Gahhhhh, I hate hot weather. It's so bloody humid up here, no rain, none of the thunder storms they keep promising. Everyday just uncompromising smoggy mugginess.
BAH!
I can't believe it's September. The summer really disappeared on me. I feel almost in shock.
Paired with a bad case of not feeling like writing about anything or talking much to people, it's made me quite boring.
My apologies. Maybe school will kick start things again.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Go Ahead...Make My Day
I don't know about you, but I always thought it was total bull when I was younger and was told that, "No matter how rude someone is, smile and be pleasant and maybe you'll make their day." My response in my head was usually, "Yeah right." I was trapped in the fundamental attribution error, meaning that when someone responded negatively to me, instead of assuming they'd had a bad day, I usually just chalked it up to that person being a total ass-hat.
As I started working in customer service, that feeling occasionally strengthened itself. Grouchy people only served to make me grouchy, and with retail being a fairly thankless job to begin with, it didn't endear me to the career field.
But the more time that went on, the more I saw that smiling, and being friendly...DID have an impact on people. Not always. Sometimes people left even crabbier than they walked in. But those few people, who left a little happier than they arrived, it became worth it.
So today, when I had to call my internet providers' customer service I had a pleasant surprise. We all know what it's like calling customer service for a phone/internet company. 20 minutes on hold, terrible muzzak, representatives that struggle to communicate, and usually a difficulty in getting the resolution you seek.
Today, at 8:30 am, there was no waiting, no holding, no transfering. The service rep was polite, she was friendly, funny, excellent at communicating, and had my problem solved in less than 5 minutes. She laughed when she misheard information, made sure I had all the information I needed if another problem arose, used my name and was positive and confident throughout the entire conversation.
Honestly? She started off my whole day on an awesome note. So thanks customer rep. Being friendly and positive, really does pay off. :)
As I started working in customer service, that feeling occasionally strengthened itself. Grouchy people only served to make me grouchy, and with retail being a fairly thankless job to begin with, it didn't endear me to the career field.
But the more time that went on, the more I saw that smiling, and being friendly...DID have an impact on people. Not always. Sometimes people left even crabbier than they walked in. But those few people, who left a little happier than they arrived, it became worth it.
So today, when I had to call my internet providers' customer service I had a pleasant surprise. We all know what it's like calling customer service for a phone/internet company. 20 minutes on hold, terrible muzzak, representatives that struggle to communicate, and usually a difficulty in getting the resolution you seek.
Today, at 8:30 am, there was no waiting, no holding, no transfering. The service rep was polite, she was friendly, funny, excellent at communicating, and had my problem solved in less than 5 minutes. She laughed when she misheard information, made sure I had all the information I needed if another problem arose, used my name and was positive and confident throughout the entire conversation.
Honestly? She started off my whole day on an awesome note. So thanks customer rep. Being friendly and positive, really does pay off. :)
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Trapped in 4/4 Time
My life seems to follow a rather similar pattern each year, strong in the first, weak on the second, medium half way through, and weak at the end. Although I prefer it to a 3/4 time of Strong-Weak-Weak, the pattern is getting repetitive.
Consciously trying to break the pattern doesn't seem to work, tried that, because it's a fail if one can't get it to work.
So I've decided to allow life to break the cycle for me....by trapping myself in by another set of 4.
*shakes fist impotently at the heavens* NOT feeling trapped would be nice for a change. But I think that's just the problem with my brain. I'm not paranoid, I don't think people are out to get me. I just feel...smothered easily I suppose.
I guess it's why relationships freak me out. I feel like it's a loss of control over my own life. Didn't help that some of my exes were extremely overbearing and made the words "trapped in a box for all eternity" a gross understatement. It's rather a conundrum. To be afraid of emotional attachment and yet tired of casual flings. I need a vacation. With a sexy man wench. Who'll spend the entire time rubbing my feet and fetching my drinks. That seems like a nice compromise.
On a brighter note, I did help someone's vengeance plan by suggestion utilizing the wrath of bullet ants. While that may sound strange, death by ants that shriek and jump down on you from trees to sting you....would be kind of hilarious to watch from a distance. By distance meaning behind 10 feet of solid steel reinforced concrete. Through a window made of 10 layers of bullet proof glass. With roving death squads of exterminators guarding the perimeter. 10 miles away from the site of said death. Watching through a telescope. With the jet on standby.
These are really creepy ants.
Consciously trying to break the pattern doesn't seem to work, tried that, because it's a fail if one can't get it to work.
So I've decided to allow life to break the cycle for me....by trapping myself in by another set of 4.
*shakes fist impotently at the heavens* NOT feeling trapped would be nice for a change. But I think that's just the problem with my brain. I'm not paranoid, I don't think people are out to get me. I just feel...smothered easily I suppose.
I guess it's why relationships freak me out. I feel like it's a loss of control over my own life. Didn't help that some of my exes were extremely overbearing and made the words "trapped in a box for all eternity" a gross understatement. It's rather a conundrum. To be afraid of emotional attachment and yet tired of casual flings. I need a vacation. With a sexy man wench. Who'll spend the entire time rubbing my feet and fetching my drinks. That seems like a nice compromise.
On a brighter note, I did help someone's vengeance plan by suggestion utilizing the wrath of bullet ants. While that may sound strange, death by ants that shriek and jump down on you from trees to sting you....would be kind of hilarious to watch from a distance. By distance meaning behind 10 feet of solid steel reinforced concrete. Through a window made of 10 layers of bullet proof glass. With roving death squads of exterminators guarding the perimeter. 10 miles away from the site of said death. Watching through a telescope. With the jet on standby.
These are really creepy ants.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Saying Goodbye
Sad news coming a few days late. On Friday at 4pm, my wonderously smelly, evil but loveable bullterrier Roxy slipped quietly away from us, surrounded by her family and cuddled in blankets after a good long sun-bathing.
It's been two days, and it's hard to believe she's gone. Partially, since her decline has been coming for a good 6 weeks, I only saw her a few times a day anyway, the rest of the time she was sleeping, so it's almost like nothing has changed. Until I see her empty crate, or watch my poodle Hudson lying on the floor and sighing (he knows she's gone, he said goodbye to her the day before it happened).
Roxy is the second dog I've lost, the first being Phoebe, another bullterrier when I was 10. We lost my grandfather that same year. It's hard to say that Phoebe's death was far more traumatic, but it's true.
Our dogs are a part of our family. They slept on our beds, they kept us warm when we were sick, they barked and looked stupid and acted like clowns when we were sad. They loved us unconditionally no matter what. They loved us when we were angry, or sad, or insane. They loved us even when we hated ourselves. They knew what we needed from them before we did. Love, comfort, companionship, a good laugh and more entertainment than any of modern technologies can provide.
Roxy.....was all those things, and yet still managed to be the most evil dog ever. From the moment she burst out of her crate when she was brought to us from Halifax at 8 weeks old, like a psychotic Tasmanian devil, bowling full grown adults over like they were made of styrofoam, trying to bite tires and people and anything else she could get a hold of, we knew she'd be trouble. The image of my grandmother (who spent the first week of our life with Roxy with us), sitting with her feet up on a chair and her housecoat wrapped around her legs tight enough to mummify herself to keep it out of Roxy's clutches, will stick with me forever.
Within days she had earned the names Hoover and Jaws. Fighting her for dominance meant 40 mintues in the backyard holding her on her back with all the strength my 10 year old self could drum up while she shrieked and thrashed and gnawed at me like a rabid raccoon. When she was 12 weeks, she knocked over a chair made of hard maple, and scraped her teeth over it until she created a hollow of grooves probably a 1/4 inch deep.
She ate EVERYTHING, nearly killing herself when she was 2 and a bit when she swallowed something rubber that got stuck and required surgical intervention. I still find books with covers and page corners missing. She would cruise by a table, see something on it, and sometimes without even stopping, just roll her eyes over like a shark and take a bite out of it. She ate cardboard and paper and shoes and underwear and socks and chairs and door frames if she was frustrated enough. She could bite through a can of dog food in a single go. The big cans, like of Science Hill dog food. Tennis balls? Two bites and she would have popped them and started chewing the fuzz off them.
When she was three, we brought Hudson into her life, and prayed to God she wouldn't eat him. She did body slam him hard enough into the wall to punch a hole in it once, but they were the best of friends from that moment on.
One Christmas she found the headless carcass of a rabbit (the head taken away by a Great Horned Owl), and decided she was going to try and eat it anaconda style while my mom tried to pull it away from her (in vain). There was blood flying and scarfing sounds that can never be duplicated until mom and I combined finally won the battle. We kill ourselves laughing about it now.
Her nemesis was a friend of the family who decided early on that she was Trouble and wanted nothing to do with her. To a total hedonist like Roxy, that was not acceptable. So she toppled a large metal candle pillar with a big candle on it....onto his head while he was taking a nap on our couch.
Watching her try and steal food from the table was like watching Shark Week. In a heartbeat she'd jump up and throw her head back, mouth open, and just close it on anything she could reach. Hudson only helped facilitate this. He could pick up an entire pot of macaroni and set it down on the floor for the two of them to pig out on. She loves any and all food, though has a particular taste for lettuce and popcorn. She can hear it a mile away and wasn't shy about biting us on the butts to try and get a taste.
We have babygates on nearly every bedroom/bathroom in the house, just to protect all of the stuffed animals, garbage, clothes and books from her. She was the mighty hunter of the household, and we were her servants, catering to her pleasure or subject to her mighty wrath of impressive vocalization variety (always at maximum ear piercing volume).
The only time she cornered a cat face to face though, under our deck back when we lived in the city (she was about...2 probably), all she did was bark her fool head off while the cat clawed the living daylights out of her.
She was a drunken, hedonistic, rock-star, clownish toddler that required constant supervision and feeding. And she smelled. Look up smelly bullterriers. There are gas issues. Good lord are there gas issues.
But....she was widely loved but almost everyone who met her. She was endearing in ways unable to be explained in rational human words, adorable, mischievious and always smiling. She was the worst dog we've ever had, and our best friend in the world.
Her life will never be forgotten, and the hilarity of her antics will be recounted for years to come.
Roxanne, I love you. I know you're up there in your heaven now, eating everything, chasing bunnies, and frolicking with Phoebe and Barcley. 3 bullterriers in one place....whoever runs dog heaven must be cursing us right about now. :) I know you're at peace, you didn't suffer. So all I can say with my goodbye, is eat some couch stuffing for me, sunbathe every chance you get and know that you were loved here and always will be.
Goodbye puppy.
It's been two days, and it's hard to believe she's gone. Partially, since her decline has been coming for a good 6 weeks, I only saw her a few times a day anyway, the rest of the time she was sleeping, so it's almost like nothing has changed. Until I see her empty crate, or watch my poodle Hudson lying on the floor and sighing (he knows she's gone, he said goodbye to her the day before it happened).
Roxy is the second dog I've lost, the first being Phoebe, another bullterrier when I was 10. We lost my grandfather that same year. It's hard to say that Phoebe's death was far more traumatic, but it's true.
Our dogs are a part of our family. They slept on our beds, they kept us warm when we were sick, they barked and looked stupid and acted like clowns when we were sad. They loved us unconditionally no matter what. They loved us when we were angry, or sad, or insane. They loved us even when we hated ourselves. They knew what we needed from them before we did. Love, comfort, companionship, a good laugh and more entertainment than any of modern technologies can provide.
Roxy.....was all those things, and yet still managed to be the most evil dog ever. From the moment she burst out of her crate when she was brought to us from Halifax at 8 weeks old, like a psychotic Tasmanian devil, bowling full grown adults over like they were made of styrofoam, trying to bite tires and people and anything else she could get a hold of, we knew she'd be trouble. The image of my grandmother (who spent the first week of our life with Roxy with us), sitting with her feet up on a chair and her housecoat wrapped around her legs tight enough to mummify herself to keep it out of Roxy's clutches, will stick with me forever.
Within days she had earned the names Hoover and Jaws. Fighting her for dominance meant 40 mintues in the backyard holding her on her back with all the strength my 10 year old self could drum up while she shrieked and thrashed and gnawed at me like a rabid raccoon. When she was 12 weeks, she knocked over a chair made of hard maple, and scraped her teeth over it until she created a hollow of grooves probably a 1/4 inch deep.
