Living in a Mercurial World and I am a Mercurial Girl

For Me

2011-10-18T10:58:00.004+01:00

The baby fell asleep feeding on my lap and I know if I move him he will wake right up, so we are both staying put. He's wearing a little vest knit for him by the BabyDaddy's Mum. The buttons are ladybugs which were originally on a bathrobe the BabyDaddy had as a little boy. The BabyDaddy brought round a bunch of clothes he'd been given and then took back a babygrow which says "I love my Daddy" on the front, because he thought I would never let the baby wear it. I can understand how he would think that, because he doesn't know me. The last thing I want is for the baby not to love his Dad. As mad as I can get, that would be all kinds of wrong and certainly no victory for me. Plus, it's already too late. The baby really looks at people, properly studies them when they get all up in his face, and when he's sure, then he smiles back. The only exception to this is his Dad. When he sees his Dad he breaks into smiles right away, without hesitation.

The baby stayed with me all last weekend. I felt bad until Thursday night, when I offered to bring the baby to his Dad for the day on Sunday. Before I extended the offer I wrestled with it, would it make me feel like a pushover, would it make me feel worse? But I already felt terrible. So I made the offer and instantly felt better. The BabyDaddy didn't take me up on it, but I absolved myself of any guilt once I'd made the offer.

I'm listening to the album I listened to the whole night when I was awake and alone and in labour. This music is soothing, and makes me feel focused. I bought a new ipod to replace the one I put through the wash, and my imac is too old to update the new ipod with the new itunes software and I don't know how to remedy this situation because I have no tech-savvy. I like this music a lot and I would like it on my new ipod. I do not know how to make this, among other things, happen.

So, the BabyDaddy and I argued tonight. I fucking bore myself with this update. We hadn't argued for 9 days. We'd seen each other most of those days, been civil, enjoyed the baby together. However, we'd not talked about anything. All the outstanding issues and gripes remained, shoved away in a corner while we breathed a sigh of relief and took a superficial break from upsetting each other and ending each visit with slammed doors. It was nice while it lasted, but not real and thus as unsustainable as the fighting.

Then, two days ago, at the park, we talked a little while the baby slept. Talking meant friction. The friction led to an outright departure of civility. I do not know what to do. He tells me I wanted this baby and now I'm moaning about how hard having a baby is. Yes, I have always wanted this baby. Yes, it is hard, but if it wasn't for him I would not be doing this alone, here, without any close familial support, and if it wasn't for him I certainly wouldn't have anyone making it this much harder, so yeah, he gets the brunt of my moaning. I have never bitten my tongue harder to stop myself from telling someone to go fuck themselves. I don't moan to anyone else about having a baby because 1) I love it and 2) I'm too busy ranting about what an dick the BabyDaddy is.

I went to the psychic circle last week, because I keep getting a feeling like someone is trying to send me a message. Every time I get the feeling I check my phone and e-mail, but I already know it isn't that kind of message. I didn't get the message at the circle, but it was nice to be there anyway. One of the people there told me to do what makes me happy. That's part of the problem here: Big picture, I don't know what would make me happy. I don't really want to leave Bristol but the BabyDaddy makes me want to get far away from here to get away from him. Canada is not realistically feasible right now. I don't know where I want to be. I want to be where I can raise the baby the best. Geographically maybe that is where I already am, but emotionally it isn't.

We are encouraged to be kind. My weekly horoscope began like this last week. If I lived in a movie, (and that movie was specifically Good Will Hunting) this is where I would be Matt Damon and Robin Williams would hold me and instead of saying "It's not your fault" over and over, he would tell me this again and again, We are encouraged to be kind. We are encouraged to be kind. We are encouraged to be kind.

In the park, in the arguing, we discussed Christmas and the BabyDaddy said he thinks 4 weeks is too long for us to be away. He suggested we go to Canada twice a year for a fortnight. Well, I can only afford to go once a year, so we go for a month. I tried to get him to agree on a length of time it would be ok for us to be gone for, tried to get his feelings and opinions on us being away for four weeks. I tried to get him to specifically say how long is too long, to set a boundary, to give a helpful opinion. He said he wasn't going to tell me what to do, that I should do what I want. So last night I booked our Canada flights. We'll be gone from December 9 until January 16. It's longer than four weeks but it's what I want, I can't wait to be away, to be there. When my brain is alternating between calmly reminding myself that we are encouraged to be kind and screaming "Fuck you!" I can think of the lessening number of days until December 9th, when I will be doing what I want, what makes me happy.

Nobody Parents Perfectly

2011-10-05T15:13:00.016+01:00

I was pushed into making a quick decision last night and I'm agonizing that I may have made the wrong choice. Or not. I don't necessarily want to change my mind, but I would like to make sure of the reasons why I made the choice I did. I'm afraid I decided based on my own feelings of isolation and greediness, instead of valid reasons pertaining to care and fairness. I know I'm hurt, but I want to make sure my choice isn't ultimately hurting my son more than anyone.

Yesterday the BabyDaddy asked if he could have the baby from Saturday until Sunday. He asked me this via text, because we barely speak anymore. It has been this way for nearly a month now. It sucks and it isn't getting better. Sometimes when you have a fight with someone, it lasts a short time and then you make up and things get back to normal and nice, or at least civil. But then sometimes things go awry and stay that way, and after a while the frostiness becomes the new normal. We haven't spoken to each other nicely or without fighting in ages. This atmosphere is uncomfortable in many ways. Neither of us is allowed to be human; if one of us is late or says the wrong thing or forgets something we've said, then the other person pounces to point out the failing immediately and triumphantly.

No-one would willing tolerate such a toxic relationship, yet because of the Little One, extricating our lives from each other is impossible. For example, I would like not to have the BabyDaddy in my house, which is completely unrealistic as we live on opposite sides of town (which he will cite as my fault for not moving closer to him), and yet it feels like self-punishment to repeatedly invite hostility into my home. Some weekday evenings he will come over to see the baby, and I will try to find a reason to leave. I see this as considerate, he doesn't need me leaning over him observing everything he does with the babe and if we are both here we ignore each other or argue. He sees this as doing me a favor; him coming over so I can go out. Sometimes it is a favor and I do want to go out but a lot of the time I'm giving him space in my house. This makes me uncomfortable, as I feel pressure to have a clean house all the time (so easy to achieve with a baby!) and I have to try not to leave anything personal lying around, from my dayplanner to my laundry to my post, and I have to not mind if he drinks my orange juice from the carton.

I am so tired of being the bigger person, especially as we speak less and less. I feel myself becoming more irate and resentful. Of being judged, hated and blamed, of backing down, of making nice, of calming down and not saying what I want to say because it's mean or spiteful, of allowing him in my house, of changing my plans to accommodate him and his family, of waiting for him to realize that us not communicating is not ok and needs to get better before the ever-closer breaking point is finally reached and irrevocably broken.

So, the (current) dilemma. He asked to have the baby overnight this weekend. He gave me a tight timeframe in which to answer this request. I (relatively quickly) said no. That was yesterday. I didn't sleep well last night and my stomach has been in knots and churning all day. I'm torn. Ideally I would be big enough to say, Ok, take him overnight. I'll get everything ready for you. I will provide all the wipes and diapers and clean clothes, I will pump all the milk and sterilize the bottles, I will give you all the equipment you need including bed and carseat, even if you won't appreciate it or thank me. I will let you parade around your family taking credit for how happy and healthy the baby is as if I have nothing whatsoever to do with his well-being, as if you still don't say you think he shouldn't have been born. The baby is more and more fun and amazing all the time, he is making great new sounds and noises and sitting up and exploring and being so so so so cute, and I do want his family to share that, I want anyone who loves him too to share that.

But instead I said no, and here is why. The BabyDaddy has had the baby overnight a few times. Each time when he has been away from me for more than a few hours, even if he has been happy while he's been gone, as soon as he sees me again he is clingy, crabby, and unsettled for at least 12 hours. He also hates the bottle and feeds near-constantly for ages after he's been away, partly for the comfort but mainly because when given a bottle he only eats enough to get by. He is with me pretty much all the time and it must be strange for him when I'm not there, even though he knows his Dad. The last two afternoons when his Dad has taken him out he has been returned with an old dirty diaper. I'll admit this is a small thing, but you can tell when a soiled diaper is fresh or not and both were stale. The baby has a sensitive bum and we are always just ahead of a rash outbreak. When on top of it he has a peachy bum. Skip one liberal cream application and he's red-raw. After the two afternoons of soggy diapers, he's been a bit sore. Overall, it's just indicative of not paying attention like I would. I know this won't detrimentally hurt the baby, but I don't like it.

I have just begun feeding the baby solids. This is an adventure! One that the BabyDaddy has not been involved in. I held off on feeding so he could participate and not blame me for missing another "first" and he declined. He doesn't agree with the approach I'm going with (baby-led weaning instead of purees). He has never seen the baby eat, as far as I know he hasn't taken a kiddie first aid course so I don't know if he knows how to deal with choking, he hasn't been interested in the feeding process or results (hence the dirty nappies?), and I don't trust him to uphold the process I have begun. Because he has been disrespectful of routines I have established before. On the two dirty nappy days I asked him not to let the baby fall asleep while they were out. This can be done easily with distraction when you notice he is getting tired. But on both days the baby returned to me asleep. On the second day I saw them outside and went to meet them, to find the BabyDaddy waving the baby around in the air trying to wake him up so I didn't realize he'd been sleeping. I'm not mean about sleep, but after his afternoon nap I try not to let him sleep again until bedtime, so he is ready to sleep at his established bedtime. As the BabyDaddy has been hard on me about implementing a routine, it galls me that he ignores my requests to maintain the one I have put in place, that, until he disregards it, has been working well. So, obviously we have some trust issues. Nothing that will hurt the baby, but things that will confuse him and set us back in areas where we have made progress. The last time the BabyDaddy had him overnight they got up at 3am and watched rugby because the baby "wouldn't go back to sleep". Once again, galling considering how many lectures I've had from him about structure, routine, and tough love, but also just a great big fuck up in terms of the baby's internal clock. Which I had to deal with in the following days, thank you very much. And really, had he been left alone in bed, he probably would have gone to sleep within a few minutes. It's not nice when they cry and it does sound louder at night, but he is used to sleeping in the middle of the night, as was I.

Here's what I can't tell: are these legitimate reasons not to let the baby go away overnight? If I am deeply honest, I fear that despite any and all the reasons, I just want to hurt and upset the BabyDaddy like he hurts and upsets me. I want to believe that my decision not to let him go is because I am a Good Mum, but overall it's just making me feel like a Bad Person.

I don't want to stop his family from seeing the baby. If they invited me to bring the baby for a day, I would do that (and have in the past, at my own expense of time and train fare). I get no credit or acknowledgment from his family, despite them saying they would be supportive and there for us when he was born (and after the DNA test results). Of course, they only hear the BabyDaddy's account of events, which is undoubtedly biased to make me look unfair and crazy. The baby himself is happy and healthy and thriving, and yet somehow it seems that must be all down the the time the BabyDaddy spends with him and has nothing to do with me. They love my child and disregard me. I would like to be someone who isn't bothered by that but I'm sooo not. I don't know how to be true to my feelings and improve their skewed opinion of me.

Perhaps it could be easily improved by me saying Fine, have whatever you want, take the baby away every weekend, ignore me, but even if that made them happy, it would make me feel so downtrodden and unheard and like shit, which also can't be good for the baby, for his primary caregiver to be made feel so worthless and low? All my midwives and now all my doctors keep telling me that what is good for the baby is what's good for me, happy Mum = happy baby. And yet, I put myself out, twist, compromise and upset myself to try to please and accommodate the BabyDaddy so that maybe one day he will see a glimmer of good in me and not hate me so much that he needs to make me constantly miserable. Because is what's good for me good for the baby? Would it be better for him to be with his extended family but without me all weekend? Or alone with a happy me? Am I protecting him because he's too young to be away from me, he hates bottles, his Dad hasn't invested in learning how to feed him, and he's always out of sorts when he gets back? Or am I being selfish because when he's away and that family is all together I feel even lonelier and more isolated and heartbroken for my far-away family? I DON'T KNOW AND IT'S TEARING ME UP.

The worst thing here is, that no matter what I am going to feel like shit. If I called the BabyDaddy and said he could take the baby I would be miserable and feel like a pushover all weekend. If I keep the baby with me I am going to feel selfish and like I should be a bigger person who rises above all the anger and frustration, who is more reasonable and mature than the BabyDaddy. It seems like either or both options could make me a good parent, or not, and I hope I've made the right choice. Because that kid there makes everything right for me and I need to do the same for him.

It Doesn't Matter What They Tell You

2011-09-27T22:05:00.003+01:00

I saw a great baby shirt which read "My Mum Doesn't Want Your Advice". I decided it would be passive aggressive to dress my baby in this when I delivered him to the BabyDaddy's family, but I had fun thinking about doing that.

You will get so much advice when you are pregnant, and even more so when you have a Little One. People will try to "prepare" you, even though you cannot be prepared for having a baby by anything anyone says. You just have to live it with your whole heart, and wing it, and say YES THANK YOU! to anyone who offers to make you a meal or hold the baby while you shower.

In all the advice I got, here are a few things it would have helped me to know that no-one ever mentioned.

*If you have your Mum staying with you, and you ask her to put clean sheets on your bed while you are in the hospital giving birth, 1) so you don't put clean sheets on only to have your waters break all over them and 2) because even if you are getting very little sleep climbing into clean sheets is still divine, suggest that she doesn't choose to put the white sheets on your bed for you. The red sheets, the navy sheets, the black sheets or even the beige sheets would all be better for you to sleep on in the days after giving birth, rather than the white sheets.

*Doctors will try to convince you they are always right. I made a choice during the delivery of my Little One which the doctors disagreed with, because it wasn't as convenient for them. At my post-partum check-up six weeks later, a doctor looked at my notes and asked why this thing had happened, and why they hadn't done this instead. I said it was because I had asked them to let this thing happen, and not to do this. The doctor gave me a really condescending look and asked/told me, "Now, wouldn't it have been better if this had happened?" My response was that no, it would not have been better, I stand by my well-thought-out choice, I would chose the same thing again and seriously, fucking hell doctors like to be right so much that even six weeks later they will tell you how you are wrong and should not assert opinions on what is easiest for them to do with your body.

*People will make assumptions. Any time I was out with a male person, just the two of us, it was assumed he was the father of my baby. While having the baby the BabyDaddy was there, and so it was assumed we were a couple, even though I referred to my birthing partner SweetestPink for reassurance, help, support, and decision-making way more often than I turned to him.

After the Little One had arrived I asked if I could have a shower before being taken to the ward. The baby, the BabyDaddy and I were escorted to a bathroom and were left there all together, because I couldn't be left alone to shower due to all the numbing my post-birthing stitching-up required, and as it was assumed we were together, it shouldn't have been a problem for me to shower in front of him. As it was it wasn't a problem, he'd watched the baby being born (despite prior discussions where we'd decided he would stay by my head), so when that bathroom door clicked shut on us and he asked if I was comfortable with this situation I told him to look at the baby and let me shower because, really, after the day we'd had, we could manage this.

I'm sure I'd had more advice to impart but then there's this thing called Baby Brain, where even when you get more sleep it is never enough sleep and you can't remember much including what you were just saying and it's a wonder you are coherent at all really, seeing as most of your daily conversation is to the baby and isn't always intelligible. So I'll finish with the best thing I've found about having a baby, and that is: it gets better every day. Not in the Dan Savage kind of way, which I'm not mocking or knocking. But the first day after the Little One was born, me and his Dad sat there staring at him all day, amazed he was here. And now, six months later, I've not gotten bored of watching him. He does so much more now, is so much more interactive, his little personality gets bigger every day as he explores and learns and discovers. He smiles, and makes lots of sounds, and frowns when he doesn't like things, and giggles when he finds something funny, and snuggles into the crook of my neck when he's tired. I looked at him one day when he was about a month old and thought I know you better than anyone, and I hardly know you at all. I know him so much better now, and getting to know him, and seeing him getting to know about life, is consistently amazing and fun, more and more so all the time.

Having the Baby, Part II

2011-09-08T09:55:00.001+01:00

In the first part of the birth story I'd gotten as far as the decision to have an epidural after deciding that pride was a stupid reason not to have one. Turns out once I'd decided to have one, I wanted it done as soon as possible. I had to read some information on epidurals, all of which I agreed to, as even in reading it I was thinking, yeah, as if anyone ever reads this leaflet and then decides no. Besides, it's not like the leaflet is getting your full attention at this point.

When the anesthesiologist came in I was instructed to lie on my side for her to put in the epidural. This began the worst part of the whole labour. Lying down was excruciating, I had to be still so I didn't get paralyzed, and it seemed as soon as I lay down the contractions started coming back-to-back (as opposed to every 2-3 minutes). The leaflet had told me an epidural took 20 minutes to put in. Mine took 40 minutes. I had a lot of gas and air during that 40 minutes. I was fully concentrating on breathing and not moving during this process. SweetestPink and the BabyDaddy were both sitting facing me, I think SweetestPink was touching my head and I was gripping the BabyDaddy's hand. It was awful. About half an hour into this procedure the midwife said "We're about to put the needle in now" and in my mind I was like What?! You haven't even put the needle in yet?!?! I think that was the point where I whispered This is awful to SweetestPink, if a whisper can also double as a whine and a whimper.

I was holding the gas and air nozzle in the hand that was underneath me, and this hand began to turn blue from lack of circulation. I could feel this happening but didn't care, as I was trying to deal with much bigger discomforts. In an effort to be helpful the BabyDaddy yanked this arm out from underneath me and transferred the gas and air to my other hand. Unfortunately the biggest result of this action was the hand which had formerly been holding the gas and air now had intense pins and needles, which didn't really improve things at a time when I wasn't allowed to move because they were sticking a needle in my spine. Anyway, eventually the epidural was in and we could all relax.

In fact, after the epidural, all the drama and heavy breathing and intensity seemed a bit ridiculous, like a big fuss over nothing because everything was fine. I sort of felt like we should have brought a deck of cards to pass the time, as we all were just sat around killing time. I sent a few texts, phoned my Mum, tried to sleep a bit, answered the phone when the ReluctantQueen rang and asked if it was a good time to talk, (Not really, I'm having the baby).

Things were gravy for a few hours until the epidural wore off, which no-one had warned me would happen. Then I was back on the gas and air for awhile until it was topped up again. We had a wonderful midwife for 12 hours during the day, and during this calm time we enjoyed chatting with her and the student midwife (because after you have an epidural they aren't allowed to leave you alone).

I had a part of my upper abdomen where I could still what was occuring, and with each contraction I willed the drugs to be working, so that I could birth this baby naturally. I did not want to be stuck in the hospital for three days (mandatory after a C-section) and, I wanted to believe in my body and my strength. After a year of being so angry and frustrated with my body constantly doing wrong, scary, and painful things, I had learned to love my body again during the pregnancy. I wanted to see the process through naturally. Even though I had already "failed" on giving into an epidural (rebuke to self: it was the right choice, not a failure), it was really important to me to give birth naturally. For a bunch of reasons, but honestly, the biggest reason is probably because I am a perfectionist, and unrealistically hard on myself.

We got a new midwife at 8pm, and I didn't like her, but I also didn't care because I knew we were almost done. When I was checked at 9pm I was fully dilated. They left me to rest for another half an hour, and then the pushing began. I was so ready for this! It was a bit strange for it not to occur organically, and to have to be told to push, and the few minutes before we began when everyone was standing around waiting for it all to start was weird. It was great, after all the hours of labour, to finally feel like I was doing something!

As soon as the pushing began it all seemed to happen quickly (SweetestPink later told me that it did all happen really quickly). With every contraction the baby's heartrate dropped, so other medical people were called in, and it was decided that the delivery would be assisted. As the obstetrician was preparing the ventouse I was pushing as hard as I could with each contraction, trying to get the baby out before she got her equipment ready. I was giving three good pushes with every contraction and after the third this midwife I didn't like always said "And one more!" and I was like Uhhh, no, that's it. My whole being was focussed on pushing, I had no time to take in anything else about this moment. It was only when I'd look over at the BabyDaddy that I realized the magnitude of this event. Bless him, he was holding his head in his hands and his eyes looked like they were going to pop out of his face and when I looked at him I'd think, Huh, this is a HUGE thing happening right now. And then I'd have another contraction and nothing except pushing with all my might was important. I remember him telling me to breathe, but it was impossible to push and breathe and during the contractions I chose push. In between contractions the obstetrician was sticking things up me, which was against the process, and hurt like a bitch. I did not like her either. She dropped the first ventouse she was going to use, rendering it unsterile, so she had to use a smaller one, which popped off the baby's head both times she stuck it on him, after which she went right for the forceps. As soon as she had the forceps on, his head was out with the next contraction. And then there was this lull while everyone waited for me to have the next contraction and everyone was staring at me and kept asking if I was having a contraction and I was like "In a minute!" And then I finally had the last contraction and he was out, and a million things happened in the next moments, including him being taken away to the corner of the room, me being given a needle I didn't want, SweetestPink telling me he was beautiful and crying, and me lying there feeling satisfied and strong, because what I'd just done was really hard work.

He took a few minutes to cry, which I wasn't worried about because he was born fast, but I punched my fist in the air when I heard him first yell. Then he was brought over and laid on me and he was all gross and squashed and red and angry. They'd put his hat on without cleaning off his head, so his little hat looked like it has been in a massacre, and he screamed and screamed, and raised his head up and looked around and screamed. I wasn't sure he was supposed to be able to lift his head up, and I thought he was really ugly but I also knew I loved him anyway, and that I was really really glad he was finally here.

Edit: Having a baby makes you forget things, like that I already started writing the second part of this. Twice. I just checked my draft posts and found the beginning of Part Two again. I think it was better than the beginning of this post, so I am ending this post with a beginning. Awww, much like the end of pregnancy is a huge new beginning.

**OMG, I have almost bored myself writing this story. Not really, I loved this day. However, I have almost forgotten how to blog it's been so long. And what I now want to blog about is all the things which have happened since I brought the baby home, but I'm stubborn (or as I prefer to say, tenacious) so I'm going to finish the story I've started, because, much like labour, you just can't quit halfway through, no matter how tired or fed up you are. (Edit: At which point I obviously quit writing this post, hahahahahaha)

Talking Behind Facebook's Back

2011-09-03T14:05:00.004+01:00

In this edition of Things I Would Like To Say But Not On Facebook, I'm going to say a few things which, if I made them status updates, would lose me friends because I have "friends" who do these things and they would probably know I was referring to them unless they are keeping me as a friend because they are all about numbers but in terms of actually caring about me they don't because I'm not in their news feed.

So, without further ado in the form of another really run-on sentence, the following is a short list of Things I Don't Think Should Happen:

* Don't give animals chemo. If your pet is sick enough to need chemo, do the heartbreaking and right thing for your beloved pet. Bring the pet home to die if that's comfortable, or give the pet all of their favorite treats before the vet gives it a needle. You can't explain chemo to an animal and it isn't fair to put an animal through it.

* Make-up on children. Unless your child has found your make-up and liberally applied it themselves, as in smeared it all over their face because doing that was fun, kids should not be wearing make-up. Five year olds do not need false eyelashes or to be worrying about whether their lipstick is smudged. This item on the list is one of the very many reasons why pageants for children should not exist.

*Posed photo shoots for babies. Now, don't get me wrong, I am not opposed to professional photo shoots just because I can't afford them. I have seen lovely, natural photos of families done by professionals, and I think those are great. What I'm referring to is dressing up your three month old in a cook's hat and apron and placing a whisk in his hand and proclaiming him "Our Little Chef!" Or balancing your wobbly toddler on a pile of books with a library backdrop, making her wear a mortar board and telling us her nickname is Doogie Houser. Wrong wrong wrong. Even though your baby is wearing a safari hat and khakis, and gnawing on a whip, no-one believes that you've propped your baby up in an actual jungle. Unless you are making a novelty calendar, I don't like these fake scenes. Babies are cute enough! Make real memories of things they are actually doing, like chewing their toes and squashing banana into their hair.

* Recently a man friend of mine updated that he was out for lunch with a lovely lady (his Mum, not me). His fiance (who he has been dating for five months and engaged to for four) commented "TELL ME WHAT BITCH YOU ARE OUT FOR LUNCH WITH SO I CAN KILL HER!!!" There are so many reasons why her reaction is wrong but mostly it made me wonder why, when a guy cheats, does the girl so often get really mad at the other girl and hate on her, instead of holding her boyfriend accountable? For some reason it's always the other woman's fault as if she has somehow seduced and tricked the innocent man into philandering. Getting cheated on hurts, but it is the actions of your loved one, not the stranger, which has hurt you. Don't displace your anger so you can justify staying with a man who cheats on you.

This concludes my list of Things I Don't Think Should Happen. Facebook brought all of these things to my attention, but this is not a list of things which specifically shouldn't happen on Facebook. For that list, go here.

Midnight Diamonds

2011-08-06T22:35:00.002+01:00

This is not Part Two of the Birth Story. It's not like you're hanging on for the ending anyway, everyone knows I had the baby. No, I intercept that story with a truth I need to say, but more privately than on fb: I'm lonely.

I love being a Mum so much. My little man is undoubtedly the best thing in my life, I am amazed by him and grateful for him daily, hourly. But at night after he's gone to bed and I'm on my own for a few quiet hours, that's when it hits me that I'm mostly alone. I can't go out so I can't stay busy, I feel like my friends and their social lives, which I used to be a part of, continue and I'm not even invited any more. This is the only time when I think it sucks to be a single parent, when there is no camaraderie in which to share how life has changed so much.

