous that I had seen so many concerts. I've offered to take him to see concerts, but he's always passed, or his grades have not been up to par.

This reminded me of the time that I realized my mother was cool when she was a teenager. I was in Grade Ten and had just learned the jive in P.E. and was teaching it to my sister in the kitchen. My mum saw us and taught us a couple of moves, and then proceeded to tell us about how she and her brother used to win swing contests all the time when she was a kid. I was in awe, I couldn't believe that she had a life before us! The thing that drove this home for me was when we were at my cousin's wedding and I saw my mum and uncle dancing together like the old days. They were really good. I'd seen my mum dancing before, but never like that.

I just love that I got to blow my kid's mind. He's pretty cocky and thinks he knows everything, so it's very excellent when I show him that I can still show him a thing or two.

Most likely to set the world's next fashion trend

You know that thing in high school where everyone is voted Most Likely to Fill-in the Blank? I was voted Most Likely to Set the World's Next Fashion Trend.

Haven't heard of me? That's because I have yet to accomplish this feat, however, I'm still working on it - I'm not dead yet!!

I can't tell you how honoured and awesome I felt when this happened to me. To be the most fashionable person in my high school. My high school with a graduating class of 160. My high school in a town called Cloverdale. Yep, was hard work competing with all those turkey farmers for "most fashionable".

Sarcasm aside, I was still really pleased with the results of how others perceived me.

I gotta tell you the story behind the reason that I was voted to set the World's next fashion trend.

Some background:

• I learned how to sew when I was six and my mum taught me some basic pattern skills so that I could make clothes for my Barbies, but she refused to teach me how to use a sewing machine because she wanted me to wait until I got to high school so I could be taught "the right way". 
• Things changed somewhat between the sixties and the eighties (imagine that?). By the time I got to Home-Ec, things had changed so much so that my teacher was one of the English teachers who just happened to know how to sew. There was no 'real' sewing teacher. She basically had us go buy basic patterns and follow the instructions in the pattern and she was there to answer questions. When my mother heard that, she said, "Well, I could have taught you that!"
• When I took sewing in grade nine, we had to make a shirt because we had to learn how to do button-holes, and we had to make a skirt or pants because we had to learn how to sew in a zipper. This was 1986 and big, oversized, floral shirts were in style. I really wanted to make a big shirt, but didn't have a lot of money for fabric. My mum helped me by searching through her "stash". (Every woman who sews knows what I'm talking about - it's like the fabric multiplies on its own!) I found this fabric with big yellow, pink and turquoise roses on it that I thought was perfect. When I pulled it out, my mum informed me that was not fabric, but a sheet set. I didn't care, I loved the fabric. When my teacher found out that I was using vintage sheets for my fabric, she flipped out that I was so creative and inventive to use sheets. I made a shirt, skirt, and shorts out of the sheets. They were so fabulous I wore them all the time. I would wear the skirt and shirt together with either a pink or turquoise tank top underneath with the shirt belted at the waist, but I never wore the shirt and the shorts together, that would clash. I wish I had a photo to share with you...
• I also had taken a basic shirt pattern that my mum had from the seventies and manipulated it so that it would be oversized. I figured all of this out on my own. If I didn't like the style of the pattern, I would change it to fit my needs.
• Anyway, from that moment on my teacher thought I was a genius, and would come to me for suggestions and tips instead of the other way around. She would not shut up about how amazed she was that I thought to use a sheet for fabric. (a vintage sheet - but the term vintage had not been coined yet)
• Did I mention that my sewing teacher wore fabulous clothes and I was totally intimidated by her at first because her style was so impeccable? I was so honoured to be her pet student.

So cut to grade Eleven. I had seen my friend Kate's older and very stylish sister wearing these East Indian inspired pants with a high waistband, many pleats, and a drop crotch. I thought the were so cool. I waited awhile to try to copy them because they were not something that I thought I was confident enough to wear. I figured out a pattern, and made a pair of navy blue ones, and a pair of bright green ones. The navy ones had a wide navy and white striped waistband. I sucked up my courage and wore them to school on the first day of grade Eleven. O. My. Gosh! The mocking. The stares. The jokes about how I pooped my pants. It went on and on, but by then I had the confidence to know that those stupid kids had no clue about fashion, they were from Cloverdale for crying out loud, so I ignored them. (again, I wish I had pictures...) 

