where would I be?

Happy Anniversary Louise Dean School,

And thank you for being here. I graduated in 1998 as an 18 year old mother with the help of my family, friends, and this school. I don't know where I would be or what I would have become if it weren't for you. The 18 months I attended was the most important 18 months of my life as I was given the tools, resources, motivation, and encouragement to tackle what was laid out in front of me. You helped me through the last few months of my pregnancy and supported me as I welcomed my little baby daughter into the world. And at her young age of 7 weeks, you welcomed her into your learning centre where you took great care in making sure she was fed, changed, attended to, happy, and safe as I was in class, earning the credits I needed to get out there and make something of myself. Or while I was in the lounge napping during spares trying to recover some much needed sleep that I lost as new mother. It seems like just a few years ago that I walked to the podium in your gym and accepted my diploma. And now as I raise my daughter into junior high school, you are celebrating your 40th year. I can't thank you enough. You will always be in my heart.

Sincerely,

Stacy (with baby-girl Sydney)

There! My tender side. Brought to you today as I think back to a time long ago, that doesn't seem so long ago. Waddling the halls of a school for pregnant & parenting teens, anticipating the birth of my baby, wondering where I'd been in the future. Well, here I am. Kicking ass and taking names .... or something of the sort. And sharing bits of my stories with anyone who will listen ... including those at Julie's place for Letters of Intent.

farkin winter

Winter Storm Warning : City of Calgary

Not a great way to wake up in the morning. Seriously, we've had enough! We're done! Winter is exhausting. And it's April mo-fo! Whoever built that little fort in Calgary way back when sure was a funny little fucker. We were took. I want my money back. I just want to be dry and warm.

Here's some snippets from todays news just to give you an idea of the bullshit that is my reality from September to May ...

"Snow and local blowing snow. Amount 5 to 10 cm. Wind north 60 km/h gusting to 90. High plus 2."

"Old Man Spring? Calgary's storm closes schools, cancels flights"

"Schools in the city are open, but buses have been delayed."

Bullshit contradiction right there ... Calgary's storm has actually closed out of town schools ... but whatever. I didn't mind driving around the idiot that parked IN THE MIDDLE of the street today to take his kids in to the school ... didn't mind risking my little micro-machine getting stuck in the snow at all. Idiot! But again, whatever.

what we were faced with when we left the house this morning:

what my back yard looks like, present tense. Let me reiterate - this is NOT a blog un-published from December, this is today, April 29:

And I'll let you take a guess at what this is:

Are you done yet?  ..... No, it's not just the snow. It's not just the outside of my garage door....

It's where I just fucking fell. Flat on my ass. As I pranced from my house to the garage because I was desperate for another coffee and ran out of cream at home. I can hear the wind blowing shit off my house, I can see the blizzard like conditions, but I just needed that damn coffee. And now, I need an ice pack. My back is getting sorer by the minute. And graceful I am not. I didn't go down lightly or in the fluffy snow that is fun to fall in. I went down like a sack of potatos right on the farkin cement. But I guess it serves me right from prancing in the snow anyway when I should have been holding on for dear life, but come on ... I've lived here my whole life, I should know how to maneuver in this crap. I'm starting to believe that I really am a masochist.

dropping the C bomb ...