The baby is still only little, I must slow down and calm down and know that this is only for now and not forever. I'm so impatient, I want everything right now. There's subtle competition with the BabyDaddy, to be seen as competent and busy and keeping up all the time. It's like I lose face if he asks what I'm doing and I'm not doing anything. After all, it's Saturday night! And I know he's at a bbq with mates, drinking and smoking and having a laugh, while he knows I'm in my flat with the sleeping baby, otherwise alone, and lonely. He might meet someone tonight, he might get laid, he might move on with his life in ways I can't but would like to feel weren't totally inaccessible to me......but they currently are.

Sigh. Blog whine. This week has been tough y'all, there have been a series of shitty and unsettling events that I've had to handle alone because I'm an adult with big responsibilities, which I do handle but it can be tough sometimes, especially when being overwhelmed or quitting isn't an option any more, my actions and choices directly affect more than just me these days. Coming back from Canada was a reality smack in the face. This is it now: lovely days with my happy baby, constant fights with his uncooperative daddy who still cites that "this is why we shouldn't have had this baby" every time I ask him to help or say that it's tough sometimes, grandparents too far away to help, friends getting on with their lives and seemingly forgetting about me, and long nights when I'm tired but I still wouldn't mind knowing that if I could have gone out I'd have had somewhere to go. Tonight I even had a look at some online dating sites. That lasted about five minutes, literally, and made me feel even worse than I imagined it would (I have never imagined online dating would make me feel good). I never thought I'd have a baby and I wanted that kind of love in my life more than any other kind. I have it now and I'm still so greedy even though I have a child, I also want a soulmate. Will that never happen? Will I always be alone? It feels so, especially nights like this, when I feel invisible to my friends, when my old life seems light years away. Everyone said having a baby would be hard, and the baby part so far has been so delightful and so natural it's felt easy. The only really hard part has been this, these nights and this loneliness.

Oh precious heart,

You think you're lost,

Look down look down

And find your feet

I'm a good Mum to a happy, healthy baby. I've had a tough week and not much sleep. I'm not a loser because I'm not out on a Saturday night or because nobody loves me in a way that makes them want to stay in with me on a Saturday night. It might feel like it but things change all the time and I am good at waiting out difficult things, especially when these lonely nights are a small difficult thing at the end of wonderful days I spend with my best most blessed thing ever.

How To Have A Baby In 9 Months, One Day and 28 Hours and Two Blog Posts

2011-08-03T06:48:00.001+01:00

My son is the youngest in the group of Mums and Babies we hang out with every Tuesday, and the Mums-of-older-babies tell me that the memories of his birth will fade away. Most of the other babies are now fourteen weeks old*. My son will be eleven weeks old tomorrow, and while I doubt I'll forget, I also want to write down what I remember of his birthday.

*Well, this has taken forever to get written. Most of the other babies are nearly six months old now! But I still want to write his birth story. And as I suspected, I have not forgotten any of it.

Firstly, there were several false alarms. Quiet ones, but the whole three weeks before his due date was a period of time where I was always wondering and never sure whether or not I could either be in labour or about to be in labour. There was the morning after I got fitted for nursing bras when I wandered into Primark and then felt an odd pressure and wondered if my waters might be about to break and if they were, please could I get out of Primark first and at least across the street to Marks and Spencer? Then nothing happened after I got out of Primark except I bought some sweets in M&S.

There were lots of Braxton-Hicks contractions. Then there was the Friday night when the contractions were different from Braxton-Hicks, and I was restless, and the BabyDaddy and ChickenMummy tried to engage me in a heated discussion about the baby's name and I stated clearly several times that I was not having this conversation or making any decisions at that time except whether to bounce on the birthing ball or pace around the living-room. Then, anti-climactically, I went to bed on the Friday night and woke up to nothing, not even Braxton-Hicks murmurings on Saturday morning. So ChickenMummy and I went into town, and then on Sunday we went to the Farmer's Market, and I got more and more frustrated that this baby, who I had been sure would come early, was now one day late.

On Sunday afternoon GoodWoman and I tromped around the park, as we've done every Sunday for the past three weeks, me hoping the walking would kick-start labour. We paused at the top of the park after walking for an hour and I asked if she was up for one more circuit around. She was, and by the end of the walk those mild pains had started up again, once again not Braxton-Hicks contractions, but I also wasn't sure they were actual contractions either. Over the next few hours the pains came and went, with no regularity. I kept waiting for a sign that I was in actual labour, like my waters breaking, or pain significant enough that I couldn't mistake it for anything else, or evenly spaced contractions 10 minutes apart, then 9 and so on. But the pains were erratic and I wasn't sure what was happening really.

However I was sufficiently suspicious that something real might be starting to happen that ChickenMummy and I finally finished packing my bag for the hospital, (which is recommended to be done three weeks before your due date, not a day after) and we also wrote my birth plan, which was really more of a two-columned list where one column was things I did want and one column was things I didn't want. ChickenMummy went to bed around 11 and I tried to, wondering if it would be a repeat of Friday where everything (except my frustration) ceased as soon as I lay down. But I couldn't lie down. I couldn't sit either, I wasn't comfortable bouncing on the birthing ball; all I could do was pace around the flat. I tried to time the pains and find a pattern but they were all over the place, anywhere between 12 and two minutes apart. By 2:30am I was in enough (intermittent) pain that I phoned the labour ward, even though I wasn't sure I was in labour. The midwife blithely said everything sounded normal, and that I should have a hot bath and wait for the contractions to become more regular. Well, I don't have a bathtub, so I had a shower instead, and then I made a hot water bottle, and I continued to pace. I didn't want to be one of those wimpy women who starts screaming at the slightest contraction, making a big fuss over nothing, so despite the increasing discomfort I held out until 5am before calling the labour ward again, by which time the pains were 2-3 minutes apart and I was leaning against walls to breathe through them. And yet still not sure I was in labour, because the trajectory hadn't been what I'd imagined, I was still waiting for contractions 10 minutes apart and then getting closer in an orderly fashion, so what if this was just my body getting ready for labour and I had no idea about how much worse the pains were about to get when I really was in labour?

However, to my great relief the midwife seemed to think I was probably in labour and said I should come in, after hearing me have a few contractions during our conversation. This was great news! I had had nightmares about having to travel to the hospital during rush hour, which would take at least an hour, but traffic would not be a problem at 5am. The second part of my relief was that although I was just breathing heavily and not screaming, I wasn't sure how much longer I would be quiet for. And thirdly, I hadn't sat down all night and wanted to get the car ride to the hospital over with as when I was doing anything except standing I was in worse pain.

However, still not being sure I was in labour, I was afraid they would check me out at the hospital and tell me I was only a centimeter or two dilated and I'd be sent home, still under the belief that the pain was only just beginning and was going to get so much worse. So I called GoodWoman and asked if she could give me a lift to the hospital, and I called the BabyDaddy and told him I was going in but to wait because I'd ring him when I got there and knew what was going on. He said ok, then called me back 5 minutes later and suggested that we just pick him up on our way past his house. I said Alright, but only if he was waiting outside. I didn't call my birthing partner SweetestPink yet, because she only had one day off of work, and lives quite a way out of Bristol and I wanted to make sure it wasn't a false alarm, and I also didn't want to wait for her to drive in to get me, I was ready to be at the hospital already.

We were taken right into a birthing suite room at the hospital. I'd had a choice of two hospitals and I chose the one with birthing suites, which have a less clinical, more holistic approach to labour: you can only be in there if your labour is uncomplicated, only gas&air is available as pain relief, there are futons instead of beds, the lights dim, there are birthing balls and rocking chairs. It's a bit of a gamble to choose this because there are only four rooms in the birthing suite but we timed it right and got in there. I started on the gas&air pretty much right away, as I was barely catching my breath between contractions by this point. GoodWoman was great, rubbing my back and full of encouraging words, while the BabyDaddy stood there like a tool. The midwife checked where I was at about an hour later and I was 6 centimeters dilated! This was great news because it meant they would not be sending me home, and I was more than halfway there dilation-wise. I really was in labour! I rang SweetestPink at this point, as we were definitely game-on. GoodWoman stayed until SweetestPink arrived, and I didn't care about anything. The midwife told me I could put my trousers back on after she'd checked me and I was like Nope, not happening, and I don't care. I meant to shave my armpits before going into the hospital but I hadn't and I didn't care. The midwife asked if I minded if a student shadowed her and I didn't care as long as no-one took away the gas&air. It was taking all my concentration to breathe through the contractions even with the gas&air by this point. I'd lean either against the wall or the counter or I'd be swaying, but I was in my own surreal world of coping by this stage. The midwife got the BabyDaddy to massage my lower back for awhile and he asked if it was helping and I was like I don't care. I had lucid moments between contractions, like at one moment I was overcome with a bit of emotion that this was the day where I was getting everything I ever wanted and never thought I'd get and I had to have a little cuddle with SweetestPink, until the next contraction began and I traded her hug for the gas&air. I still wasn't making much noise, I certainly wasn't screaming and I'm not sure how women can; to me it seemed like screaming would be very distracting from getting through the contractions.

After a few hours the midwife moved us next door to another birthing suite room, one with a pool in it. I didn't want to have a waterbirth, but the midwife though it would be relaxing for me as it had been over 12 hours since I sat down. I remember the time I was in the pool as being very calm. I got out to be checked by the midwife after about an hour, and I was hoping I was nearly at 10 centimeters....but as it turned out I was still at 6. At this point I was given a few options, and decided to have my waters broken. When this happened we had to then leave the birthing suite, because there was meconium (baby poo) in the waters, which constitutes a complication as it can mean the baby is in distress. So we were then moved to the delivery ward, and our third room of the day.

At this point I was hooked up to continuous monitors, because of the meconium. This restricted my movement slightly, but I was still able to pace, just in a tighter space. We decided I would be allowed a few hours to see if breaking the waters would encourage me to dilate further. However, two hours later I was still at 6 centimeters. At this point the midwife gently insisted that the next step was to hook me up to a drip of synthetic hormones which would make my contractions harder, faster and stronger. This scared me, as I'd had several hours of contractions by this time, and they were already pretty frequent and intense.

I'd been adamant that I didn't want an epidural. Mainly because I pride myself on being tough and didn't want to be a wimp. But when I thought about it, I'd be on this drip for four hours, I was scared of the drip, I'd been in active labour for 22 hours by this point without sitting, eating or drinking, and I wanted to not be so exhausted after four hours that I couldn't push. Of all the things I didn't want, I didn't want a C-section the most. Once I realized that pride was the only reason for not having an epidural, I decided not to be stupid and to have one.

_________________________________________________

Don't worry, there's only 6 hours left of this birth story, 22 hours have been covered! And hopefully I will complete this before the baby turns one. (I don't consider that last statement a spoiler as I'm assuming most people who read this have met the baby).

Telephone

2011-03-13T22:46:00.005Z

ChickenMummy has been known to worry about all sorts of things, some of which are founded and some of which are sublimely ridiculous. Accordingly, we indulge some of her concerns and mercilessly ridicule others.

At my parent's house there are two kinds of phone: cordless and corded. Or as ChickenMummy calls them, brain cancer phones and her phones. For some reason it's ok for CuteDad to talk on the brain cancer phones, possibly so he can let the dog in or out and chase the grandchild or fetch things she needs during phone calls while she is tied to a corded phone, but despite what a corded phone inhibits her from doing, ChickenMummy refuses to ever pick up a brain cancer phone.

I finally got my landline and internet installed this week, (it was the last thing I really wanted to get done before the baby arrived, as booking the installation appointment had been a nightmare, plus being without internet is more......challenging than I'd like to admit). My parents were anxious for me to get the landline installed as well, which is fair enough as this is a bit of a funny time to not be able to get in touch.

When everything was all set up my folks were the first landline call I made. It wasn't until about halfway through the call that ChickenMummy began asking questions about what kind of telephone I'd bought. Was it a brain cancer phone? Was it in my bedroom, or the baby's bedroom? Would it be near our heads while we slept? I should never hold the phone near my belly or the baby's head! Did I know that sometimes when she came downstairs in the dark the brain cancer phone in their kitchen was glowing? (CuteDad pointed out how the glow came from a light on the phone console). I had to admit to her that I had indeed bought a brain cancer phone. It seemed to make sense, what with having a baby, that it might sometimes be easier to move around during a phone call, without a cord restricting me or tripping me over. But I could reassure her that no, neither handset was in a bedroom, so the phones would only be near our heads when we were talking on them. I wasn't in the practice of holding the phone up to my belly, and we'll see how against me holding the phone near the baby's head she is when she wants to hear his happy babbling in a few months. She continued to fret a bit more about radiation and brain cancer while CuteDad and I gently chided her. I pointed out if she wanted to speak to her husband at all during the month she was going to be at my house, she'd have to risk the brain cancer, (she's considering the implications of this). I know she'll get over it really, but I'm not helping much. When I unpacked the handsets they had plastic screen coverings on them emblazoned with the initials BT, which I have left on the phones for now. I know the BT stands for British Telecom, and ChickenMummy probably does too, but I'm going to tell her it means Brain Tumor.

Coach Trip

2011-01-26T21:39:00.004Z

After a week up North with my family, I took the bus back to Bristol today. Goodbyes, they're tearing me up these days. Standing at the bus stop making small talk with my aunt, smiling until she asks if I'm going to manage to get everything ready for the baby alright and suddenly I'm crying and then the bus is there and we're pulling away and the song shuffled up on my ipod is The Only Living Boy in New York and I'm turned towards the window with tears which match the falling rain, wondering where the crap this came from as I've been happy-fine all week. Something about leaving family and being far away from family whilst creating my own little family of two maybe? Whatever, the tears which so suddenly caught me off guard were soon replaced by something else which caught me equally off guard. As the bus geared up down the highway a massive hulk of a bloke sitting across the aisle from me started loudly snoring. He'd snore, then choke kind of, then snort some, then snore some more. He was hella-loud. Too loud to drown out with cranked up music, even music with more of a thumping beat than folky tunes. As I had planned to sleep on the bus, the fact that his noisy sleeping was preventing me from doing that became quickly annoying.

I wasn't the only annoyed person, it seems safe to assume from the range of dirty looks tossed back towards our end of the bus that most of the other passengers were also annoyed by the snoring. It was more obnoxious than someone talking on a mobile. At least with phone chatters, they're conscious to receive dirty looks.

This bus ride was over four hours long. About an hour in, I began to fantasize about writing this guy a passive-aggressive note and putting it on the seat beside him so when he spluttered himself awake for half a minute he might read it and decide to stay away instead of serenading the entire bus with chainsaw noises. Then, in an effort not to be a raging bitch, I was trying to summon up the courage to tug on his arm and maybe gently ask him if he knew how loud he snored? Anyway, before I did anything one of the two bus drivers approached and roughly shook the guy awake. In a thick Scottish accent he told him sternly that he was disturbing the whole bus. The guy didn't seem to speak English or to understand what snoring was, as well as being bewildered by his rude awakening. At this point, as much as I'd been highly irritated by him, I also felt a little sorry for him. This increased when he went back to sleep, snored again, and was woken by the bus driver thumping the seat beside him and wordlessly glaring at him, a sequence which was repeated three times. I'd totally wanted him to stop snoring myself, but by the end of the trip I wanted him to stop snoring so he'd stop getting abuse from the bus driver. Was it possible he didn't even know he snored?

The other unfortunate event on this coach trip was that I somehow misplaced my water bottle. This shouldn't be a big deal, but I hate losing stuff. It makes me feel irresponsible and careless, which I hate, but I also really liked that waterbottle. It was paraben-free, sent to me by ChickenMummy, decorated with ladybirds and bees. Upon realizing it was gone, my first thought was, how am I going to take care of a baby if I can't even not lose my waterbottle?

I finally made it home after about seven hours of bus travel. So, as much as I loved being up North, not being able to fly is a big dislike of this stage of pregnancy. Because if I'd been flying the journey would have been less than an hour, and I could have handled that much snoring without wishing ill on the sleeper, and the pilot probably wouldn't have disturbed him rudely either, making me regret my ill-will, and also, if I'd been flying I would have left my waterbottle at home because you can't take liquids on flights.

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How Things Like Life and Bodies Work

2011-01-08T07:48:00.006Z

Yesterday was all about tears, all day long. It caught me totally off guard, as I have generally been much more even-tempered and content than I normally am since the pregnancy began. Because I'm enjoying being pregnant so much being wailingly tearful for a whole day came as a shock; I've probably only cried two other times so far in the entire pregnancy. I'm sure there's no connection, but I got the flu shot in the morning and after that, bawled at everything all day long. I was introduced to the baby's paternal uncle for the first time in the evening, he was really sweet to me, it made me cry within the first two minutes of meeting him, and when he asked what was wrong, I totally blamed the flu shot. I could think of no other reason why I was suddenly so emotional, but he pointed out it might just be because I'm pregnant.

There were no tears today though, today's bodily fluid was blood. I had some blood taken by the midwife, after which I pressed cotton balls into the crook of my arm, and then stuck a plaster on it. Five minutes later my arm felt wet and I looked down to see my whole arm dripping with blood. The midwife and I cleaned it all up and stuck on a new plaster and that bleeding seemed under control, which gave us the chance to focus on controlling the raging nosebleed which occurred in swift succession following my arm hemorrhage.

I'm in the third trimester now, with about ten more weeks of pregnancy left. I feel like the last few days of bodily fluids are preparing me for the disgusting things both my body and this little baby's body will be doing, all of which I have to deal with. I'm a pretty natural person who is fairly cool with most things bodies do, so I was surprised to find my reaction to my first lactation experience was Gross! especially as I am so pro-breastfeeding, but I accept it with the view that it is only a prerequisite for the many slightly marvellous and repulsive physical experiences yet to come.

Bodies, kind of amazing, yes? When I had the cancerous tumor growing in me for so long I was so angry with my physical self. There was so much pain, and near-constant bleeding, and things I wanted to enjoy, like sex, were so hurtful. It felt like punishment and in return, I punished my body right back with deprivation and smoke and drugs. I was so angry with my body, especially when the tumor was finally out and doctors warned me that the residual damage probably meant lots of future dysfunction, probable future illness, and that babies were unlikely for me (HA! Showed them, didn't I? I should not be surprised when I have a child who insists on proving he can do everything I ask him not to.)

But now, as this baby wonderfully grows and kicks inside of me, I have forgiven my body and learnt to love it again. I love how my body protects the baby, making me feel sick around smoke I used to love, how my skin tears like paper and takes ages to heal, because the main focus is nourishing the baby instead of repairing my small injuries. I love how when I feel hungry now I eat because I don't want the baby to go without, when before, when it was just me, I courted hunger because I felt too angry to deserve good food. The BabyDaddy and I met up the other day and fought about how he didn't get in touch for an entire two weeks during the holidays. He protested that he wanted a break. My rebuttal was that I didn't get a break from being pregnant (and that there will be no break from parenthood). It's nice for him to get to take a break but I don't get to decide it's alright to smoke or drink or starve for a day because I need a break. Although in truth I wasn't too annoyed really, as I'm not interested in pints or spliffs right now anyway. Abstaining is not a chore or a sacrifice, I love being pregnant and feel so amazing to be creating life with what was recently such a sick body. I have no interest in having a drink or taking a toke. I'm interested in eating nourishing food and feeling the baby kick, in feeling calm and playing him good music and going for walks and feeling so connected and grateful for the existence of his thriving little life. Taking care of myself right now is effortless because I love him so much, already more than anything. It's way better than any and all the best drugs I've ever taken.

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Dilemma

2010-12-17T03:31:00.005Z

Dilemma is a song by Nelly and one of the Destiny's Child girls who is not Beyonce, but the song I have in my head is "Look at Miss Ohio" by Gillian Welch, for the line that goes "I wanna do right but not right now." I'm not even sure I want to do right, now or later, but I will. I will because it's not just about me anymore.

You know when you have to make a decision and everyone is supportive of what you choose, but you know that quietly they're all murmuring to each other that you're making a mistake? Yeah, that's kind of happening all around me. All my Canadian friends, most of my British friends, all my Canadian family and all of my British family, my doctor in England, my family doctor in Guelph, and my midwife, they are all asking and thinking the same thing. They are asking why I didn't stay in Canada. Despite appearing to understand and respect my reasons, they all think I've made the harder choice by returning to the UK.

They're right too. Returning to England itself was fucking hard and having this baby in England will be infinitely harder than in Canada. But I knew before I left I'd definitely have to be coming back. I tried to think about staying longer, like just for Christmas, but that would only be delaying the inevitable, making it more difficult later, so I departed on schedule.

When my Canadian doctor found out from ChickenMummy that I wasn't staying, she instructed ChickenMummy to make me stay, because, she says, when you are having a family you need your family around. I agree, but the baby's needs supersede mine now, and the baby's family includes the BabyDaddy, who lives in England, which was the biggest reason I cited for needing to return. I understand how it's difficult for people who love me to care about his rights and feelings, especially considering the way he has and continues to treat me in response to my choice to continue the pregnancy. It's true that he makes things more frustrating, more stressful and more difficult for me. Honestly, my life would be easier if he walked away and wanted nothing to do with us, but for my baby it's different. This kid has two parents, and we are meant to be the two people who put him first and protect him and love him the most. I believe the BabyDaddy deserves an opportunity to be there for his son and I don't want to be the person who takes that away from either of them. I see my parents with their first grandson, how much they love him, care for him and delight in him. They will do the same for their second grandchild, but no matter how much they do, even if we live with them and they are the other adults my son grows up around, they are not his Dad; no-one else can be that to him other than his real Dad.

However, a point has been reached and I am starting to think it's time to do what is right for me and screw the BabyDaddy (although according to him the fact I'm having the baby is already screwing him). I believe I have been patient and reasonable with him so far throughout the pregnancy. I have understood his anger and lack of compassion. I have continually maintained that I will allow him access to information, much of it personal, and that he will be allowed to be present at the birth. I have afforded him privileges as if they are his rights. Both him and his family have told me to put myself in his position more than once but when they ask me to do that I believe it is without any consideration for the position I'm in. So far I've been saying all of this is ok, and I do get where they're coming from because I have people in my corner and he needs people in his. But my corners are much more far-flung than his and I feel like my generosity and patience have been unrecognised and unappreciated.

And the second however is that I'm actually back in England now. Decisions have to be made now. Sometimes I feel like this is exactly where I want to be, in other moments I wonder if I can manage everything here with the baby alone. I feel like, if I stay here, I have to be uber-capable so no-one can say 'I told you so' when it's hard and I'm tired and I miss home and I hate that my family are missing out on the face-to-face joy of my baby. How much am I going to resent his family for getting to share that while mine can't? And while I might want to be here to have the baby and maybe for a couple of years more, I don't want to be in England forever, I don't want my kid to go to school here, and when I'm ready to leave I don't want to find myself trapped by a custody battle.

The BabyDaddy and I met up yesterday. I came home shivering after the chilliest bike ride home and all the girls wanted to know how it had gone. I just shook my head, too tired. Talking with him is exhausting and after an hour with him my cognitive functions are so taxed out that I can't even form sentences anymore, let alone thoughts. We misunderstand each other so much. Gestures I think are generous he takes as goading. He isn't forthcoming, he waits for cues from me, while I get frustrated he's not more proactive in demonstrating his claims with actions. He tells me to say what I need and I wonder why I have to say it, why can't he ask? Despite the prickling hostility between us, our meeting wasn't entirely awful, more just like a reality check. I really can't leave the UK before the baby is born, it's too unfair. Despite his track record with me the BabyDaddy maintains he will be there for his son and I have to believe that until proven otherwise, even if my hopes exceed my expectations. This reality of this realization made my heart sink a little. Being UK-based means that instead of the safety and comfort of home my future is going to be full of shitty-but-fair compromises, like if I bring the baby to Canada next Christmas, then the Christmas after his Dad will get to be with him and I won't. The BabyDaddy helpfully points out how crap things like this make it all a bad situation for a baby to be born into, and I couldn't disagree more, this situation is what we make it, the baby will know nothing else than what we make normal for him and even when it's less than ideal for us, we can make it positive for him. I can't accept thinking that it would ever have been better for this baby not to have happened, he has been wanted and loved by me since the moment he beat a million odds and miraculously appeared. But my choice to have the baby wasn't even a choice; as soon as I knew he was there he was already a part of me and I loved him more than anything. The decision in no way involved any desire to have a baby with the BabyDaddy, nor was logical thought given towards what it meant in terms of where I might have to live forever more and that every second Christmas I won't get to be with my child. As much as I think it's right for the BabyDaddy to be involved, as much as I want my baby to know his Dad and to have a Dad who loves him too, as much as I am going to try to be patient when really I want to scream at the BabyDaddy, I don't know why the saddest feeling I came away with after yesterday is that somehow him being involved makes me feel even more alone than if I was doing this all by myself.

I still don't know what to do, what I'm going to do, where to be. I'm not going to be able to do right according to everyone here, especially as everyone except the BabyDaddy thinks I should be on the next flight home. And although I don't necessarily want to do right by the BabyDaddy I have to try to, because that's what I must do for the sake of my son, who in all of this, is ultimately the most important person.

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In the Middle of the Night

2010-11-28T10:35:00.001Z

ChickenMummy has always gone to bed early. I didn't realize how much this skewed her perception on what a late night is until I asked her if she wanted to call to make plans with my SecondMum tonight or wait until the morning. She looked at the clock incredulously and said "I think we'll have to wait and call tomorrow, we can't ring someone at this time of night!" It was a quarter past eight.

Today as we were driving down the street towards the Farmer's Market ChickenMummy exclaimed "I forgot to do my exercises!" Almost in unison CuteDad and I replied "Oh, we thought you were going to say you forgot to do your hair." As it happens she had also forgotten to do her hair, but fortunately she keeps a comb in the glove compartment. This then became one of those a-guy-falls-out-of-an-airplane-but-there's-a-haystack type of story because she still forgot to do her hair when she opened the glove compartment and got distracted by discovering and passing around some mints. I must not be a teenager anymore because I've stopped being embarrassed by being seen with my parents in public, even when they haven't brushed their hair. Also, she can be forgiven as neither of my parents have gotten much sleep for the past few nights.