It was really hard to walk up steep steps with my crotch at my knees, but, you know, no pain is too great for the sake of fashion...

A year later, a rapper called MC Hammer wore the EXACT same pants, but in gold. People would come up to me and tell me about that and about how I wore it first. "Remember last year how we used to make fun of you for those poopy pants? Well now that rapper MC Hammer is wearing them! You're so cool to be ahead of the style!"

THAT, my friends, is validation.

You Catch more Ants with Sugar

Don Draper

I was talking to my mum last night and I remembered this thing that I used to do when I got punished when I was a kid.

I would suck up.

That’s right. Whenever I got punished, I would feel so bad for being naughty, that I would be extra good in order to make up for the bad behaviour. I would work harder at school, I would clean my room, do the dishes, vacuum, dust, do extra chores, etc. I never stomped around like a spoiled teenager, punishing my parent for punishing me, like a normal child. I would put on my halo and be the best kid I could be.

And then my mum would be so pleased with my behaviour that she would let me off early.

Every. Time.

The first couple of times were flukes because I actually did feel guilty for behaving poorly, so I would do what I could to make up for the wrong-doing. After I noticed a pattern, I knew that if I sucked up and cleaned the house I would get off early.

This one time when I was eighteen, I went for a motorcycle ride with a friend-soon-to-be-boyfriend that my parents didn’t know. We ended up being gone all day and no-one knew where we were. (We were at Harrison Hot Springs – it was awesome) I had been designated driver the night before, so my friend’s car was parked in the driveway and no one knew where the keys were, (they were on the top of the fridge) and no one could get a hold of me. Since I had been at my ex-boyfriend’s Halloween party the night before, my mum called him to see if he knew where I was and he was paging (this was the era of pagers, remember those?) the guy I was with and he kept ignoring his pages because he wanted to be with me and not talking to my ex/his (former) best friend. I didn’t get home until after dark, arrived on a motorcycle, and hadn’t checked in. I was in so much trouble I was grounded for a month. (what? I was wearing a helmet!)

So new boyfriend came over and hung out at the house (my parents hated him) while I cleaned and made dinner and folded dinner, etc. He couldn’t believe my tactic, but I told him it would work. I only ended up grounded for a week. Maybe it was because they didn’t like new boyfriend hanging around. (He was only twenty, but he looked like Don Draper, and they didn’t like that)

One time my sister was being a real jerk because she was grounded and I told her about my little trick. She was appalled. “Why would you do that? She’s just gonna punish you now because she wants you to be her slave.” She couldn’t believe that acting nice would get you out of being grounded early. I never once served a full sentence.

I have tried to teach this to the boys, but they’re not having it. Dewey might be a little more open to the idea, but Huey thinks its bollocks.

So in the conversation with my mum last night I told her about this and she never ever clued in that this was my tactic. She was just pleased with my behaviour. I think this is hysterical. She blamed herself for being such a softy, but to me it seemed fair; slave labour for early probation. I’m not kidding. It worked every time.

What I want to be when I grow up

So I’m forty-one years old and I finally figured out what I want to be when I grow up and I’m not very happy about it. And yes, I had to pause to figure out how old I was and then had to do the math, on an adding machine, and realize how old I was. At least I know how old my kids are – twelve and eight, right? Right.

I have decided I would like to get my degree in Library Science but major in English too so that I can either be a librarian OR an English teacher. (ha ha ha ha HA! I just spelled English wrong!! That’s so funny.) I love words and books and reading and grammar and spelling. I am still fourteen years old in my head, high school was one of the best experiences of my life, so why not spend the rest of my life in high school? On summer holidays, when I wasn’t in the Library (voluntarily), or had my nose stuck in a book, I was playing ‘school’ and handing out assignments to my little brother and sister and marking their papers with a red pencil crayon and stamping their papers with my smiley face stamp and handing out stickers. I had my own gold stars. I had my own smiley face stamp for crying out loud! I made my brother and sister and their friends take spelling tests. On summer break. I can’t make this stuff up, people. I am an excellent public speaker, and kids totally dig me. I should totally do this.

So you’re forty-one and you’re just coming to this conclusion now? What is wrong with you, Rantgirl? Well, I will tell you.

Bad Friend

I am the worst friend.