She ate EVERYTHING, nearly killing herself when she was 2 and a bit when she swallowed something rubber that got stuck and required surgical intervention. I still find books with covers and page corners missing. She would cruise by a table, see something on it, and sometimes without even stopping, just roll her eyes over like a shark and take a bite out of it. She ate cardboard and paper and shoes and underwear and socks and chairs and door frames if she was frustrated enough. She could bite through a can of dog food in a single go. The big cans, like of Science Hill dog food. Tennis balls? Two bites and she would have popped them and started chewing the fuzz off them.
When she was three, we brought Hudson into her life, and prayed to God she wouldn't eat him. She did body slam him hard enough into the wall to punch a hole in it once, but they were the best of friends from that moment on.
One Christmas she found the headless carcass of a rabbit (the head taken away by a Great Horned Owl), and decided she was going to try and eat it anaconda style while my mom tried to pull it away from her (in vain). There was blood flying and scarfing sounds that can never be duplicated until mom and I combined finally won the battle. We kill ourselves laughing about it now.
Her nemesis was a friend of the family who decided early on that she was Trouble and wanted nothing to do with her. To a total hedonist like Roxy, that was not acceptable. So she toppled a large metal candle pillar with a big candle on it....onto his head while he was taking a nap on our couch.
Watching her try and steal food from the table was like watching Shark Week. In a heartbeat she'd jump up and throw her head back, mouth open, and just close it on anything she could reach. Hudson only helped facilitate this. He could pick up an entire pot of macaroni and set it down on the floor for the two of them to pig out on. She loves any and all food, though has a particular taste for lettuce and popcorn. She can hear it a mile away and wasn't shy about biting us on the butts to try and get a taste.
We have babygates on nearly every bedroom/bathroom in the house, just to protect all of the stuffed animals, garbage, clothes and books from her. She was the mighty hunter of the household, and we were her servants, catering to her pleasure or subject to her mighty wrath of impressive vocalization variety (always at maximum ear piercing volume).
The only time she cornered a cat face to face though, under our deck back when we lived in the city (she was about...2 probably), all she did was bark her fool head off while the cat clawed the living daylights out of her.
She was a drunken, hedonistic, rock-star, clownish toddler that required constant supervision and feeding. And she smelled. Look up smelly bullterriers. There are gas issues. Good lord are there gas issues.
But....she was widely loved but almost everyone who met her. She was endearing in ways unable to be explained in rational human words, adorable, mischievious and always smiling. She was the worst dog we've ever had, and our best friend in the world.
Her life will never be forgotten, and the hilarity of her antics will be recounted for years to come.
Roxanne, I love you. I know you're up there in your heaven now, eating everything, chasing bunnies, and frolicking with Phoebe and Barcley. 3 bullterriers in one place....whoever runs dog heaven must be cursing us right about now. :) I know you're at peace, you didn't suffer. So all I can say with my goodbye, is eat some couch stuffing for me, sunbathe every chance you get and know that you were loved here and always will be.
Goodbye puppy.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
HA!
I wasn't the most popular kid in high school. I mean, I was pretty much friends with everyone, but I had my nose in a book more often than not, and doing well in school was a bigger focus for me than partying. This meant that particularly with the older high schoolers, I wasn't around much.
But yesterday night I was informed that one of them has been crushing on me for a good long while, and is very intimidated by me. I find this amusing, since the boy's a genius, and being like.....8 feet tall. Which I am not.
Apparently now that I'm older though, I'm still intimidating, just more appealing (I was 14 when we met. He was 18).
Yes, I am definately preening like a narcissist. And you know what? It feels pretty alright! :D
Go me.
Though....he did confirm the intimidation theory my mom always tells me about in terms of guys not approaching me. Which I don't really know how to change. I hardly think I'm scary.
Maybe I should wear a clown nose or something. Or....be happy with making big strong boys feel small and scared.
Yes...I'll take option number 2 thank you! Bwahaha.
But yesterday night I was informed that one of them has been crushing on me for a good long while, and is very intimidated by me. I find this amusing, since the boy's a genius, and being like.....8 feet tall. Which I am not.
Apparently now that I'm older though, I'm still intimidating, just more appealing (I was 14 when we met. He was 18).
Yes, I am definately preening like a narcissist. And you know what? It feels pretty alright! :D
Go me.
Though....he did confirm the intimidation theory my mom always tells me about in terms of guys not approaching me. Which I don't really know how to change. I hardly think I'm scary.
Maybe I should wear a clown nose or something. Or....be happy with making big strong boys feel small and scared.
Yes...I'll take option number 2 thank you! Bwahaha.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Quicksand Dreams
First off: I'M ALLLLIIIIVVVVVEEEEE!!!!!!
Phew. Mono, BLOWS, but I'm pretty much over this round. Hopefully my body will figure out how to crush it so it doesn't haunt me for what remains of my summer.
But that's not really why I wanted to write about.
I had an AH HA moment the other day. You know those ones, where for the split second after you answer your own question, you're immensely proud, only to nearly immediately sink into a pit of "Well....duh. I'm a tardface." then to rise momentarily when you figure that maybe other people have thought of the same and there's bonafide research, only to sink back down to "well....other people are tardfaces too."
Said AH HA moment, came shortly after listening to Dane Cook describe his super large, loafer wearing, lightening spitting crab dream on his album Harmful if Swallowed and his rather impressive bitch fest about how everything in dreams moves at light speed, but you (meaning the person having the dream), can hardly move at all.
To be precise, the moment came exactly after I woke up from my 5th unintentional nap (thanks Epstein Barr virus!) in one of my sick days, where I had been attempting to move chairs with the Joker, apparently to fulfill his nefarious plot of removing all of the chairs from Gotham, when I realized that not only was I not helping at all in the moving, but it was because I COULD HARDLY MOVE! All of my limbs were like filled with lead, or chocolate pudding, or something else heavy and strangely unwieldy.
I woke up, pissed, thinking about Dane Cook and running through quicksand, and my ah ha moment occurred.
REM is an incredibly powerfully brain-wavey part of sleep, where you're actually closer to being awake than at any other point, except instead of awareness, you get psychedelic, non-acid induced dream mayhem. Which, since being so close to awake, if it had a choice, your body would more than love to participate in.
Until of course that giant monster you were karate chopping? Turned out to be your significant other, now with a broken nose, and that piece of wood you kicked out of your way earlier in the night was your cat. Also, don't look in the kitchen. It's not worth the heartbreak.
So to prevent us from attempting to be like Jackie Chan wearing teddy bear pj shorts and a moo cow t-shirt, our body puts itself into a form of sleep paralysis. While in REM, your muscles are essentially unhooked from communication with your brain, so you can only act out your dreams where it's safe to....inside your head. This doesn't usually happen during any other phase of sleep, which is why sleepwalkers are rarely attempting to swing dance with hippos when they go for a midnight stroll, because they're in a phase of sleep where their muscles are able to move, but usually too sleepy to but also ergo not dreaming.
Despite this necessary paralysis, my theory, is that if you're having a particularly scary/exhilarating/irritating dream, the part of your brain that tells your body to move around, probably is really really trying to get your body to move! The harder it wants you to move and realizes your muscles have their headphones on and can't listen, the slower and more painful movement in the dream becomes as you try and fight muscles that physically can't work. (Dunno about you, but I tend to incorporate sounds and things in the outside world into dreams without knowing it, like my arm falling asleep turning into it being bitten by a snake or a clap of thunder translating into my awesome drum solo while on tour with Three Days Grace, etc.)
Basically, you're dreaming, you want to move around, you can't move around, dream you stops being able to move around, you wake up frustrated and agitated and wondering why you couldn't outrun the firebreathing squirrel, possibly not realizing that it's the very mechanism that keeps you safe that also kills you every night in your sleep.
It's just a theory. I tried to research it, but I kept getting dream journals like: "What does running slowly mean for your life...you're pregnant" and so on and so forth. So until someone has a better reason...I kind of like mine.
Phew. Mono, BLOWS, but I'm pretty much over this round. Hopefully my body will figure out how to crush it so it doesn't haunt me for what remains of my summer.
But that's not really why I wanted to write about.
I had an AH HA moment the other day. You know those ones, where for the split second after you answer your own question, you're immensely proud, only to nearly immediately sink into a pit of "Well....duh. I'm a tardface." then to rise momentarily when you figure that maybe other people have thought of the same and there's bonafide research, only to sink back down to "well....other people are tardfaces too."
Said AH HA moment, came shortly after listening to Dane Cook describe his super large, loafer wearing, lightening spitting crab dream on his album Harmful if Swallowed and his rather impressive bitch fest about how everything in dreams moves at light speed, but you (meaning the person having the dream), can hardly move at all.
To be precise, the moment came exactly after I woke up from my 5th unintentional nap (thanks Epstein Barr virus!) in one of my sick days, where I had been attempting to move chairs with the Joker, apparently to fulfill his nefarious plot of removing all of the chairs from Gotham, when I realized that not only was I not helping at all in the moving, but it was because I COULD HARDLY MOVE! All of my limbs were like filled with lead, or chocolate pudding, or something else heavy and strangely unwieldy.
I woke up, pissed, thinking about Dane Cook and running through quicksand, and my ah ha moment occurred.
REM is an incredibly powerfully brain-wavey part of sleep, where you're actually closer to being awake than at any other point, except instead of awareness, you get psychedelic, non-acid induced dream mayhem. Which, since being so close to awake, if it had a choice, your body would more than love to participate in.
Until of course that giant monster you were karate chopping? Turned out to be your significant other, now with a broken nose, and that piece of wood you kicked out of your way earlier in the night was your cat. Also, don't look in the kitchen. It's not worth the heartbreak.
So to prevent us from attempting to be like Jackie Chan wearing teddy bear pj shorts and a moo cow t-shirt, our body puts itself into a form of sleep paralysis. While in REM, your muscles are essentially unhooked from communication with your brain, so you can only act out your dreams where it's safe to....inside your head. This doesn't usually happen during any other phase of sleep, which is why sleepwalkers are rarely attempting to swing dance with hippos when they go for a midnight stroll, because they're in a phase of sleep where their muscles are able to move, but usually too sleepy to but also ergo not dreaming.
Despite this necessary paralysis, my theory, is that if you're having a particularly scary/exhilarating/irritating dream, the part of your brain that tells your body to move around, probably is really really trying to get your body to move! The harder it wants you to move and realizes your muscles have their headphones on and can't listen, the slower and more painful movement in the dream becomes as you try and fight muscles that physically can't work. (Dunno about you, but I tend to incorporate sounds and things in the outside world into dreams without knowing it, like my arm falling asleep turning into it being bitten by a snake or a clap of thunder translating into my awesome drum solo while on tour with Three Days Grace, etc.)
Basically, you're dreaming, you want to move around, you can't move around, dream you stops being able to move around, you wake up frustrated and agitated and wondering why you couldn't outrun the firebreathing squirrel, possibly not realizing that it's the very mechanism that keeps you safe that also kills you every night in your sleep.
It's just a theory. I tried to research it, but I kept getting dream journals like: "What does running slowly mean for your life...you're pregnant" and so on and so forth. So until someone has a better reason...I kind of like mine.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Uggghhhhh
Uggh. I feel like I've been hit by a truck. Worst part is, I didn't do this one to myself. There were actually no hangover effects from my weekend of awesomeness. But I've been having reoccurring tonsil infections for the past 2 months that seem to kick off everytime I spend a night at this one house.
No no, I'm not BLAMING the house. I just find it odd. Though, if these infections are being caused by a virus like Mono (when I went to the ER the first time, they said it was a viral infection), fatigue can bring it out again. It was a fantastic weekend, but I didn't sleep well or long for most of it. So maybe it's just that.
Either way, I feel crappy, and while I should probably go back to the ER and demand a mono test to at least figure out what's going on, I might not. I'm so tired, going back home and just laying on the couch like an invalid sounds like a much better idea than sitting in a freezing cold ER for 2+ hours.
You know....it's funny, I don't like when people moosh at me when I'm sick. The whole, "Awww, baby, what can I do for you? My poor little girl", BLEH. But when I am this sick? That's about the only time I really wish there was someone I could just put my head down on their lap and just be silently petted.
Maybe I should commission someone to build me a robot. Or buy a really fuzzy, fluffy pillow.