I'm sleeping in the room which was my bedroom from when I was 13 until I left home at 18. Whenever I returned home after 18 I usually stayed in the basement apartment, because it gave me more privacy and was easier to sneak out into the back yard to smoke pot from there. This time it's nicer to be upstairs again. One significant difference between my bedroom when I was a teenager and now is that now there's a crib at the foot of my bed, where my nephew sleeps when he stays over. It's been slightly surreal to have a crib in the room, like foreshadowing. Last night, increasing the surreality, there was actually a small person in the crib, one who cried and woke me up several times during the night. When my parents and I were discussing who would be getting up for my nephew throughout the night I volunteered as we were sharing a room, so it seemed silly for the whole household to get up if I would be any way. Earlier on in the afternoon I commented how I hadn't been expecting sleepless nights for another few months yet and CuteDad advised me I probably had about seven hours before I should expect to be woken up by a crying baby. In the end we were all woken up by him, but none of us minded as he's awfully cute.

However, CuteDad and ChickenMummy were also woken up the night before, for reasons they minded slightly more. The toothbrush I'd brought to Canada was one of those vibrating ones. I was aware it needed replacing, as sometimes I could get it to work as more than just a manual toothbrush and other times it wouldn't vibrate at all anymore. Two nights ago it had given up for good, I thought. I brushed my teeth without the vibrating feature, (old school oral hygiene, whoop whoop!) and then left the toothbrush on the bathroom counter. Apparently, sometime around one in the morning, the toothbrush came to life for one last time. The noise it made buzzing around all over the counter woke my parents, who spent a bleary quarter of an hour seeking out the source of this strange rattling noise in the middle of the night. ChickenMummy was most offended that CuteDad let her lead the way on the investigation, but CuteDad said she was lucky he woke up at all. I'm lucky they didn't wake me up to hold me accountable for my toothbrush interrupting their slumber, but I think they feel like they will get due retribution in a few months when I'm being woken up several times a night by something a lot more demanding than an unreliable electric toothbrush.

CuteDad took it upon himself to throw out my old toothbrush in the middle of the night. This was fine too, as I had bought a new one in Toronto, even though I hadn't forgotten to take the old one with me. However, I did forget to take toothpaste, so without asking I went ahead and borrowed Wired's, figuring he wouldn't mind sharing. In the morning the second day I was chatting to him as he brushed his teeth, which reminded me to ask, but I jumbled up the words in my morning brain and what I actually said to him was "Oh! I forgot mine at home so I used your toothbrush, is that ok?" He stopped mid-brush, looking mildly horrified. As soon as I said it I began correcting myself, "Toothpaste, I meant toothpaste, I didn't use your toothbrush I swear!" It took some convincing for him to believe I really had only borrowed his toothpaste and not his toothbrush, especially when I bought myself a new toothbrush later on that day. I know I'm comfortable with my friends, and that I have very few personal boundaries but even I know not to borrow someone else's toothbrush, at least not when you can't ask them first.

Everybody's Advice

2010-11-24T15:14:00.001Z

On the airplane coming over there were an unusually high number of babies and children on the flight, like about half a dozen babies and at least ten kids under the age of ten. I spent my valium-free flight time imagining how the next time I make this trip, it will be with a small person. I might be the Mum everyone glares at because her baby won't stop crying (because giving the frazzled Mum dirty looks really helps soothe the baby). There was a sweet family in the row in front of me, two parents and two little girls. The girls often popped up over the seats and we made faces at each other. I had perfect seat mates, as we didn't begin speaking until the last 20 minutes of the flight, when the girls and all three of us in my row were making faces. Their Dad joined in our conversation and we complimented him on how good the children had been. He said to me that as a future parent who will be traveling with child I should expect to receive lots of tips and advice. I thought, really, just when traveling? Because ever since I became pregnant I have been the recipient of copious amounts of advice I haven't asked for about everything.

Apparently everybody is an expert on what you should and should not be doing when pregnant. You will often receive advice while you believe you are minding your own business and while others believe you are irreparably harming your baby. If you flagrantly ignore unsolicited advice and continue with your bad pre-parenting behaviour, you are likely to receive scathing looks indicating that you are already the Worst Parent Ever, which you totally deserve because good pregnant women do not drink non-decaf coffee or use cross trainers at the gym. I suppose all the good pregnant women are at home with their feet up sucking on ice chips?

What's even better is that I get all this advice at a stage of my pregnancy when I am still not obviously pregnant enough to get offered a seat on the subway at rush hour when wearing a winter coat, but just pregnant enough that without my winter coat on a barista will ask me three times if I'm sure I don't want decaf. (After the third time I asked him where he did his midwifery training and he told me he was actually an actor, like so many earnest baristas across Toronto. I'm pretty sure he took it upon himself to make the "better decision" I was incapable of choosing and gave me decaf anyway.)

Whatever, people mean well and I am comfortable with the choices I'm making, which I believe are right for me. I've done my own research and accordingly, am making my own decisions, sometimes not even based on the evidence. For example, I had to research the effects of pot use during pregnancy for my dissertation and learned that pot cannot be proven to be detrimental to the development or neonatal outcomes of the baby. Regardless, pot smoking is not for me right now, even though I could justify that indulgence with evidence. Toking would just make me feel like a selfish asshole, and by listening to my body it was an natural choice to stop. (My GreenMan rang me about a month into my first trimester to ask if I was ok because he hadn't heard from me in a while. I guess my sudden absence was a bit strange as I've been visiting him on a weekly basis for the past six years).

This week I've been noticing the baby's startle reflex a lot. There are a lot more sudden noises here in Toronto than there were in sleepy Guelph, and the baby is reacting by jumping and flinching inside of me when surprised. The other morning Wired caught him off guard by grinding coffee and apparently he is not used to hearing sirens. These things don't startle me, as I have the added context clues of watching Wired in the kitchen, or seeing the approaching flashing lights, but I know he's surprised when my belly judders in announcement of his tiny shock.

This reflex was most amusing on Saturday night at Lee's Palace. The ladies loos are on the top floor, three flights up, and the baby inconveniently decided this would be a good night to nestle right upon my bladder. The toilets at Lee's flush like airplane toilets, with a big whoosh! of a flush. The first time it caught both of us off guard, but every time after I knew what to expect, unlike the little kicker. After the fourth trip up three flights of stairs, and the fourth startling flush, I began to feel a little sorry for him, as overall it was a noisy, alarming evening. However, there was nothing I could do about how the toilets flushed and only he could change how many trips up the stairs we were making. So for once in this pregnancy it was my turn to give some advice. After flushing and him jumping I looked down at my belly and instructed: Baby, if you don't like it, then move! I'm not one of those delusional parents who thinks my boy is already a genius but needless to say, that was our last trip up the stairs that night.

Full Moon Sunday

2010-11-21T16:11:00.008Z

I have to remind myself, every time I'm visiting Canada, that these days are a departure from real life. Because if this was real life, it would be a lot harder to return to the daily grind in England, which involves work and cleaning and rain and not having daily dates with all my oldest greatest friends. Not that going back to England is ever easy, especially not this time. ChickenMummy and I were lounging in her bed the other night, laughing and talking and I grabbed her hand so she could feel the little one kicking. Besides me she's the first one to feel him kick and it was so nice to share it with someone who loves me and who is excited too. I'm sad she won't be there in person to share more of this little one's life. The BabyDaddy is trying to get his head around being around for the baby but there's no love there. The day before I left England we were on a train together and I asked him if there was anything he was excited about or was he just worried? He's just worried. That's ok, because although there's a lot of work to do and my budget is going to be tighter than a corset, I'm not really worried, just excited. Maybe we'll actually balance each other out as parents rather well? If you could hear me breathing right now I would tell you how that's the sound of me not holding my breath.

I walked to the gym this morning amidst the lightest flurry of snow and the baby was kicking. I put my hand under my coat to give him something to kick against and said Hello, you make me feel lucky. I've been going to the gym everyday while I'm here, usually for both a workout and a yoga class. This morning I decided I needed a day off but I was awake anyway, so I went for a gentle meditation yoga class. The teacher was pleased to have thirteen people at the class, as we needed at least ten for the full moon meditation he'd planned. Then he nodded at me and said, Well, actually we have thirteen and a half people this morning. I smiled as I corrected him: my baby may only be a very small person but he is a whole one.

Later on the teacher said that people often believe it's good to speak their minds but it's not always, as once it's out there it can never be taken back. Sure we've all uttered things we regret, but after damaging words have been said sometimes greater healing and understanding can take place. I've always been talkative but I notice it more here because CuteDad keeps getting concerned about how much I tell people, how open I am. His perspective is skewed because he's overhearing conversations between me and my most trusted people, which is not how I talk to everyone. I think I'm less concerned with appearances than him too, I don't mind if people know my foibles and weaknesses if they are also my truths. However, when I worry or embarrass CuteDad these days I also have to take into consideration how my little kicker is going to one day do the same to me. No-one would be surprised if he became a loquacious boy, being my son and all. It's a strange thing to think that he will learn to speak with a different accent to me, being raised in England. I mentioned this to CuteDad and he retorted that he could relate, having three kids who talk with accents different to his. He added that according to him, I say too much in my different accent. To which I shut my mouth for awhile, as, despite my age, the desire to please and not disappoint my parents appears set to be a lifelong pursuit.

When I'm not in Canada Wired checks my blog every Sunday. He doesn't have to this Sunday though because I'm in his living room. This current proximity to my Doppelganger friend, and all my other Canadian dearies, is infrequent, so comfortable, and completely blissful.

The Emperor's New Clothes

2010-10-28T08:53:00.007+01:00

There are many things not to say on f***book. Many things I think might be funny or witty as a status update are so not appropriate for fb. Especially when things aren't good with me, I get pretty quiet on fb, because nothing is lamer than cry-for-help updates. It's so easy to be a lie on fb too. For example, today I changed my profile picture to a shot of me wearing a corset. It is a real picture of me, so how is this a lie? Well, I certainly can't fit into a corset right now, and it will be quite awhile until I'll wear one again. Why? I'm not ready to say it on fb but despite the direct fb link to this blog, I am ready to talk about it here.

Last May things were particularly not good, and as per classic Kate, I mainly deal with that by getting cagey about the details, by shutting down, becoming very quiet and pretending it's fine. I prefer to talk about these things after the fact, when everything is ok again. Trouble with May was I didn't expect everything to be ok ever again. After that fucking tumour, I was told it would be harder for me to conceive and that if the cancer returned I would not have a choice about invasive treatment: I would likely need a hysterectomy and probably other cancer fun like chemo or radiation too. I felt like a failure in so many ways, like I would never be a Mum, like I was broken, useless and unloveable. I couldn't concentrate on the uni work that needed doing, I wasn't taking care of myself, I wasn't being a good friend, daughter, sister or student. I was lying to everyone and being as self-destructive as possible, because I felt awful, and everything painful which I inflicted on myself reinforced that I deserved to feel terrible.

Usually with bouts of depression I'm good at hanging on, hanging in. I know it will eventually get better, even if it takes years. But this wasn't depression and I didn't want to hang on. I could not see anything ever getting better and I was so tired of trying so hard. I kind of decided I'd just do as many drugs as possible until money ran out, and hopefully by then I'd have figured out how to die in the way which would hurt everyone the least. I went to the meditation centre for a week and for the three hours a day when we were all sitting in silence I was trying to figure out how to do it. Away from drugs and alcohol, being given proper time to sleep and nourishing food to eat, I had slightly hoped I would find an alternative solution but instead I came to the same conclusion over and over: I was too tired and too scared and too disappointed and too far gone, all I had left to figure out was how not to live anymore. The feeling was so strange and calm; in the past even when depression had been desperate I never actually wanted to die. But this didn't feel like depression, it was so matter-of-fact and not hysterical or driven by madness. It was more like acceptance: I'm never going to be a Mum, I'm never going to get a degree, the cancer will come back, I fail at life. I wanted to quit before I got fired.

I came home from meditation without a set plan, but the money wasn't all gone yet so I resumed where I'd left off with my hedonistic bender. On the night of the Summer Solstice I went out dancing, and drinking and smoking. At the end of the night everyone I knew except a friend-of-a-friend I'd just met had left. He suggested we go to back his for tea and smoke and to watch the solstice sunrise. After the sunrise we fell into bed and laughed a lot. Considering how I wasn't laughing much at that time I returned to him again over the next few weeks for more sex and laughter, because it was one of the only things which didn't hurt in every way and it was cheaper than cocaine.

He's not laughing so much anymore. We weren't being careful, me because I didn't care, my chances at conception are less than 10% when I'm healthy and I was not in a healthy state whatsoever, and him, well, I'm not sure why he was so reckless. He's since told me that I taught him the biggest lesson ever about why you should always use protection. I was like Yeah, besides AIDS. Because the lesson I taught him was that sometimes when you have unprotected sex, someone gets pregnant.

This is the part where things get so much better, not so much for the BabyDaddy but absolutely for me. A massive part of my going off the rails was sadness about no children. After checking with my doctors that, despite recent surgery and cancer, I was safe to continue with the pregnancy, everything I thought would never heal began to. The situation is imperfect, this isn't how I would have imagined or planned to have a child, but despite a thousand reasons why this pregnancy should never have happened it somehow did and I feel like I've been saved.

In Sinead O'Connor's song The Emperor's New Clothes there's a line which goes "but you know how it is and how a pregnancy can change you". I feel a thousand lifetimes away from who I was in May. Shortly after the pregnancy began a massive shift occurred within me: I transitioned seamlessly from feeling like I couldn't cope with anything to feeling like I could handle everything. Partly because I have to now as it isn't just about me anymore, but also because I'm excited about life again. Makes sense really, as growing a baby in my uterus is much more thrilling than growing cancer. And part of it is this chance I've been given which I though I would never get and how wanting it so much has made all my priorities different: I got my degree finished, which was previously not on track to happen, I am eating properly, no intoxicants of any kind anymore. Whenever someone points out how hard it's going to be I think of how I don't know where I'd be at right now if I wasn't pregnant. Yes it will be hard but I also know it'll be amazing. Over and over again I just feel so lucky. Every time the baby kicks it's magic and I'm so excited we're both here to feel it.

For Love's Sake

2010-10-13T12:27:00.002+01:00

I went to the psychic circle on Friday night. I try to go most Friday nights but only manage to get there half the time. Last week was a psychically electric week, I was seeing things all around, auras, sparkles and lights. Part of me thought I should go to the circle to see if I could direct or understand it all but then PaperPants called and asked if I wanted to go for a pint instead and I did. But this week I turned down all the other Friday night invites and biked up to the Arches to meditate. The leader of the circle, Wolf, he sometimes kicks my ass. He tells me things with alarming accuracy, uses phrases I think verbatim in my head. He often says I'm too hard on myself and it has to stop. This time he said I'm working too hard and too much, I need balance too. For love's sake, I need to believe I'm good enough, I'm working hard enough, I'm deserving. It's time to stop beating myself up, for love's sake, he said.

If I run my hands over my body I imagine/remember what it feels like for someone else's hands to be touching me. My skin is soft. Lovers have told me I have the softest skin, as they fingertip-trace my hips, in sleepy voices saturated with awe, lust and sweat. My brother mentions my skin too, everytime he touches my arm he grimaces and says my skin is so soft it feels slimy, because he has to hate everything about me, especially things other people love. I'm critical and analytical about what and how my hands feel against my own skin. I touch other people as a profession. They say my touch is soothing, calming, I'm in the right job because I'm so good at touching people. Within my work life I touch people almost daily. Yet outside of work and the platonic comfort of friends, no-one desires my touch, or wants to touch me. I run my hands over my softest skin and wonder why.

Wolf has been saying for ages that love is coming to me. Yet recently it left again. He departed with all his logical reasons why he should go now instead of later when it would hurt more. His reasons sound like they make sense, except what it really comes down to is, it's not me you want, I'm not enough in some or many ways. I feel burned again, crimson cheeks and a fire of hurt in my belly. When I'm angry and ashamed, I say nothing despite the million things I have to say. I know I would be proud of saying none of them, especially where's nothing to say which would change the outcome, regardless of my logical counter-arguments. We won't stay friends. We've been friends before and I'm done trying that. When we're friends we drink, and then we kiss. I don't want to see him and not kiss him, and now I can't kiss him. When we drink he always wants to kiss though, but I know that kissing becomes hope followed by logical reasoning in the morning. When we're friends and we drink and then he leans to kiss me I have to say no, which pisses me off to always have to be the one who says no to what I want to say yes to. But that's so often me, Responsible Kate, the one who makes sure all the candles are blown out at the end of the party, who calls cabs for everyone else and then walks home, alone, because I don't kiss my friends.

All of this has made me beat myself up some, which I hate too. At the boy who left, at Wolf for assuring me love is coming, at myself for believing, hoping, kissing, and also for returning to who I want to be love but know isn't, I rant and I rail some. Because fer fuck's sake, when? Where is he? When do I get someone to hold, who wants to hold me? Which leads to all the darker thoughts of why aren't I good enough to love, will I ever be? For fuck's sake comes up a lot in my frustration and self-flagellation. When Wolf was nearly finished giving me my message on Friday he reiterated how I need to stop beating myself up. He said it so stridently it was like his words were taking me by the shoulders and shaking me, he told me Kate, you need to stop, for love's sake! I rode my bike home in the rain after, thinking, duh, for love's sake. All this time I've been thinking for fuck's sake and all that's gotten me is fucked, when I want to be loved. For my sake, it's time for love now.

Things We Do

2010-09-15T19:05:00.001+01:00

In January I made two quiet changes. I stopped smoking tobacco (again) and I stopped adding salt to food. I only smoked about three rollies a day but it's smoking, which will always be bad for you if you're doing it in any capacity. Salt was a bigger deal, as I threw loads of salt all over everything I ate and was sure I would never enjoy eating anything except breakfast ever again without salt. (Standard brekkie for me is fruit or berries, yogurt and museli, which I douse with cinnamon instead of salt. Except for that one bad day when Rob put cumin where the cinnamon lives, equalling epic failures for breakfast, cumin and Rob). However, it's now well into September and to my great surprise I'm still smoke and salt free. It's good to be able to surprise yourself sometimes. Next I'm hoping to surprise myself by magically conjuring up a brilliant dissertation without my brain breaking. I'm sure my five-day headache is simply my brain aching under the pressure of all the thinking I'm demanding of it right now.

Sometimes I love texts. Like when I text the Architect to say I'm late and he texts back one word: You! Or when GotTalent texts to tell me there's a bottle of wine chilling for me in the fridge, wheneva I'm ready. Then there was this exchange between me and FireyRed the other night, who apparently texted me without having saved my number:

FR: Kate! Late notice but we're at the Golden Lion on Gloucester Road, reggae. Come join us? xx

Me: Would love to but I'm already settled with a pint in Bedminster. Another time tho lovely, xxx

FR: Who the fuck is this??????

Me: It's Kate, you just texted me.

FR: Oh bum. Love you Kate-face.

Oh FireyRed, what are you like? I love that British expression, What are you like? The first time someone said it to me I thought it was a real question and tried to answer (by intelligently explaining ummmm, I'm like this?) Today I asked this of myself, because I spent this afternoon with a lesbian I've had an inexplicable crush on for the past three years and for some reason when she asked if I was dating a boy I lied and said I was. It's an inconsequential lie, somewhat complicatedly entangled in me saving my ridiculous face, and it's not as though I've scuppered any realistic chances of dating her (the prospect of actually dating her scares me shitless and is also nullified by my professional ethics), but still, why lie to someone you have a crush on that you're dating someone else? The things we do, seriously, what am I like?

At this moment what I'm like is wishing most of Horse Feathers songs weren't so brief, as I would like to listen to this for much longer than 2:22 minutes and I would like this to go on for much longer than it does too.

In Recent News

2010-08-30T14:17:00.008+01:00

This week in the envelope of Facts&Arguments and other newspaper cuttings from CuteDad, he included an article on how to escape a sinking car. I, like my father, had been previously unaware that 10% of all drownings were caused by cars submerged in water. The article and the advice it offered seemed to really affect CuteDad. His notes atop the article read: "This paper is full of stunning, useful info. I am now going to get a small hammer to mount on my dashboard! Enjoy. Learn. Always carry a hammer! Mmmmm ham-mmer sandwich."

Also this week, thankfully not in news from CuteDad, was this Jezebel piece on getting caught masturbating. The original article was a call for any embarrassing masturbation stories and because I spend most of my time in front of the computer these days, I took a dissertation break to scroll through all of the responses. What I learned mostly was that a lot of people began masturbating at a really young age, which made me wonder what exploratory developmental stage I'd missed, as I didn't first bring myself to orgasm until I was 26. Having more wherewithal at 26 than most 7 year olds, I never really got caught, so my story isn't too embarrassing (at least not until the end) so I didn't tell it on Jezebel but I'll tell it here. Why? Because my blog is very different from MamaHeidi's.

I was working for a national youth organisation and living in a house with 11 teenagers. On a weekend off I visited my best male friend JohnnyB, who slept on the couch so I could sleep in his bed. His bedroom floor was covered in porn mags, one of which I picked up out of curiosity. I began reading the erotic stories. Now, for context, I had decided I was one of those women who just didn't orgasm, ever. I enjoyed sex, I had fun, I got turned on, but I never quite got all the way there, so I'd never masturbated because I didn't see the point. But as I read through John's floor-porn collection I decided, for once, to try touching myself. Fast forward 10 or 15 minutes and it was like I suddenly understood what the big deal about sex was, what I'd been missing for so long, and I began seriously considering insuring my hands, as what I had just done with them was amazing.

The next day I decided to start my own porn collection, because I was suddenly like a teenaged boy, and all I wanted to do was lock myself in my bedroom and whack off all day. I went into a variety store and randomly grabbed a couple of magazines off the top shelf. I got back to the house I was sharing with teenagers, with renewed empathy that they were all sharing rooms, waited until they were in bed and eagerly opened my new magazines.....to find no stories at all, just pictures, which did absolutely nothing for me. A few days later I had the chance to discreetly go to a sex shop, where I could explicitly ask the guy behind the counter to direct me towards magazines with stories in them. He pointed at some and I selected a few which had pictures of hot guys on the front. So imagine my disappointment that night, when all the kids were finally in bed, and I opened my new magazines with stories to discover I had purchased man-on-man gay porn. Finally, third time lucky, I bought the right kind of magazine and was eventually able to start making up for lost time.

However, I was living in a house with a bunch of teenagers, which wasn't really conducive to chucking out sensitive material, so I was stuck with keeping the rejected gay porn at the back of my closet. I moved back to my parent's at the end of my contract, and then a few months later moved to the UK. The city where my parent's live is subjected to a strange garbage sorting scheme called the Wet/Dry system. CuteDad is a bit obsessed with sorting the garbage correctly, as if you do it wrong your garbage is left curb side, labelled with big yellow stickers, and then sanitation counsellors come and talk to you about your difficulties sorting your garbage. I think CuteDad is really sensitive about not being able to throw out garbage correctly? He meticulously goes through all the rubbish in the wet/dry bins on our house before putting it out, lest he get labelled with a dreaded yellow garbage-fail sticker. So before I moved to England I was clearing out all my junk, ruthlessly chucking away lots of unnecessary crap, disregarding wet and dry protocol. I figured I would just dump all my rubbish in a regular black bag and before I left the country I'd find a random dumpster to lob it into, thus bypassing all the wet/dry malarky. Of course, when moving internationally and sorting through everything you own, time gets short. When I left Canada I also left two large black bags full of garbage in my parent's basement. I'd been gone a few months when ChickenMummy mentioned that CuteDad had decided to go through them, split them into wet or dry and chuck them out appropriately for me. I said that was fine, hung up, and it wasn't until later that I realised how, in searching through my bags of trash, CuteDad would have found my discarded gay porn. Thus my most embarrassing masturbation-related moment. But really, despite how much I cringed over this, I'd trade having many more embarrassing stories if it had meant learning how to get myself off a lot earlier than age 26.

Essay Writing

2010-07-13T12:05:00.010+01:00

This morning was mine. I went running at the park, to the Farmer's Market, then for a coffee. The afternoon is this, endless hours in front of the computer, staring at it as if my essay is going to write itself. Then five minutes ago the radio played a Joni Mitchell and with her first few chords I gave up on uni work for a moment, grabbed my guitar and sang along. I'm home alone for the next three days, so my stuff is strewn all over the house, I'm not wearing many clothes and there's a lot of off-key singing and bad dancing going on. It's blissful.

The odd hot streak of summer we've had for the past month has finally broken; it's cold and drizzly today, which makes it much easier to have to stay in the house. I need to stop listening to the song which makes me cry every time I hear it though, because I have too much essay to write to waste time crying.

I went out on Friday night, too big. It's fine to take nights out but it would have been more reasonable to make it home before 6am. There's a pizza place round the corner from my house which is one of the only late-night/wee hours options for soak-up-the-liquor food and whenever it's shut when I stumble past on my way home I feel super-irresponsible, like I should know better. In my head I'm all, Girl, if you're not home by the time Bella Pizza closes you know you're way out too late.

I didn't go home with a boy a few nights ago, for once. He compares me to Class A drugs. He says on the night when I look so shiny and attractive, being with me seems like the best idea ever, he wants nothing more than to stay up doing me all night. Until the morning, when he's feeling rough, when he swears off me forever, and hates himself for having been beguiled into coming back to me for one more hit. How amazing the sex is becomes irrelevant when the comedown is so awful, I'd rather sleep with someone half as good in bed who didn't make me feel half as bad about it in the morning.

When I was a child, about 5 years old, ChickenMummy was on the phone when I wanted to talk to her. I jumped up and down in front of her, she waved me away a few times and eventually I stabbed myself in the thigh with a sharpened pencil to get her attention. The lead broke off in my leg, I was left with a small grey mark on my right thigh. Is it actually the lead of that long-ago pencil? I have no idea why I did this nor why I thought about it today. As soon as I thought about it I had to go check to see if my self-inflicted grey freckle was still there. It is. Accuracy is so damn important to this blog.