• I’m totally self absorbed and therefore a horrible listener. All I want to do is talk about myself. Hello, I have TWO blogs!
• I am super flaky and busy and always running around and not really someone who can be *there* for you.  
• I say the stupidest, most random, inappropriate things at the totally wrong time and don’t even notice it until I wake up in the middle of the night and want to punch myself in the face.
• I am always addressing the elephant in the room – especially when no one wants the elephant to be addressed.
• I will borrow things from you and take forever to return them.
• I think I’m one of these people who when they say they’re going to do something that they do it, but I either flake out at the last minute, or leave it to the last minute so that it’s only half done.

However…

• If you need someone to distract you from your life and problems with random and weird stories of her past, I’m your girl.
• If you need someone to say the thing that everyone’s thinking, but are afraid to say it out loud, I’m your girl.
• If you need someone to tell you what the name of that song/artist/book/movie is, I'm your girl.
• If you need someone to go shopping with and be totally honest with you about how your rear end looks in those jeans and has the ability to suggest something even more fabulous that you will love, then I’m your girl.
• If you need someone who drives fast and sings at the top of her lungs (poorly) to cheesy top forty love songs while car dancing on a road trip, I’m totes your girl.
• If you need someone to hug you until you stop crying, I’m your girl.
• If you need someone to take you dancing, I’m your girl.
• If you need someone who is going to look sillier/crazier/more unbalanced (in more ways than one) than you, I’m your girl.
• If you need someone to entertain you with random useless information about movies, music, and celebrities, I’m your girl.
• If you need someone to laugh at, I’m your girl.
• If you need someone to do your nails with, I’m your girl.
• If you need someone to french braid your hair, I'm your girl.
• If you want someone who’s going to be wishy-washy and opinionated and on the fence and see all sides of the issue at the same time so that you can gain some perspective, I’m your girl.
• If you need someone who has your back even if she’s a million miles away and has no personal time, all you have to do is hit me over the head (or just tell me), and I’m your girl.
• If you need someone to correct your spelling and grammar, I’m your girl.
• If you want someone to introduce you to weird, wacky, strange music/movies/fashion/art/literature, then I'm definitely your girl.
• If you need someone who will be totally devoted to you and tell you so, I'm your girl.

 

I may not be the best friend in the world, but I am the funnest, most distracting, silliest friend. FOR. SURE.

Girl Crush

You know how couples have that list of famous people that they can totally have a hall pass for? Well that is so Nineties. I have a list of girls I would switch teams for. Admit it, you have one too….

Joan Jett – What a rock star. I don’t give a damn about your bad reputation either.

Charlize Theron – Who wouldn’t? Have you seen Young Adult? Or Cider House Rules? Or Snow White and the Huntsman? She can totally rock a short haircut and I loved seeing her waltz with Channing Tatum on the Oscars. That was awesome.

Jennifer Lawrence – Your voice totally does it for me. And your crazy eyes. You killed it in The Hunger Games, girl. You had me at “I volunteer! I volunteer.” The way your voice cracked at the end there? Awesome. Your performance in Silver Linings Playbook was the best. You absolutely deserved that Oscar. Sorry you tripped, I wish I could have been there for you to catch your fall.

Gwen Stefani – O my gosh, I would never make you my ex-girlfriend, plus, we could share clothes and red lipstick and be total twins.

Gweneth Paltrow - I don't care what everyone says about you, your childrens' names, GOOP, or your idea of an "affordable" spring wardrobe, I will always love you.

Lost in the Library

photo credit www.eileenmosca.com

This is the story of the first time I went to the library.

I have mentioned my best friend who I never see, Berit, before when I told you about my getting my ears pierced adventure. We've been best friends since we were two and I love her like a sister and will never stop loving her.

A long, long, time ago, okay fifteen years ago, Berit and I were roommates. Berit worked at the Vancouver Public Library and I was a landscaper. One day, Berit freaked out when she found out that I had never stepped foot inside a public library. “I cannot believe that you are my best friend and I have worked for the library all this time and we have this BEAUTIFUL BRAND NEW library and you have never been in it!”

I love books, I love to read. I used to practically LIVE in my school library – I was even in an advanced spelling class (I’ll explain later) that was in the library at school. I used to go to the library in the summer. Unfortunately, once I discovered boys, the library got abandoned along with my good grades.