Bleargh.
No no, I'm not BLAMING the house. I just find it odd. Though, if these infections are being caused by a virus like Mono (when I went to the ER the first time, they said it was a viral infection), fatigue can bring it out again. It was a fantastic weekend, but I didn't sleep well or long for most of it. So maybe it's just that.
Either way, I feel crappy, and while I should probably go back to the ER and demand a mono test to at least figure out what's going on, I might not. I'm so tired, going back home and just laying on the couch like an invalid sounds like a much better idea than sitting in a freezing cold ER for 2+ hours.
You know....it's funny, I don't like when people moosh at me when I'm sick. The whole, "Awww, baby, what can I do for you? My poor little girl", BLEH. But when I am this sick? That's about the only time I really wish there was someone I could just put my head down on their lap and just be silently petted.
Maybe I should commission someone to build me a robot. Or buy a really fuzzy, fluffy pillow.
Bleargh.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
PARTAY TIME!!!!!!!!!!!!
Let me preface this posting with an: OW OW OW, EFFING, OW!
Ok, with that out of the way, SQUUUUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! It is time for the PAR-TAY of the year! My cousin and dearest friend, starting from last year, has become known for having the best friggin birthday party in the whole entire world.
Last year, in remembrance of a party held when we were 9 or 10, we had the PIRATE PARTY OF EPIC-NESS. It was a night of fun, frolic, booty (treasure, not asses, though there was a lot of grabbing of those as well), mischief, mayhem and a barrage of water balloons by the so called "adults" while we were trying to drunken treasure hunt in the dark. Costumes were mandatory or there was a walk the plank (which basically meant you got smashed in the face with water balloons. The treasure hunt was for a bottle of mini rums, and the costume prize (which yours truly won with a jack sparrow-esque self braided pink wig, a kids pirate costume, ridiculous tinfoil red eyelashes, red fishnets and a crapload of make-up) was 20 gold coins.
All and all, short of a few gaps filled in by the pictures I don't remember taking, it was a FANTASTIC night, with good memories, good food and hangovers all around for the people invited.
This year....it's Halloween in July! Ghouls, vampires, goblins, ghosts, zombies, witches, whatever floats our fancy, complete with mood lighting, a smoke machine, water balloons potentially filled with red food dye!
This year, I'm a swamp princess zombie (GET IT!? BWAHAHHAHAHA)complete with awesome prom dress that was swampified by me rolling around in the mud and rubbing grass and dirt into it, which was surprisingly hard and way too much fun (which is really the whole reason for the princess part, since my school was too welfare to have a prom (plus, 6 people doesn't make for much excitement) and so I get to spend a whole night in a pretty dress), green and blue wig with twigs tied into it (cuz I crawled through a swamp, duh, new fake eyelashes of awesomeness, and generally gruesome make up to follow.
A bit more decorating, and the house will be ready for action. Once the booze starts a flowing.....who knows what horrific and gruesome things will occur!
BWAHAHAHA, PAR-TAY TIME~!!!!! YALL READY FOR THIS! *dances off stage right, music fading into the background*
Ok, with that out of the way, SQUUUUUUUUUUUUUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!! It is time for the PAR-TAY of the year! My cousin and dearest friend, starting from last year, has become known for having the best friggin birthday party in the whole entire world.
Last year, in remembrance of a party held when we were 9 or 10, we had the PIRATE PARTY OF EPIC-NESS. It was a night of fun, frolic, booty (treasure, not asses, though there was a lot of grabbing of those as well), mischief, mayhem and a barrage of water balloons by the so called "adults" while we were trying to drunken treasure hunt in the dark. Costumes were mandatory or there was a walk the plank (which basically meant you got smashed in the face with water balloons. The treasure hunt was for a bottle of mini rums, and the costume prize (which yours truly won with a jack sparrow-esque self braided pink wig, a kids pirate costume, ridiculous tinfoil red eyelashes, red fishnets and a crapload of make-up) was 20 gold coins.
All and all, short of a few gaps filled in by the pictures I don't remember taking, it was a FANTASTIC night, with good memories, good food and hangovers all around for the people invited.
This year....it's Halloween in July! Ghouls, vampires, goblins, ghosts, zombies, witches, whatever floats our fancy, complete with mood lighting, a smoke machine, water balloons potentially filled with red food dye!
This year, I'm a swamp princess zombie (GET IT!? BWAHAHHAHAHA)complete with awesome prom dress that was swampified by me rolling around in the mud and rubbing grass and dirt into it, which was surprisingly hard and way too much fun (which is really the whole reason for the princess part, since my school was too welfare to have a prom (plus, 6 people doesn't make for much excitement) and so I get to spend a whole night in a pretty dress), green and blue wig with twigs tied into it (cuz I crawled through a swamp, duh, new fake eyelashes of awesomeness, and generally gruesome make up to follow.
A bit more decorating, and the house will be ready for action. Once the booze starts a flowing.....who knows what horrific and gruesome things will occur!
BWAHAHAHA, PAR-TAY TIME~!!!!! YALL READY FOR THIS! *dances off stage right, music fading into the background*
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Relevance
Boston Legal is one of my all time favorite shows. It's funny, brilliant, cutting edge and always pushes the bar (HA! pun only just noticed). For those of you who haven't seen it, the show has a broad focus of characters that are all developed pretty well, but there are two specific main characters: Denny Crane, head lawyer (never lost a case) suffering from the beginnings of alzheimers, though he's convinced himself it's mad cow instead, womanizer and all around buffoon with surprising insights and the ability to pull case wins out of a hat like a magician pulls rabits and played by none other than William Shatner.
Second character is Alan Shore, a bitingly sarcastic, bordering on cruel womanizer who occasionally suffers from word salad, has a sex therapist that measures him for trousers (seriously) and can kick ass in court like NOBODY's business, played by the slightly rotund but always awesome James Spader.
Anyway, in a particular episode, Denny was chasing some skirt belonging to an old friend of his. The friend threatens him with a starting pistol, things get solved, and Alan comes in to talk about the incident with Denny. He makes a comment, about "How desperate we all are to be relevant."
I find myself feeling like Denny and Alan. Not that I'm going to go steal my friends girl, but I'm caught between wanting to feel relevant and wanting to be free. And I don't just mean relevant in life, but relevant to someone in particular.
I've had nightmarish relationships since I've started recognizing that people could pair up. I used to think that the only way to BE relevant, was to be with someone. Lately, the thought of being with someone in a relationship capacity, kind of makes me want to run screaming through the hills, burning the fields behind me, hoping that the person chasing me dies of smoke inhalation (DISCLAIMER: Cee does not endorse arson and would never do such a thing because she likes life and does not want to kill anyone.)
But heartless hookups make me feel cheap and not all that special.
So my connundrum, is the desire to feel like I mean more to someone than a f%^k and chuck, but to not have to be emotionally attached in a relationship type capacity, what with the sharing of feelings and the being smooshy and talking about the future together and...and....*trails off into over dramatic gags*.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not panning relationships. Just MYSELF in one.
So I've decided to find relevance elsewhere. In myself, in the work I do, in my accomplishments. So far, I'd say I'm feeling much better in general about myself.
But someday...I hope that I can find someone who doesn't make me want to dry heave.
Second character is Alan Shore, a bitingly sarcastic, bordering on cruel womanizer who occasionally suffers from word salad, has a sex therapist that measures him for trousers (seriously) and can kick ass in court like NOBODY's business, played by the slightly rotund but always awesome James Spader.
Anyway, in a particular episode, Denny was chasing some skirt belonging to an old friend of his. The friend threatens him with a starting pistol, things get solved, and Alan comes in to talk about the incident with Denny. He makes a comment, about "How desperate we all are to be relevant."
I find myself feeling like Denny and Alan. Not that I'm going to go steal my friends girl, but I'm caught between wanting to feel relevant and wanting to be free. And I don't just mean relevant in life, but relevant to someone in particular.
I've had nightmarish relationships since I've started recognizing that people could pair up. I used to think that the only way to BE relevant, was to be with someone. Lately, the thought of being with someone in a relationship capacity, kind of makes me want to run screaming through the hills, burning the fields behind me, hoping that the person chasing me dies of smoke inhalation (DISCLAIMER: Cee does not endorse arson and would never do such a thing because she likes life and does not want to kill anyone.)
But heartless hookups make me feel cheap and not all that special.
So my connundrum, is the desire to feel like I mean more to someone than a f%^k and chuck, but to not have to be emotionally attached in a relationship type capacity, what with the sharing of feelings and the being smooshy and talking about the future together and...and....*trails off into over dramatic gags*.
Don't get me wrong, I'm not panning relationships. Just MYSELF in one.
So I've decided to find relevance elsewhere. In myself, in the work I do, in my accomplishments. So far, I'd say I'm feeling much better in general about myself.
But someday...I hope that I can find someone who doesn't make me want to dry heave.
Monday, July 26, 2010
Narcissism
Once upon a time, eons ago, a self-indulgent peacock of a man by the name of Narcissus, who was so taken by his own reflection, he stared into the water at himself until he died and became a flower. (in a nutshell).
Whether or not Greek Mythology is ACTUALLY the reason Narcissism is actually a personality disorder has yet to be confirmed for me, but the point still stands. Narcissism is the total adoration of self, the inability to see flaws in ones actions, and the general disdain towards the common man as simple fodder for ones every wish and whim.
Sometimes, I wish I was a narcissist. Not so that I can use people, I'm sure if I tried hard enough I could probably get at least a few people I know to do my evil bidding.
No. There are days I wish I was a narcissist, so that I could look in the mirror and go: "Damn. I love me. I'm hot tamales and everyone else can just bite me and my hotness." I think it would be easier sometimes than the crippling self-consciousness I generally feel.
Though, I guess it wouldn't be all sunshine. People would probably hate me after a while. And since I would adore myself unconditionally, I wouldn't have started the workout program I have that's made huge improvements in my asthma and general health/energy levels.
It would probably also make me kind of slutty. Cuz hey, if you've got it, (and know you have it), flaunt it right?
No. Even though sometimes I wish I was a narcissist, I've begun to come to terms with the fact that I'm not. I look in the mirror, and see a million things I wish I could change. I never see results of my hardwork, no matter whether I've lost weight or not, I always seem to feel fat. Or those days, where you think you look awesome? And then someone takes a picture of you, and it's like....BURN IT!
But, you know what? This is who I am. Insecurity? I'm working on that. Bad body image? Thank god I fall asleep without adequate food, so no eating disorders in sight. Exercise? Becoming something I actually enjoy. Sexyness? I can get there :)
Narcissism be damned, I can love me without it.
Whether or not Greek Mythology is ACTUALLY the reason Narcissism is actually a personality disorder has yet to be confirmed for me, but the point still stands. Narcissism is the total adoration of self, the inability to see flaws in ones actions, and the general disdain towards the common man as simple fodder for ones every wish and whim.
Sometimes, I wish I was a narcissist. Not so that I can use people, I'm sure if I tried hard enough I could probably get at least a few people I know to do my evil bidding.
No. There are days I wish I was a narcissist, so that I could look in the mirror and go: "Damn. I love me. I'm hot tamales and everyone else can just bite me and my hotness." I think it would be easier sometimes than the crippling self-consciousness I generally feel.
Though, I guess it wouldn't be all sunshine. People would probably hate me after a while. And since I would adore myself unconditionally, I wouldn't have started the workout program I have that's made huge improvements in my asthma and general health/energy levels.
It would probably also make me kind of slutty. Cuz hey, if you've got it, (and know you have it), flaunt it right?
No. Even though sometimes I wish I was a narcissist, I've begun to come to terms with the fact that I'm not. I look in the mirror, and see a million things I wish I could change. I never see results of my hardwork, no matter whether I've lost weight or not, I always seem to feel fat. Or those days, where you think you look awesome? And then someone takes a picture of you, and it's like....BURN IT!
But, you know what? This is who I am. Insecurity? I'm working on that. Bad body image? Thank god I fall asleep without adequate food, so no eating disorders in sight. Exercise? Becoming something I actually enjoy. Sexyness? I can get there :)
Narcissism be damned, I can love me without it.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
The Big Event (as written after they were over)
So our big event has come and gone, and it was AWESOME. Not only did I feel quasi important in how the event ran/turned out, I had a lot of fun doing it, even though I ended up so tired I was ready to drop. Let's break it down,
Thursday was technically the first event, but I had the day off and spent most of it, sleeping, swimming and running 5 miles.