Here's what I'm going to look like for the next three months while I'm writing essays:

Pretty......

......stressed.

Happy Birthday

2010-06-02T00:11:00.007+01:00

Our locking kitchen door leads to a mud room/hallway where we store junk, then there's another locking door to get into the backyard. The backyard key stays in the kitchen, the kitchen key stays in the kitchen door, which we always keep locked, even when we're inside (post-burglary paranoia). I was in the hallway sorting out some junk when Rob opened the kitchen door and stuck his head out to tell me he was leaving. He said goodbye, closed the door, turned the key out of habit and left. A few minutes later I tried to get back in the house and realised he'd locked me in. I tried the door a few times, pushing down hard on the handle, even though I knew it was futile. I banged on the windows, but he was long gone. I couldn't get out to the backyard because the key was in the kitchen and I couldn't get into the house because the only key was in the inside lock of the door. GotTalent was coming in half an hour for a massage. My phone was inside. I could wait it out until Rob got home. Or I could break in.

When an outcome is inevitable you may as well accept what you are going to do quickly and get on with it.

Shoes, my bike, the hoover, tools, the recycling box; we keep all these things in the hallway. I found the hammer and chose which of the four windows to smash. I had to hit it hard, over and over. It was a noisy, messy, violent affair, I felt reckless and impatient, like a toddler having a tantrum to get what I wanted, only swinging a hammer instead of stamping my feet.

I climbed through the jagged shards onto the computer desk, knocking over the radio, phone and lamp, cutting up my hands, knees and feet. I phoned Rob and asked when he thought he'd be coming home. I did the right thing, he agreed, as he wouldn't have been back until much much later. I picked up the big pieces of glass, put them in a box, hoovered for shards several times, and tried not to bleed on the carpet too much. I'd card-boarded over the hole by the time GotTalent arrived. The whole time I was giving his massage I affirmed my decision again and again with the recognition of how grateful I was that I wasn't still stuck in the hallway, despite how smashing the window had felt dramatic and extreme. GotTalent asked if it had been satisfying to hit the glass with the hammer. I think I found it more disturbing, like I do when people shout. But instead spending my evening singing Smashing Pumpkins (Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage) I got to hum Fiona Apple (So I had to break the window, it just had to be, better that I break the window, than him or her or me).

I'll be 33 tomorrow. I couldn't think of anything I wanted for my birthday, but now I guess I'm getting a new window.

Cuts and Ties

2010-05-12T12:12:00.002+01:00

The past few weeks have been rather demanding. I have alternately coped and not coped well. Uni ended, one final essay was fully submitted and one was partially completed, along with an application for an extension. And I had surgery on Saturday. I haven't really talked about my guts too much on fuckbook or here, but as my surgery approached I panicked and got louder about it because I was like Hey! I need help! I was taking it all as a little deal but it was more of maybe a medium-sized deal and I got scared.

Unsavoury symptoms I've have for over a year include bleeding so much of the time, sex hurting, bleeding after sex and constant low grade pelvic pain. Physically, I'm looking fit and I feel sexy, yet I can't have a normal sex life, which makes the chance of a normal relationship.........whatever. It's not been great. Finally, invasive investigations found benign growths in my uterus which were attributed with causing all the symptoms. Your body bleeds a lot when trying to clear out things which shouldn't be there. After lots of waiting lists, appointments, tests, and strangers looking at my vagina, I was scheduled to have the polyp and tumour removed this Saturday, three days after our last uni assignment was due.

The shit parts of this have seen me crying all the time, all over town. BongsAlot phoned me when I was in the post office and I cried whilst paying for my stamps. He told me to come right over and I cried standing on his front porch and sitting on his couch. I've cried over coffee and beer and lunch, in cars, parks, kitchens, livingrooms, pubs, on the street, over the phone, writing e-mails. I miss my Mum so much and hated her not being there after I woke up after surgery. I'm scared the surgery won't effectively treat the symptoms, (WHICH MUST GET BETTER NOW). I was scared I wouldn't wake up after the surgery. I was scared they were wrong about the benign-ness of the tumour. (Edit: They were wrong: it was 20% malignant). I knew it was going to hurt. I'm sad I grow these things in my uterus while my brother grew a baby in his. All of these things made me cry.

What has made it ok to cry has been all the great people. ChickenMummy who would have come to be here with me if I'd said yes when she asked me if I wanted her to. All the people who have spent time with me, even though I've felt lousy, been stressy, and probably cried. All the people who've reminded me many times to call if I needed anything, who offered to take me to the hospital, who said I could stay with them after and they would take care of me, who are hanging out with me now when I'm all painkiller-giggly and stir-crazy, bringing me meals and treats and not complaining when I make us watch America's Next Top Model. All the people who have been taking good care of me. All the Canadian people who, if I was doing this in Canada, would already be there before I could say I needed them, (I cry because I miiiiiiiiiiiss you!)

Now it's Wednesday and the surgery is over. I have carte blanche to do nothing but ache for a few days. I feel a thousand times better now the stress of having the surgery is over. I can laugh about things like how usually when you get a Brazilian it's because you're gonna to get laid, and it's pretty disheartening to go get waxed out of courtesy for your gynaecologist instead. I'm sleeping lots, reading trashy magazines, moving slowly and not bothering to change out of my pyjamas when people come over. And feeling all kinds of grateful. It took me a while to reach out but having solid friends to reach to has made all the difference between being ok and not. After all, the times when I cope well are only possible because I have sensitive and caring people who love me from near and far, through all those moments when I'm not coping so well, until I can again. Painkillers make it hard to think but I know the words thank you aren't big enough but for now the best I can do is write them (slightly) bigger:

THANK YOU

This. Is. Monday.

2010-04-16T17:25:00.001+01:00

Some days you wonder and some days you know. Today I knew I was loved.

Half of the cultural references I make are Canadian, half are British. I'm not always aware of my audience so sometimes my jokes only amuse me. The other day someone British said something about somewhere "being worth the drive". My brain finished this sentence with "to Acton!" as per that commercial about the Olde Hide House. I can feel really British sometimes and other days I look around and I'm like, Hey, where are my people?

Today I went to counselling and talked. I went to work and worked. I went to circuit training and exercised. I biked up hills to get to all of these places. It was better cycling than last week, when it steadily and incessantly poured cold rain day after day. I try not to complain about the weather when it isn't raining and the sun was shining bright today, but was the wind at my back at any point? No, no it was not. It was right up in my fucking face making cycling up the hills of Bristol much harder.

I came home from tough biking and got ready for my massage client. This lady is my most long-standing client. She was a case study my first year of learning massage, became a paying client shortly after that course ended four years ago, and she's been coming about once a fortnight ever since. She's had a bad shoulder for ages. Today she said it was better, had been ever since the last massage. She credits me with this improvement (?!) She pays me the least out of all my clients, every time she hands me the money she asks if it's enough. I know she's hard up and needs the treatments. I assure her cash she gives me is always enough. Sometimes she brings me gifts to make up the difference: homemade chutney, bottles of essential oils, chocolate, an aloe vera plant. I kill most plants quickly. For the past three months I've been meaning to tell her how I've managed to keep the aloe plant alive for nearly a year, I remember I wanted to tell her this about five minutes after she leaves. Today I remembered to tell her. At the end of this treatment she paid me an extra tenner. I told her to never worry about the money, she doesn't need to pay me more. She said she never worries, but she had the extra today and wanted me to take it. I was ridiculously touched that she rates the treatments I give her so highly that when she has a bit of extra cash, she chooses to give it to me.

Sometimes I know exactly what I want. One day last week I really wanted to watch re-runs of Head of the Class. A fortnight ago on a sunny Saturday I wanted nothing more than to be sitting on a blanket in a park reading Memoirs of Montparnasse. Today would be perfect if I was pottering around my parent's house, hearing CuteDad from somewhere else in the house singing Girls Just Wanna Have Fun. I don't get these things. Instead I get mail. Today I got a postcard from Africa, in my sister's handwriting. A few days ago I got a movie review from my dog Abby. I love picturing CuteDad writing these, from Abby to me. It can be hard being so far away from my folks, but the distance makes us share other special things. For instance, if I lived nearby my dog would never write me letters and I would miss out on all of this:

Film Report by Abby!

Haha! My Dad likes to get DVDs about a film star called Poor Jen. He says all her films are about her reel life. He just got Luv Happens. In it Poor Jen is a florist. She goes home to her boyfriend and spots two wine glasses on the table, one with LIPSTIK on it, agen. So she runs away to find a new boyfriend called BERK! Dad sez BERK in name, BERK in nature. Even weirder, in the film her last name in CHANDLER.

Her girlfriend warns her, "I hate seeing you get so dissapoynted and hurt evry time." Dad sez everybody thinks that.

Then Poor Jen sez to BERK "My life is an experiment in reely bad decisions." Dad sez everybody knows that too.

There was a parrot in it too, called Brad (sez Dad). They took it to a swamp to set it free, but it came home agen. In yore dreems Poor Jen!

Dad sez he's seen enuf Poor Jen films, they're the Pitts. He wants something more Jolie to laff at.

Rating: No stars out of five

Length: 1hour, 50 minutes (1 hour, 48 minutes too long)

Rekommendation: Don't bother!

Luv Abby

(I read "Luv Abby" in CuteDad's handwriting and I know he's using the dog to say what he finds hard to say. But he makes sure I know anyway.)

The Inevitable

2010-03-28T20:59:00.004+01:00

Last night I couldn't be arsed to fill the water jug before sticking it back in the fridge even though I knew it would piss me off in the morning. I found it kind of amusing when it did piss me off in the morning like I knew it would. I had a flash of annoyance followed by a dawning awareness of why I should always bother to fill up the jug.

I made out with a guy who has about a dozen facial piercings, because I wanted to know what it felt like to kiss him. Surprisingly soft is how it felt, considering there were so many bits of metal sticking out of his face into mine. I wonder if he gets kissed like that a lot, out of curiosity.

This morning I forgot the clocks changed. At 12:10 I said I'd be ready to go at half twelve but that's because I thought it'd just gone 11. We re-scheduled, then GotTalent screwed up too, as he was all ready to leave his house and drive to mine when he realised his car was parked halfway across town.

I don't know much about any astrological signs except my own. When it came up at House3 that I'm a Gemini Brutus feigned horror. NotDan didn't know anything about why Geminis can be annoying. I explained my characteristic mercurial nature, saying it's like I experience a thousand tiny tragedies and a thousand tiny triumphs each day. A triumph today was a last lone bottle of ginger beer on the shelf at the deli, seemingly waiting for me. The tiny triumphs please me as much as the tragedies distress me so as long as I get a thousand of each daily, it balances out.

One of the Saturday night burlesque performers was beautifully heavily tattooed. She danced to Tori Amos and her act included falling snow. While watching her I realised two things: 1) I'm ready to get my next tattoo, and 2) I want to live in Canada again.

How To Be Good At Your Job

2010-03-22T10:13:00.008Z

I'd expected more of a crowd at the bar, so I wasn't ready when the bartender asked me what I wanted to drink. I was still weighing up the pros and cons of drinking cider versus vodka, so as there was no-one else waiting I said I hadn't decided. The bartender nodded and moved down the bar. I drifted towards him to check out the ciders on tap. I was leaning in to tell him I wanted a pint of Bounders when he pushed a full pint in front of me. I gaped at him and asked how he knew what I wanted when I hadn't told him yet. Turns out he thought I'd said I wanted a pint of cider, not I hadn't decided. Decided, de cider. It was a trippy moment, made even better when I said I'd actually wanted the other kind of cider so he only charged me half price. As I waited for my friends I imagined what it would be like to have a psychic bartender places your drink on the bar as you are sidling up to it.

I'm living on Windmill Hill in the Gay Menagerie right now. My main rule for all the pets is NOBODY DIE! The other night my friend commented on how much the dog barks but the barking is fine because it means she's still alive. I'm here for nearly three weeks, a long haul. I always visit before the guys leave, to cue the dog that I'll be coming to stay. I have a key, so they leave on their holiday and I move in later that day. Because I don't directly trade off with the guys on the day of departure I always have a huge fear that I'll forget. They don't usually text me to say they're off or anything, so if I didn't have it written down or if the day slips my mind, I could not go over and no-one would know about the pets. Like, what if the guys are away for three weeks and for five days I'm all oblivious about them being gone already and then when I remember, what would I do? What would the state of the house and pets be? Sometimes I scare myself by imagining how horrible it would be if I forgot to go house-sitting. I've never actually forgotten but that I might is totally one of my greatest fears.

The dog here is old and grumpy. She's tried to bite me before. It's alright because she has no teeth. We're getting along well this time, I've been giving her lots of treats and she's on painkillers which I feed her in cheese. When I came for my pre-visit with the guys we had a frank discussion about what to do if the dog died while they were away. Do I tell them? I mean, they're not going to come back from America early to a dead dog, right? They even said if something happened and the vet said there was nothing he could do and she was in pain, then they trusted me to decide to have her put down. GotTalent's advice was to call the vet and have her put down on the first day! I didn't consider it but I did laugh out loud when he said that. I thought I'd lost one of the four cats for a day and a half when I inadvertently trapped her in the office and there have been a few floating guppies but otherwise, with three days to go, I think we're all gonna make it. I was talking about the dog to someone at the pub the other night and he asked what kind of dog she was. I said she's a Great Dane. Then we talked about how old she is and he asked how she was and I was like, Well, she's not great. Oh, he said, so really she's just a Dane.

Knowing Where Your Keys Are = Win

2010-02-27T20:33:00.006Z

I stood in the rain on NotDan's doorstep while he searched for his keys. Twice he stuck his head out the front window to assure me he'd find them and open the door any second now. It took him about 10 minutes. I didn't mind, it was a light rain. Later this week I stood behind the Architect while he couldn't get out of my house. I directed him to where the keys were hanging and which one opened the door, and as he fumbled with them he commented how safe this would be in the event of a fire. So many doors in England need keys to unlock them from the inside. This week I'm homesick for single cylinder deadlocks. I like knowing I can get out of places. I don't mind getting locked outside, which makes sense to me but I find it galling to be locked into places. Being able to get out is more important than getting in. I find paying to use a restroom equally galling. (It's fairly standard here to pay 10-20 pence to use a bathroom at a mall or train station. I always feel like if I don't take a shit then I've been ripped off somehow.)

I shaved one leg before I went out last night. I was trying to strike the balance between making an effort and not trying too hard. I knew if I came home alone having shaved both legs I'd feel sad and stupid for hoping. When I came home alone having only one shaved leg I found it funny and endearing. And hey, I was right. I don't like it when the boy I like says the same things I've heard myself say to a boy who liked me who I didn't like back. I know we're not really going to be friends and it makes me sad like two shaved legs.

The last thing I do before leaving the house is turn off the computer. I always put the same song on to play, then hit the shutdown, which gives you the option of closing it right away or letting it shut itself down after a minute. I give it the minute, which the song plays through. I try to get my shoes on, grab my bag and be out the door before the music stops. Some days I win, somedays I have knots in my shoelaces. It's fun.

A Description, Among Other Thoughts

2010-02-15T18:02:00.001Z

I love these mitts. After seeing a picture of them online I asked CuteDad if he could send me a pair. He made lots of excuses about how hard they were to find and how fast they were selling out, but he said he'd try. Two days later I got a parcel through the post and it was these mittens. CuteDad had sent them before I'd even asked! I like having a new response to the oft-asked question "Are you American?" When I'm wearing these mitts I'm just like, talk to the hand. I've even been wearing them around the house, because I love my Dad, because red, white and maple leafs are comforting when I'm homesick, and because my hands are never warm.

I like how when you get a text you can't check immediately, you speculate how it could be from so many people. Really it can only be from one person, but you can imagine it to be from anyone! Until you check and it turns out it's that friend who only gets in touch when she wants something.

When you wash the dishes do you wash and rinse each item individually as soon as it's clean? Or do you wash a few and rinse them all together? I wash as many as I can, piling them up in the sink preposterously. I prefer to rinse only once or twice per dishwashing session. Ideally. This question reminds me of this poem. I've never read all of this poem, even though I really like it. Poems like this are my kind of thing.

GotTalent rang as I was sitting at the computer. He asked what I was doing. I said I'd been washing the dishes and then had three thoughts I wanted to write down so I dried my hands and rushed over to the computer and by the time I'd typed the first two I'd forgotten the third thing. I know it wasn't "Is masturbating on an airplane considered joining the Mile High Club?" because that was a thought I wouldn't bother writing down. I told GotTalent this, as an honest answer to his question and he said he was glad he wasn't interrupting anything. I wanted to point out how, clearly, he was interrupting my life.

I've had a headache for nine days. It's not too bad, just periodically noticed throughout the day, like, oh hey, yep, headache's still there. Two days ago a cold settled into my chest. I'm operating in that fugue of a cold, where you function behind a haze of disconnectedness. I think about things I've done over the past few days and I know I was there, but I couldn't really tell you much more than that. I'm present but congested.

I have a black eye right now. I didn't 'walk into a door'. I fainted and in the ensuing falling over I apparently banged my face. I woke up on the floor and felt warm and sleepy. I stayed there awhile. Later on my face hurt. It felt like I was looking out over a horizon for two days, as the swollen part of my under-eye obscured my vision. It's weird, having a black eye. People notice it, I watch them noticing it and wondering if someone hit me. When someone asks the first thing I say it, it's ok, no-one hit me. I overheard myself being described as 'the girl with the black eye' at a party on Saturday night. That was weird. It's been strange, the sense of shame having a black eye has caused. People who notice but don't ask, I wonder what they think? I had a new massage client yesterday and I worried about how it would look, me having a black eye. Why did it make me feel unprofessional, or like I was declaring an obvious statement about the chaotic state of my life on my face? I have felt ashamed and embarrassed of my tiny, temporary injury. How magnified would that be if I had been punched? How wrong is that?

Isn't fainting was less worry-inducing than being hit? I don't know what to say when someone asks why I fainted, because how am I meant to know? Is it a British thing to ask that? Maybe because I'd had a headache for six days or because this cold was starting up or I was hungry or mad, ummmmm, I don't know and there isn't any way to ever know really.

The Olympics is on, we watched the moguls at House3. I asked NotDan if he'd ever fantasised about being an Olympic athlete when he was a kid. He said he mostly fantasised about making music. I always used to imagine being in the Olympics when I was a kid, but only when the Olympics was happening. I can't recall what I fantasised about doing 'when I grew up' in between the Olympics. Remember when the summer and winter Olympics were in the same year, every four years? In the winter I pictured myself as a future figure-skater, for the summer games I was a long-distance runner. I think I liked watching the Olympics then. I discovered last night I don't like watching them anymore, I found it stressful. Additionally, it made me really fucking homesick. Most things feel kind of stressful right now though, and being unwell always makes me feel a bit miserable in an I-want-to-go-home-now-please kind of way.

As I was leaving House3 BabyJ gave me some good advice. It surprised me. He feigned offence at my surprise. I admitted I should give him more credit, after all it wasn't the first time he'd given me good advice. I said he'd given me good advice more than once, but pointed out he'd not given me good advice more than twice. He asked if the other good advice had been to not fall over, as this is standard BabyJ advice to all. I didn't think he'd ever said that to me, but it's advice I could have used on Friday. So now BabyJ has given me more than two pieces of good advice, but not more than three.

I heart my new mittens and haircut. I'm looking at a tv screen in this picture. I can't remember what I was watching, but I can say for sure it was not the Olympics.

Results From Studying Research and Evidence

2010-01-30T12:52:00.013Z

92% of British women remember the first pair of shoes they bought themselves, but only one in three remember the first person they kissed. I can't forget the first person I kissed. I don't remember the first pair of shoes I bought. Does this make me an atypical British woman? How many women remembered both of these things? Who decided to compare kisses and shoes anyway? I cannot remember what shoes I was wearing when I had my first kiss, which I understand is unrelated and irrelevant to this study, but might present a better memory test. Was this study meant to be a memory test or was it gauging the importance of shoes or kisses?

Research can be like art sometimes. When you're in a gallery and you see exhibitions which a two year old could have made or when the art is someone's bed and you marvel at how useless and pointless art can be, yet it gets talked about and poses a potentially interesting level for debate anyway (depending on who you're having a conversation with).

I don't know what the point of surveying women about their memories of first shoes and kisses is. I have no idea what it tells us about anything, but I'm still interested that someone wanted to know. I like how it made me think, about more questions, about the meaning, worth and application of the results, about what my answers would be, about shoes I've worn and lips I've kissed.

Right now I have a pair of seal grey Converse sneakers with purple shoelaces which are woefully splitting and falling apart. I wear them sporadically because every time I put them on I make myself promise it's the last time, I'll finally chuck them after wearing them this one last time. I wore them last night and yet they are not in the bin this morning. Again. Even though they've been beyond fit for wearing for ages already, I have no idea how many more last times I'm going to wear them before finally throwing them out. Have studies been done on this?

My first kiss had a tape of the TheyMightBeGiants album Flood playing on repeat in the background. We heard the same songs several times that afternoon. I had no idea what I was doing and was a very bad kisser. I remember thinking months later, by when we were kissing much better, that he must have liked me an awful lot to want to kiss me again after how terrible it was at the beginning.

I was riding my bike through a square park the other night. There's a fountain the middle and I had to choose whether to go left or right around it, which led me to wonder how people choose which way round to go. How many go left instead of right? Are the people who go left also left-handed? Do males tend to go one way or females another? I turned right around the fountain, because there were fewer pedestrians in my path that way. If no-one had been there would I have gone the same way? This topic, among others, was discussed over pints last night. Jumps said most people would go left because that's how vehicle traffic goes. I thought it would be cool to take an afternoon and sit on a bench in the square and study what people do. Jumps said I have too much time on my hands. As the opposite is really true I know I won't ever do that, especially as I suspect the idea is cooler than the actuality would be, and also this was just random brain rambling which occupied my mind whilst biking around town, (exercise being one of the few moments in a day when I get to think whatever I want). But I'm still interested.

I've always been crap at art. Sometimes I'll see ridiculous art, like a washing line pegged with tiny plastic bags, each with one object in them like a button, a paperclip, a gummy bear, and I'll think "Even I could've made that!" Arguments about art which looks so simple and easy that a two year old or I could have made are often refuted with "But YOU didn't and that's the difference between you and an artist and that's what makes it art." I'm starting to see a parallel between art and research. While amazingly high quality exists in both fields, so does farcical shite, but it's all worth a look. Observing how people walk round the fountain might be akin to sticking a gummy bear in a bag on a washing line, but I guess the artist just wanted to see what it would look like enough to create it. Fountain watching wouldn't make me smarter or improve the world or anything other than satiate my banal curiosity. Beyond mild entertainment I don't know what the point would be, like a lot of art and some ridiculous research studies.

Perhaps I'd hoped studying Research and Evidence for two years at university would provide answers and clarity? Instead I have a lot of questions and long list of things I don't understand, which I already had before going broke paying tuition. (I didn't study stats but check out these great numbers: I got two pieces of post yesterday. One was a cheque from work, one was a university bill. The cheque covers 1.6% of the bill).

This post is dedicated to my doppelganger Wired, who checks in here every Sunday. I hope I'm publishing before you check today! Every Sunday I feel lame there's nothing new for you and I wanted to be slightly less-lame for once.

How To Be Imperfect

2010-01-19T12:51:00.018Z

1. Take a bottle of wine a boy you're kissing brought round to your house over to drink at another boy's house.

2. Try to figure out how to stop kissing the boy you're drinking the wine with.

3. Eventually tell the boy you're drinking the wine with that you think you'd make great pets. When he doesn't understand what you mean, say it again replacing the word 'pets' with the word 'friends'.

4. Bike home in the rain feeling like an asshole.

Bike Tales

2009-11-21T00:22:00.001Z

This picture cracks me up because I've been pretending I haven't started smoking again to anyone who doesn't actually witness it. I quit for ten months but now it feels like I never stopped. Then this photo went up on fuckbook and I was like "Busted!" My fag is almost out of the shot but the lighter blows my cover. Whatever, yes, I'm smoking again. I'm going to the meditation centre for most of the first month of next year, where I will not be smoking, so it'll be over again soon. I'd kind of like for my last fuckbook status update before meditating to be along the lines of "Kate Wall-Ass is quitting smoking. Didn't know I started again? Well, don't bother giving me a hard time about it, I'm done now."

Biking has been a chore lately. I've never been so aware of or hopeful about the weather (the absence or presence of precipitation is a puppet-master of my travel-related moods) and my ass is sore. I had four 30 minute-plus bike rides yesterday and when I carried my bike through the house to put it away at midnight last night I was tiiiired. I used to walk everywhere, often for over an hour. Biking has made me impatient, when I have to take a short walk for 15 minutes I'm annoyed I'm moving so slow. I love how cycling 40 minutes to uni means I can leave the house so much later in the morning. If I took the bus or met up with GoodMum for a lift the journey would take nearly two hours, plus costing me money and I hate riding the bus, apparently more than rain, as even on wet days I'd rather bike. Sometimes the rain isn't even so bad. It was lightly drizzling when I headed out on Monday and I was surprised by how much I didn't mind. Which made how much of an effort it was to get my bike out the following sunny Tuesday morning a bit odd. I was like, What IS the matter? It's not even raining so get on your bike you big loser! I was just soooo tired, I stalled ridiculously by trying to justify unacceptable excuses to stay home. Eventually I left at the last possible minute, after promising myself I could have a fag when I got to school, (I smoke about three-four rollies a day, rarely in the morning but I needed serious bribing). I even rolled the fag before I left the house, so when I got to uni I could lock up my bike and immediately reward myself (with nicotine and lameness!) And honestly, there were portions of the bike path, mainly the uphill parts, where I was literally dangling that fag in front of my face in order to keep going. When I got to school I had a one-track mind, even though it was 2 minutes until class. But then a classmate came up in a flap, no-one could find the room we were meant to learn in, and in the chaos of calming people down and sorting it all out I missed my chance to smoke. Even though I don't smoke in the morning I was agitated during class. We finally got a break, 40 minutes later than we've had it every other class, just to torture me, and instead of getting coffee and then smoking as I normally do I went directly outside to burn that fire down, all the while thinking uhhhh, this totally needed to happen three hours ago. And that's the link which connects the themes of this post smoking and biking.