Anyway, the landscaping job didn’t work out and I was between jobs for a short while, so Berit and I set a lunch date and she would show me around the library. It’s a beautiful building, it looks like the Colosseum, and it’s set in this little dip in the land, so you don’t see it until you’re right on it – and it’s magnificent! I knew this, but I had never experienced it first hand. After our lunch and my tour, Berit went back to work and I went exploring in the library. I got lost in the Science Fiction section reading H.G. Wells’ The Invisible Man and lost track of time. They had to kick me out of the library that I had never set foot inside of until that day because they were closing. I got home well after dark. When I walked into our apartment, Berit practically pounced on me, asking, “Where WERE you?!” My mum had called, and my sister, all looking for me and Berit had no clue where I was and it wasn’t like me to just disappear. I exclaimed in exasperation, “I was at the LIBRARY!!”

It was so funny for someone who didn’t have a library card and hadn’t stepped inside a library in over five years and never inside a public one to have spent the ENTIRE day there. This was the first step in my love affair with the library.

Oh, and Happy Birthday to the woman who gave me life. You can read more about her here.

Face Facts – You are Never Going to Be a Stay-At-Home-Mom

This is what twelve-year-old Huey told me yesterday in reference to my blogging. What - was my query? Whatever do you mean? I fully didn’t understand. There are more people in this world than just mommies blogging about their kids.

Obviously he doesn’t read my blog, or he would know that I am totally not striving to be one of those mommy-bloggers. I have nothing against mommy-bloggers at all. I enjoy reading their blogs. They are funny and cute and have their audience. I have no audience, therefore no leg to stand on. (my kid nor my husband even read my blog – basically it’s just my mother every six months, and my Mother-in-law -Hi C3PO!)

It was like he thought that I was trying to be something I’m not by blogging. Clearly he doesn’t understand, but that’s not the point. I fear there is something more going on here.

This also reminded me about the things that I would say to my mother: trying to teach her the ways of the world like I knew so much more than she - me being twelve, her being older than twelve.

This got me to thinking: just what does he think Moms do? What is his opinion of women? It doesn’t seem to be too high and that needs to be nipped directly in the bud! I am not raising a misogynistic dope like his father*!! No way! So I’m trying to think of what to do/say/teach here. Not quite sure how to show him how awesome the opposite sex is without making him all female-centric. I’m looking for balance.

*he's not really a misogynist - he just didn't get schooled very well in his youth about certain things.

Happy Freaking Birthday to me.

This time last year I was standing on a beach in Kauai surrounded by my most beloved boys.

Not so this year. As of this writing, I don’t even have plans – but I’m not complaining. Last year ROCKED, so it’s fine to have a couple of low key birthdays. I think I’ll just have a couple of tacos from Café Rio, watch Pride and Prejudice or Twilight and give myself a mani-pedi. Maybe I’ll hang out with the boys and play the Wii. Or watch Harry Potter. Whatever. It’s cool.

The thing about having a December birthday is that it seems like I wait all year for my birthday. This was particularly difficult for me when I was a child, but my traditions run deep in my psyche. I used to make my family wait to decorate for Christmas until after my birthday. My reasoning was that no one else had to have a holiday interfere with their birthdays, and I had to wait all year for my birthday, and it wasn’t fair to celebrate Christmas before my birthday. It’s not like my birthday is late in the month, it’s the eighth for crying out loud. We had plenty of time to decorate. Depending on the year, sometimes we decorated ON my birthday. I was fine with that as long as we did it after presents and cake. I was also okay with my stepfather putting the lights on the house before my birthday, as long as we didn’t turn them on until after my birthday.

The first year I was away from home and on my mission, my family was very proud to announce to me that they had the lights on December FIRST that year.

I carried this tradition on to my single life. I refused to decorate before my birthday. The only roommate I ever had was my best friend who had known me my whole life and thus understood the no-Christmas-until-after-my-birthday rule, so she played along. I found however, that with my talent for procrastinating and stressing out during the holidays, we wouldn’t get around to decorating until the week before Christmas.

This also carried into my married life - until one year.

It was before we had children – DH had to work, but I had three days off for Thanksgiving. I decided to follow the rest of America and decorated for Christmas during the Thanksgiving holiday. I was done on Thanksgiving. Wow. Done. It was amazing! We had such a great Christmas that year! I was so relaxed and my mind was free to enjoy the season. I think that this was the first year that I actually enjoyed the snow too. It was so great. That year when I talked to my family on my birthday and they told me that they already had the tree up I shocked them by announcing “Me Too!”