Friday:
I got into work about noon, only to realize that no one I needed to talk to was anywhere in the vicinity and I had no idea what had happened on said wonderful lazy Thursday, so I stood around aimlessly for a good 20 minutes before I could find purpose again. The afternoon disappeared on me, and before I knew it, my volunteers were showing up at 4:30, with me having planned nothing for them to do yet.
So I dazzled them with my witty banter, ran away to have 5 minutes to myself, and immediately set all the men to lifting heavy things. Cuz why not. It didn't take too long to get everything set up, and despite being harassed by a guy who wanted to dance on the stage and was getting a little too close for comfort, the event was on its way.
We had three groups that night, the first being a set of Celtic Dancers, who were adorable (some were really young) and actually really good. The second was a duo called Beckon. There were AMAZING. And finally, a celtic music group called Scatter the Cats that had me toe-tapping and dork-dancing everytime I had to walk somewhere, which was frequently and more often than not, required me running around.
I was here until 9:15 when we finally finished slugging huge coolers still full of pop and the music finally came to a halt. It was a long day, but worth it.
Saturday:
The day started at 8am (which meant leaving my house at 7am, which meant being up at 5:30am). I had it all planned out what I had to accomplish, but of course, best laid plans and all that. I ended up slugging coolers again, though not quite the same distance. When my volunteers started arriving at 8:30am, it took a while to get them all congregated in the same spot, and even longer to convince them that "Yes, we wanted them at their stations at 9am, and NO they couldn't leave since we'd be leaving them with a loaner cell phone and a cash box".
With enough persistence, a couple bottles of water and the promise of muffins though (food bribes always work early in the morning), my volunteers were settled, people were wandering in and the day was underway despite it being muggy, damp with a whole heap of threatening clouds.
I didn't hear much of the music, I spent 90% of the day on my feet walking back and forth from the museum to all of the different areas, or walking the perimeter to check on my gates. My volunteers were fantastic, no one passed out from heat stroke or dehydration, nobody whined or complained, everyone got fed and nobody stole money either!
The weather held out mostly for us too. It started to rain at 2, and the boss lady pulled the gates around 2:30, nearly 3pm, then more slugging of stuff began.
But all in all, it was a great day. My parents slept from 7pm on last night, but I got the best kind of pizza out of the deal, along with a strong sense of accomplishment and sore feet.
I'm kind of sad it's over actually. Now it's back to cataloging. But at least I did it, and everyone had a blast.
Now if I can just catch up on the sleep, everything should be peaches.
Thursday was technically the first event, but I had the day off and spent most of it, sleeping, swimming and running 5 miles.
Friday:
I got into work about noon, only to realize that no one I needed to talk to was anywhere in the vicinity and I had no idea what had happened on said wonderful lazy Thursday, so I stood around aimlessly for a good 20 minutes before I could find purpose again. The afternoon disappeared on me, and before I knew it, my volunteers were showing up at 4:30, with me having planned nothing for them to do yet.
So I dazzled them with my witty banter, ran away to have 5 minutes to myself, and immediately set all the men to lifting heavy things. Cuz why not. It didn't take too long to get everything set up, and despite being harassed by a guy who wanted to dance on the stage and was getting a little too close for comfort, the event was on its way.
We had three groups that night, the first being a set of Celtic Dancers, who were adorable (some were really young) and actually really good. The second was a duo called Beckon. There were AMAZING. And finally, a celtic music group called Scatter the Cats that had me toe-tapping and dork-dancing everytime I had to walk somewhere, which was frequently and more often than not, required me running around.
I was here until 9:15 when we finally finished slugging huge coolers still full of pop and the music finally came to a halt. It was a long day, but worth it.
Saturday:
The day started at 8am (which meant leaving my house at 7am, which meant being up at 5:30am). I had it all planned out what I had to accomplish, but of course, best laid plans and all that. I ended up slugging coolers again, though not quite the same distance. When my volunteers started arriving at 8:30am, it took a while to get them all congregated in the same spot, and even longer to convince them that "Yes, we wanted them at their stations at 9am, and NO they couldn't leave since we'd be leaving them with a loaner cell phone and a cash box".
With enough persistence, a couple bottles of water and the promise of muffins though (food bribes always work early in the morning), my volunteers were settled, people were wandering in and the day was underway despite it being muggy, damp with a whole heap of threatening clouds.
I didn't hear much of the music, I spent 90% of the day on my feet walking back and forth from the museum to all of the different areas, or walking the perimeter to check on my gates. My volunteers were fantastic, no one passed out from heat stroke or dehydration, nobody whined or complained, everyone got fed and nobody stole money either!
The weather held out mostly for us too. It started to rain at 2, and the boss lady pulled the gates around 2:30, nearly 3pm, then more slugging of stuff began.
But all in all, it was a great day. My parents slept from 7pm on last night, but I got the best kind of pizza out of the deal, along with a strong sense of accomplishment and sore feet.
I'm kind of sad it's over actually. Now it's back to cataloging. But at least I did it, and everyone had a blast.
Now if I can just catch up on the sleep, everything should be peaches.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
A little bit of reality
So about a month or so ago, I was at the doctors office for my annual, totally routine physical which (while more intrusive now than it once was) is barely considered a blip on my radar of things to be overly concerned about.
Three weeks go by, no phone calls, I figure all is well and promptly forget I even went. Then last week, I see her number pop up on a missed call, but there's no voicemail and no attempt to call back. Knowing from previous experience, that if the situation called for urgency, she would have called back from her home number I was hardly concerned and figured her evil psycho-wench of an assistant just dialed the wrong number or something.
Then I see a missed call Monday afternoon (she has the most uncanny knack for calling when I'm away from my phone) and this time there's a voicemail attached. So now I'm a bit concerned, but I pick up the message and she says there's no urgency but she has some results so just give her a shout.
Ok, sounds good. I figure she's going to yell at me for not taking the 2000mg of vitamin D a day like I'm supposed to, but usually forget during the summer. I call and leave her a message to let her know I've gotten her messages (redundant since she asked me to call her, but she's a doctor, I can't ignore her)and if she beats me to it, she can call in the morning.
And she does. 8:38 am, while in the car, my phone goes off. Pulling over in what I'm sure was the most badly executed pulling over a person could do, I fumble the phone open. My doctor is fairly militant, and usually just gets straight to the point. So I knew the news had a freakout factor when she started it off with, "There's nothing to be concerned about, and this isn't an emergency." OOOOOOOkkkkay, way to boost the confidence.
Apparently, my pap came back and things have "changed a little", whatever the hell that's supposed to mean to me. Did my cervix invert itself? Are there palm trees growing in there? Inclement weather differences?
Kidding aside, I've been assured it's "NOWHERE near cancer" and there's a 95% chance this will turn out to be nothing, but should the 5% occur, she's got a specialist in mind. After the initial brain reboot, my first thought was that I'm glad she's watching out for me. The second thought was, Goddammit I have to go back in November to go through another exam. Third though was, I really wish she had been calling to yell at me.
Though I'd hardly say I'm writing up my will, I'm understandably a smidge concerned and have been told to call in with anything that may worry me, like stabbing pain that isn't cramp related or if the palm trees suddenly turn into pumpkins (which I can imagine would contribute greatly to the above formentioned warning about stabbing pains).
Until November, I've been told there's no point in worrying. But I can't help but feel the reality check.
Three weeks go by, no phone calls, I figure all is well and promptly forget I even went. Then last week, I see her number pop up on a missed call, but there's no voicemail and no attempt to call back. Knowing from previous experience, that if the situation called for urgency, she would have called back from her home number I was hardly concerned and figured her evil psycho-wench of an assistant just dialed the wrong number or something.
Then I see a missed call Monday afternoon (she has the most uncanny knack for calling when I'm away from my phone) and this time there's a voicemail attached. So now I'm a bit concerned, but I pick up the message and she says there's no urgency but she has some results so just give her a shout.
Ok, sounds good. I figure she's going to yell at me for not taking the 2000mg of vitamin D a day like I'm supposed to, but usually forget during the summer. I call and leave her a message to let her know I've gotten her messages (redundant since she asked me to call her, but she's a doctor, I can't ignore her)and if she beats me to it, she can call in the morning.
And she does. 8:38 am, while in the car, my phone goes off. Pulling over in what I'm sure was the most badly executed pulling over a person could do, I fumble the phone open. My doctor is fairly militant, and usually just gets straight to the point. So I knew the news had a freakout factor when she started it off with, "There's nothing to be concerned about, and this isn't an emergency." OOOOOOOkkkkay, way to boost the confidence.
Apparently, my pap came back and things have "changed a little", whatever the hell that's supposed to mean to me. Did my cervix invert itself? Are there palm trees growing in there? Inclement weather differences?
Kidding aside, I've been assured it's "NOWHERE near cancer" and there's a 95% chance this will turn out to be nothing, but should the 5% occur, she's got a specialist in mind. After the initial brain reboot, my first thought was that I'm glad she's watching out for me. The second thought was, Goddammit I have to go back in November to go through another exam. Third though was, I really wish she had been calling to yell at me.
Though I'd hardly say I'm writing up my will, I'm understandably a smidge concerned and have been told to call in with anything that may worry me, like stabbing pain that isn't cramp related or if the palm trees suddenly turn into pumpkins (which I can imagine would contribute greatly to the above formentioned warning about stabbing pains).
Until November, I've been told there's no point in worrying. But I can't help but feel the reality check.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Bugs Bugs Bugs
Little while ago, I posted about how much I like butterflies. Alas, I'm not ashamed to say, that I'm totally speciest when it comes to our insect friends. I like butterflies, but certain kinds of caterpillars freak me out to no end.
Silverfish? Like the one I just found in my museum? *GAG* Are hideous, skittery things that should be disposed of as quickly as possible.
Earwigs? *ALSO GAG* Found one in a pot of my conditioner. I must have left the lid slightly askew. $5 isn't worth picking out a dead earwig. Luckily the pot was almost empty. I don't think I even picked it up, I just swatted it straight into the garbage can.
Hornets and Wasps? I'm not afraid of, but they are evil. Pure evil. I bet if you magnified them, they've got little 666 tattoos, or upside down pentacles on them or something. Maybe the satanic goat.
Bees and I are pretty chill. I leave them alone, they leave me alone. Except the little ground nesting bees. They are also evil, though on a smaller scale. Like pre-natal Damien.
Ants are irritating, they occasionally bite/sting and if I had to contend with some of the types of ants that live in various parts of brazil and other rainforesty places (ants with names like the Bullet Ant, or an ant that grows up to an inch long, jumps out of the trees to land on you if you get too close and shrieks at you).
But my all time most terrifying insect is The Centipede. (Dunh Dunh DUHHHHHHH)
When I was 6, vacuuming the living room (still at the age where washing or vacuuming the floor made me feel like Cinderella and it was considered a fun thing), I peeked into this giant urn thing my mom used for large house plants, and there was this HUMONGOUS centipede crawling around in it. Naturally, I was slightly wary, it's the first recollection I have of seeing a bug like that.
So my dad says, "Well, don't worry, just suck it up in the vacuum." And like the trusting little girl I was, "Ok Daddy."
So I'm coming at this thing, with a giant vaccum in my hand, and it's skittering around being gross and creepy, and JUST as I manage to suck it up with the vacuum, my dad comes up from behind (with actually admirable timing looking back), grabs me around the sides and screams, "WATCH OUT FOR HIS TEETH!!!!!"
I dropped the vacuum, shrieking like a banshee, tore up to my room and wouldn't set foot on the floor for the rest of the day.
I laugh about that story ALL the time when people ask my why I'm such a baby when it comes to centipedes. But honestly, when I see one, or even glimpse one out of the corner of my eye streaking across the floor, I turn into the stereotypical 50's housewife in cartoons who jumps up on a chair screaming and tipy-toe dancing in hysterics.
I'll be such a bad example for my own kids some day. "Umm...Daddy? Why is Mommy screaming on top of the table?" "Well kids, Mommy has issues. Lets go get some ice cream."