Rob bought me some waterproof trousers. For the first week I carried them around all the time and it never rained but I've needed them daily this past fortnight. It makes such a difference not to get soaked, not that it isn't miserable to arrive dripping and messy (and sweaty because full waterproofs keep you dry but so warm! On rainy days I arrive places hot and wet in all the wrong ways). I was so grateful it wasn't raining on the day of my exam, as it was hard enough to get out of the house that morning, what with the feeling of impending doom and knowing there was no time to indulge in whining about biking or making incentive-cigarettes. It feels cold in the mornings so I layer up and then eventually get too hot. I need to get tough and face the initial chill, knowing it will change and soon I'll be glowing, especially if I move my aching ass. On Thursday I was wearing a green velvet shirt which has button issues, meaning the buttons pop open randomly. I had a pink cardigan on over top, then my coat. I stopped to take my coat off just before getting on the bike path. Further along the path I unzipped the pink cardy. I'm not sure how long I was biking with both the cardigan and the green top gaping open, but I hope I gave at least a few people travelling the other direction a bonus good morning as I sailed past them unknowingly flashing my pink bra.

Bad Jokes

2009-11-07T12:39:00.004Z

I have an aunt who is terrified of spiders. We were discussing her arachnophobia one night and I casually said, So, it wouldn't be funny to leave a rubber spider on your pillow then? She began visibly shaking and cried as she shouted Why, why would you do that to someone you love?! I appreciated finding out in advance how unfunny this would have been to her; it was useful to know something I found amusing would be considered unforgivable to her before I did it. I don't know how much rubber spiders cost these days, but foresight is invaluable.

Last night my circuit training group went out for pizza and beer, to the same place we always go, the place where my purse got stolen last time. Everyone was much more careful with my bag, Medieval even made me check I hadn't had anything lifted from it when some drunken boys accosted me on my way back from the bar, saying he would take them on if I didn't still have my wallet after they'd danced me around. Of course I did but I appreciated the vigilance. Jumps hadn't been out with us before so as I recounted the story of the theft to him he warned me he was totally going to hide my purse later. Which allowed me to warn him of how unfunny that would be, because it's never a good joke when someone ends up in tears, even if everyone else is laughing.

(He didn't hide my bag and no-one stole it either. The wee hours of the morning saw me happily home avec purse. If I was the kind of person who used emoticoms I would insert a smiley one here.)

Independent Study Day

2009-11-02T23:25:00.005Z

On Saturday all my sober plans were scuppered when PaperPants rang in the afternoon and asked if I wanted to go for a pint and I did. One became three, then I had some running around to do before meeting GotTalent at 8pm. He'd eaten by then; I wasn't hungry but figured, as we got another round of drinks in, that I should eat something. I debated a few options on the menu. GotTalent lobbied for the duck quesadilla but it came with cheese. I love duck but the cheese part seemed like too much, I couldn't decide. Finally I settled on ordering a tapas of meatballs, with a side of parsnip and sweet potato mash. I was craving meat, which only ever happens right before I start bleeding, which, with unsurprising timing, began Sunday morning.

A a scan of my intimate innards a few months ago requires a return visit. I was instructed to come back on the fourth day of my period for a retake. The first time the fourth day occurred I made excuses simply because I didn't want to spend my morning in a waiting room. The second fourth day I was at uni. Tomorrow is the third fourth day and I shouldn't put this off any longer, especially as it could be ages before my fourth days, work&school schedule and the clinic hours match up again. There would usually be uni tomorrow but instead we have an Independent Study day. My tutor asked me what I was going to use the time to work on. I lied and mentioned a few looming assignments, because although I might find it funny it would have been inappropriate to tell her that rather than working on independent study myself, instead I'd be having my vagina independently studied.

A Problem Shared?

2009-11-01T14:22:00.007Z

I was out with GotTalent on Friday, telling him about how when I was out on Thursday with the Dancer, we'd been in a pub and they played a song I instantly loved. I wanted to go ask the bartender what was playing but it was crowded, so I waited. When I finally went up to ask about the song, it was several songs ago. We bantered about what song it could have been, as my memory of the tune and words was already fading, but we settled on an answer, which I saved into my phone. Friday morning, through my mild hangover, (just enough of a throbbing head to remind me of the good night before but not heavy enough to inhibit normal functioning) I looked up the song. And heard a song which had been played in the pub, but which wasn't the song I'd wanted to know. So now this song which I can barely remember but really really want to hear over and over is lost forever. I'll never know it and I'll always want to. GotTalent eased my torment with commiseration: apparently, he claims to know exactly what this chagrin feels like because he's the same about shoes. Huh? While I appreciate his camaraderie, I'm flummoxed by the comparison between songs and shoes. Like, he sees a pair of shoes he loves but they walk away and he never knows what shoes they were and he chases the memory of the amazing shoes he feels incomplete without forever? Do the shoes run through his mind like the the loop of tune my brain has on incessant reply, which by now is probably more made up by me than the original song? At least my song-longing has been somewhat quelled by my laughter at GotTalent's pain over all the shoes which got away. It always helps to have friends who know how you feel. Exactly.

Hard Work

2009-10-09T17:39:00.011+01:00

Last night I had to be three places. I dislike having to set my phone alarm as soon as I arrive somewhere, so I'll know to leave in time to get to the next place I'm supposed to be. I especially disliked having to do it twice yesterday. At the first of three places Queen and I laughed so hard he said it felt like he had an ice cream headache, at the second I got my eyebrows tinted, and at the third I got drunk. Not bad places to have to go, even if I would have preferred to spread them out over more than one evening. Right now is busy, too busy to think and too busy to do the dishes. It's not ideal (I'd like to tackle the three days of dirty dishes so I wouldn't have to keep looking at them) but it's alright since I'm managing to keep up. I've stopped being so quiet and everyone can stop being so worried. GotTalent and I shared a bottle of wine this evening and debriefed the past month. He said it was hard being around me because they were so worried, I was so quiet, they didn't want to leave me alone but no-one knew what to say. I acknowledged I'd been hard work, (because when it feels hard to be you, it can't be easy to be around you). He agreed, yes, I was some hard work for awhile. He remembered one night at a family dinner with friends when I was sat next to him, silently holding it all in. He lightly punched me on the shoulder and he said it was like I wasn't even there and he'd tapped me because he wanted me to be there, wasn't going to let me disappear. I remember feeling on that evening, as if I didn't want to exist anymore. I do now and I'm mostly present again. To which GotTalent said Welcome back and I replied Thanks for all your hard work. Thank you all.

Fi texted me and told me to have fun on my date tonight. I was like Huh? She reminded me I was planning to see the BewilderingBoy, but I'd cancelled it a few days ago. My confusion partly stemmed from her calling it a date, because a booty call is not a date and should never be mistaken as such. As for cancelling, I've become bored and weary of what once made the Boy intriguingly bewildering. Also, it turns out I'm not the kind of person who can love the one I'm with if I'm not with the one I love.

Little Goods

2009-10-04T22:09:00.001+01:00

Friends and I dressed up last Saturday and headed out for a crazy beautiful circus evening. It had been a tough week, certain things have not been working out, and I started to get stressed about the night out the day before, wanting it to be a very good time and wondering if such a fervently needy desire would pressure it out into a crappy time where everything feels forced and not fun.

I needn't have worried.

In the end it was amazing, exactly what I needed, timeless hours of effortlessly hilarious antics. I remembered how much fun could be had. It's been easy to forget that lately, so the timing of the reminder was apt. I've been feeling like a dull girl but last Saturday I shone not only from the glitter all over me but from within.

I was also really chuffed with myself for having the forethought to take some bacon out of the freezer on Saturday so I could have a hangover bacon sandwich on the Sunday morning after. Then I met GotTalent to post-mortem the events of the night and I drank a mocha out of a mug which quoted Dylan Thomas. I loved this for two reasons: CuteDad named me after the muse of Dylan Thomas and because the quote instructing one not to go gently in the night speaks loudly to me. The night can be dark like depression but I'm not going anywhere without a big fucking fight.

A recurring thought recently has been Everything about my life right now makes me want to scream. On Thursday I realized I'd felt this several times over the preceding four days. The pro side of this is how everything about my life has not been making me cry. I did cry, twice, on the first day of school, but briefly and mostly privately. Two weeks of uni have happened by now and it is all getting easier. Amongst my irritation and anxiety there are lots of little good things to enjoy and be amused by (rage, rage against the dying of the light!), like GeoSister texting with a landline number the other day. We got to talk for over an hour and it was amazing how much better I felt afterwards, although halfway into the conversation she commented I sounded ok, so to counter that I then cried for the next 20 minutes, which was not simply to prove I'm not ok, because I am. I only mainly cried because I miss her, which makes her a great thing to have tears over. Also, there be plenty of good things which don't make me cry too.

Two people have used the word 'vexed' in conversation with me this week, which pleases me, it's such an odd little word. British people also seem to like the word "autumnal". I don't recall hearing this word often in Canadian conversation. I've heard it four times this week. It sounds like a very antique-y word. It's actually feeling more like winter: I had to put the heat on for a massage for the first time yesterday, and the only place I don't feel cold is in the shower.

The past two weeks have had bright weather though, I've been grateful to not bike to school in the rain yet. On the first day I was especially hoping it wouldn't rain and it didn't. It was a gorgeous morning, crisp but sunny. I have ruined two pairs of pants with oil and grease while portaging the bike around, but from all the cycling I've been doing lately, at least my ass looks great in my trashed trousers.

Feeling lazy the other night, I debated about going out to run a joy errand for GingerDreads. I knew I had no time to do it on Friday, so even though it was dark and it meant biking to a dodgy part of town, I headed out. In the end it made for a great few hours. When I arrived Safe was sitting on the side of his bath, shouting into his phone. He claimed to be in Bath as an excuse for not going out. When he ended the call I teased him about being in Bath and he looked around and pointed out that he was at least on the bath. We sometimes have a quick transaction but this night we ended up sharing smokes and stories while we played with his seven 3 week old Sharpei puppies. Playing with puppies makes you want to squeal with glee, not scream. So while I might be crying a little, I'm also laughing, playing with puppies, returning phone calls, dressing up in corsets, meeting people to drink coffee from poetic mugs. And when I do venture out into the good night, it isn't so much gently as it is all covered in glitter.

Damn Your Saving Grace

2009-09-22T10:19:00.011+01:00

Walking home from circuit training last night, SuperStretch, a guy I know only from workout sessions (albeit 2 years of), was talking about the stuff I say on fuckbook, how I "pour my heart out" and he worries about me. It makes him angry when people upset me and he wants to hurt anyone who makes me cry. For a second I was like Wait, who did I say made me cry on fuckbook? He was referring to my status update of "The One Where The Student Loan Company Makes Me Cry Even When They're Giving Me Money". A bunch of people and events have reduced me to tears recently but such personal hurts are not right to shout about on fuckbook. Especially as even when I imagine I'm censoring myself and keeping it light and witty on the mass public forums, guys who've only ever seen me in sweaty work-out clothes are apparently worried enough about me to make bravado offers of chivalrous violence.

I might be worried about myself though? Lots of people have been doing kind things for me lately because they know I'm having a hard time, even though I'm being quiet about it. GotTalent wrote me a cheque for £2,000,000 to stop me stressing about money, (I haven't cashed it but I let him pay for both dinner and the movie). I have a beautiful ruby red corset of my very own to wear next Saturday for the big night out, an amazing surprise gift from Fi and the Flame. GeoSister and SweetestPink have sent hilarious mail which has meant people are getting in to me even if I don't go out.

It's not like me to be quiet, but I'm thinking dark things too awful to say. Gemini traits have been drawn to my attention frequently right now, the indecisiveness, how fucking mercurial we are. I'm so true to that right now, going to sleep laughing and waking up crying. I don't know if I should be worried or if I'm fine. That picture was taken last Saturday and I seem fine, although I also feel like I'm teetering on a precipice which is about to crumble, like something catastrophic is about to happen at any given second. Either things will continue to be seemingly fine until they are again or everything is about to get worse. Enforcing daily exercise, attending coffee dates, working professionally, not ignoring paperwork; maintaining all these obligations could be what sails me through until things are back to fine. So far I'm not overwhelmed, only daunted, and terrified because failing right now means I fail at life. All the coping I'm currently achieving is tempered with doubting how much longer I can keep up.

University starts in two days. Once we're a few weeks in I'll be fine, I know I'm intelligent and capable enough to get this degree. But going back to university is freaking me out. While the coursework of the past two years was university level and we were technically University of Plymouth students, we actually attended a college. (Foundation degrees are weird) The last time I started university in September was the beginning of the worst year of my life, which followed the summer when I lost two babies. So I'm psyching myself out about being able to do university without failing because last time I failed and I felt like this at the start of that year too. The timing and situation is also making me think about babies a lot. Many many of my friends have had beautiful babies in the past few years, which is truly joyful. In March and April of this year alone, a dozen little people were born to people I love. Currently four couples I know are pregnant. I'm excited for my friends and full of love for all the new little people. Separate from that is the heart-ache that I'm too hard to love, that maybe the babies I lost were my only chances to have babies. It never occurred to me I would be single for so much of my adult life. The most tumultuous current pregnancy for me is my own brother. He is apparently healthy and it's going well, which I hope continues. I hear this third-hand, because we don't speak. When I lost my second summer baby he said such insensitive things! I never want him to know how it felt when he said those things, but now he's pregnant I wonder if he has a better understanding of how inappropriate he was and how it might have felt if he'd lost what he has? Ancillary to him and his growing family, his pregnancy particularly brings up difficult personal issues, coinciding inopportunely with some gynecological problems I've had recently. My brother has a baby in his uterus and I have polyps in mine. So, university and babies: two topics I've been quietly having scary-horrible thoughts about.

There's a returned presence of an acrid low-level anxiety deep in my guts. I feel like I'm quietly unraveling. I'm doing my best to stop it, forcing myself to go out to meet people, frog-marching myself to exercise activities, dealing with paperwork and business I'd love to ignore forever, not succumbing to my desire to return to bed and stay there pretending I don't exist anymore. If I get depressed again I need to know I did everything I could to prevent and manage it, which also means not staying quiet about it. It's my inclination to shy away and hide hard times but I'm humbling up to ask for help right now, as much as I hate having to say Hey, everything isn't amazing. I won't be posting that as my status on fuckbook, but I'm taking a deep breath and saying it here.

Cliche-Watching: Where Hippies Talk About Karma

2009-09-02T17:13:00.006+01:00

There's all kinds of karma. Lately I've had bad pie karma. Huh? I know.

Most good Sundays I walk to the local Farmer's Market and buy PieMinister (PM) pies for me and Rob. He always gets a Moo&Blue (beef and Stilton), while there's a few I choose from. I often fall back on the Heidi pie, all sweet potatoes and goat cheese bliss, but sometimes I get one of the chicken pies. Recently a new veggie pie has appeared called the Big Cheese: three cheeses, potatoes, shallots. It's a good pie for cold days, perfect served with baked beans. One chilly Sunday it was the obvious choice, totally warming comfort food. I walked home looking forward to this pie to discover, upon arriving at home, that my Big Cheese had been swapped for a Heidi pie. I guess the guy hadn't been paying much attention and I do often get a Heidi pie so if he'd not heard me he would have presumed I wanted a Heidi. I do love anything with goat cheese, and it's an excellent pie, but it took me three days to want to eat it because it wasn't the Big Cheese I'd expected.

Then on Friday GotTalent said he'd take me out to the Windmill for a pie for dinner. Girls as broke as me still need to eat so I dragged my tired ass out. The Windmill used to have PM pies but recently switched to some other guy's pie. I chose the chicken and leek one. After we rectified a glaring mash omission, the pie still looked forlorn on the plate. It was a fair pie but not something I'd walk to the Farmer's Market for. See, bad pie karma, twice in one week. And then again this weekend!

Having missed the Big Cheese the week before, I knew I wanted one this Sunday. GingerDreads and YesDear came down to visit, and they love the good pies like I do. We went to a local pub which serves the other guy's and PM pies. None of us had the other guy's pies for dinner and we didn't talk for eating for the first 10 minutes after our plates arrived. The next morning we headed out to the market, where they planned to get two Heidi pies and two of the Big Cheese to take home. Except there was only one Big Cheese to be had. I made them take it to share so they can at least taste it, because I can get another one next week, provided there's a turn in my pie karma.

Another kind of karma is rain karma. Today I should have run first thing, but I put it off until after work. Since it's rained for solid hours since midday I haven't been out to run around after all. Bad rain karma or typical England? Other days it has showered on and off all day and I've had six bike rides and didn't get wet at all. Today my rain karma caught up with me in a huge way. I usually carry a bag of stuff with me everywhere, to be prepared for everything. I'm trying to get better at not carting around stuff I don't use, so I left the house to drop in on Safe with just my wallet, phone, and keys in my pockets, no backpack of extras. I was wearing my favorite red trousers, a black t-shirt, Blunnie boots, nothing else. I biked across town, hung out for awhile, then noticed swirling grey cloud. I decided to make a run for it, being only 20 minutes from home. Bad idea. Five minutes on the bike and the pelting rain started. I gave up to it and wasn't too bothered except for worrying about my phone. Even though Stamperoo had recently reported helpful tips for wet phones, I didn't want to have to use them. I stuck the phone in the side of my boot and kept riding, hair plastered against my face, clothes soaked to my shivering body. By the time I got under a bridge by the train station the side of my boot seemed to be drawing water, so under the shelter I took my boot off, turned off my phone and stuck it in the bottom of my shoe and put my foot on top. It was uncomfortable, but dry. Plus Rob had said I didn't need one when I said I wanted a protective cover because the phone was made of steel, so I figured it could withstand being underfoot better than being saturated. So, phone in boot, I continued my wet way home. Mostly it was fun but I did grit my teeth at one point when it began to hail, I believe I even said "Oh come on!" out loud. But my phone stayed dry, so there was nothing much to be bothered about, except that it took me over fifteen minutes to choose a different outfit to wear and I wasn't warm again all night.

Later on GotTalent and I discussed what I did with my phone. He questioned my choice to step on my phone, but I'm not sure I had many other options. My pockets were full of water when I got home. I could have tucked it in my bra, but that was wet too. GotTalent said he would have stuck it in his pants (meaning underwear). Once again, all of me was drenched and secondly, I don't wear underwear so the phone would have fallen out my trouser leg. This experience has slightly stalled my progress in leaving stuff at home. I'm back to carting a backpack with everything I might need but never use around with me all the time. It's not like GotTalent was ever able to come up with another dry phone option, so I'll be at least carrying a ziplock bag if I have nothing but pockets to put my phone in, even on sunny days.

There are less simple types of karma than pies and weather. Turns out when someone thanks you for being honest, they might really mean they'll be begrudgingly polite to your face but wait, later on you'll be finding out how hurt and angry they actually are. So hurt and angry it seems they didn't really appreciate your honesty AT ALL, which is maybe why they lied when thanking you for yours. Hurt and angry over honesty is better than later on being hurt and angry over lies, because at least there isn't the added element of betrayal. Moments like this I'm reminded of NotAspergers. We were having lunch once when a girl stormed across the cafe, dumped a glass of water on NotAspergers' head and slammed the door on her way out. He looked at me and calmly said "Ahhh, the complexities of human relations." Like how when 'thanks' means 'fuck you'. This was a karmic circle which started with my honesty, which brought some wrath back after the initial thanks. Closing the circle a week later I was smiling telling someone else I appreciated their honesty whilst inwardly cursing them. At least I kept my rage quietly mine, as I knew it would pass, and I did appreciate the honesty. Even when it hurts, there's no need to forward along anger, especially if you ever want to eat a Big Cheese pie again.

"Honesty may be the best policy, but it's important to remember, by elimination, dishonesty is the second-best policy" -George Carlin

The One Where We Worry About Health and Money

2009-08-19T02:20:00.000+01:00

Struggling with money and medical shit is exhausting, stressful, and can feel very isolating. I usually avoid discussing either of these issues out loud, because I'm barely comfortable with my own financial and health challenges and I'd rather keep this kind of humbling humiliation private, judgement and unsolicited advice-free. But I'm not alone! The Globe and Mail took a poll recently which made me feel camaraderie with my fellow Canadians. When you're under pressure it can feel like you're the only one, and this poll reminded me I'm not. Lots of people are worried about money and it is impacting our health. While this isn't exactly news, it was comforting reading in that I was reminded of how bad things aren't for me. I'm getting by, and it could be much worse. My situation isn't exactly comfortable, but it's also far from dire.

Here's what's happening with Canadians at home and to me here:

32% are spending less on food. Me too! We eat and still eat well, but our grocery patterns have changed, now including more consideration, fewer on-a-whim-I-want-that indulgences, and there's more rice/bean/lentil features, because they're cheap. Considering food prices have risen considerably in the past year, the fact we're spending less means we're buying less. And eating more rice.

25% have delayed or cancelled dental appointments because of financial reasons. I visit the dentist about every two years. Both most recent times were back in Canada. For Christmas 2006 and 2008 my 'big' present from my parents was a trip to the dentist, which I needed, couldn't afford, and really appreciated. I want to have my own teeth for my whole life. Since I don't go often I'm pretty vigilant about brushing and flossing, because floss is cheaper than regular check-ups.

23% are sleeping less than usual because of money worries. I don't know if it's specifically money worries, but I've been sleeping between 4-6 hours most nights this spring and summer. Which is an improvement on the 3-5 hours of sleep I was getting during most of winter. What sucks about this the most is how being overtired intensifies everything that's already hard. So not only are you worried, you are now also fractious due to exhaustion, which makes it all seem even more insurmountable. And especially unfair as sleep is a free activity.

22% are avoiding recreation or sporting activities because of the cost. Yeah, copy that. I have a few exercise classes I like, but I make more of an effort to go to the one which costs £2 instead of the one which costs £4. I've also been jogging and cycling a lot more, because I can do those for free. As for recreation, I can't pretend I don't go out, but I also can't pretend I go out as much as I want to. If mates are going out for a meal I'll maybe wait to join them until after they've eaten. Today I was out for the day with friends who all bought sandwiches at lunch. I ate the sandwich I'd made at home this morning, because it was less stressful than worrying about if I had enough cash for the movie, coffee and lunch. Bonus: it was a really good sandwich, better than store-bought and angst-free, (less anxiety and more taste!)

16% skip meals to save money. Ok, it hasn't come to this specifically because of money reasons, but when I do occasionally skip meals I have felt like I was saving money or delaying having to buy more food and sometimes that's a conscious decision because it's not payday yet. I hate running out of things and when it comes to money or food, I'd rather have a fiver in my wallet than a full belly. Fortunately it only comes down to this decision about once a month for no longer than a few days.

14% have delayed or stopped getting prescriptions because of the cost. I can relate to this more than I want to. When I was last living in Canada I was on a bunch of prescription meds, none of which were cheap. I was spending over $400 a month on pharmaceuticals. It was hard because I needed them to stay well, yet affording them was crippling. It felt unfair, but at least I had access to the drugs I needed. Easy access it was not, as the cost impacted and detracted from many other interests and needs in my life. Here in England prescriptions are costed differently. Each script costs a flat fee of £7.20. If, like me, you get more than one regular prescription monthly, you can buy a pre-payment certificate for three months (£28.25) or a year (£104). I end up buying a three month one about every four months. I collect a prescription the day I get a new certificate, and also fill a script the day before it expires, to cram four months of prescriptions into one three month certificate. I don't order a new certificate until right before I need it a month later. Or as it was this month, I couldn't afford it until last week, which meant I was taking half doses of one of my pills for a fortnight. So even with the cheaper options of a flat rate and a prepayment certificate, I'm still struggling to pay for prescriptions. I think about how much the drugs I'm on cost in Canada and can't imagine how I'd be affording these pills at cost if I still lived there. In comparison, paying £30 every three/four months literally saves me hundreds and still, affording it isn't easy.

This summer has been particularly tight, money has been more of a concern than usual. I'll admit to being more stressed about it than I want to be or publicly let on that I am, (even though I'm a contributing factor into why I'm poor: I keep giving free massages because I don't want money to be an obstacle preventing healing from occurring).

Money is one of the worst worries, because there's very little you can change about it by worrying. Like, if you're worried about a interpersonal issue, often mulling it over can direct actions which help lead to resolution. But you can worry about money and numbers all you like and they won't change a penny. However, it's consuming me a little less as I appreciate what I do have and as I understand how many others are facing the same or even worse worries than mine. Like so many Canadians, and although I've not seen a similar poll on Brits, I know from friends who are scared of losing houses, who have lost jobs, who hesitate with an intake of breath I personally recognize when an invite involving expense is extended, that there are plenty of worried people in this country too. Of course there are, given the (cue ominous tone) current state of global economics, and considering how deeply health and wealth are intertwined.