Since then I have tried to make it my goal to be ready for Christmas before Thanksgiving so that I can sit back and enjoy the holiday. I’ll admit - unless I get my tree up by the Sunday following Thanksgiving, it won’t be up until Christmas Eve. That has happened more than once since we moved into our house six years ago.

So I guess that makes me a grown-up. I’m not all demanding about the holiday decorations being not up until my birthday any more. I still enforce a no Christmas on my birthday rule. The decorations can be up, but we had better not be going to a holiday party or visiting Santa on my birthday. That is an absolute no-no.

Five Foot Ten Inch Wolverine with Frosted Tips and Piercing Blue Eyes.

I was raised to think that turning into your mother was the absolute worst thing that could ever happen to you. The most insulting thing you could say to my mother was that she was acting just like her mother. She raised us to be better than her, not to be like her.
 

This has caused a problem in that we all eventually turn into our mothers so when I find myself acting like my mother I want to kill myself because I’m a complete failure – I turned into my mother.
 

I’ve posted about this before.
 

I have a friend who has a mother who is bi-polar and therefore has her own mother issues. I told her once that we get to a point where we have to stop blaming our mothers for how we are but forgive our mothers otherwise we will never be able to give ourselves a break for being human and falling into some of the patterns that our mothers set for us.
 

I posted this on Facebook the other day:

A tip: When using a safety pin in lieu of the button on your pants, don’t wait until the last minute to go to the washroom. Especially if you are wearing pantyhose.

This is what my sister commented on the above post: 

HAHAHAHAHA! YOU are wearing pants and nylons!! AND you called them pantyhose!! You turned into Mom!! 

Normally, that would have been the biggest insult, but I have been noticing more and more how much like my mother I am and I totally cringe and writhe about it. Especially now that I have a tween and I am witnessing very tween rantgirl like behaviour coming from him and directed at my dorky Mom self. You know, the eye rolling, the shaking of the head, the please-don’t-tell-other-people-that-you’re-my-mother attitude. The jumping in the car and telling me to “go, go, GO!” so that I don’t talk to anyone for fear I may embarrass him. Also, I’m looking more and more like my mother physically as I age.
 

Because of this, I have really been pondering the terror of turning into your mother and the whole forgiving her for being human thing.
 

I can think of worse things that could happen to me. I could turn into my sister!!
 

(That was mostly a joke – the turning into my sister thing)
 

So I decided to think about the things that are awesome about my mum that make me awesome and make it so that it’s not such a horrible thing that I’m turning into my mother.

We have the following in common:

1. My mum is a ferocious defender of those she loves. She will defend them to the end of the earth and then some. You better watch out, she will fight you to the death and she will win if you try to mess up her kids. Right after I got home from my mission, my brother was in a bad situation and some dude came to our house to try and get to my brother and my mum almost literally flew off the porch into his face screaming at him to stay far far away from my brother. Ever seen a 5’ 10” wolverine with frosted tips and piercing blue eyes protecting her young? Same same. I never saw that dude again, and I think my brother straightened up his life out of gratitude to my mum for being so crazy in that guy’s face. It was pretty scary. And totally awesome.
2. My mum knows how to enjoy the little things; like singing in the car at the top of your lungs when a good song comes on the radio. Car dancing? Yeah, my mum invented that.
3. My mum totally loves to laugh. She can't help herself. Even when she doesn't want to laugh, she laughs. My siblings and I are all really funny. I think that stems from trying to get my mother to laugh. She has a really distinct laugh. And it's loud. And fabulous.
4. My mum is a really good dancer. She used to win jive dancing contests with her brother when she was a teen in the sixties. How cool is that?
5. My mum loves good music. She has instilled that in me and I am passing it on to my children. I have good taste in music because of her, and my children have even better taste in music because of me. We also have random kitchen dance parties. I always loved doing that when I was a kid, so I pass it on to my kids. My boys had better marry chicks who like to have random dance parties in the kitchen. It is also a rule that the dog participates.
6. My mum has awesome perspective. I have always been able to just lay things out for her and she says like seven words and *boom* everything is set right. BOOM. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I can’t just call her and hash everything out. She’s always been there for me in that respect.
7. My mum is a fighter. Sometimes I regret that I get this from her. Sometimes I wish there was less yelling and more talking and working things out and being rational, but if you need someone to fight for you – holy crap. My mum’s the best. Also, if you need someone to be irrational and rant and rave with indignation right beside you? She’s your girl.
8. My mum is ALWAYS on my side. Even when I’m wrong, she backs me up and lets me figure out I was wrong and make the necessary amends and supports me in that too. Yeah, that woman will Back. You. UP.
9. My mum is fierce. She has these piercing blue eyes – I call them blue lightning – that will stab your soul. She can see right through you. She was always able to see when people were up to no good with us. She can always see what’s up with you. She’s an excellent judge of character.  
10. My mum gives great advice. See number 6.
11. My mum is my friend. She is there for me, rooting for me, proud of me, and I know it – and that is the best thing.