Actually, hopefully my significant other will be nice enough to come save me by squishing said bug. Cuz seriously, I won't get off the table. It's a totally subconscious reaction.
And of course, I live in the country right now. VIVA LES INSECTES!
Silverfish? Like the one I just found in my museum? *GAG* Are hideous, skittery things that should be disposed of as quickly as possible.
Earwigs? *ALSO GAG* Found one in a pot of my conditioner. I must have left the lid slightly askew. $5 isn't worth picking out a dead earwig. Luckily the pot was almost empty. I don't think I even picked it up, I just swatted it straight into the garbage can.
Hornets and Wasps? I'm not afraid of, but they are evil. Pure evil. I bet if you magnified them, they've got little 666 tattoos, or upside down pentacles on them or something. Maybe the satanic goat.
Bees and I are pretty chill. I leave them alone, they leave me alone. Except the little ground nesting bees. They are also evil, though on a smaller scale. Like pre-natal Damien.
Ants are irritating, they occasionally bite/sting and if I had to contend with some of the types of ants that live in various parts of brazil and other rainforesty places (ants with names like the Bullet Ant, or an ant that grows up to an inch long, jumps out of the trees to land on you if you get too close and shrieks at you).
But my all time most terrifying insect is The Centipede. (Dunh Dunh DUHHHHHHH)
When I was 6, vacuuming the living room (still at the age where washing or vacuuming the floor made me feel like Cinderella and it was considered a fun thing), I peeked into this giant urn thing my mom used for large house plants, and there was this HUMONGOUS centipede crawling around in it. Naturally, I was slightly wary, it's the first recollection I have of seeing a bug like that.
So my dad says, "Well, don't worry, just suck it up in the vacuum." And like the trusting little girl I was, "Ok Daddy."
So I'm coming at this thing, with a giant vaccum in my hand, and it's skittering around being gross and creepy, and JUST as I manage to suck it up with the vacuum, my dad comes up from behind (with actually admirable timing looking back), grabs me around the sides and screams, "WATCH OUT FOR HIS TEETH!!!!!"
I dropped the vacuum, shrieking like a banshee, tore up to my room and wouldn't set foot on the floor for the rest of the day.
I laugh about that story ALL the time when people ask my why I'm such a baby when it comes to centipedes. But honestly, when I see one, or even glimpse one out of the corner of my eye streaking across the floor, I turn into the stereotypical 50's housewife in cartoons who jumps up on a chair screaming and tipy-toe dancing in hysterics.
I'll be such a bad example for my own kids some day. "Umm...Daddy? Why is Mommy screaming on top of the table?" "Well kids, Mommy has issues. Lets go get some ice cream."
Actually, hopefully my significant other will be nice enough to come save me by squishing said bug. Cuz seriously, I won't get off the table. It's a totally subconscious reaction.
And of course, I live in the country right now. VIVA LES INSECTES!
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
A Prayer to the Forest Gods
This event is NUTS. The amount of paper being used for all of the various components, is probably enough to have deforested an entire SNORKEL of trees. Since I'm a semi believer in karma/paganism and wiccan, I feel that I must offer something to the forest gods (one of which is apparently a friend of mine. I must have missed her promotion to divinity in my wreckless paper using abandon).
Here goes:
Oh forest gods of there and here,
Great keepers of the dainty deer
Guardians 'oer the hare and snake
'Oer bear and fish and placid lake.
'Oer birds and beasts with teeth most gnashing
'Oer mighty stags with antlers clashing.
'Oer bugs and slugs and crawly things
'Oer butterflies with painted wings.
From tiny flower to mighty oak
To moss and grass and faerie folk.
Peace be to thee with all your might
And forgive me for your wretched plight.
No malice lies within my head,
So please go smite my Boss instead!
Bwahahaha.
Seriously karma. Please don't hurt me!
<3 Cee.
Here goes:
Oh forest gods of there and here,
Great keepers of the dainty deer
Guardians 'oer the hare and snake
'Oer bear and fish and placid lake.
'Oer birds and beasts with teeth most gnashing
'Oer mighty stags with antlers clashing.
'Oer bugs and slugs and crawly things
'Oer butterflies with painted wings.
From tiny flower to mighty oak
To moss and grass and faerie folk.
Peace be to thee with all your might
And forgive me for your wretched plight.
No malice lies within my head,
So please go smite my Boss instead!
Bwahahaha.
Seriously karma. Please don't hurt me!
<3 Cee.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Simple Things
I forgot how much I enjoy simple things.
Like butterflies.
I love butterflies. To be fair, I love anything with fantasy-esque wings, so the attraction includes angels and fairies as well, but I really really love butterflies.
It just so happened, so does my friend. So, this past hung-over Saturday, with both of us feeling the effects of a few Tom Collins's the night before, we decided to head on over to the local Butterfly Conservatory.
Lame? Maybe. But we had an awesome time.
The conservatory itself is comprised of a museum aspect, where bugs are pinned with descriptors beside them, along with this strange exhibit about seeds that I never really understood and didn't much bother to read. And also, a live butterfly sanctuary type place, which is amazing. Of course, since butterflies are delicate, it's heated to about the temperature and relative humidity of a tropical sauna, but it's still awesome.
There are butterflies of dozens of types/shapes/colours and sizes. Finches that were just way too cute for words, turtles, koi fish, a waterfall, mist, sun, beautiful plants. We got to watch butterflies that had just pulled themselves out of their chrysalids drying out in the sun. A butterfly landed on my foot and tried to eat my toe-nail polish!
They flutter around, eat their fruit, try and scare you with their owl-eye spots, generally being beautiful and ephemeral and not caring about all of the people wandering around taking pictures. They're world is misty and bright and fractured in a way that makes me dizzy just seeing a picture of how a butterfly sees.
We walked through the conservatory twice, breaking out in the airconditining only long enough to mop up the sweat and breathe without the desire for a snorkel mask.
It was a devastatingly simple experience. But it was FABULOUS.
Finding joy in simple things? I declare you rediscovered.
Like butterflies.
I love butterflies. To be fair, I love anything with fantasy-esque wings, so the attraction includes angels and fairies as well, but I really really love butterflies.
It just so happened, so does my friend. So, this past hung-over Saturday, with both of us feeling the effects of a few Tom Collins's the night before, we decided to head on over to the local Butterfly Conservatory.
Lame? Maybe. But we had an awesome time.
The conservatory itself is comprised of a museum aspect, where bugs are pinned with descriptors beside them, along with this strange exhibit about seeds that I never really understood and didn't much bother to read. And also, a live butterfly sanctuary type place, which is amazing. Of course, since butterflies are delicate, it's heated to about the temperature and relative humidity of a tropical sauna, but it's still awesome.
There are butterflies of dozens of types/shapes/colours and sizes. Finches that were just way too cute for words, turtles, koi fish, a waterfall, mist, sun, beautiful plants. We got to watch butterflies that had just pulled themselves out of their chrysalids drying out in the sun. A butterfly landed on my foot and tried to eat my toe-nail polish!
They flutter around, eat their fruit, try and scare you with their owl-eye spots, generally being beautiful and ephemeral and not caring about all of the people wandering around taking pictures. They're world is misty and bright and fractured in a way that makes me dizzy just seeing a picture of how a butterfly sees.
We walked through the conservatory twice, breaking out in the airconditining only long enough to mop up the sweat and breathe without the desire for a snorkel mask.
It was a devastatingly simple experience. But it was FABULOUS.
Finding joy in simple things? I declare you rediscovered.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Cee 1, Art Project 0
KICKED, IT'S, BUTT!
Despite all my whining and complaining, I not only finished the two art banners in time, but did a not too shabby job (of which I only comment on since I spent over a week staying up til 1am perfecting them). Of course, the woman whos store we hung them in managed to rip one, which caused me to suffer a minor stroke brought on by blinding rage, but all in all, I'm happy with the final results.
I still wouldn't consider myself any form of artist. A wanna-be or poser artist I can deal with. But to me, an artist is someone who can see something in their head, and put it on paper/canvas/whatever. I can somewhat duplicate what I see, but what's up in my head, is trapped there for eternity.
Anyways, I kicked ass and took names, so yay me!
The first whole banner
And the interesting portion of the second banner.
Despite all my whining and complaining, I not only finished the two art banners in time, but did a not too shabby job (of which I only comment on since I spent over a week staying up til 1am perfecting them). Of course, the woman whos store we hung them in managed to rip one, which caused me to suffer a minor stroke brought on by blinding rage, but all in all, I'm happy with the final results.
I still wouldn't consider myself any form of artist. A wanna-be or poser artist I can deal with. But to me, an artist is someone who can see something in their head, and put it on paper/canvas/whatever. I can somewhat duplicate what I see, but what's up in my head, is trapped there for eternity.
Anyways, I kicked ass and took names, so yay me!
The first whole banner
And the interesting portion of the second banner.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
5 Ways Humanity is Doomed
So there's all kinds of conspiracy theorists, and humour websites that agree: Humans, are likely going to be the cause of our own demise. Short of course, of an asteroid the size of the sun smashing into us and either a) knocking us off of our orbit, sending us all hurtling off of the earths surface and somewhere into space b) knocking us off of our orbit, and directly into the sun or c) creating an ice age that kills every living thing on the planet, probably sooner than us so we can walk the barren wastelands of our empty planet before dying ourselves.
At least asteroids seem to be the next popular theory.
But I think we're dooming ourselves a lot faster than that. And not even in large, cataclysmic type ways. I'm talking about itty bitty little things that illustrate what lack of care humans have for each other, and therefore our own survival.
1. People will ram into other people in car accidents because they insist on driving drunk, or running red lights, or stop signs, but stop in the middle of a busy road to allow a duck to cross the street. (We're talking the city here, not the country, where road kill is considered a fast-food group for the ecosystem)
I was out waiting for a bus last summer one day, and there's a big park near the university I go too, so there's a lot of ducks wandering around. So I spot this one who had quacked rather rudely at me the day before, and he's heading for the curb. I'm thinking "Oh great, I get to see duck pate made at 60km an hour" but....I was wrong. 12 cars, 5 on one side, 7 on the other, all stopped behind each other (with no horn honking, yelling or homicidal attempts to pass the stopped cars in front of them) and waited nearly 7 minutes for the duck to slowly amble his way across the road. Score one for animal activists. Nil for humans saving humans though. Just down the street I saw the cops investigating a man who ran through a red light and managed to crumple his car against the semi-truck he tried to take on.
2. Conversation...is dead.
Have you seen that commercial with the girl walking along saying how she's ALWAYS facebooking, and twittering, and she just can't LIVE without msn, and she wants to be able to surf parked in a parking lot sitting on the hood of her car, and waiting for a bus, and ON said bus and never have to go more than the time she has to spend behind the wheel of her car (so...why was she taking a bus?) without internet.
I'm not even going to get into the "text speak" or "L33t" speak, because it's too painful. But seriously people. Ok, when I'm up in the country? Talking to people down in the city? Sure, I'm on msn. And it IS convenient to talk to people when you want company but have other things to do at the same time. But so called "conversations" with most people, now turn into either a 10 minute long rant about themselves, or a "Hey" "Hey." "How goes?" "Not bad." "Cool."
Why is this such an issue? Think of some of these kinds of people you might know. Now imagine having a heart attack, or falling down a flight of stairs in their presence, and they're the only ones to call 9-1-1. How comfortable do you feel?
Now you see my point.
3. Low Birth rate/Pregnancy
There are some legitimate reasons for this issue. 1) Birth control and the actual USE of said birth control (by some) 2) Female independence (no longer must we be housewives chained to the kitchen unless we want to be.) 3) The ongoing trend of adoption 4) The fact that immigration is making up our country's current population growth, so people haven't noticed an immediate problem yet.
So what instance am I referring to then? How about someone I know being given a diamond necklace for pushing out her second child? Only to thrust them into the arms of a full time, live in nanny (did I mention she's a stay-at-home mom? Oh sorry, that's incorrect, she's a Go-out-and-drink-and-party-then-come-home-only-long-enough-to-sleep-and-start-over-again-so-often-that-her-kids-don't-care-even-when-she-comes-back-after-a-week-away mom). This? Just depresses me. Though it may solve the low birth-rate problem, a generation of kids growing up thinking: "Dear god, my parents were assholes, there's no way I'm having kids of my own" could lead to some issues.
