Thursday, November 25, 2010

sluttin around for 17 years

Today is my fucking anniversary. Literally. I became a woman Thursday, November 25, 1993. Oh wait. Don't we become women when we start to bleed? That was March 6, 1993. Yes I was a late bloomer. Quick to get in the sack though.

This is the boy whose virginity I scammed ....

Yes, that is lip gloss. And yes, those are New Kids on the Block earrings. He let me dress him up like that mainly to deceive my mom in to believing he was a homo so she'd let us hang out in my room with the door shut. It worked. I think to this day, she believed he was gay. WAS. He has two kids now.

He was my first love. And even though I was whoring around by age 15, I'm lucky that I can (a) remember his name and (b) remember it as something special, with someone I don't regret. Well, as special as it can get without actually finishing. Ahhh, pointless teenage sex. We never dated in the four years we hungout, but there was always something stirring between us. And it used to piss his girlfriends the fuck off. These weren't make-believe feelings caused by bullshit he was feeding me so I'd show him my boobies. We slow-danced in my bedroom with tears in our eyes because he was moving away. Okay, maybe there were no tears, but it was real dammit. We're still waiting for the right time to get together for the real deal as a matter of fact. Our chances at a long happy life together were cut down considerably though when he moved across the country, got married, and had kids. Years will go by without a word, then we drop back into a routine of phone calls, e-mails, and it's like nothing's changed. A lot has of course ... He's traded his hyper-colour t-shirts in for army fatigues. And his chevy nova in for an airplane. And I've gone from laying on my back for three minutes to crazy sex maniac that demands at least an hour. That might be a stretch, but certainly, things have changed. 

And for your listening pleasure, the song that I repeatedly cried to after My First Love moved away ....

Friday, November 19, 2010

snow balls and eff bombs

And utter hatred (now that I've gone back and re-read what a hateful angry bitch I sound like ...)

This actually started out as a comment I was just about to leave at So ... What Else in reply to her blog about hating winter (go read her, she's very funny). I got way too carried away in that little comment box and decided it wasn't really my place to use such profanities on someone else's blog. In case you're wondering ... I am ok with most profanities. As a matter of fact, I don't know how I'd survive without being able to say Fuck when I need blow off some steam. How do some people not need to say that word? Must be nice to be so fucking happy.

Back to the snow. The goddam blasted snow whore. I fucking hate winter. I live dog-sledding distance to the North Pole where it usually snows from September to May. I hate letting my car run for ten minutes to thaw it out. I hate it more because I hate my car. I am lucky enough to have a garage. A garage that is on a slant and pools all the snow that falls off my car to the walls and make them mold. Good job dumb asses. But when I can't use my garage, like when I am work five days a week, my car sits on the street. Collecting inches of snow and freezing up like a popsicle, but worse because popsicles are nummy. In the winter, my evenings go something like this after work (because I am not Oprah rich and can not afford an indoor parking spot in my building):

-put on boots that have been drying under desk for 8 hours
-put on jacket & scarf
-put on gloves last because when I have to pull my hair out of my scarf, it gets static as shit if it's touched by the gloves
-shuffle down to the lobby doors like a big fat sumo wrestler sweating like a fucking pig because the building heat is turned way up
-step outside and almost get knocked over from the hurricane strength blizzard
-walk slowly and carefully because vision is compromised by scarves and eye lashes that have froze together
(at this point, I'm walking in either deep snow that may or may not be on the road, or on a slick sidewalk)
-huddle in a circle for 30 minutes at the bus stop with several other poor bastards who also are not Oprah rich, missing bus after bus after bus because more people seem to take the bus than drive in the snow. Idiots.
-try to keep my balance standing on the bus with 15 pounds of extra clothes on, on a slick floor, while sweating like a whore in church (like that? I've never used that phrase before but it fits here) again because of the 15 pounds of extra clothes.
-possibly get stuck trying to climb a small hill because buses are not snow buses in Calgary, although they should be, and most definitely get stuck behind some sort of incident on the road (cars that wont move on the ice rink we call our roads, etc)

-finally. reach. car.
-carefully, carefully open the door so the foot of snow on top doesn't fall onto the drivers seat. Most likely it will so I drop more fuck bombs at this point. loudly.
-reach over mound of snow on seat to start car, which sounds like a cat puking up a hairball because it's frozen fucking solid.
-get snow brush. Yell Fuck again when footing is lost and I'm now UNDER the car.
-get up, use snow brush to wipe off
-brush car off. Never look directly AT the car when brushing because that big gust of wind will only come at that second
-fuck. fuck. fuck.
-shuffle around the car brushing for ... oohhh .... three minutes, get myself up from under the car two more times, then hop in
-make phone calls, have a cigarette, play some games on the phone, listen to music, watch the fucking chaos on the roads build.
-Finally, after 10 minutes, the car is warm enough to move.
-doesn't mean it WILL.
-reverse. drive. turn wheel. drive. reverse. reverse. fuck. fuck.
-once out of the nice snow hole dug by spinning tires, sit at traffic light for three cycles each because only 1-3 cars can get enough traction to move at intersections.
-there are about 15 sets of lights between where I leave my car and house. You do the math.