Dark Chocolate

I love love love love love LOVE dark chocolate. The darker the better. I even like the colour. That milk chocolate crap is just not for me. Give me the darkest, most bitter dark chocolate or give me death!!

I used to sneak all the baking chocolate out of my mother’s baking cabinet and eat it. THAT’s how bitter I like my chocolate.

I like to think of myself as a purist that way. I like my chocolate pure: not watered down with milk or sweetened up with sugar.

I wonder if this correlates with my love of the dark side?

Stubborn

I pride myself on being an open minded person. I have often said that I’m too open minded to be a purist about anything. That being said, I have many, many, many opinions and I usually stick to my guns when I form an opinion about something. Seems like a contradiction doesn’t it?

When Duran Duran’s Seven and the Ragged Tiger came out, I was in Grade Seven. My friends all went CRAZY for Duran Duran. Two of the girls I walked to school with listened to the album on their Walkmans on the way to school singing their heads off. They went to the concert and wore their concert t-shirts and talked about Nick and John and Simon and Roger and Andy like they knew them personally. They watched every music video on Friday Night Videos and bought every magazine with articles about Duran Duran and plastered their walls with posters.

Every time they would talk about Duran Duran I would roll my eyes. I thought they were so dumb. I wished they would get a life and talk about something else. I just didn’t see what the big deal was.

Every single person who knows me just exclaimed a collective “wha-?!”

I had never heard the music. I had never really paid attention to the photos. I never watched the videos. I was too busy being crazy about David Bowie and David Cassidy and Davy Jones to care. I thought they were just a bunch of pretty boys and that’s it. I can’t remember what caused me to make such a complete one eighty, but I’m pretty sure it was the music video for The Reflex. Either that, or puberty kicked in.

Nick was my first favourite, then I decided I loved John, to end up with a HUGE poster of Simon on my wall until I graduated from high school. I have seen them twice. I saved up all my money from my summer job at McDonald’s to see the Strange Behaviour tour when I was in Grade Eleven, and I saw the Big Thing tour even though I had mono. I absolutely love Duran Duran. I have every album in every format: vinyl, cassette, CD and iTune.

What I learned from this experience was to keep an open mind and to learn about things before forming an unmovable opinion about something. This is why I am a collector of information. My brain is an overflowing fount of useless information.

"Take a Shower, You'll Feel Better"

I can hear my mother's voice in my head right now telling me that. Isn't it nice that our mother's voices are in our heads so that when we grow up and move away from them they can still be with us?

I remember whenever I would be feeling in a funk and wandering around the house and whining about whatever, my mum would say "Go take a shower, you'll feel better." I would so totally roll my eyes at her. How boring is that. Take a shower, that's dumb. Okay, I'll take a shower, but it won't help.

Okay, so it totally did help. The warm water, the sound, the smell of my body wash, the starting over feeling.

I used to work really close to where I lived, and if I was having a crappy day, I would go home and take a shower and give myself a do-over.

Sometimes you get up in the morning, and you're just not in the mood or whatever and can't think of anything to wear and you're having a bad hair day and there's nothing good on the radio and the weather was forecasted to be one thing and it's totally not doing that thing, and traffic sucked and you forgot your lunch and nothing sounds good. You know what I'm talking about. So you just wish you could go back to bed and start over, right? Well you can get that feeling if you take a shower.

Sometimes I come home from work and take a shower so I can start over. I should have done that today. I would have felt a lot better about what I did get done versus me brooding over what didn't get done and letting the negative things in my life affect me.