4. Media Panic
Who remembers swine flu? Oh, sorry, H1N1 to be P.C. Anyone? Yeah, it was a flu, that created MASS panic throughout the media, basically stating that we are all going to die, and partially blaming hospitals for not having enough ventilators to keep all of our flu filled lungs working when we're stupid enough to lick the pole on the subway and manage to get ourselves sick. QUICK, mass vaccination production! DON'T LET YOUR CHILDREN HUG EACH OTHER! ISOLATION, ISOLATION, ISOLATION! Soooo....what happened with it?
SOME people got sick. SOME people died. But, less people died, than the normal seasonal flu takes out EVERY winter. Why all the panic? First, the WHO, primed and ready for another disaster since SARS didn't turn out to be the pandemic they were hoping for, issued a pandemic alert, apparently without stressing to the media the necessity of explaining what the alert actually MEANT. A pandemic alert of 6, does not mean "batten down the hatches and kiss your loved ones goodbye, people are dropping like flies". What it meant, was that "this disease spreads rapidly (well...yeah, it's a flu, an 8-year old could tell you that) and is in many different countries (because we don't flu shot people in airports). That's all folks.
There are three outcomes of these false alarm panics (remember Y2K?) People are cautious and alert to potential negative health events in the future, and take measures to educate themselves and their loved ones on how to be safe and prevent infection or spread of said as of yet unknown ailment, in a calm and reasonable matter. 2) Boy who cried wolf. He got eaten when the people stopped listening cuz he screwed around with them too much. 3) Mass panic will consume the globe, until the government decides to pull an Outbreak, and nuke whatever city causes the biggest problem, then escape to Fiji to lounge around on the beach.
5. Reality TV.
I apologize to those who like it, and even I too have occasionally found the need for mind-numbing, quasi-entertainment. But when a show makes you feel like you're dropping IQ points...I can't even think of the implications of it all.
Imagine your doctor/health care professional/stock broker/childs kindergarten teacher watches The Hills, or Jersey Shore or Pimp my Ride or Cribs or Sweet 16.
I know. It's terrifying eh?
At least asteroids seem to be the next popular theory.
But I think we're dooming ourselves a lot faster than that. And not even in large, cataclysmic type ways. I'm talking about itty bitty little things that illustrate what lack of care humans have for each other, and therefore our own survival.
1. People will ram into other people in car accidents because they insist on driving drunk, or running red lights, or stop signs, but stop in the middle of a busy road to allow a duck to cross the street. (We're talking the city here, not the country, where road kill is considered a fast-food group for the ecosystem)
I was out waiting for a bus last summer one day, and there's a big park near the university I go too, so there's a lot of ducks wandering around. So I spot this one who had quacked rather rudely at me the day before, and he's heading for the curb. I'm thinking "Oh great, I get to see duck pate made at 60km an hour" but....I was wrong. 12 cars, 5 on one side, 7 on the other, all stopped behind each other (with no horn honking, yelling or homicidal attempts to pass the stopped cars in front of them) and waited nearly 7 minutes for the duck to slowly amble his way across the road. Score one for animal activists. Nil for humans saving humans though. Just down the street I saw the cops investigating a man who ran through a red light and managed to crumple his car against the semi-truck he tried to take on.
2. Conversation...is dead.
Have you seen that commercial with the girl walking along saying how she's ALWAYS facebooking, and twittering, and she just can't LIVE without msn, and she wants to be able to surf parked in a parking lot sitting on the hood of her car, and waiting for a bus, and ON said bus and never have to go more than the time she has to spend behind the wheel of her car (so...why was she taking a bus?) without internet.
I'm not even going to get into the "text speak" or "L33t" speak, because it's too painful. But seriously people. Ok, when I'm up in the country? Talking to people down in the city? Sure, I'm on msn. And it IS convenient to talk to people when you want company but have other things to do at the same time. But so called "conversations" with most people, now turn into either a 10 minute long rant about themselves, or a "Hey" "Hey." "How goes?" "Not bad." "Cool."
Why is this such an issue? Think of some of these kinds of people you might know. Now imagine having a heart attack, or falling down a flight of stairs in their presence, and they're the only ones to call 9-1-1. How comfortable do you feel?
Now you see my point.
3. Low Birth rate/Pregnancy
There are some legitimate reasons for this issue. 1) Birth control and the actual USE of said birth control (by some) 2) Female independence (no longer must we be housewives chained to the kitchen unless we want to be.) 3) The ongoing trend of adoption 4) The fact that immigration is making up our country's current population growth, so people haven't noticed an immediate problem yet.
So what instance am I referring to then? How about someone I know being given a diamond necklace for pushing out her second child? Only to thrust them into the arms of a full time, live in nanny (did I mention she's a stay-at-home mom? Oh sorry, that's incorrect, she's a Go-out-and-drink-and-party-then-come-home-only-long-enough-to-sleep-and-start-over-again-so-often-that-her-kids-don't-care-even-when-she-comes-back-after-a-week-away mom). This? Just depresses me. Though it may solve the low birth-rate problem, a generation of kids growing up thinking: "Dear god, my parents were assholes, there's no way I'm having kids of my own" could lead to some issues.
4. Media Panic
Who remembers swine flu? Oh, sorry, H1N1 to be P.C. Anyone? Yeah, it was a flu, that created MASS panic throughout the media, basically stating that we are all going to die, and partially blaming hospitals for not having enough ventilators to keep all of our flu filled lungs working when we're stupid enough to lick the pole on the subway and manage to get ourselves sick. QUICK, mass vaccination production! DON'T LET YOUR CHILDREN HUG EACH OTHER! ISOLATION, ISOLATION, ISOLATION! Soooo....what happened with it?
SOME people got sick. SOME people died. But, less people died, than the normal seasonal flu takes out EVERY winter. Why all the panic? First, the WHO, primed and ready for another disaster since SARS didn't turn out to be the pandemic they were hoping for, issued a pandemic alert, apparently without stressing to the media the necessity of explaining what the alert actually MEANT. A pandemic alert of 6, does not mean "batten down the hatches and kiss your loved ones goodbye, people are dropping like flies". What it meant, was that "this disease spreads rapidly (well...yeah, it's a flu, an 8-year old could tell you that) and is in many different countries (because we don't flu shot people in airports). That's all folks.
There are three outcomes of these false alarm panics (remember Y2K?) People are cautious and alert to potential negative health events in the future, and take measures to educate themselves and their loved ones on how to be safe and prevent infection or spread of said as of yet unknown ailment, in a calm and reasonable matter. 2) Boy who cried wolf. He got eaten when the people stopped listening cuz he screwed around with them too much. 3) Mass panic will consume the globe, until the government decides to pull an Outbreak, and nuke whatever city causes the biggest problem, then escape to Fiji to lounge around on the beach.
5. Reality TV.
I apologize to those who like it, and even I too have occasionally found the need for mind-numbing, quasi-entertainment. But when a show makes you feel like you're dropping IQ points...I can't even think of the implications of it all.
Imagine your doctor/health care professional/stock broker/childs kindergarten teacher watches The Hills, or Jersey Shore or Pimp my Ride or Cribs or Sweet 16.
I know. It's terrifying eh?
Friday, July 2, 2010
Ohhhh yeah.
Canada day was yesterday. Ooops.
I obviously KNEW it was yesterday. I had a short day at work, everyone's Facebook status' had something about "Yay Canada, You rule Canada, Let me have your babies Canada" but....it was kind of....blah?
I think the first main problem, is the fact that for the past, oh I dunno, 3 or so years, it's fallen on very inopportune weekdays. Like last year was a Wednesday. Joyous? This year, Thursday. Whoopie? Even if drinking oneself stupid WAS a good way to celebrate our nation, it's hard to cut loose and enjoy when you know that calling in with the excuse of "Uhhhh, I'm.....sick. (Aka, still drunk.)" is probably not going to go over well, and every boss around knows exactly WHY you're sick, and trust me, isn't buying it.
Second, on a more personal note, I love Canada. Seems like a weird start to this sentence, but hold on, I'm getting to it. I love Canada. I really don't think there's many other places I would want to live, except maybe somewhere in Europe. BUT (here it is) I don't actually ASSOCIATE with being Canadian.
It's not that I have anything against being Canadian, it's just not what comes to mind when someone asks me what I am (though of course, I usually respond first off with something stupid like "A pigeon, can't you tell?). I was raised in an extremely European valued household, with both of my parents only the first generation of my family to be born here in Canada. Most people would say, "Well then you're Canadian, so shut up."
But when I see some of my friends who ARE Canadian, like who have been here for years and years and years and years, all the way back to the first cavemen who had brains large enough to adapt to the cold weather and the bears over here...I do see a difference. In values, in actions, and especially in hugs.
For example: My European relatives? Even the 98 year olds, hug you kind of like you're in a wrestling match and the prize is something they want really really badly and they plan on winning by squeezing you so hard, your head pops off like a dandelion when you jump them at people. Hugging is like a full contact sport, and you better be steady on your feet, because if they take you down? They're probably getting up faster than you do. My Canadian-since-the-beginning-of-time older people I know? Do the touch-shoulders-ass-stuck-out-way-away-to-avoid-body-contact-three-awkward-back-pats-then-flee-to-the-farthest-corner-of-the-room.
I know I'm over generalizing a bit, my family is loud and pushy anyway and some people just think others are germ-infested mungus-monsters who don't deserve being poked with a broom let alone hugged. But it's just my own experience. And, I still root for Canada. I still love Canada and it's freedoms, and it's geography and abundance of fresh water. I'm just more inclined to tell people I'm European first. That's all.
So happy one day belated birthday Canada. Me and my German/Polish heritage love you.
I obviously KNEW it was yesterday. I had a short day at work, everyone's Facebook status' had something about "Yay Canada, You rule Canada, Let me have your babies Canada" but....it was kind of....blah?
I think the first main problem, is the fact that for the past, oh I dunno, 3 or so years, it's fallen on very inopportune weekdays. Like last year was a Wednesday. Joyous? This year, Thursday. Whoopie? Even if drinking oneself stupid WAS a good way to celebrate our nation, it's hard to cut loose and enjoy when you know that calling in with the excuse of "Uhhhh, I'm.....sick. (Aka, still drunk.)" is probably not going to go over well, and every boss around knows exactly WHY you're sick, and trust me, isn't buying it.
Second, on a more personal note, I love Canada. Seems like a weird start to this sentence, but hold on, I'm getting to it. I love Canada. I really don't think there's many other places I would want to live, except maybe somewhere in Europe. BUT (here it is) I don't actually ASSOCIATE with being Canadian.
It's not that I have anything against being Canadian, it's just not what comes to mind when someone asks me what I am (though of course, I usually respond first off with something stupid like "A pigeon, can't you tell?). I was raised in an extremely European valued household, with both of my parents only the first generation of my family to be born here in Canada. Most people would say, "Well then you're Canadian, so shut up."
But when I see some of my friends who ARE Canadian, like who have been here for years and years and years and years, all the way back to the first cavemen who had brains large enough to adapt to the cold weather and the bears over here...I do see a difference. In values, in actions, and especially in hugs.
For example: My European relatives? Even the 98 year olds, hug you kind of like you're in a wrestling match and the prize is something they want really really badly and they plan on winning by squeezing you so hard, your head pops off like a dandelion when you jump them at people. Hugging is like a full contact sport, and you better be steady on your feet, because if they take you down? They're probably getting up faster than you do. My Canadian-since-the-beginning-of-time older people I know? Do the touch-shoulders-ass-stuck-out-way-away-to-avoid-body-contact-three-awkward-back-pats-then-flee-to-the-farthest-corner-of-the-room.
I know I'm over generalizing a bit, my family is loud and pushy anyway and some people just think others are germ-infested mungus-monsters who don't deserve being poked with a broom let alone hugged. But it's just my own experience. And, I still root for Canada. I still love Canada and it's freedoms, and it's geography and abundance of fresh water. I'm just more inclined to tell people I'm European first. That's all.
So happy one day belated birthday Canada. Me and my German/Polish heritage love you.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Cancer.
I don't think there's a single word more devastating in the english language. Of course there are words that rock our moral fibres, that shock us, that instill hatred or disbelief or disappointment. But no other word, can instill the impending sense of doom (except maybe apocalypse) than Cancer, and I'm not talking about the crab.