All the while, heat absolutely cranked to keep snow and ice from building on the windows even though I can't fucking breath and am wearing a big puffy winter coat, long-johns under my already too tight pants and a pair of winter boots. fabulous attire for sitting in a car for 90 minutes. And the fun doesn't end there people. Once I get home, I have to shovel my way out of my garage and to the house. And shovelling is not easy like they make it look like on TV. I pull muscles in my hands most people don't know they have shovelling. No lie, one year, I sprained my thumb shovelling. Stupid whore snow.

Miserable rotten bullshit fucking winter.

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

happy pills kill sex drive

Sydneralla was born "at risk". So when a psychologist told me last year that she was at risk, I wasn't surprised. I was worried more about early experimentation with drugs or alcohol, given that her dad, all 4 of her grandparents, most of her aunts and uncles, and a handful of extended family are alcoholics or recovering addicts. My plan in that event was to throw her in rehab the first time I ever caught her doing any of the sort. Or even a young pregnancy because her mom had a tendency to be a bit of a slut. My plan with that was to take her right to the controversial clinic that makes pregnancies disappear, then move her to small town Saskatchewan where my faux husband now lives far away from us. I knew all the risks when she was born. And since then, all I've really tried to do was make sure none of that happened. What never crossed my mind over the last decade was that she was also at risk for depression. Biological depression to be exact. I have to admit I felt a little relieved when they told me biological versus situational depression. What that meant to me is that I'm not the piece of shit parent that I sometimes feel like I am. Albeit far from perfect, but at least my daughter can look me in the eye and tell me that I have given her a good life. When I was suffering with my depression as an adolescent, it was probably situational. It was never treated, it just kinda went away. I did however get knocked up at 17, so having a tiny person to care for kinda made the sadness over my shitty circumstances up until then seem a little less important.  And given that my tiny little person was absolutely perfect in every way, it was a little easier to coast through the last 13 years. Easier, not easy. In no way, shape or form has my role as a mother been easy. As any mother reading this will know, it doesn't matter what the circumstances are, being a parent is fucking hard. I know what my flaws are, I know the mistakes that I have made, and I know there are probably many more to come, but I again, I can't help but feel some relief. My 13 year old is physically healthy, smart in a way that I kinda wish she wasn't, funny as hell, has never had sex, has never tried drugs, and has never been drunk. Yes, she's now on Prozac, but she wants to enjoy the good life she admits she has. And embrace the fabulous person that she knows she is. She wants to make good choices and grow up to be successful. And with any luck, a 6 month round of happy pills and regular talk therapy will send her up that path. The good sunny happy path. And if nothing else, at least she's taking pills that are pretty much guaranteed to kill sex drive. And that alone makes me happy.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

Amish kids get sick too!

Weird thought that came to me when I left the hospital yesterday afternoon and saw an Amish couple coming in. They were obviously there to see their sick child. Amish people tend to stick out in general, but I don't know why it surprised me to see them at the childrens hospital. Of course Amish kids get sick too and where else would their parents take them? 

I was just leaving to pick some clothes up for Sydnerella. Her nurse told me she could have her clothes back yesterday after I had made the 25 minute drive to the hospital with clean undies, tooth brush, face wash (that they later took away), and some new socks. The kids in that unit aren't allowed their own clothes for the first 24 hours. And when they are allowed their own things, they are checked thoroughly. No cell phones, no iPods, no razors, no belts, no hand sanitizer, no mouth wash. I stayed long enough to play some cards - crazy eights with 55 cards made up of two decks, take a walk with her to the cafeteria for some fries, and talk to the psychiatrist that will be dealing with Sydneralla. It was about a three hour round-trip. It's a big city. It was rush hour. And I had to stop for a bite to eat. Alone. I'm waging war against my city and every damn parking company, so parking costs haven't been an issue. Sleeping and eating have been. I am lucky, though, to live at least this close the childrens hospital and not in a small town three hours away, to own a vehicle and afford the gas and all the eating out. And I'm also very lucky that I wasn't leaving the hospital after a final good bye. The childrens hospital is a sad place. Kids from all walks of life. With a million different stories. Some will never go home. I would have never imagined in the last 13 years that I have been a parent, that one day, I'd be checking my child into the psych ward. Or what's printed on the doors in the basement hallway - Mental Health Unit.