I have somewhere to be early in the morning tomorrow, so my plan is to get up extra early and take that shower and spend extra time getting ready (that ALWAYS makes me feel better). Every time I make this plan I fail at getting up extra early, so we'll see. I am really motivated to make this work for me right now, but we'll see after spending seven and a half hours in my comfy comfy bed.

Uninspiration

Haven’t been writing (obviously).

I hate it when bloggers post a post about how they haven’t been posting and explaining why. I don’t care why, just bloody post already! Don’t you know that our lives depend on you entertaining us? Also, I usually will come upon a blog 2 years after a person started their blog and will go back and read all their posts, so I didn’t notice their absence, so their apology for not posting post is moot as far as I am concerned. Also, I realize that they have their reasons, as do I.

So I vowed to never post a “Sorry I haven’t posted in awhile” post because I think they’re dumb.

Then I got this email from my Mother in Law (my only faithful reader – just kidding, Mum):

“Where RU?

I am missing your blog read! I love it. Come on. Take a break and do some of your creative writing...about life today, yesterday or possibly tomorrow.”

I have been meaning to get back in the saddle and write some more, and soccer season ends today, so it was just the boost I needed to sit down and write.

My excuses are many:

• Life
• Soccer
• Scouts
• Messy house
• Too tired
• Dancing with the Stars
• Too in my own head and can’t get out. It’s been feeling a little like the trash compactor in Star Wars. (sad, because writing helps me get out of my head the most, but I’ve been using other less effective and more self destructive escape tactics)
• Blogger changed their format and I have issues with change and was having problems navigating the new pages.
• I’ve been letting Huey have the computer so that he can finish his homework and be all caught up and finish sixth grade with a bang.
• Huey changed the settings on my laptop and now the mouse is an external mouse not the touch pad and it bugs me so I haven’t been using my laptop.
• When I write, I tend to write and write and write and write and write. The only time I have to write uninterrupted is after the boys are in bed and that causes me to stay up way past my bedtime which is very unhealthy for me.
• I’ve been ensconced in the words of others. –meaning, I’ve been going through a reading phase where I borrow a pile of books from the library and read and read and read so that I can return them quickly so that someone else has a chance to read them and I’m not hogging. This distracts me as I am living in their world and not my own, so my inspiration level goes down as I get inspired my me the most.
• The journal I was carrying around with me and writing my inspirations in got filled up and now I’m carrying a new journal. My old inspirations inspire me and I can’t remember them and so I can’t feed off my old inspirations. (Make sense? Probably not – my head is a weird place)
• Not taking the time for me or making myself a priority which depresses me, which causes me to get inside my own head, which causes me to feel uninspired, which causes me to not write and down down down the rabbit hole I go.
• Not very many people read my blog, so I don’t feel a responsibility to keep it up as I make myself the lowest priority. I should be doing this just for me because it is the best for me and I really love it, but since no one else cares, I just let it go, but I should do it for myself, but I definitely don’t care about myself the most.

After I got the email from my mother-in-law, I logged on to Blogger to read my reading list ignoring my own posts, which I have been doing for awhile. Her nagging little voice was in the back of my head so I decided to look at some of my own posts when I discovered that I had a draft saved. I decided to finish up the post and publish it. The process felt so good that I decided to write this too. Now I feel even better.

I am likening my MIL to C3PO hearing my cries for help from the trash compactor and telling R2-D2 to deactivate all the trash compactors.

Thanks for the inspiration, D! (look at that, I gave you a blog nickname)

Happy Jason Voorhees Day!

Growing up as a teen in the late eighties was not good for a girl with an imagination like mine.

I absorb myself in works of fiction/art and they live in my head for years and years and years. Whilst reading Anne of Green Gables, I was a spirited red-head living on Prince Edward Island at the turn of the century; when reading Pride and Prejudice, I am a strong-willed yet shy and penniless woman in Edwardian England; during Harry Potter, I think in an English accent and have magical powers, and while in the Twilight world, I am ensconced in the awesome green, gray, and soggy world of Forks, WA.

Movies stick with me for days. I hear the dialog in my head and live in the world where they take place over and over. After seeing The Adjustment Bureau, every door was a new possibility to tempt fate, as long as I was wearing a hat. Seeing Titanic had me floating to new adventures only to end up flooded, freezing, and nearly drowning. The visuals presented in William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet (the Baz Luhrmann one with Claire Daines and Leonardo DiCaprio) still spin around in my brain.