Unlucky

2009-08-09T18:50:00.012+01:00

I speak to my parents every Sunday. Recently I've had some weird conversations with CuteDad about things I never thought we'd discuss, using words I wish he didn't know. Like when he was talking about my brother's spunkle, it made me cringe that Cutedad has to know what a spunkle is. In today's phone call I told them about a piece of Brazilian lime cheesecake I'd devoured earlier, and CuteDad said he was glad it was the lime which made the cheesecake Brazilian, because imagine if there was no lime, what would a Brazilian cheesecake look like? I inwardly cringed again, recalling the time I'd had a lengthy discussion about both Brazilian and back, sack, and crack waxes with my father. Really, he never needed to know I get Brazilians and I already knew he would never get a back, sack and crack wax, we certainly didn't have to ever talk about it. When we aren't discussing awkward topics we talk about what I've been up to lately. When I'm being boring I entertain them with stories about my mates. ChickenMummy often says, most recently of the Countess on the plinth, "You do have interesting friends!" Yes, I do, which means I get to have conversations like this, (which I didn't share with my parents, even though it was with one of my most interesting friends):

Flamer- Don't you know, when you first meet someone, exactly how your relationship is going to end up?

Response- No, I never know. For example, I never imagined any of my exes and I would one day be friends on fuckbook. Of course fuckbook didn't exist back when I started accruing exes, so how could I have possibly known I was going to eventually be "friends" with so many of my former lovers?

Flamer- Well, I suppose you don't ALWAYS know. I never thought I'd end up living across the road from the man I stabbed in the ass with a fork. But there are patterns with lovers when you meet which help you to know. I think when you meet someone and shag them right away and it's good, you usually end up hating each other.

Response- No, it never happens like that with me. Even when its good, they end up either hurting me or wanting to be my friend. Which sometimes hurts too, but there's rarely any hating.

Flamer- Well, at least you like them and at least some of yours are good in bed. Mine are always shit in bed AND I don't like them!

Friends In High Places

2009-08-02T23:18:00.002+01:00

There's a cool live art project going on in London right now, on the empty fourth plinth in Trafalgar Square. For 100 days, each hour will see a different person taking the plinth. In a place which would usually host a stationary statue of some king, real people will be up there instead. I know what I'd rather look at. Watching the live feed of the plinth has actually become a favorite indoor pastime of mine this rainy summer. It's cool to see how differently people choose to use their time on the plinth. Some people have a cause to scream about, some people draw or write, others perform, some try to teach, some seem totally lost and aimless once they're up there.

My indomitable mate The Countess from the Ministry of Knitting had her hour on the plinth in the afternoon of July 14. You can see for yourself she was amazing. I love projects like this but I don't have it in me to be a plinther. I'd be one of those lost souls who sit there trying not to look awkward while writing a poem to capture the moment which would result in something so forced or trite I'd have to burn it before getting down, unlike the formidable Countess who owned every moment she had up on that plinth.

My parents asked me if I'd heard of this project a few weeks ago and I think it impressed them I actually knew someone who was a part of it, I definitely scored some plinth cred with my parents for having a direct connection, but they should be impressed. I know I'm am, by the entire thing. The project itself is a fabulous reclamation of a stuffy space where brave people are standing up to share an hour of themselves and their truth. Most of all though, I'm full of admiration for the Countess. I'm honored to know this fiercely passionate and creative woman, who stands both on and off the plinth with utmost dignity and grace.

Best Advice Ever

2009-08-02T09:28:00.003+01:00

I was ancillary to this entire situation, but I wish I had been the one giving the advice even though I don't really want to know people who need this advice.

The question: If I one-off shagged my best friend's boyfriend when we were both really drunk, do I have to tell her?

The answer: You don't have to tell her but you do have to stop calling her your best friend.

Eyebrow Update!

2009-07-21T00:41:00.021+01:00

For my birthday Fi gave me a mini-makeover. Due to my extreme resistance to do anything adventurous with my hair, the makeover mainly consisted of dyeing my eyelashes and eyebrows. I spent a few days feeling like Groucho Marx, as before my eyebrows were virtually invisible so darker brows were an initial shock. However, it turns out I love how my visible eyebrows frame my face. I never knew how expressive I am with my eyebrows, because you couldn't see them. Now you can, and I like it, even though my formerly very-low-maintenance routine is becoming rather less low-maintenance. As I told Rob, you can't have it both ways. Another thing you don't get both ways is that, despite being able to see my eyebrows, I still lack the ability to raise them one at a time, but it's more fun trying now I can see what I'm (not) doing.

In other eyebrow news, I almost burnt them right off a few weeks ago. I was lighting a social smoke on the hob at my mate's house, and didn't realize you just stick the fag in the flame to light it, unlike using a lighter. Instead, I stuck my head right up to the fire, so as I inhaled, my eyebrows and eyelashes partly singed off. The resulting damage: my eyelashes were half-toast, about a third of my left eyebrow had turned to powder too, but the final charring was to a falls-to-the-right curl, which had been across my forehead during the fag-lighting. It was now a hard cinder resembling a thin tarry dreadlock. I had to chop the whole thing right off. I also trimmed my eyelashes and charred brow. The lashes and brow grew back fairly quickly, even though Fi noticed as she dyed the remains. But the curl will take time. At first it looked like cute wispy baby hairs, but it's getting to be a more conspicuous length now. It can be seen best in the second picture, sprouting down the middle of my forehead, where it will soon be all lengths of awkward. I see it as a reminder of how I'm not supposed to smoke or I'll end up looking stupid.

A Chew

2009-07-14T12:35:00.005+01:00

A mate has said of this blog, that reading it is a bit of a chew. I'm not sure it's a compliment exactly, but I know what he means. For those of you who chomp along with me regularly, cheers, and please don't get TMJ. The following are today's burnt offerings if you're up for some mastication. I've tried to make them lighter bites, and right there! I've taken this analogy too far.

Getting sunburned in Britain has never been a valid concern, but it is right now. The humidity (or how "close" it is) is high and the sun has been beaming nearly everyday. I've been wearing strappy tops and flowy dresses all week, maximizing feeling summery. ChickenMummy would be horrified if she knew how pink and peeling my shoulders are. I got gifted with an aloe vera plant a few weeks ago and I haven't killed it yet, so I'm ripping off the slimy leaves to soothe my fiery arms with. I'm really terrible at keeping plants alive. I'm house-sitting for E&C right now, who have a huge wonderful garden, which I warned them might be dead by the time they get back in a fortnight. I come from a family of farmers; it shames me to have so little affinity with growing things. It will truly be a triumph if I keep their garden alive. It's been so hot for England, I've been watering the garden often, because it's probably in shock. If you came home to a dead garden, is there evidently more love there because everything was over-watered as opposed to being withered into dust?

I was cleaning for Fi on Saturday afternoon while she was away for the weekend. Her neighbour knocked on the door five minutes after I got there to ask if I'd heard his front door being kicked in. I hadn't. When I went to leave a few hours later I got freaked out. I worry about my house being burgled all the time, and other people's houses, and I knew I was going to worry about Fi's house being safe until she returned the next day, because I'd been the last person there. Also I'd cleaned it well and was going to be annoyed if a burglar trashed the place. So I left lights on and drew the front curtains to make it less obvious no-one was there. I hid the laptop and then left a note on the table telling them about the door-kicking and laptop-hiding. It wasn't until I'd locked the door and put the keys through the post box when I asked myself, what kind of idiot leaves a note with directions to where they've hidden the goods?

Occasionally I deviate from usual habits. Twice recently. I was in a pub last week and the cocky barman made a assumptive reference to me being American. I found him so obnoxious I didn't even correct him. RedWriter commented it was weird for me to refrain from saying something snarky and Canadian as usual, but I didn't care enough about this asshole to bother. I wanted to talk to this guy as little as possible. Later on in the evening RedWriter asked me another question. I'm a talker, always have been, and frequently over-share. But lately things feel so private. In the end there was no way I felt comfortable answering her question and, surprising myself, I politely declined to talk about it.

I'm 32 now. Is this when my good memory starts failing me? A few days ago I was trying to block out all the other noise in the coffee shop to listen to The Highwayman in my head as I tried to remember who was singing it. Stan Rogers? No, don't get distracted by the tune of Northwest Passage. Focus! Who is singing the Highwayman? I couldn't get it, not for three days. I finally looked it up and now I can't believe I didn't know it was Phil Ochs all along. Only now I've forgotten who I was with when I was trying to remember this, because I promised to get back to them with the answer. Anyone been waiting to know this info? Probably not, I doubt even the person I was with who I shushed so I could close my eyes and try to place Phil's voice in the coffee shop cares, but who were they? I excitedly told Rob a story about rose quartz the other day and at the end of a ten minute long verbal assault I said And isn't that interesting?! He kissed me on the forehead and replied, Yeah, well, interesting to you. So I don't care if you are interested in knowing it's Phil Ochs who sings the Highwayman, if I was trying to figure this out sat in front of you in a coffee shop, let me know it was you there because not knowing is driving me crazy and I can't google for this answer.

I know it's frustrating to watch someone making a prolonged mistake. I also know people are going to do what they want to in spite of muchly-echoed sound advice. If four of your friends text you before 10am on a Saturday morning to see if you are okay after your Friday night date, and one of them tells you they are only checking to make sure you haven't been dumped in a river, then it's time to change your phone number and start dating new people. I know all of this, and I'm still going to see him again. Chew on that.

Family Secrets

2009-07-02T15:38:00.004+01:00

I have been a chatterbox my whole life. I most accurately describe myself as loquacious. Once when I was six my parents were late collecting me from ballet class and by the time they got there I was holding court to all the other parents, telling them our family secrets, such as CuteDad's nickname in our household was Hairy Gorilla because he was so hairy all over. That got me the nickname of "Town Crier" in my house and after that my parents would sometimes pause joking around to strenuously differentiate between an anecdote I could repeat to friends and a "family secret". But they didn't really impress it upon me strongly enough because here I am writing about some of my favorite family secrets on the internet.

Before I went home for Christmas I wondered if we would make any new family catchphrases or memorable stories on this visit. What if we were all grumpy with each other and the familial bonding I desired didn't happen? I wanted my family to laugh the hardest while we were together, and love being with each other most of all, in that magical way which cannot be forced or manufactured. All I wanted for Christmas was to be with my family, but I didn't want to psych out natural good times by wanting it to be perfect too much. Because it's no secret about my family being far from perfect.

Of course it happened, once I relaxed and when I least expected it. Like on the very first day, when we went to walk the dog and I slipped on the ice mere steps into the hike, (although I fell quite gracefully into a crumple, fortunatly avoiding the dreaded-and-excruciating tailbone landing). A few minutes later CuteDad pointed out a woodpecker. I looked at it and said "That's a woodpecker? It's not doing very much pecking!" CuteDad found this to be the funniest thing he'd heard all day. He kept chuckling to himself, muttering "That's such a Kate thing to say."

In the following days he told the story more than once, only he changed it to me calling out to the bird "Do some pecking then!" He liked this so much that making up variations of it became a family pastime. If he was asked to carve the turkey he would instruct himself to "Do some carving then!" If I asked how deep the snow was he would ask hopefully "Are you going to do some shovelling then?" Since Christmas we've all been doing it. GeoSister send me a motivational text while I was slogging through the last essay which instructed me to "Do some working then!" CuteDad send me a rather disgusting article about battery hens recently, (not an issue he particularly cares about); he sent it mainly so he could highlight how the chickens peck each other and wrote in big letters "DO SOME PECKING THEN!! HA HA!!" We'd be walking the dog and he'd say "Oh yes Abby, do some sniffing of that other dog's butt then!" When I was driving and got cut off by a speeding asshole I gave him the finger and yelled "Do some fucking signaling then!" I was talking to ChickenMummy before my date the other night and told her I was having a sandwich for dinner. She asked what was in it, (such a foodie!) I listed all the contents but made the point that I was not including red onion as I usually would because I hoped later I'd be "doing some kissing then!" To me the best part of it all is that the bit which has become the punch line isn't even what I said. Hey CuteDad, do some mis-quoting then!

A recent addition to the rota of jokes going around the family right now is the new practice of calling out "God save you!" amid the chorus of goodbyes at the end of the weekly phone conversation I have with both my parents. This comes from Prince Harry spoofing himself on the phone with his Gran (relevant moment at 2 mins).

CuteDad sends me lots of e-mail jokes all the time, some of which I read. Recently he sent me one about these guys who get to speak to God. I read the joke, and then sent it back to him with this message: Hey CuteDad, you know what I'd say if I got to speak to God? I'd instruct God to DO SOME SAVING THEN!!

My other favourite family phrase didn't come from Christmas, it is much longer-standing. We are a family of farters, and we can have a real laugh letting rip. Sometimes when I'm wistful for home I think, I just want to be hanging out with ChickenMummy and GeoSister, talking, laughing, and farting together. Several summers ago I was in the back of the car, both parents in the front, as we drove around Toronto. We were stopped at a traffic light when I quietly farted. After a few minutes CuteDad pointedly rolled his window down, giving ChickenMummy a withering look, believing her to be the culprit. She glanced back, thinking he was taking responsibility for his own stink and said like a schoolteacher, "What a good idea to open the window." CuteDad shot back reproachfully "Maybe YOU should open the window!" By the time I was laughing out loud they had figured out it was me. As we are a family that farts frequently, this now comes up a lot. If I'm sitting in class and there's a bad smell, I'll look around and think "Now, who should open the window?" Only last week I was on the phone with ChickenMummy and she asked what the noise she'd just heard was. I replied "Uhh, maybe I should open the window."

People Who Love Me and People Who Love To Fuck Me Are Seldom The Same People

2009-06-24T00:16:00.013+01:00

When prom rolled around my last year of highschool, I was going. Everyone was sorting out dates, and of course everyone wants someone to go with. Romance fantasies blossom out of prom-date hopes. I sat next to a guy in history class who I had a crush on. He mentioned he wanted to go with a girl who was going with someone more popular. He didn't know what to do, he didn't want to go alone. I casually suggested I'd go with him. He said he'd consider it, clearly wanting to leave opportunity for better options, but willing to hold me as a backup. Finally, the day before the last day to buy prom tickets, the Flautist was driving me home and we ran into my potential prom date on the way out of school. I told him we needed to decide if we were going together or not and he hedged about a bit and said he'd let me know tomorrow. As we walked away the Flautist commented that if he had the chance to go to prom with me he wouldn't hesitate for a second. I asked if he was serious and shocked him by announcing we'd be going together then. I didn't fancy the Flautist but I knew it would be a much better evening if I was there with someone who wanted to be there with me.

Years later the Flautist and I eventually fell into bed together. I was bigger then and self-conscious about everything. I tried to cover up and hide but he wasn't having it. I protested about all my insecurities and imperfections, didn't want him looking at me. He kissed me and said he couldn't believe I was there with him. I learned from the Flautist how great it is to be with someone who is genuinly excited and happy to be with you.

I like answers. I loved debates in Sociology class but at the end of it all I was so frustrated not to be clear on an absolutely right answer. GingerProf kind of reveled in the possibilities the absence of an answer made available. Not me, I want to know the right answer. Nebulous discussion, yes, but let's end with a definitive conclusion please! Likewise, when things change I want to know why.

I was seeing a boy, then I wasn't. We're still talking but the reasons for why we don't see each other any more were never made clear. Having not been with anyone for ages and ages before him, as well as how much my body has changed and been through in the past nine years, it's only natural I would wonder what made him want to stop coming back, and was it to do with how I look or how I am in bed? Whist we were doing some reckoning via text the other day, I couraged up and tried for some answers. I went for where I felt most vulnerable, cringed, and questioned if it had been good for him. He replied it'd been great. I was momentarily relieved bad sex wasn't the breaking reason, until I realized how that meant what put him off was something about who I am as a person, which is a much harsher rejection than being told you're a bad kisser. And even harsher still for being told you're a good kisser.

I want answers even if they're hard to hear or uncomfortable truths. Not knowing something doesn't make it un-true and I'd always rather know. This is how we grow. I'm not into Rules or Resolutions, but I am into learning. Recent knowledge means I'm establishing some pre-requisites to me letting someone take my clothes off. Firstly, I'm staying fully dressed if you aren't someone who I know already likes me as a person. Secondly, for our clothes to end up in a crumpled heap on the floor, we both have to be excited about being there with each other. Because when these two criteria are met, you never have to question whether or not it was good for anybody. You both already know it was fucking amazing.

Dad's Day

2009-06-18T08:53:00.004+01:00

I sent two cards to CuteDad today. Father's Day is tomorrow and his birthday is on Wednesday. Every year I wondered why such a difficult man to buy for had to have his birthday so close to Father's Day. You can't give a teacher two ties in rapid succession at the tail end of the school year. I posted these cards today knowing neither of them will arrive on time. I'm running behind a lot lately. I usually know about two hours before I'm supposed to be somewhere that I'm already going be late. I haven't left the house once this week without thinking Damn girl, you should'a been gone twenty minutes ago! My Dad is a stickler for punctuality. When we had to go somewhere as a family he would count us down starting half an hour before departure time by shouting out the remaining time in five minutes intervals. We had several discussions clarifying how departure time meant actually pulling out of the driveway, not starting to gather your belongings and brushing your teeth.

ChickenMummy bosses CuteDad around on the phone. On our weekly Sunday phone call he barely gets a word in edgewise. Even when ChickenMummy instructs him to tell a story she usually ends up cutting him off and finishing it for him, which he understandably gets huffy about. She has also admonished him for breathing too loud on these calls. Last week she was laughing because he was holding the phone upside down, on his ear but with the mouthpiece in the air, so he couldn't be accused of breathing too loud and disturbing the conversation.

Once I went through a phase of kissing girls. When a boy came to pick me up, CuteDad invited him in, shook his hand, told him to keep me out as late as he wanted and assured him they would leave us alone if we parked up in the driveway at the end of the night. I let him believe I was kissing girls way longer than I really was.

Whenever I've been away from home CuteDad sends regular letters. He used to cut and paste clippings and cartoons, making weekly newsletters. When I was in Germany he sent me an awesome drawing illustrating how ChickenMummy leaned over the fence of a horse's field and nearly got decapitated. When I was in Cuba he numbered every letter. He sent 82 in six months. I received seven. When I went to see the Angel of the North last year he sent me a picture of it which had a female with her back turned towards the Angel. He drew an arrow pointing to her labelled Kate? Before Christmas he sent me pictures of my dog with thought bubbles which said things like Yay! K8's coming to see me soon!

When I was 16 I cried in front of him and he gave me $20 to make me stop. Before I could drive he would ferry me about. When I'd call for a lift home he'd answer the phone in different voices, saying things like "Sue's Morgue, you stab 'em, we slab 'em!' or "Dad's Taxi, atcher service!" When I was a teenager he always told us we had the option of a No Questions Asked Pick-Up, if we were ever in an unsafe situation we couldn't handle, we could call home and he would come and get us and not ask any questions at the time or in the morning. I never used it but I believed he really wouldn't ask questions.

I took a train from Toronto to the Peg, which took 36 hours. CuteDad saw me off at the Guelph train station. He mapped out the route and would inform ChickenMummy of where I was every few hours. Her favorite was when he said I might think I was about to arrive in Winnipeg, but really, the train was only pulling into Winnnnnnn-otoba!

When we were younger we would ride our bikes down to the lake, cycling up and down along the lighthouse pier. There were no guardrails back then. I used to ask CuteDad a series of questions: if I fell in would you jump in to save me? Even if you were wearing your best suit? Even if today was payday and the whole cheque was in your pocket, would you still jump in to save me? Yes, yes, yes. I never fell in and I never doubted I'd be saved by my Dad if I did.

Almost every time we go out to a restaurant together he confides how he hopes someone will give him a disgusted look and mutter that I'm young enough to be his daughter. I've considered taking him out for a meal and paying someone to say this to us.

He unexpectedly asked me what I do in the psychic circle while I was home at Christmas. His favorite question about it is does it ever get cancelled due to unforeseen circumstances? It was cancelled when the snow fell earlier this year, but I only found this out when I arrived at the closed door. I couldn't wait to come home to ring him and tell him I hadn't predicted the cancellation.

He let me do reflexology on him, even though he was nervous about it. When I pressed on his big toe he asked what part of the body it was and I said his head. He countered he'd always thought it was just his big toe. What could I feel in his head? I had to answer I couldn't feel anything and he was insulted. Anytime during the treatment if I made a noise or changed my face or pointed out some tenderness he'd sit up straighter and ask what it meant, was there something wrong with him, was he going to die? He is open about how he thinks reflexology is kooky. He has some understanding about how the body is holistically connected though: he often declines butter because he's convinced it makes his hair greasy within hours of eating it. When he occasionally indulges in butter we tease him about his greasy hair for the rest of the day.

Both my parents were teachers. Once when I was a kid I brought three friends home from school and so did my brother. CuteDad came home and was like Arrg, I'm at school all day with kids and I come home and there are more kids! I countered with Hey, I'm at school all day with teachers and come home to more teachers!

He has certain philosophies about things. Be positive! Keep all your options open! Ask open ended questions and then you can't be wrong. He always greets you on the phone in his cheeriest voice because he wants you to be glad you called. He seems to particularly like the moniker CuteDad. On my answering machine he'll leave messages saying Hey Kate, call your CuteDad, haha! He can never say his nickname without chuckling. Even in e-mails when he signs off as CuteDad, he always writes hee hee! after it. It's all part of what makes him so cute.

There are so many reasons why I love my Dad. He is intelligent and sarcastically hilarious. He is always, always on my side. He'll forgive my cards being late. He's forgiven me for much bigger things. And I'll send him this, on time. And not mind if he breathes during our phone call tomorrow.

The Secret Ingredient

2009-06-15T22:24:00.006+01:00

He asked me to guess what the secret ingredient in the cake was and my first two answers were love? Or drugs? I was wrong: it was beets, which is weird in a cake.

Drugs are usually referred to as a "special" ingredient rather than a secret ingredient. Love was my first answer and why is one of my favorite stories.

At a potluck with a bunch of highly aware, socially-conscious activists I was working for, a quiet Frenchman brought a lovely cake. This one highly-strung guy, Demanding, decided he wanted the recipe, but the French man demurred. Demanding followed him around the party for about an hour, listing what he thought were the ingredients over and over. Finally the Frenchman gave him all the ingredients except one, the secret ingredient. Demanding nearly drove us all demented trying to guess the secret ingredient. The Frenchman made a long show of getting dressed to head out into a Winnipeg winter night as Demanding got more and more frantic. He was practically hopping as the Frenchman made to leave and he shouted YOU HAVE TO TELL MEEEE!! The Frenchman turned around with equal frustration and yelled back: THE SECRET INGREDIENT IS LOVE, YOU SACK OF SHIT!!!!

From that awesome moment on, love will always be the secret ingredient. I also have a soft spot for you sack of shit since then, because we used it a lot on tour. VehementVegan used it best at a hot dog cart in Toronto. She'd never been to Toronto and wanted the experience of having a hot dog from a street cart, (for the record, I discouraged this activity: I've lived in or near Toronto for about 22 years and have never eaten nor been tempted to try a street dog, because ewww, why would you?) VehementVegan got into a discussion about meat with the hot dog vendor as she ordered her veggie dog. He told her she was too thin, she should eat more meat, why didn't she eat more meat? She tried to inform him for a while but he got more and more offensive about her beliefs and finally she screamed I DON'T EAT MEAT BECAUSE I BELIEVE IN LIFE, YOU SACK OF SHIT!!

Stories To Dreams

2009-06-06T13:07:00.007+01:00

It's the day after everything is done. No more exams to study for, no more assignments to write. I have a disconcerted, looking-over-my-shoulder feeling because I can't believe there's nothing left to do. (Except catch up on everything I haven't done for weeks, like clean the house properly, go jogging, sent thank you cards, e-mails, make phone calls, dates, and plans. I have to sort out my Canadian driver's license which was stolen at Easter, catch up with my doctor, make more of an effort not to be anaemic, start summer work.) Today I want to do nothing but I'm trying to keep some momentum going. RopeSpecialist is coming down from Scotland tonight, the house is a mess and I'm achy from not jogging for four days. I also need to cut my nails, because it's been over a week since I gave a treatment, so my nails have grown longer than usual and in a moment of poor co-ordination I scratched my nose the other day simply because I'm not used to having nails which can draw blood.

There's lots to be feeling great about right now. I complained quietly to GotTalent about the few negative things I can't stop paying attention to and he rolled his eyes and told me to get over it. He's bang-on right. He's been giving loads of sound advice; last night he told me to go out and celebrate. I was holed up at home, exhausted and undecided about venturing out in the rain. He pointed out I didn't turn 60 on Wednesday, and instructed me to stop being a loser and grab my umbrella and go out. I did so and it was the right choice for a Friday night when all the work was finally done.

Maybe I asked for it but I'm getting lots of advice right now. About eight people all told me the same thing in response to a certain situation I was in. Some of the eight barely knew me, others knew me well, but all of the advice was the same, almost verbatim. Other advice has been helpful, especially about my eyebrows. But then the girls who have been helping me dress-up are making me feel inept, because I step out of my comfort-zone in small ways which feel big to me, but as soon as I arrive I've been scrutinized, they have scrunched my hair more and added a belt and perhaps they have stepped me up a level but it makes me feel like even when I try harder I still can't get it right, like I'm a kid trying to hang out with the real adults and they're all looking at me thinking Awww bless, she tries hard but doesn't quite get it. When GotTalent told me to go out it took me an hour to get ready. Rob watched as I tried on clothes and messed about. He asked if he could have a combo of this and the old Kate. What, me only taking five minutes to get ready like I used to, but looking better? It doesn't work like that, you can't have both. They are incongruent Kates.

When I finally got out I stayed out playing hard for a few hours, then rolled on home in the rain, under my umbrella, feeling much younger than 60. I'm back in my own bed after a week away. I lay there, settling, quelling slightly unsettled feelings. I fall asleep easily, mostly. When I can't, there are a few threads I follow to lead me to dreams, familiar stories I can follow for moments or hours which will eventually lull me into slumber. One is a fairy tale, a few are conversations, some are lists. Currently, I'm into lists of people: counting friends I'm not friends with on fuckbook (it pleases me to find this is a substantial list of integral people), all of the faces I would want to see if I could have a party where geography wasn't an issue for any attendee, people I have told secrets to, people I have kept secrets for. I know someone who lists everyone they can remember meeting, starting at first memories, in order to get to sleep. If she reaches age 9 and is still awake, she knows it'll be long night. I know another creative woman who has her own version of a handmaid's tale which she has used to take her to dreams for as long as she can remember. It's private but I would love to see her thoughts when she closes her eyes. I wonder how her story has changed between now and when she was six?