I don't like the word. But I like the word. It can be offensive, but there are times where it can be absolutely appropriate. Like when I am going to drop it today. Let me start from the beginning. For those of you that know me well, but don't want to know too much, you may want to skip todays blog, I get a tad personal. I'm going to tell you the story about the first time I got my cho-cha waxed. What? Not a good word? Fine ... My vagina. About two weeks ago, I decided that I was going to get waxed .... a brazilian wax I figured. Yes, I was going to let a masochist with poor career choices smear hot wax on my pink woman bits and rip out all my hair. Down to business. The first thing on the agenda was simply to wait. Easy enough. Finally, I was getting a break. For those of you that are interested, I have been shaving for a few years, pretty much bald. Pretty much. And it's exhausting keeping up with T-Bone's schedule, I don't like the stubble or the five o'clock shadow, I don't like the itch that comes on roughly the fourth day, and I don't like the in-grown hairs that come with shaving before the itchy fourth day. So I had two options to choose between when I decided I didn't want to shave anymore. One was to go au natural. Which I am absolutely convinced T-Bone liked more than he'll ever admit because on about the 12th day of hair growth he was so into what was going on, he scored twice ... in 10 minutes! T-Bone liked tha bush. And the second option was to have every last hair ripped out of it's ever-lovin follicles. Because I have low self-esteem or some shit and feel I deserve to be beaten, raped, and pilaged, I went for option number two. The big day was Thursday, April 22. And yes, I am just writing about it now because I have recovered. Physically and mentally from the procedure. I am well enough to talk about it now without the memories sending me into a psychotic rant, rolled up in a ball under my desk holding my pink lady bits screaming to just leave the lil hairs alone ... I am all better. I swear. I decided to steer clear of salons in my end of the city, the Upper Hood and opted to stay close to down town. In a trendy upscale neighbourhood where surely all the services offered were to be top notch, for the creme de la creme of Calgary. I chose the Magic Room in Kensington. I made my way through rush hour traffic, my heart beat getting faster and heavier as the minutes to my appointment ticked on. And finally, I was being led up the stairs to a quiet room ... with a curtain. This really should have been clue number one that I was not in for an enjoyable experience. Picture Steve Carell in 40 Year Old Virgin screaming out AHHHH KELLY CLARKSON! I didn't think anyone needed to be in earshot of what I may spurt out, but at least a door, if not a sound proof chamber. Jeeze. Clue number two was being told to take off my pants without being offered a blanket. Great ... so that when I am laying on the bed with my snatch in the air and you open the curtain, the whole world can see? Ok ... I see where this is going .... So I explain to the lady (see, I'm trying to be nice here) that it's my first time and I'm not exactly sure what I want done. Definitely not a bikini wax because I need all the .. um, down-down there hair gone. But I hadn't decided between what they call a 'brazilian' and the 'playboy' wax. Which leads me to clue number three that this was just a bad idea all around. See, she didn't ask me to take off my panties (maybe why I wasn't offered a blanket?). Ummm ok, well I may not have done this before, but I know that all the hair I want removed is under those panties. And no amount of moving them over from side to side was going to capture all the hair I needed off. But the lady went ahead and did the bikini wax that I said I didn't want. When she asked me to look and see what she had done, I was confused. Still hairy bush? Just not on the sides at my leg creases? Wtf!? A wee bit retarded should we say? I explained to her again what I wanted my beave to look like ... and off come the panties. There we go .... Round two. I had decided to go with the brazilian, which contrary to what you read or hear, is actually completely bald from top to bottom WITH the landing strip. Full-brazilian, playboy, or exotic, is completely bald. When the evil whore is done round two, she asks me to look and see what I think ... (the C bomb's coming people) ..... Well, I'm left with a bald beaver and a landing strip alright .... that is way off the fucking runway. 

(my best attempt to illustrate what she left me with without getting too graphic)

She looked me in the eye and asked me how it looked. I glared at her with as much anger as I could muster after having gone through what I just went through, which I am assuming was A LOT because when I turned the question back on her, she suggested we take it all off. Ummm, ya fucking think you cunt! Round Three. I didn't think I could endure anymore. I have wax smeared on me again, hair ripped from it's follicles, skin pulled off my body (or so I was assuming at that point ... with the blood n all!) and not just any skin. My special skin. The skin on my most precious part of my body, the part that is to be treated nicely, with love and care. What you are assuming if you made it this far is that it hurt. Let me tell ya, it was a pain like no other. I birthed my child 12 years ago so I have had all this time to recover. And forget. What I don't forget now is the pain that was inflicted on my ever-so-special pink parts and how bad I wanted to punch that fucking twat in the fucking head. So, um, yes, it did hurt. Just a little. Having to go over area's more than once didn't help, using the same thickness of wax on all area's didn't help, and not having a good grip on the strips when pulling them off did not help with my near death experience. After 30 minutes of the ordeal, I was praying that I would just pass out so she could finish butchering me while I remained in a coma. The only relief was when she'd stop to apply more wax .. ahhh the soothing hot wax being rubbed on my beaten skin .... (seriously considering adding some wax play into sexy-time with T-Bone .... ) And when all was said and done, she still left some hairs that grow more from the inside (see illustration to see hair in the middle) ... She said it was too bad to go on ... uh yeah, cuz you're a cunt! I had to put my clothes back on without being able to wipe my hands off because there wasn't so much as a kleenex box in the room of this upscale Salon/Spa in this fancy-ass neighbourhood, I wasn't offered any type of soothing lotion, but I was offered to purchase a $30 bottle of some shit that is supposed to help with in-grown hairs. Like FUCK, that was not my concern at that goddam moment. I sneered at the bitch behind the desk as I paid and tipped against my better judgment because I was delirious and out of sorts at that point, and she gave me a free sample that she told me to apply when I got home. I was in a daze the rest of the evening, waddling, shifting uncomfortably, swollen, broken, and when I finally got around to applying whatever that free sample was, I was again praying for death as it burnt like a mutherfucker and I almost dropped to my knees before I could grab some water or anything to rinse it off. I wouldn't wish last Thursday on anyone and the memory will be with me forever. And I'm blaming every fucking man that walks this earth for doing this to me. To woman everywhere. Making us think, or believe, or feel that we aren't as worthy sexual partners if we remain as god intended - with a full bush.