I can’t look at disturbing works of art and enjoy them because they stay with me forever. I see them when I close my eyes. The works of Emily Carr make me dizzy even when I’m not looking at them. I hate Pablo Picasso’s paintings because they are too jarring and disturbing to me. They echo in my brain and give me nightmares.

On the other hand, Vincent Van Gough’s bright colours energize me. The works of impressionists like Claude Monet calm and soothe me. I think that Andy Warhol is a genius.

Characters and visuals stay with me, live with me and are my friends. They come to me in my dreams. They dance and bounce around in my head when I close my eyes (and sometimes then they’re open).

When I was a teen, horror movies were enjoying a very popular run. Freddie with his dreams, Jason with his hockey mask, and Michael Myers were stars. The Lost Boys ran amuck. My mum would remark that the only reason they were popular when she was young was so that the guys could get the girls to jump in their laps at the drive-in.

The cool thing to do was to go and see these horrible movies in the theatre. We would go in a huge group as one of us was usually seventeen (old enough to get into an R rated movie) and would buy all of our tickets and then we would all go in and get our faces scared off. Invariably, I would end up in the lap of one of my friends with my face buried in his shoulder, only rarely peeking through my fingers when things were a little too quiet. I guess my mother was right.

For the weeks following I would sleep with the light on, my door open (so I could see them coming to get me), my closet door closed (so they couldn’t get me), and the blankets over my head (so they couldn’t see me or touch me). I would have to read benign stories and listen to the radio to drown out my imagination so that I could actually fall asleep. Closing my eyes to fall asleep was NOT an option because I would only see the monsters coming to get me. I had to pass out reading.

When my sister was trying to convince me to read the Harry Potter books, one of the reasons I gave her for not following the masses was that they were about witches and magic and my imagination runs away with me too much. I can’t read books like that because they live in my head and mess with my psyche. Her response was a) these books are definitely NOT like that (I know that now, as the Wizarding World of Harry Potter is permanently etched in my mind and Hermione Granger Weasley is one of my best friends), and b) “but you watched all those horror movies when you were a teenager! I always thought you were so cool when you would go and see them.”

That was just it. I did it because it was cool. I put up with the no sleeping and looking over my shoulder and horrible dreams for weeks because everyone else was doing it or because there were cute guys there. (for me to jump in their laps) The motivating forces in my life from ages Thirteen to Twenty-five were mostly either; 1) it was fun, 2) it was cool or made me cool or look cool, or 3) it involved impressing boys. I look back and CRINGE at the things I did in my youth because of these motivations.

Thank goodness I have become a grown up and have moved on from those motivations. Well, at least the third one.

Time Bomb

In “Jane Austen Book Club” –excellent movie, I highly recommend it- the Prudie character bemoans: “our mothers are like time bombs, ticking inside of us, just waiting to go off”. She was freaking out because she was terrified of turning into her mother.

I was raised with the idea that becoming your mother is the absolute worst thing that could happen to you. Telling my mum that she is like her mother is the number one WORST thing that you could say to her. She will KNOCK. YOU. OUT. Trust me, my mum can take you. You don’t want to mess with her. I can say it because I’m her favourite. (right?)

My mother raised me to be not like her, but better than her. Super easy task, thought my disrespectful much cooler teenage self.

But then I yell and scream at my kids, something I swore upside-down and backwards that I would never do to my kids because she did that to us and I hated it and I want to crawl inside a hole and disappear and die and I don’t deserve to be a mother look how awful I am I’ve turned into my mother.

I used to envy them, but I feel sorry for those daughters of amazing women who had to grow up in their mothers’ shadows and live up to their expectations and the expectations of others. It’s a good thing Mother Theresa and Ardeth G. Kapp never had any daughters. Look what happened to Chastity Bono. (I kid, I kid)

My mum was just one of those regular mothers who did regular stuff. Like sing along with Freddie Mercury to the dog while she did the dishes. I would, like, totally roll my eyes at her when she did that.

And yet, I find myself singing and dancing along to my iTunes with Orso while I empty the dishwasher and scrub the stove and I get why she did it. The dog worships you and loves you for who you are. From the moment your children can speak they feel it necessary to tell you you're doing it wrong. Just the other day, Huey informed me, "Mom, you're too old to rock skinny jeans" which reminded me of the many times I told my mother that she had "a triangle butt".

So I guess turning into parts of your mother is not the worst thing in the world.