I don't know anyone my own age with cancer, though up here, it seems a popular young persons death. I've known adults with it. They've all died. And my uncle has cancer. It's been 5 years, two surgeries that removed part of his colon and lung, 4 rounds of chemo, and some intense radiation. Now, he's scheduled for a third surgery that's basic intent, is to hollow him out like a jack-o-lantern, minus the ability to insert a candle to observe the pretty designs.
This is an aunt, whose first husband died of leukemia, no better than a vegetable, his eyes, brain, muscles, everything, totally liquified by scads of radiation that did nothing more than mow down a few cancer cells while the rest of them just pointed, laughed, and destroyed her husband and her daughters father.
Now, 20 years later with my new uncle, there was a toss up for a while as to whether or not he'd accept the surgery that we were all hoping would end the cancer, maybe for good. He blames my aunt for the illness, and generally hates the world. I had hoped he would decide to try to live.
But I didn't know his odds.
Even with said hollowing surgery, the doctors have given him a 20% chance of surviving past two years. And since the tumor is wrapped around part of the vagus nerve (one of the longest in the body that runs down into the legs), if the surgery doesn't go PERFECTLY, he could end up partially paralyzed.
Now, I'm definately not the person to go to for a silver lining view on cancer and survival. I'm a realist. So I always knew he was going to die. In my mind, I think I've already accepted his death. The biggest problem for me, is that when I see him? He doesn't look like a man dying of cancer. He doesn't look like a man with a simple, cellular anomaly that inhibits cellular apoptosis, allowing cells with mutated dna to replicate fast and out of control instead of dying the way they're supposed to.
He looks like my uncle. But my aunt's hair is falling out with stress. He's secluding himself away. He's selling his cars, the things he loves. He hasn't even had the surgery yet, he's scheduled for August, but he's preparing to die.
My dad keeps saying that 20% chance of life is better than 0.
I know he's going to die. I just wish he would LIVE with the time he has, with the chance he's given.
But cancer doesn't just destroy bodies. It destroys the lives, of everyone living around it.
It's by far the most devastating word in my world right now.
I don't know anyone my own age with cancer, though up here, it seems a popular young persons death. I've known adults with it. They've all died. And my uncle has cancer. It's been 5 years, two surgeries that removed part of his colon and lung, 4 rounds of chemo, and some intense radiation. Now, he's scheduled for a third surgery that's basic intent, is to hollow him out like a jack-o-lantern, minus the ability to insert a candle to observe the pretty designs.
This is an aunt, whose first husband died of leukemia, no better than a vegetable, his eyes, brain, muscles, everything, totally liquified by scads of radiation that did nothing more than mow down a few cancer cells while the rest of them just pointed, laughed, and destroyed her husband and her daughters father.
Now, 20 years later with my new uncle, there was a toss up for a while as to whether or not he'd accept the surgery that we were all hoping would end the cancer, maybe for good. He blames my aunt for the illness, and generally hates the world. I had hoped he would decide to try to live.
But I didn't know his odds.
Even with said hollowing surgery, the doctors have given him a 20% chance of surviving past two years. And since the tumor is wrapped around part of the vagus nerve (one of the longest in the body that runs down into the legs), if the surgery doesn't go PERFECTLY, he could end up partially paralyzed.
Now, I'm definately not the person to go to for a silver lining view on cancer and survival. I'm a realist. So I always knew he was going to die. In my mind, I think I've already accepted his death. The biggest problem for me, is that when I see him? He doesn't look like a man dying of cancer. He doesn't look like a man with a simple, cellular anomaly that inhibits cellular apoptosis, allowing cells with mutated dna to replicate fast and out of control instead of dying the way they're supposed to.
He looks like my uncle. But my aunt's hair is falling out with stress. He's secluding himself away. He's selling his cars, the things he loves. He hasn't even had the surgery yet, he's scheduled for August, but he's preparing to die.
My dad keeps saying that 20% chance of life is better than 0.
I know he's going to die. I just wish he would LIVE with the time he has, with the chance he's given.
But cancer doesn't just destroy bodies. It destroys the lives, of everyone living around it.
It's by far the most devastating word in my world right now.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Sharing is......caring?
On an update note, I am done one of two of the giant banners I was whining about in my last post save for last minute touch ups (and though the urge did strike me, I didn't resort to finger painting it, or degenerating into an infantile level tantrum). On that note, the one that I haven't finished....might still be incomplete due to some MEDDLING of someone not to be named.
Said meddler, and the subsequent fixing of my banner that I did NOT allocate time for, led me to an important realization (that fell about 30 feet from an epiphany since I had already figured this out at my job last summer, and then paced off how far away another realization of the same nature would be to the epiphany I had already had. Wait...what am I talking about? Oh yeah...)
I. Hate. Sharing. My. Work. When I'm given a job, I like to see it through. Alone. For reasons I am about to ramble about.
Now, I don't say this in the childlike way of "MY TOYS, I HIT." because I think most of us are past the stage where our first instinct is to clobber someone over the head (or sometimes in the face, depending on what exactly it is the person is reaching for) when they touch something of ours with the intention of asking to borrow it. Note I said most.
And yet, and try this on someone you maybe don't know SUPER well, but well enough to ask to borrow something, when you ask that person to borrow something? There's always that ".....*indrawn breath*....Oh, sure." "Are you sure?" "Oh....yeah, of course." Moment. In case you haven't ever been asked to loan something out, or are still in the phase of clobbering people to make them share with you, what's usually going on in a persons head (or at least mine) is "Oh. No. They're going to destroy it."
Because even though we recognize that we won't get clobbered for NOT sharing something (though we all feel strangely obligated to say yes to the borrowing question as long as whatever the item is isn't being used to keep you alive or isn't large wads of cash) since we realize none of us are infants anymore, we seem to think that as soon as the other person has our item in their possession.....they will in fact, turn into said infant and proceed to willfully (or negligently, it all depends) destroy the item they just borrowed, returning it to you either in pieces or worse yet, in apparent pristine condition externally that falls apart as soon as you touch it.
It seems to be human nature to feel like no one can take care of our stuff as well as we can.
Well, I feel the same about work I'm given. I usually don't expect people to push themselves to the same expectations I push myself to, at least not in daily life things, but if they horn in on my task and try to act like they know what they're doing, and then end up just creating more work for me to undo what they did? CEE GET MAD. CEE, CLOBBER.
So it's a really good thing I'm not 3 anymore. Because seriously. It would have been clobbering time. To the MAX.
Clobber clobber.
Said meddler, and the subsequent fixing of my banner that I did NOT allocate time for, led me to an important realization (that fell about 30 feet from an epiphany since I had already figured this out at my job last summer, and then paced off how far away another realization of the same nature would be to the epiphany I had already had. Wait...what am I talking about? Oh yeah...)
I. Hate. Sharing. My. Work. When I'm given a job, I like to see it through. Alone. For reasons I am about to ramble about.
Now, I don't say this in the childlike way of "MY TOYS, I HIT." because I think most of us are past the stage where our first instinct is to clobber someone over the head (or sometimes in the face, depending on what exactly it is the person is reaching for) when they touch something of ours with the intention of asking to borrow it. Note I said most.
And yet, and try this on someone you maybe don't know SUPER well, but well enough to ask to borrow something, when you ask that person to borrow something? There's always that ".....*indrawn breath*....Oh, sure." "Are you sure?" "Oh....yeah, of course." Moment. In case you haven't ever been asked to loan something out, or are still in the phase of clobbering people to make them share with you, what's usually going on in a persons head (or at least mine) is "Oh. No. They're going to destroy it."
Because even though we recognize that we won't get clobbered for NOT sharing something (though we all feel strangely obligated to say yes to the borrowing question as long as whatever the item is isn't being used to keep you alive or isn't large wads of cash) since we realize none of us are infants anymore, we seem to think that as soon as the other person has our item in their possession.....they will in fact, turn into said infant and proceed to willfully (or negligently, it all depends) destroy the item they just borrowed, returning it to you either in pieces or worse yet, in apparent pristine condition externally that falls apart as soon as you touch it.
It seems to be human nature to feel like no one can take care of our stuff as well as we can.
Well, I feel the same about work I'm given. I usually don't expect people to push themselves to the same expectations I push myself to, at least not in daily life things, but if they horn in on my task and try to act like they know what they're doing, and then end up just creating more work for me to undo what they did? CEE GET MAD. CEE, CLOBBER.
So it's a really good thing I'm not 3 anymore. Because seriously. It would have been clobbering time. To the MAX.
Clobber clobber.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Art Project
So a couple of weeks ago, at the place I'm working at, this co-op.......I hesitate saying the word student since she's 31 with a 13 year old daughter, but nonetheless, student ends up getting offered a better job that actually would PAY her, and give her a full time job afterwards. Since our place is a registered charitable organization, fat chance of that happening (though understandable. There's a reason that people VOLUNTEER at charities. Charities rarely have money for themselves. Because they are CHARITABLE. Meaning they give it away to people who need it more. With me?)
However, this particular....student....was the assistant events coordinator for this huge event (huge is relative when you're in the boonies. If the 3,000 people we're expecting actually show up? It'll be a mad-house) and the volunteer coordinator.
But now she's gone. And would there really be a reason for me to blog about it if this story didn't somehow involve me? No. So with the other student out of the way, her titles, and workload, now fall to me. Which honestly? I'm counting as a good thing. Sure, they don't pay me NEAR enough to put up with the people I have to deal with, but it's something credible for my resume, and I kind of like planning and bossing. Being volunteer coordinator means I'll have upwards of 60 people to boss around. For my first semi-management position? I'm good with that.
What's got me in a tizzy right now, is the Art Project that came along with this. We're partnering up with a local business that has two big storefront windows that I'm helping to fill up with schtuff and kerfluffle about our event to let the local yokels know what's going on. So I figure, a bit of manoeuvering, some froofing, fabrics, bright colours, a couple of...whatever you put into a display window.
Nope. She wants hand-painted banners. Hand-painted. Oooookay, blood pressure normal with potentially a slight hiccup of elevation. Oh yes, and how are my drawing capabilities? Cue long pause and hesitant intake of breath, which is completely ignored and filled with her own reassurances that I must be excellent or I wouldn't be standing in front of her, staring out of a huge window, blinking aimlessly into the sunlight and wondering why the heck I decided to volunteer for this particular task. Oh yes, and here's what she needs me to draw. An illustration. Done by a MUCH MUCH better artist. On the cover of a book. That the author is coming to promote.
Oh dear lord.
So now my bedroom has become a painting studio, with my 5 foot banner sprawled out across the floor as I attempt to paint a very complicated illustration so that it looks SOMETHING like what it's supposed to, and not like a junior kindergarten finger painting. My sister is less than encouraging in the matter and is more concerned about whether or not the smell of the acrylic paint will disrupt her SIMS time.
Unfortunately, acrylics don't smell like anything and so there shouldn't be any sisterly irritation in the future.
Shame. I have to get my kicks from somewhere.
Wish me luck.
Useless P.S.: If you're interested in learning about blood pressure, even though it won't help you understand why the thought of art makes mine blow through the rough, check out this article by a commenter. He's blog-stalk promoting. I think it's the new craze.
However, this particular....student....was the assistant events coordinator for this huge event (huge is relative when you're in the boonies. If the 3,000 people we're expecting actually show up? It'll be a mad-house) and the volunteer coordinator.
But now she's gone. And would there really be a reason for me to blog about it if this story didn't somehow involve me? No. So with the other student out of the way, her titles, and workload, now fall to me. Which honestly? I'm counting as a good thing. Sure, they don't pay me NEAR enough to put up with the people I have to deal with, but it's something credible for my resume, and I kind of like planning and bossing. Being volunteer coordinator means I'll have upwards of 60 people to boss around. For my first semi-management position? I'm good with that.
What's got me in a tizzy right now, is the Art Project that came along with this. We're partnering up with a local business that has two big storefront windows that I'm helping to fill up with schtuff and kerfluffle about our event to let the local yokels know what's going on. So I figure, a bit of manoeuvering, some froofing, fabrics, bright colours, a couple of...whatever you put into a display window.