I knew I wanted to kiss him when I wanted to know what he thought about to get to sleep. The way I wanted to kiss him, the next time he lay down he wouldn't be able to think of anything except me when he closed his eyes.

Study Break

2009-06-01T10:08:00.006+01:00

I'm back at the Gay Menagerie this week. The ailing fish died, which I'm glad happened before I was back in charge. The dog is not super-well, but now it's a problem with her back, not a problem with her puking, so hopefully it'll be less stressful than last time. There's already enough to keep my sympathetic nervous system on low grade alert with the two exams looming on Thursday and Friday. My birthday is Wednesday and whoop! whoop! I'm going ~~to party~~ to study like it's my birthday. There will be cake. It's a vegan cake made by hippies and it is likely my hopes exceed my expectations regarding how moist it will be.

I went to visit the dog on Saturday, I always try to give her a heads-up before her people are leaving. I expressed my concerns about her, asked if they'd taken her to the vet, asked tons of questions about her physical and mental health in full-on therapist mode. I said I hoped she'll be okay and her person said "Well, she'll have to be, won't she?" I felt like he was saying it to me. Kind of hearing me but all "What do you want us to do about it? Bye!" They did hear me though, because they dropped by before they left. I smell like cologne now from hugging them. I usually hate perfume but I like this smell. Which reminded me of Friday, when I biked to the circle. I hugged the leader one night ages ago and ever since then we hug every time I go. Another guy I'm trying to be patient with has bogarted in on this and insists on hugging me every time and I let him, even though he can be patronizing and tell me how I needed to be hugged and how he's given me healing and it always has to have some intense overtones. My eyes roll as I look out the window over his shoulder when his arms are heavy around me. He calls me Katie too and I don't know why he thinks he can do that. This Friday I wasn't in the mood, and after a quick squeeze with the leader I tried to duck out the door. Dude was talking to someone else and I thought I'd gotten away with it but he caught me up. It's been hot for England, he's a big guy and after he hugged me one of my favorite shirts smelled like his sweat all night. As I biked away my face looked non-plussed. I'm particular about scents I'm willing to carry with me, names I'll let you call me. If I have a whiff of you on me I want the occasional waft to make me smile, feel loved, remind me of you being near me. This cologne I smell now tells me the guys heard my concerns enough to stop by and assure me. Nothing has changed in terms of how the dog will be but I do feel better, because they have acknowledged there are reasons to be worried. Dog, don't die. Not on my birthday/exam week.

Another thing making me smile to myself while I wait for traffic lights to change? In a conversation about the party, we were discussing the one lady who left because she was offended by the burlesque dancer. The placating comment of "You can't please everyone dear" was offered and I loved how the Countess explosively responded, "Well, we pleased EVERYONE but her!" The party was amazing, the Countess and Co did a fabulous job of making all but one person very happy. I flitted around like a social moth, drawn to bright lights and boys all over the place. I kissed five people and had So. Much. Fun. It would be great if more places I went had a person I could kiss in every room. I heard from four of the people in the next two days, not bad returns. One left the party without saying goodbye, one I've seen since and he's cool, we're gonna be mates, one is taking me out for coffee in August because he plans ahead like nobody's business, and I had breakfast with the one who's my friend I end up snogging at every party. FourthKiss and I only had first names for each other, but as I'm on fire right now and going for everything, I asked our mutual friend GotTalent if he'd ask if FourthKiss wanted my number. He offered to give me his number and I insisted he ask first. He fired off a text, I left a few minutes later and that was the last I heard. Oh well, don't ask, don't get but asking doesn't mean getting for sure. GotTalent and I hung out on Saturday and he asked if I'd been in touch with FourthKiss. Uhh, no? He asked why not and I told him he never got back to me so I figured.... He was sure he'd sent me the details so started scrolling through his sent messages. I was right, he'd sent my details to FourthKiss but nothing to me. He told me FourthKiss is shy and I said that's okay because I'm not. He then read the text he sent aloud. It started: Yeah, Kate's cool. I was like, hey, thanks for bigging me up there GotTalent!

Oh, but I'm not cool, especially about boys. I have FK's digits now but don't know what to do with them, especially as it's been over a week. I'm not shy but I also know fuck all about dating. It makes me feel like I don't who I am when I want to ask my girlfriends for advice with this kind of thing because I've never been like this before. It's the same with my eyebrows. For 30 years I left them alone because they're not dark and not bushy and I'm a low maintenance hippy who didn't even wash my hair for seven years, let alone other hair grooming. I try to remember how long I didn't care about my eyebrows for, because I can't leave them alone now. TheNegotiator informed me my eyebrows were almost ginger awhile ago. He was right at the time, but now with the sunshine my eyebrows are lightlight blonde. I started plucking random darker hairs out and trying to shape the brow without guidance, but one side had more dark hairs than the other so one eyebrow is now thicker which makes my face less-symmetrical and I don't know when to stop when plucking for shape. Does it matter one side is thinner now though, when they are so blonde they practically disappear any way? When I had my make-up done for the party my eyebrows were given color, which looked great but if I'm pulling out the darker hairs then why would I color them all darker? I don't know what the fuck to do with my eyebrows. I even solicited advice from an acquaintance with perfectly sculpted eyebrows, causally catching up over coffee, I drop in questions about personal grooming which I really should have sorted out myself by this time in my life. People are looking at me closer, thus I scrutinize myself harder too, find myself wondering if I even know how to put clothes on.

Update: I couraged up and send FouthKiss a text, he responded, we're going on a date next week. This is when I begin to wonder how I became a girl who thinks about what to wear to places I'm not going for several days. I hope I still have eyebrows by then.

Safe

2009-05-31T14:24:00.006+01:00

Last November I was robbed while I was in the house and it wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. At Easter my purse was stolen while I was on a night out and again, it could have been worse: I was grateful I'd left all my cards at home, as well as atypically having my phone and keys in my pocket.

Today on the way home from the Farmer's Market I stopped at an atm. I asked to see my balance and was informed the requested information was unavailable. Then I tried to take out a tenner and was denied, told I had exceeded my daily limit (which is more than a couple hundred quid, so NO!) I walked home distracted, mind-whirling. I had the card, no-one else had touched or seen it, how could my account have so much gone today? I quietly freaked out a bit and then ranted in my head about how money isn't safe in my own house, or in my purse or even in my fucking bank account!! I called the fraud hotline and when I got through to a real person, a real harried person, she explained there was nothing wrong with my account but the whole system was having a glitch. I'm so relieved it's not a problem with me personally but rather with the whole bank. I'm so glad not to be burgled or broke even though it means I have no reason not to get back to studying now.

I don't know if the burglaries have heightened this, but I hate losing things even more than usual at the moment. I seem to remember feeling like this as a child too though. When I'd lose something the most frustrating part of it was knowing the missing thing still existed, I just didn't know where. When my purse got stolen and it was gone, I only got really mad when I thought of the tangible items, still out there somewhere, belonging to someone else now. At a party last weekend my earring got knocked out in the kitchen. I felt it flying out of my earlobe so acutely I caught the backing of it in my palm. We couldn't find the stud though, even though six lovely people got down on their hands and knees to search for it with me. For the next two days it drove me a bit nuts. Then I was back at the house and returned to the kitchen and found the earring in less than a minute. Everyone was surprised it turned up so easily, but not me. I knew it was there, so how could I not find it?

I'm being a crap mate to everyone right now, have been for weeks. I know, I know, I've been putting everything aside for the sake of school and I'm sorry it's had to be this way, it's just had to. One more week and I'll make amends, promise. I'm turning down invites all over the place right now and trying to accept short dates when I can, but I'm having to say no more than I'm able to say yes. Until next week, when I'll be the one calling and making plans and showing up and being able to think about things other than school and I'll be saying yes to everything going. Stay with me people, it's almost over!

I like honest boys, so pleasingly refreshing. I was hanging out with PaperPants the other night and noticed his guitar, asked him if he could play. He made me laugh as he admitted he can't play it at all, always has aspirations to, yet keeps in propped up in full view because it gives him hippy-cred. He's had it for eight years and still only knows a few chords. I like how he admitted it because I have a guitar just like that. I dragged it over from Canada with me and it sits dusty in our house, mocking me with my inability.

And then there's Texas, who I was walking down the street with, past the latest new drive-out-the-independents local-size mega-chain shop. I asked him what he thought of yet another location of this same shop opening up in the middle of this block of non-chain stores, rising with my indignation against commercialization. He paused before saying, Well, it sure is convenient. I had to laugh again because he's right. It was an upfront change from people who fight so hard against these shops and agree with me to my face, then secretly support them when it's late and they want a brand name. I'm easily disillusioned by their flexible values. I appreciated his honesty, even though he knew I disagreed. I also know he's right, which is why so many of these same shops litter my neighborhood. They are generic, offensive, driving out locals and assimilating this whole country, but they are probably also convenient.

The last of the honest boys lied but he couldn't have known he was lying. We were tangled in bed, him tracing my hip with his fingertips. He causally mentioned depression and asked if I'd ever been sad. I nodded and he suggested I tell him about it. I turned my face into a pillow and resolutely said no. But he wants to know, he'll listen, I'm safe. NO. I don't ever feel safe about depression. Out loud, I tell him I don't want to scare him yet. He says I won't. I blink my eyes against the pillowcase, fabric so close to my eyes I'm see nothing but blank, I could be anywhere else. For a moment I allow myself to be far away, anywhere else. Then I roll over, wrap myself around him tightly, turning my face away over his shoulder so he can't look at me. No. I don't want to scare you yet. He counters I won't, I can't. He doesn't know it but he's lying. It would scare him. It still scares me, even more than being robbed. While a thief could steal every thing I have and it would be frightening and awful, it would just be missing stuff, but depression is capable of taking away all of who I am.

3am Rules and Truths

2009-05-07T17:51:00.000+01:00

This is the one where I decide to emphasize in bold apparently.

CuteDad told me he'd been sick as a pig all weekend. I was all, ahhhh! Swine flu!! The extensive news coverage and panic about swine flu is at least a refreshing change from economy doom and gloom. I remember when SARS kicked off in 2003, I had a week off from work. Unfortunately, the vans of the company I worked for were verboten from traveling to the Toronto area. My whole week off wasn't thwarted though, as we were still allowed to go there. Because the vans might catch SARS but don't worry about us? Huh? After the crisis had passed there was massive criticism about how everyone freaked out and too much money was spent because of panic and fear-mongering and it was all expensive, unnecessary overkill. The rebuttal from science and spenders was in favor of the precautions taken, because without them the threat of wide-scale spread of SARS was very real. The beautiful part is we'll never know which side was right.

What's the UK doing about swine flu? Similarly, a little bit of scare-mongering along with precautions. I went to drop something at my doctor's office this morning and there were huge signs on the doors about not entering if you think you might have swine flu. Equally big signs at the hospital later, and instructions to use offered-but-not-manned hand gel (but in SARS-Toronto they actually hired people to dispense mandatory hand sanitizer and all wannabee hospital entrants were individually screened for SARS symptoms. I guess we'll see if it makes a difference, even though the UK gel is probably there primarily for MRSA.) We also received leaflets through our door yesterday, which contain 'important information about swine flu'. (There's a disgusting picture of a man sneezing in slow motion on the cover, which details every droplet of snot flying from his nose mid-sneeze. I must have loved smoking way more than swine flu because somehow this shot grosses me out more than any of the pictures on cigarette packs ever did.) By now, CuteDad has recovered. His swine flu turned out to be a much worse scourge: he had a particularly virulent strain of man flu.

When it's late I've been listening to a mellow radio station called Heart. Their little radio jingle sings "This is Heart!" but the way it comes out sounding is "This is hard!" Then they play love songs and the late-night torture of writing papers intensifies with the overtired fears of never being loved properly again and I've never wanted to smoke tobacco more than I do right now. By right now I mean this entire month. I've been quit for TEN whole months and now, suddenly, it's all about cigarettes all the time. Rob asks me if I need anything from the shop and I say yes, milk, bread and eighty billion fags please! Last week I started to get a migraine, had the whole the vision-affected aura business going on and I want to smoke so much at the moment that I actually tried to rationalize how maybe having a cigarette would prevent my headache from going full-blown. Yes Kate, because oxygen starvation and introduction of carcinogens and toxins is most certainly going to soothe your clanging head.

I got woken up by my phone last night at 3am. There are the rules about 3am phone calls. There are only two situations which will result in me being coherent enough to interact with and not mad at you for calling so late.

1. You are calling because someone either or both of us loves is hurt or dead or in super-big trouble. I will be wide awake in a heartbeat and I will hope you didn't hesitate to ring me.

2. You say things which make me unable to go back to sleep and you keep talking until I don't know what time it is, what my name is or why I ever thought sleep mattered anyway.

I think he was going for the second one last night, but he chickened out when I answered and instead launched into small talk, all how was your day, did you get caught in the rain? He might have been trying to be polite, easing into what he was really calling for, but seriously, at 3am? Cut to the chase already! If you are waking me up at 3am it must either be for something really good or for something really bad. Postpone any casual chatter until at least mid-morning fool, because at 3am if you want to talk about the weather I'm going to tell you not to bother calling me ever again.

Utilize

2009-05-03T14:09:00.009+01:00

Every Thursday morning I can't help but scope out the contents of my neighbor's recycling boxes, I'm nosy that way. I'm often amazed by how full they are with wine bottles and lager cans. We don't really drink at home, so I forget how much alcohol the average Brit consumes in a week. Our recycling box is boring: a Saturday Guardian, a few tins of the baked bean or tuna variety, a jam jar maybe. However, this week we compete! Rob had a bbq on Saturday and lots of beer was consumed, our black box runneth over. Our recycling box finally fits in with the cool kids!

Another paper was due today, another deadline met (I was even done before midnight the night before! Uhh, like about 80 minutes before midnight). Last week we got reports we had written handed back and I was actually pleased with my grade for once in my life, it was decent by both Canadian and British marking standards! The (relatively) high score was especially surprising considering I had included a paragraph on "Why this report is a weak piece of research". It's childish and silly but I couldn't wait to get home and call my parents to share my good mark with them. No-one gets proud and excited for me like they do and I love giving them reasons to feel like that.

I banged my cranium today and the timing sucks because there's four case studies, three exams and two presentations still to go so I need all the brains I got to not get knocked out of my head. My crashing clumsiness is related to not sleeping enough. Lately I've been sleeping six hours most nights, with only the occasional night of three or four hours, which is an improvement. I started sleeping better after buying a homeopathic tincture recommended for insomnia. I haven't drunk any of the tincture yet, but it appears as though the act of buying it alone helped. BestBest suggested I amp it up a bit and try actually using the remedy. She makes a valid point.

Yesterday I saw someone I wasn't prepared to run into standing at the bus stop texting. I hurried right past. He kept his eyes trained between the approaching bus and his phone. A minute later my phone buzzed with a text from him. The coincidental timing wasn't him calling me out on scurrying away, it was to confirm our plans were off later. I had watched him sending me that text. Weird. Earlier the same morning I wondered if we would get together later or not, and I put it out there into the universe that yes, I would like to see him today. We didn't meet up as planned but technically I did see him. Thanks universe: for hearing me, answering me, and gently mocking me.

For The Next Six Weeks

2009-04-28T12:03:00.005+01:00

To any variation of these questions:

What are you up to?
What are you doing tonight/today/this weekend?
What's happening with you?

The answer will be one of either of the following responses:

Writing a paper
Studying for an exam

Stepping Up

2009-04-27T18:13:00.003+01:00

I told him two things today. One, it ain't a deal until you seal it. Two, I'll leave when I've had enough.

Hi Priorities!

2009-04-23T20:43:00.008+01:00

I wanted to listen to Holly McNarland last week. Three specific songs, one of which was available on YouSuck under the new shite about everything I want to watch or see being unavailable in my country. It took me five more days to realize there was an old mix cd lying right on top of the pile of discs in a clear case. Scrawled between Beth Orton and Lauren Hill was Holly's name. I'd been searching for something I had right under my face. I stuck it on the computer and played the same three songs all afternoon.

I've been worried about being robbed lately, everywhere. I took my backpack with me at lunch instead of leaving it in the locked classroom. My bag being taken made me feel stupid and I don't like feeling stupid, so I'm not going to be leaving my shit lying around anywhere I can't see it because if it disappears I'm going to have to kick myself in the head because now is when I get to know better enough so it never happens again. Last night I dreamt our house was broken into overnight and the computer was stolen. I woke up so mad about it, mainly because I knew the disc with those songs I wasn't finished listening to was still in it! My priorities? Yes, well in order thanks.

I'm looking after the Gay Menagerie this week: the cranky dog, four annoying cats and two tanks of fish all under my supervision. I have one rule when I'm in charge: nobody die! The dog has not been well in disgusting ways and last night Fi freaked me out, saying the dog might die if she wasn't eating or drinking, or she was but not keeping it in her for very long. One of the very special fish is looking peaky too, oh dear. Their people are back tomorrow, everyone stay alive until then please! And stop puking.

I'd been glad to go over at first. I like leaving the bathroom door open and I like throwing my stuff all over the place and singing pop loudly, badly. It's good to have a break from Rob sometimes, keeps us sweet. But the biggest force driving me out of the house was a putrid fridge stank. It had been lingering for two days, wafting a nose-turning stench every time I opened the fridge for water (about once an hour). I looked about and couldn't place what it was which had become so horribly bad, nothing was obviously off. Leaving it behind for Rob to deal with seemed the easiest solution, plus I had the possibility to leave, which I took. But! I had to return to write my paper for large parts of the next three days. In which I drank large amounts of water. By day two I was drinking room temperature water, leaving the Brita on the counter to avoid opening the fridge. Finally I looked in it again and, for the first time, scanned the door shelf. Voila! Rob had made goat cheese pizza and not used all the cheese. He'd placed the remainder, unwrapped, in the fridge door, which it was happily adhering to with mold. I love goats cheese but the smell is harder to love, especially when it gets ripe. I am tempted to be the kind of housemate who would put it in a ziplock bag and stick it on his pillow, but instead I just told him off when he got home. Not only does he repeatedly fail to wrap or box up leftover food (uncovered bowls in the fridge, half a sandwich placed right on the shelf, lidless milk), he also stank out the fridge for the better part of a week, didn't stop it reeking in my absence, and the biggest infraction of all, he wasted good goats cheese! He has since made up for this crime against fridge and food by putting some chocolate brownie frozen yogurt in the freezer, so it's going to be okay to come home tomorrow. And I can then stop worrying about sick pets and go back to full-time worrying about have I taken that cd I love out of the computer in case it gets stolen over night? I don't like cleaning up puke but I admittedly get more sleep when I'm just worrying about things going missing instead of about living things dying. (I like this about myself)

If You Try Sometimes You Just Might Find

2009-04-14T15:58:00.013+01:00

Last night Aurora's man dropped in for a brief moment, we made small talk and I asked if Aurora was outside in the car, could I say hello? He said she was, I stuck my head out the door, he told me they were parked at the end of the block but I could walk down and say hi if I wanted to. I shrugged, nah, it's ok, I'm wearing slippers and it's kinda far away for slippers. He tells me he's going to tell Aurora I couldn't be bothered to walk that far to say hello to her. I laughed, she won't mind, she's the kind of girl who knows what it's like to have days when the end of the block is too far away.

I'm having good days, for the most part. The pattern seems to be four or five solidly pleasing days, one low and slightly distressed day, then three or four happy days. Today is one of the low days. I started strong, giving a two hour aromatherapy treatment, but I didn't protect myself as carefully as I should have and have been lackluster and draggy ever since. Schoolwork is looming, which increases the doom feeling. Some boys are stupid, which I haven't missed being neurotic over at all. Other boys are exciting, which is a surprising and welcome distraction from research. After the massage I ran a million errands and town is teeming because all the students are off school (myself included). I was easily frustrated by line-ups and slow walkers and everything. My last errand was to pick up a mocha and come home. I look around the house: I need to put the massage table away, the dishes need washing, my essay needs starting, the groceries need unpacking, I want to cry. As I waited for Lelly to ring me I told myself "Don't cry, don't cry, whatever you do, don't cry over the phone." And then I laughed because there was a three month time period in 2007 where I cried every single time I spoke to Lelly on the phone so if I was going to cry on the phone with anyone, she'd be my girl, (she handles it very well). Then she rang and I felt better instantly as soon as I heard her voice and didn't even come close to crying, which is what makes right now different from the last quarter of 2007. Yay me, because Lelly hears enough crying from her baby right now and doesn't need any one else sobbing in her ear.

Sometimes when I'm stressed I breezily try to pretend I'm not. On Friday night as I left Fi's she gave me a compassionate look to commiserate over shit things like stolen purses and insomnia. I smiled brightly and chirped "It's ok, it's alright!" She looked at me sadly and shook her head, echoing my hollow words back to me, telling me don't act all happy in that Kate way of yours as if it's fine, it's not fine! But I've always done that, ended every horrific revelation with assured optimism, so no-one has to feel burdened by whatever I've just dumped on them. We have a Therapeutic Relationships class right now, where we learn about techniques and common patterns of therapeutic interactions. One classic is the patient who dumps and dashes. As in, reveals something really huge in the last five minutes of a session so there's no time to talk actually about it. I've played this pattern many times, in therapy and friendships. Therapeutic Relationships class becomes personal every session, because you learn stuff about yourself as well as your patients. You recognize how you've been managed by therapists and I've seen how difficult and challenging I've sometimes been as a patient. It's like watching SuperNanny, the moment of every episode when the parents realize there's nothing wrong with their kids except they have terrible, bad parents, and it's actually their own faults their kids are assholes. Fun to watch on tv, not so fun to live out in college.

Two Times When I Dumped and Dashed

I pressed charges the day after I told HippyBeads about what had really happened, because I told her five minutes before departing the night before and she called me back for breakfast in the morning to tell me she hadn't slept and I'd scared her and she was so mad I'd told her this huge thing and then just skipped off like it was fine because it wasn't fucking fine. Her reaction made me see it how I'd been pretending not to see it and I knew I had to go to the police.

The best therapy I ever had, the doctor I worked with didn't let me get away with dash and dumping either. I mean, you get to do it once but then it gets addressed at the beginning of the next session. And then why you did it gets addressed and analyzed too, good times. I loved working with this women. For the first sessions you have to give a detailed history of your past, big events mainly, describing your habits of coping. I always feel under pressure to give doctors all the information as clearly as possible, so for three sessions I calmly described as much as I could to explain where I was at, because the more information you give, the better they can help you (theoretically/hopefully). At the fourth session the doctor basically told me she needed me to cry. I was emotionally detached from sharing intense and personal experiences and she felt she couldn't bond with me or identify with me emotionally because I was telling her incredibly hard things as if I was describing a picnic. I was totally offended, as here I was trying to help her to help me and she was telling me I was doing it wrong. I hate being wrong. To me, getting upset would only get in the way of giving her information and I wanted her to have as much information as possible so she could help me as much as possible. She got her wish the next week though because I found out J was coming to Christmas and cried for our whole session. I was right too though, because we got very little accomplished because I was crying so much. But she told me well done today several times. After that day I tried to have a few tears each time and it seemed to enhance our working relationship. Which teaches us yet again, it helps to clearly say what you need. It makes it much more likely you'll get what you want.

I'll Settle For A Cup Of Coffee But You Know What I Really Need

2009-04-11T00:33:00.007+01:00

I commend myself for how remarkably well the previous post turned out, considering just how late it was and just how drunk I was. Last night on the walk home I laughed about my bag being stolen, because it seemed funny to be the maddest about not being able to smoke a joint en route, because they were all in my nicked purse. Today I've not been laughing about it so much.

It seems I can only sleep at home. November and early December didn't leave much time for anything other than rushing around, and sleep in England was sparse, partly due to time constraints and partly due to having so much to get done before departing. When I got to Canada I woke up after about six hours by jet-lag circadian confusion and myself coughing for the first week. After the cold cleared and I time-adjusted I began to sleep longer, up to eight hours. I almost resented sleeping more by then because I was trying to pack in as much awake time with people I rarely see as possible, but it also felt so delicious to genuinely rest. I wanted all the early mornings with just me and ChickenMummy as possible, even though I slept through our last three Ontario sun-ups. It had felt like a long time since eight straight hours had happened before Canada, and I wondered then if I was only going to sleep in beds in houses I hadn't been burgled in, in places which I knew as home.

Being in Wetheral was like being at home. The day before I was going North I realized I was as excited about going there as I had been about going home for Christmas. Granted, I was excited about Christmas for two months and excited about Northern jaunts for two days, but excited anticipation is lovely no matter how long it builds and stays for. Being there was contentment and soul-nourishment, easy, busy, fulfilling, nurturing. If I have a home where my parents don't live, it is in Wetheral.

That Saturday I'd arrived so tired, partly because I'd only been sleeping about four hours a night for the preceding two weeks, but also because the night before I'd had a girly sleepover where we'd stayed up gossiping until 2am, and then I had to be up at half 5 to get to the airport (dragging SweetestPink awake with me, as she generously offered to give me a lift). When my alarm went off before 6am on the Saturday morning, it was the first time I'd been woken by an alarm since leaving Canada in January. I didn't even know what the alarm on the new phone sounded like before then.

Before arriving home (UK version) I spent the morning and early afternoon travelling by cars, bus, trains, and an airplane. I was exhausted to say the least. Cumulative lack of sleep catches up eventually, but I wasn't going to let it happen on Saturday. In the evening I was out at the pub with childhood friends, we were all weary but found second winds in the second bottle of wine and had a stellar night. I tiptoed carefully into my aunt's house at midnight and hoped I could sleep, as well as hoping I wouldn't wake up with a hangover.