(like how I threw god in there in an attempt to add more guilt, I don't even know if there is a god, or if he really cares what we do with our hair ....?)

2 and a half reasons to blog today

 have two reasons for writing today. 

Reason 1a is to announce that I rode a bike yesterday! Not a bike that sits in front of the  TV. A real fucking bike with two wheels. A bike that when you pedal, you go places. Places like the 7/11 four blocks away where the cashiers eye you funny when you ask for the air hose but don't have collateral to leave because hot air hoses must be high demand in your neighbourhood. Then you wonder how dumb they feel when you bring the hose back and tell them the last person that used it must have pocketed the connector piece that hooks the damn hose up to the machine (collateral fail?) and the hose is now a useless piece of shit. The kinda bike that takes you a further two blocks to another gas station that doesn't tell you you need to pay for air until after you connect it to your tire thus letting all pre-existing air out. Charging for air?! Really? At that point, you realize you're 6 blocks away from home, have a flat tire, haven't been on a bike in 15 years and are left wondering how the fuck you got yourself into that situation. That kind of bike I mean. So I let the pakistani man working the gas station eye me up with an attmepted seduction for a second so I could get some free air. Then I felt like a whore. But I left with tires that weren't being smooshed into the pavement and rode another 30 minutes. I felt great, that hassle was worth it. Until this morning when I woke up with sore arms. Wtf?

Reason 1b is to talk about Date Night. I've been dating the T-Bone for almost 3 years. Don't even start with the questions on when we are moving into together, or getting married .. NEVAH. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. And in 3 years, I have begged asked him to come to the comedy club with me more than a few times. It's one of my favorite things to do and "coincidentally" when occasions come up where I end up there, he ends up somewhere else. Well Saturday night, I trapped him. Big time. We had the night to ourselves and I had spent about an hour on the couch earlier in the day watching a hilarious guy on some stand-up show ... I got the itch. I wined and dined tha T-Bone then sprung the idea on him ... then I whined some more suggested we go to the comedy club. Just the two of us. It was either that or Bingo and I swear he was leaning towards Bingo. Really!? (I have a soft-spot for Bingo but he's a man dammit). But he caved and we drove all the way across the city with our bellies full of fabulous vietnamese food to watch some stand up comedy and laugh our asses off. I shit you NOT, we walk into the room that holds over 200 people, that has always been sold out every single fucking time I've been and there are literally 18 people in the club. 8 couples and 2 drunk girls in the front that ended up being half the entertainment for the night. The comedians were great, as always (see below for headliner), but I wanted him to see the act at it's best. But whatever. We were long overdue for a date night and I got laid and spooned when we got home, so it was pretty much win win for me. And that's really all that matters. 

Part 2 of today's writings is to join Ian and others over at The Daily Dose of Reality for ......

Read me, then click on the button to go read him and others. Tis very good reading ....

1 - Ever take a shit in the woods?

Hell no!

2 - If you won $1,000, what's the first thing you would do with it besides give me a cut?

Take it to the lucky lucky table to triple it, then to Vegas to triple it again. Then I'd buy a new car!

3 - What's your favorite phrase?

Are you fucking kidding me? (life and people tend to kid with me a lot and I like the F word)

4 - Fill in the blank - the world would be a better place if ______ left the planet.

Parvati! Oh, you said world? Well the world of Survivor would be a better place if her tribe voted her ass out. I want to stuff burning candles in my ears when I hear her talk.

5 - How do you take your coffee or tea?

(still lmao at Ian's answer ... )

double double or with lots of french vanilla cream ... what? me? trying to lose tons o weight?