Nope. She wants hand-painted banners. Hand-painted. Oooookay, blood pressure normal with potentially a slight hiccup of elevation. Oh yes, and how are my drawing capabilities? Cue long pause and hesitant intake of breath, which is completely ignored and filled with her own reassurances that I must be excellent or I wouldn't be standing in front of her, staring out of a huge window, blinking aimlessly into the sunlight and wondering why the heck I decided to volunteer for this particular task. Oh yes, and here's what she needs me to draw. An illustration. Done by a MUCH MUCH better artist. On the cover of a book. That the author is coming to promote.
Oh dear lord.
So now my bedroom has become a painting studio, with my 5 foot banner sprawled out across the floor as I attempt to paint a very complicated illustration so that it looks SOMETHING like what it's supposed to, and not like a junior kindergarten finger painting. My sister is less than encouraging in the matter and is more concerned about whether or not the smell of the acrylic paint will disrupt her SIMS time.
Unfortunately, acrylics don't smell like anything and so there shouldn't be any sisterly irritation in the future.
Shame. I have to get my kicks from somewhere.
Wish me luck.
Useless P.S.: If you're interested in learning about blood pressure, even though it won't help you understand why the thought of art makes mine blow through the rough, check out this article by a commenter. He's blog-stalk promoting. I think it's the new craze.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Chameleon
I mentioned previously, that I have a small attention span. Which is partly true. I have a lot of patience for things, but I get bored doing them very quickly. And since I look in a mirror at least once a day, (because putting eyeliner on blind usually leads to stabbage of the occular variety and a look that I affectionately call raccoon on crack), I tend to get bored with my appearance.
Now when I was younger, ie: in high school, it was rare to see my hair the same colour for longer than.....I'll say 3 months at any one time. I got away with colours there that were actually against the uniform code. Orange, dark brown, purple, plum (yes there's a difference), black, platinum, red, reddish orange, gold, pink, so on and so on. It was'nt always that my whole head was that colour, but usually enough to make people go..."Cee??.....Is that you?"
There was no particular reason for it. Hair can be cut, dyed, and if totally screwed up? Covered with a hat. It grows back, and there's enough potions and hair voodoo supplies out there to fix almost any mistake. Including leaving bleach in it for too long because the male doing your hair is kind of an idiot.
In a nut shell, I love hair dye. I love changing how I look, shaking people up. It's just fun. That is all.
Now when I was younger, ie: in high school, it was rare to see my hair the same colour for longer than.....I'll say 3 months at any one time. I got away with colours there that were actually against the uniform code. Orange, dark brown, purple, plum (yes there's a difference), black, platinum, red, reddish orange, gold, pink, so on and so on. It was'nt always that my whole head was that colour, but usually enough to make people go..."Cee??.....Is that you?"
There was no particular reason for it. Hair can be cut, dyed, and if totally screwed up? Covered with a hat. It grows back, and there's enough potions and hair voodoo supplies out there to fix almost any mistake. Including leaving bleach in it for too long because the male doing your hair is kind of an idiot.
In a nut shell, I love hair dye. I love changing how I look, shaking people up. It's just fun. That is all.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Jogging
So I'm trying to get an exercise routine going, but I have the attention span of a blueberry muffin and have yet to find anyone willing to torture themselves with me, and so exercising gets pretty boring, pretty fast. I live on a giant hill, so lately that's been where I walk. Down first to fool my brain into thinking this'll be a walk in the park, flat for a while with some beautiful river scenery, and then a grueling hike all the way back up.
This was going all fine and dandy with my fancy shmancy i-pod bouncing around in my pocket and my impromptu dance sessions frightening the neighbours. But then....DUNH DUNH DUHHHHHH...I got bored.
How did I cure this boredom? I decided to jog.
I know, I'm special. And this is what I realized....I really hate jogging. First off, I've got a decent amount in the chest department, and I curse the invention of a sports bra, because unless it's as tight as a corset to flatten those bitches down....it's doing squat all to stop the bouncing.
Second, I'm asthmatic, which I normally don't let get in the way of anything, but with all of the above forementioned bouncing going on, plus the general exertion...I'm huffing and puffing like a chain-smoker running a marathon.
And all this would be tolerable if the cars on said road (which is gravel by the way) didn't travel at the speed of just-slightly-slower than light, kicking up dust and gravel to create horizontal tornados that leave one feeling rather like they just crossed the sahara and leaves me finding small stones in such uncomfortable places as my ears.
Yet despite all this, I think I'll keep the jogging aspect in. Until I get bored. Then maybe I'll disco. That'll be a sight.
This was going all fine and dandy with my fancy shmancy i-pod bouncing around in my pocket and my impromptu dance sessions frightening the neighbours. But then....DUNH DUNH DUHHHHHH...I got bored.
How did I cure this boredom? I decided to jog.
I know, I'm special. And this is what I realized....I really hate jogging. First off, I've got a decent amount in the chest department, and I curse the invention of a sports bra, because unless it's as tight as a corset to flatten those bitches down....it's doing squat all to stop the bouncing.
Second, I'm asthmatic, which I normally don't let get in the way of anything, but with all of the above forementioned bouncing going on, plus the general exertion...I'm huffing and puffing like a chain-smoker running a marathon.
And all this would be tolerable if the cars on said road (which is gravel by the way) didn't travel at the speed of just-slightly-slower than light, kicking up dust and gravel to create horizontal tornados that leave one feeling rather like they just crossed the sahara and leaves me finding small stones in such uncomfortable places as my ears.
Yet despite all this, I think I'll keep the jogging aspect in. Until I get bored. Then maybe I'll disco. That'll be a sight.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Rainy Days
The part I love and yet despise about living in South-western Ontario, is the COMPLETELY unreliable seasonal weather patterns. Each and every summer, things are different. Last year was cold and wet, the summer before that was scorching hot and dry as the desert.
Lather, rinse, and repeat with a completely different bottle of shampoo because consistency is for suckers. Right?
Well it seems like the weather has FINALLY got itself in right. It's hot when it's dry, but it rains more or less regularly. Which is good because as much as I love the plants in my garden, renacting a scene from Little House on the Prairie by lugging pails of water out to them is not my idea of a fun summer day. At least not without the gingham and double braids.
A girl's gotta have standards.
But the one thing about rain I find difficult, is driving in it. I mean, besides the fact that people turn into giant morons who probably have trouble navigating a rubber ducky in the bath tub, let alone drive their behemoth of a vehicle on a slippery road of course. And at night, those pricks who refuse to turn their high-beams down, creating this wonderful double sucker punch in the occular region of glare from both their own car and off the puddles on the road.
No. What I find difficult? Is that rain very much makes me want to curl up and go to sleep. Which hey, at home watching a movie? A snooze is totally warranted.
But driving my familys' 7,000-pounds-when-empty, original-model-steel-frame-and-undercarriage, drives-like-it's-a-boat-already, GMC Suburban? It wouldn't be me overly concerned about curling up for a nap at the wheel (partially because I'd be asleep, and it's pretty difficult to consciously feel negative emotions when you're warm and snoozy). It's every other living thing out there on the road.
Which is why this morning, I was incredibly thankful for the freezer creating abilities of my air conditioner, and whatever ear-splittingly loud cd I jammed in there this morning.
Rain, rain, go away. Come back when I'm ready for bed.
Lather, rinse, and repeat with a completely different bottle of shampoo because consistency is for suckers. Right?
Well it seems like the weather has FINALLY got itself in right. It's hot when it's dry, but it rains more or less regularly. Which is good because as much as I love the plants in my garden, renacting a scene from Little House on the Prairie by lugging pails of water out to them is not my idea of a fun summer day. At least not without the gingham and double braids.
A girl's gotta have standards.
But the one thing about rain I find difficult, is driving in it. I mean, besides the fact that people turn into giant morons who probably have trouble navigating a rubber ducky in the bath tub, let alone drive their behemoth of a vehicle on a slippery road of course. And at night, those pricks who refuse to turn their high-beams down, creating this wonderful double sucker punch in the occular region of glare from both their own car and off the puddles on the road.
No. What I find difficult? Is that rain very much makes me want to curl up and go to sleep. Which hey, at home watching a movie? A snooze is totally warranted.
But driving my familys' 7,000-pounds-when-empty, original-model-steel-frame-and-undercarriage, drives-like-it's-a-boat-already, GMC Suburban? It wouldn't be me overly concerned about curling up for a nap at the wheel (partially because I'd be asleep, and it's pretty difficult to consciously feel negative emotions when you're warm and snoozy). It's every other living thing out there on the road.
Which is why this morning, I was incredibly thankful for the freezer creating abilities of my air conditioner, and whatever ear-splittingly loud cd I jammed in there this morning.
Rain, rain, go away. Come back when I'm ready for bed.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Leaves and Bridges
Everybody always says that burning bridges is bad, because you n ever know if one day, you'll have to cross them again. Which I suppose, usually I can agree with. Like, telling your boss he's a big a$$face and then throwing a handful of mud in his face, probably not a good idea. You never know when you're new boss might fire you for being, oh, I dunno, incompetent, or just plain crazy what with all the mud flinging and you have to try to go back to your old boss and attempt to explain away your insanity.
But we humans also have this concept of "turning over a new leaf". Which sometimes strikes me as sad that our most well-known metaphor for life (besides it being a highway of course) is that it's a leaf. And if you're able to turn it over, probably means it's already fallen off the tree and is just waiting for the snow to fall on it so it can rot into the ground and be used as food for the tree to survive and grow new leaves. Which, is fine if that leaf rotting on the ground is your old life. But not the new one. I think the term should be "grow a new leaf", but that's just my opinion.
Anyway, I digress, so, turning over a new leaf and burned bridges. There are some things in life that you just CAN'T go back to. Like that crazy man down in the subway who gave you advice about the mud throwing? Yeah, not a good idea to cross that bridge again. Burn that shizze down!
So in a nut shell (.....do you know how little would actually fit into a nut shell? Thumbalina, that's about it), in turning over the new leaves of your life, sometimes bridges must be burned. But contain that fire ok? Because smokey the bear gets really sad when your burning bridge ends up igniting the tree shedding the leaves of your new life and then starts a forest fire that ensures you won't find a new leaf for miles and miles and maybe forces you to come full circle and realize that burning bridges is really just a metaphor and shouldn't be taken literally.
Burn baby burn.
But we humans also have this concept of "turning over a new leaf". Which sometimes strikes me as sad that our most well-known metaphor for life (besides it being a highway of course) is that it's a leaf. And if you're able to turn it over, probably means it's already fallen off the tree and is just waiting for the snow to fall on it so it can rot into the ground and be used as food for the tree to survive and grow new leaves. Which, is fine if that leaf rotting on the ground is your old life. But not the new one. I think the term should be "grow a new leaf", but that's just my opinion.
Anyway, I digress, so, turning over a new leaf and burned bridges. There are some things in life that you just CAN'T go back to. Like that crazy man down in the subway who gave you advice about the mud throwing? Yeah, not a good idea to cross that bridge again. Burn that shizze down!
So in a nut shell (.....do you know how little would actually fit into a nut shell? Thumbalina, that's about it), in turning over the new leaves of your life, sometimes bridges must be burned. But contain that fire ok? Because smokey the bear gets really sad when your burning bridge ends up igniting the tree shedding the leaves of your new life and then starts a forest fire that ensures you won't find a new leaf for miles and miles and maybe forces you to come full circle and realize that burning bridges is really just a metaphor and shouldn't be taken literally.
Burn baby burn.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Token Introduction
Pointless Introductory Statement
Issuance of name, likely not full because of internet safety
Paragraph commenting the will's and won'ts of the blogger
Self-disparagingly humorous statement
Pointless rambling to not post something too short
Some form of self-argument
Awkwardly worded statement probably-better-used-in-a-phone-conversation-than-on-a-blog sign off
Restatement of incomplete name
Useless post script
Even more useless double post script
Total fail.
Check out BriTANick, this level of awesome can only be parodied.
Issuance of name, likely not full because of internet safety
Paragraph commenting the will's and won'ts of the blogger
Self-disparagingly humorous statement
Pointless rambling to not post something too short
Some form of self-argument
Awkwardly worded statement probably-better-used-in-a-phone-conversation-than-on-a-blog sign off
Restatement of incomplete name
Useless post script
Even more useless double post script
Total fail.
Check out BriTANick, this level of awesome can only be parodied.
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