I slept a rare seven hours straight Saturday night and wasn't hungover. No alarm set for the morning, was wakened by the giggles of a cheery four year old. My head banged occasionally during the day, but seven hours was never going to cancel out my overdrawn sleep debt, so I put it down to sleep deprivation and not vino indulgence and it didn't stop me laughing along with the hilarity small people find in fart noises all day long. Besides, having slept SEVEN WHOLE HOURS made an unbelievable difference, I felt so refreshed and alert and much less draggy. The following four Wetheral evenings brought me less than seven hours of slumber, but more than six, so there was noticeable improvement in my quality of rest. I hoped I could keep spinning out the increased sleep times upon returning to Bristol.

I've only been back one night so far and alas. After hammering out my hammered purse-less vent&rant here last night it was 3am. I had late morning plans, so set the alarm for 9am and figured if I slept through I'd be pleased with that, 6 hours. So my first thought when I woke up at 6am was FUCK, THREE HOURS? FUCK!! This brand of insomnia means I can initially fall asleep no problem but once I wake up there's no going back to sleep. I got up at 7am after a restless and futile hour tossing about, maybe still drunk, and definitely getting increasingly upset about my bag being really truly gone.

I'd sent Rob a tipsy text at 1am which started out with "Dude" and included me apologizing a lot about his camera. I wanted to talk to him though, because I was starting to tot up all the items I'd had in my purse and I was reeling a bit, with anger and loss. And I was feeling so guilty about the camera. He'd stayed over at a mate's and they'd probably been as drunk as me, so I knew he'd be sleeping late but I just wanted to talk to him and hear him be reassuring and let him be mad at me if he wanted to be (too right!)

I left for coffee with no Rob-contact, but warned the girls he might call as we chatted. He did, and I went outside to talk to him. He'd only seen my missed calls and not read the texts yet so I had to tell him the camera was gone. As we talked I finally broke and cried like I knew I would and he told me he loved me and it was going to be ok and the camera would be covered and it wasn't my fault and he wasn't mad and all of those words made me cry harder. When we hung up I went inside to drink the mocha I'd bought with change from the bowl where I collect pound coins for bus fare (because it was the only cash I had left in the house as all my money had been in my pilfered wallet). Fortunately I had a couple of weeks of bus fare at the ready. Coffee and friends were both good, then I went to the police station to make the ineffectual-but-necessary-for-insurance report of theft. Bought a new umbrella, because it had been raining all day and mine had been in my purse. Dragged my over-tired, under-fed, emotional ass home on the bus I'd waited forever for because today was shitty holiday bus service. I unlocked our front door and Rob was there, hugging me as I cried some more and then curled up on the floor. In the ensuing conversation where Rob tried to convince me to go to bed for a few hours before I had to go out again, he brought up a surprising subject when I reiterated how absolutely knackered I am, and how fed up I am with not sleeping. He's suggested we move house.

I stirred a bit from the floor and considered this. Moving is a lot of work and I already have a lot of work on for the next three months. But a thoughtful consideration nonetheless. Someone wondered why I had so much money in my wallet last night anyway, and it was partly because I had very little time in between arriving home and running out again and relatives had given me birthday money and massage money so my wallet was fuller than usual, but I also worry about leaving valuable stuff in our house and having it be stolen directly from there so I try to keep stuff I want to keep on my person (badly apparently). Would I worry less if I was living in a house I'd never been burgled in before? Possibly. Do I want the hassle of moving? Hell no. What if we move somewhere and I can't sleep there either?

I eventually got off the floor and went to bed, took a drowsy pill and still didn't sleep at all. Went to hang out with some kids for the evening, got lots of hugs and commiseration from my great friends for how shit the bag-snatching was. Cried and cried again. Because I'm tired and frustrated and it isn't fair and I want my stuff back. Fi texted to tell me she loved me more than money and I love her more too and love how friendships can't be lifted away off the back of a chair. And then a mate who was living with his bird as of yesterday rang me to say he'd spent tonight moving out and would give anything to have only lost some cash and a camera instead of a marriage. I blatantly wouldn't want to trade my current shit for his. We laughed as he instructed me to think of his situation and not to feel as bad about mine anymore. While I still feel somewhat bad, I conceded without hesitation that tonight, he wins.

Just Desserts

2009-04-10T02:04:00.003+01:00

A while ago, at the psychic circle, the leader Wolf gave me a message about this year. He said this year was going to be when I come into my own, when I thrive and shine. He also said he knew I was scared and worried about everything good I have right now going away. I nodded in agreement. I feel healthy, I feel strong, I'm kicking ass academically and professionally, and I'm not depressed for the first time in forever, and I'm fucking scared all this goodness is going to disappear at any moment, like I don't deserve it. He said to believe I deserve this, that I've paid my dues, that all of this goodness I'm being blessed with right now is my just desserts for all of the shit I've coped with in the past. I believed him and I still do. And yet:

I've just returned from a week in Wetheral with my maternal family. Days there consist of playing and giggling with my four year old cousin, pulling veggies straight out of the earth to eat for dinner, long walks with Lucy black lab down by the river, giving massage and reflexology to my family. Time there is nourishing to my soul, I leave feeling grounded and loved and content. One of my favorite people, my Uncle Farmer, drove me to the airport today. We talked the whole way, and he said how I must enjoy all the goodness right now even more because I've been through such dark times. He's right, that all of this feels even better because I can compare it to how bad it has been in the past.

I go to a circuit training class every Monday. Occasionally we use the surplus money to go out for pizza and beer, just to balance out the exercise. Tonight we had a social planned, and I was excited to go and eat and drink carbs, to wear non-workout clothes with the people I usually sweat with on a Monday night. We had a fab time, for the most part. We all got a little hammered, ate pizza, laughed, joked. Then I went to leave and realized my purse was missing. When I say purse I mean mean my MEC bag, which is the most granola-backpack-esque version of a purse ever. It was hung over the back of my chair for most of the night, but when I went to leave it was gone. What was in it? Umm, my wallet containing £140, Rob's digital camera, my umbrella-ella-ella, my glittery lipgloss, and other personal bits and pieces. I consider myself so lucky that my phone and house keys were in my pockets. I'm not sure what to feel right now. I was drunk and merry, and not paying close attention to my stuff. It was a busy pub. I guess when I took pictures of my friends I was flashing the digital camera. It is shitty luck I had so much cash in my wallet. It is good fortune I left my bank and Visa cards at home. But my drivers license has been stolen.

I walked home in disbelief that I didn't have my purse. I NEVER lose stuff. I'm ALWAYS careful. Tonight I had a good time and didn't pay the closest attention. Maybe I was flashing the camera too much? I don't know. The next student loan payment comes in on April 21st. I had a huge talk with Rob last week about how I had about £80 to last me until then. While I was in Carlisle my cousin gave me £20 for giving her massages, as did my aunt. I'd also squirreled away £40 for weed, which would last me until then. I was feeling ahead. I came home today feeling like I had enough cash to make it possible to last until the student loan comes through. I don't know why I took all that money out with me. Oh wait, it was because I never expected to get my purse stolen tonight. I asked at the bar if anyone had handed in a purse, in vain. The bar maid told me I should take better care of my belongings. I hate the feeling that I get two steps forward and then get knocked back. I'm going to be fine. I have paying massage clients next week, I can live on a tight budget, I'm an old hand at being thrifty and making sacrifices. I'm just tired of it. Why'd my bag get stolen?? Where is it?? Does the person who stole it know how hard they have made the next three weeks for me?? Why can't I have a fun night without being robbed?? Why did I only get to feel ok about money for a few hours before it was all gone again?? I'm gutted that Rob's camera is gone. The whole situation is not fair. I hate feeling like I only get caught up to get knocked down again, I hate being broke when I've worked hard to have cash on hand, I hate being violated by someone taking my stuff when it isn't theirs and I wouldn't do that to someone else so who feels free to do it to me? I know I'll get by on a shoestring for the next few weeks, Rob will forgive me the loss of his pretty-new camera, I'll replace all the little things in my bag like the Rescue Remedy, Badger Balm, the mirror I got in Amsterdam, the wonderful pompom hair tie E gave me for Christmas and the joint I wanted to smoke on the walk home. I know this happened because some opportunistic scum bag saw me taking photos and thought "I'll have that" or because I was too merry to notice at every moment exactly where my bag was, but sadly, I return home without my belongings, believing that I got robbed again because I'm a bad person, because I believe bad things should happen to me, because I can't trust Wolf when he says all the goodness I'm revelling in right now isn't going to go away, because I should never be able to relax about money, because when things get too good I think it it inevitable that they should go awry again quickly. On nights like this things do go wrong, and it makes sense to me. Just when things feel so good, is when I get kicked in the teeth with a reminder that I should never fully relax and enjoy the good times, because there's always someone waiting in the wings to take it all away. In some sick way it's self-prophetic, because I just can't believe it isn't meant to be this hard all the time, that I didn't somehow deserve this. It shouldn't make sense to me that when things are good, it figures that something bad has to happen next.

I really wish I had walked home with my purse tonight, that I wasn't super worried about money again when I didn't think I had to be, that I hadn't lost Rob's new camera, that I still had my wallet and drivers license, and everything else. Even though I can survive without all of these things, I wish I didn't have to work so much harder to prove that I can. I'm sure there's a lesson in this I can't see yet, and I'll want it to be romantic and oracular, but really it is probably more along the lines of lock your doors and keep ahold of your purse. At least I've been drinking glass after glass of water while writing this so at least I shouldn't have a fucking evil hangover to compound all of this shittiness tomorrow. Fucking Hell Bristol, I've only been back a few hours, and once again you have proved you are never easy to return to.

Talking and TV With Rob

2009-03-25T18:29:00.007Z

Today in Conversations With Rob, I complained to him about the neck of a shirt I like wearing which is getting all stretched out. He replied it was because of weight I've lost, the shirt is gaping at the arms and neck. It's not, this shirt is the smallest of the four sizes that range through my closet. I told Rob it was actually because the shirt only cost a fiver and cheap shirts, even small ones, stretch. I'm dating a guy who wears designer labels, which is kind of intimidating for someone who is so well acquainted with the George at Asda collection. I'm relying on my extensive knowledge of how to make anything look fierce (which I learned from watching hours of America's Next Top Model), because I got some cheap stretchy shirts I need to work like the rent is due tomorrow.

Rob and I have very different tastes in telly, which rarely cross-over. We don't watch much together anymore, but we both ended up in the living room one night last week. We were able to make tv compromises on two shows, one my choice and one his. I chose for us to watch a documentary about life, love and death in a British city. What we didn't realize was that Bristol was the subject city, which made it a weirder documentary to watch, as all the births, marriages and deaths of one day in Bristol were chronicled. At one point a funeral procession was filmed moving down a road and Rob pointed out it was only around the corner from us. I've seen the funeral home there and walked past it five thousand times, but in over four years of living here I have never witnesses a single procession live. Strange how this documentary made me see the city I inhabit in a different light. I rarely say good things about Brizzle, and while it's not the hugest compliment, I can admit a slowly-growing fondness for these streets. I haven't lived anywhere as long as I've lived here since I was 18.

The second show we watched, Rob's pick, was an hour of MTV's Scarred, 2 half-hour segments based on horrific YouSuck clips of extreme sports accidents. Five traumas are ranked in severity, and the crushing moments are played over and over. The survivor shows off his scars and recounts recollections of the day (or displays the lasting effects of brain damage). You get treated to skateboarders face-planting off/into rails, bike crashes, rollerbladers jumping off stupid heights, and other acts of idiocy resulting in massive injury. The worst part might be watching the victim watching the video, and the best bits are how so many of the broken children end up yelling at their mates to call their Mum, in between a string of profanities and general hysteria.

I felt traumatized after this harrowing 60 minutes. Hearing the sickening crunches of skulls and other snapping bones, the adrenaline rush and chaos in the aftermath of impacts reminding me of emergency situations I've been in and handled with variable maturity, even the start of each clip when you are bracing yourself for it not to end well; none of this kind of tension makes enjoyable viewing for me. I thought of all the things I worry about everyday and decided not to watch this show ever again, because I don't want to start stressing about the potential for all my bones get broken at any moment. I don't do extreme sports explicitly to avoid this kind of accident and yet when Fi broke her ankle she was just leaving her house to get a pint of milk and I saw firsthand how agonizing her recovery was. Something physically damaging could happen at any time and there is no way to safeguard against it, be it mountain biking or simply walking out of my house, so I'm not going to watch this show any more because it makes me worry about things I wasn't worried about before and am unable to do anything about. I'm still mildly horrified. One of the episodes was about teeth. Five clips of young boys face-planting off their bikes/skates/boards/rollerblades into walls/concrete/tarmac/stairs/off rails, and each of them had a moment where they proudly spit out and displayed their fake teeth. All of them were missing at least four front teeth. It did make for compelling viewing. But so did Dancer In the Dark which I will actively avoid watching ever again for the rest of my life.

What scares me about safety is the lack of a guarantee. You can be careful always and never drive drunk but have no protection against other drunk drivers. (Which reminds me of that OSAID club in high-school, remember them? [OSAID = Ontario Students Against Drink Driving] We'd get out of class for a hard-hitting hour of pictures of smashed up cars and sad stories thanks to OSAID. I was never a part of it myself. I was too busy synchronized swimming.) I used to wish seat belts were like a retainer (an orthodontic one). With a retainer, the more you wore it, the better it was. It was like a teeth-straightness savings account. You had good credit if you participated daily, so if you missed wearing it for a weekend it was ok, unlike if you only wore it at weekends and it soon stopped fitting and then it was like you never wore braces in the first place and you had teeth sticking out of your face in every direction. I wore my retainer every night. If seatbelts were like retainers, every time you wore it would contribute to your safety if you were ever in an accident. Unfortunately it doesn't work like that, you can always wear it except for the one time when you get smashed up and it doesn't even count that you always wore it every other journey, you still get thrown from the car. I can not do extreme sports and be like Fi, snapping my leg as I walk out the door. What I know about Scarred is, only survivor stories are shown. The bloody subject is always there to tell the tale. (Unlike the OSAID stories where everybody always died, except the drunk driver). I know these punks are always going to live no matter how intense the impact their head absorbs, (the most disturbing outcome besides blood and screaming was the kid who had a seizure after smashing his head). Even still, I hate the in-between time and live my life trying to avoid being in it as much as possible, which includes not watching it happen to other real people, (I can enjoy the characters of Grey's Anatomy living in in-between time because they aren't real, although Katherine Heigl seems even more annoying in real life). In-between time is from when you've broken a bone until it's set in a cast and you've left the hospital with the otherwise all-clear. It's when someone has died, before the funeral. In-between time is after you've posted the letter, before it arrives, or when you've sent an e-mail and are feeling sick waiting for a response. It's when you've had a miscarriage but are still bleeding. Scarred showcases minute bites of painful, terrifying before, after and in-between times. I would always be much rather watching Playboy bunnies giggle than kids hurl themselves at pavement. I fear the latter happening but I can be assured with all confidence I will never experience what I watch on The Girls Next Door in my real life, which makes is a much less scary viewing option. Rob earns a FAIL for his attempt to regain control of the telly remote as I try to drown out the sickening snap of impacting femurs from my audio memory with busty blonds giggling over an old man in a silk bathrobe.

Bad Stories Can Be Born From Good Times, Swear!*

2009-03-23T14:06:00.013Z

She recounted a story about someone telling a bad story that ended with her only being able to say "Well, I guess you had to be there." And yet her story was even worse then the story she was telling us about because we were basically being told a bad story that was even longer than the bad story that made the original experience bad. Thanks for passing that forward, girl! In the ensuing awkward silence I offered up that a lot of my stories end like this, with someone saying "Ummm, I guess you had to be there." At the time of saying it I didn't really think it was true but since then it has been true a few times. It might even be true in the following paragraphs, but I have no pity because I was there and it was funny at the time. Sucks to be you to have not been there. You should be around me more.

SingleDad and I were discussing this nutter Rob dated a few weeks ago, she was pretty full-on really quickly. Rob had asked me if I wanted to read a letter she'd written him declaring her love, and I was all hell ya! I'm naturally nosy about stuff like letters and journals, but I feel less guilty about it when I have permission, so show me the letter already! I was telling SingleDad about it and he said "Bloody hell!" more than once and then he asked me why I wasn't worried about her coming to stalk Rob now he'd broken it off. I responded glibly that, nah, I wasn't worried, because she doesn't drive and lives in Thornbury. It would be a logistical nightmare to stalk someone in Bedminster, she'll probably just transfer her quick love to a new recipient of letters full of crazy in a few weeks instead, which would be easier than trying to use public transport between Thornbury and B'minster. So we're not getting us a stalker, unless she learns to drive or moves to central Bristol. Then I'll get worried.

I have two pottery bowls. I love eating out of the yellow one with dragonflies and Rob likes the purple one. He's aware using the purple pottery is a privilege that can be withdrawn at any time. He was dancing around near the microwave last night holding the purple bowl, looking nervous, so I finally asked him what the problem was and he asked me if I thought the purple bowl could safely go in the microwave. My response was that I don't think anything can safely go in our microwave right now because it's fucking filthy. The best part was watching Rob's confusion as he tried to figure out whether or not that meant he could nuke his dinner in the purple bowl. (No, you can't. It's never been in the microwave and I don't want to find out it can't by breaking it. And clean the microwave no matter what you want to put in it, it's fucking filthy!)

Rob and I were discussing YouSuck and the new policy of blocking music videos and Rob was being the pragmatist, trying to "explain" to me that it was all about royalties and starving artists. I was like "No Rob, it's about bullshit." I love how he thinks I'm mad about it because I don't understand. (Obviously I understand. I'm mad because it's lame and it pisses me off.)

I have washed my hair but am not going to put product in it until I know whether I'm going to kiss a boy tonight or be reading my biology textbook alone. I am also currently being driven mad by having lost the tiny white portal cover that goes in the bottom of the icrap. The icrap is charging, I swear I took the bit out and put it right beside it, but it is not there now and I'll be slightly mental until I find it because I can't do anything else until I find it. Both of these could have been fuckbook updates, which is how I kind of think of everything I do these days: "How would I make that into a fb update?" This is worse than when I watched to much Sex and the City and started an internal commentary on my whole life in a Carrie-equse voice. That was a very annoying time, but this is worse. Although I have been slightly relieved to discover that 90% of what I think I (appropriately) deem unsuitable for fb updates. I'd be pretty sad if all of my life was fit for who I want to be on fb.

Update: decided to stop looking for it and keep typing and as soon as I put my coffee mug down I found it stuck underneath it. No longer as demented as I was (and nowhere near as mental as Rob's groupie is).

*Just as some bad times can make the best stories.

Fluxed Up

2009-03-11T17:47:00.013Z

There is so much change right now. Seems like everything is changing: friendships, relationships, work ethics, opportunities, patterns and habits, shapes, seasons, weather. On Saturday I finally started using the new phone Rob bought me a fortnight ago and it is NOT exactly like the old one at all, which he promised it would be (and *). I'm getting to know it but it is a surprisingly big change (exacerbated by a surprising change in the amount I am using my phone right now). Then fuckbook changed everything up too and I warned Rob that I'd like nothing else to change for a short time. He looked really sad as he called me sweetheart and told me that unfortunately next week the clocks have to change. I think he may have genuinely been concerned this would push me over the edge, but I'm fine with the hour shift. Canadians have all been complaining about it since last week, so I'm well ready for it. Besides, it wasn't a warning as much as an observation, an acknowledgement of what a lot of flux there is about right now. I'm breathing deeply because everything is getting faster and busier with no plans to slow down any time before my 32nd birthday (June).

*I planted my old sim card into my new phone because I wanted to keep the same number and contract on the new phone (mainly because it has taken me four years to memorize this number). I didn't know what the card had saved, so I transferred all the numbers manually. Then when the card went in there lots of old numbers I thought I'd deleted came up. Including my Granny's old phone number. I deleted it again quickly, blindsided by seeing her name in my phone. Even if it was nice to see her (there, somewhere, anywhere) I wasn't expecting it and thus the new phone has already made me cry.

Britain was overdue some sunny days and we are finally getting some! I meant to do school work all weekend but Sunday was sunny and I went to the park with SingleDad and SingleKid instead. It was nice enough to go coatless! Such a better use of a sunny Sunday, Vitamin D for everyone! SingleDad is still a hot mess, he lost his phone, dog leash, and son in one hour at the park, (all were ultimately found).

In my dayplanner every day has BUSY scribbled all over it. Three or four commitments each day, brief pauses at home to eat and change before running out again. Going from school to work to cocktails. I can do it, I just need to be on top of everything. Packing bags and lunches the night before helps, as does making big batches of food to last most of the week, like curries and soup. Doing the dishes everyday so they don't take long instead of once every three days and it takes an hour. Sleep would usually be a priority, but apparently I don't need that much any more. I was always an 8-10 hour-a-night-or-I'm-cranky type of person, but I'm having a spell where I spontaneously wake up five hours or so after going to sleep. And then I can't get back to sleep. Even if I try for two hours, I only get frustrated. But I can't bear to get up at 5:30 to go for a run in the cold and dark and I would really rather sleep more. For three weeks I've averaged five hours a night, seemingly to no great ill effects except that I'm always tired (duh!) I'm most tired in the late afternoon, and thus grumpy. Last Wednesday afternoon there was a full hour where every one and every thing pissed me off completely and I almost threw my new-but-not-the-same-at-all-phone at the computer. Some of it was semi-valid but sleep deprivation intensified how intensely annoyed I was.

The other noticeable difference is how sore and dry my eyes are. I'm carrying eye drops everywhere. I bought a new kind to try tomorrow and I'm nervous it will hurt my eyes as some brands of the get-the-red-out make my eyes totally bloodshot. Red-eye is not a good look for work at the drugs project or classes at college. Rob told me to take a pill on Saturday, literally. He pointed out I still have Valium from the last flight I took. He instructed I should take one when I woke up at 5am to get a few more hours sleep. I did this on Saturday and got seven hours of slumber, slightly better. Back to five again now for most days this week. Some days are like this Wednesday I felt like a complete zombie, in a walking coma and barely present. Other days are like Thursday when I got even less sleep but felt energized and pumped up and alert. However, I gave into every craving I had for caffeine on Thursday, which contributed to several peaks and valleys of feeling manic and/or shaky. It's not an ideal coping strategy but I get sick of dragging around all sleepy all the time. It doesn't make sense I can't sleep more, I used to be so good at sleeping and I love it. Please, can I have some more? I'm so tired (which I have been heard whining to just about everyone I see or speak to; I'm sorry, I can't help it, being this tired is eclipsing everything else in my life right now).

It's already late tonight and I don't care because I won't sleep anyway. Last night I went to bed at midnight and had my alarm set for 7, but was wide awake by half five. I'm staying up because I feel awake right now and am reveling in being at home alone for the first time in days and don't want to waste it on sleep that's going to end too soon anyway. (Rob has naffed off to Edinburgh for the weekend.) The past three days have been particularly busy, literally without five free minutes to stop, the house has been a building I ravage like a hurricane on my flying way in and out. Each day is a relay course of getting places, like to school then to work then to the Architect's, then to G's, then home by 11 to pack for the next day. Today was fucking non-stop and I half expected myself to make excuses out of the plans for tonight. But on sunny Sunday SingleDad mentioned it had been his birthday and he wondered if I was free some night. I asked him if he wanted me to babysit and he said no, he wanted me to go out with him because if I babysat he'd be going out alone! I suggested I come over with some beers and we hang out at his, then he didn't need to think about a babysitter. Tonight I had forty minutes at home between college and getting to SingleDad's but I knew I'd feel like an ass if I cancelled, so I got on the bike and rode over and was rewarded with one of those hilarious evening when you laugh so hard your face hurts.

When I complimented a wall hanging SingleDad said sadly that it was from the Pier and he was so sad they'd shut due to the recession because it was his favorite store. He then pointed out everything that was from the Pier in his living-room and rued not being able to shop there anymore. He hung his head and folded his hands and said, in the saddest voice ever "Yeah, this recession has hit me really hard. I can't believe the Pier is gone forever". To cheer things up I pulled out some beers and then asked if he had a bottle opener, (a valid question as he had asked me to bring over tea bags, a light bulb, and a spatula, so it was probable he would be lacking other kitchen basics). He looked at me funny and said "Yeah, well, yes, of course I have a bottle opener, uhh, in that I have a method of opening bottles. But it really isn't a bottle opener per say. Is that alright?" I was like dude, whatever, as long as we get the beer out I don't care. Later on he was mortified when I used his loo and he remembered he had no toilet seat. (He really liked his old one from the Pier. Since it broke he can't find an acceptable one to replace it with, so they are going without for the time being). I pointed out that it would have been way worse if he'd had a toilet seat but no toilet paper, at least there was loo roll.

To Be Included In My Personal Version of the Vagina Monologues

2009-03-10T17:38:00.008Z

I woke up to a text telling me it was a lush day outside. I blearily looked out the window and agreed that it was. I had to walk to an appointment half an hour away which made the weather sweeter. However, I forget all the time that I live in England, which means even when it looks like perfect picnic weather at 9am, there can be a full downpour literally minutes later. After a sunny walk to the appointment I got caught in precipitation sans umbrella (ella-ella-ella) on the fro part of the journey.

On the rainy walk back I tried to call the salon I usually go to for waxes. I started getting Brazilians about a year ago, mostly out of curiosity. I go to this local place because the girl took the same course I did at college and I wanted to support her business. Brazilians were one of the cheaper, less frequent treatments she offered, so I figured I could afford it long term. The first time I went I had recently seen this clip and as I lay there on the table I was thinking what she said!! The first time I went a young employee did the treatment, she did a good job and I discovered I kinda liked the results. So I kept going. The young girl left and the owner took over, and to be perfectly honest, she did a less than stellar job. It wasn't bad per se, it's always going to hurt, but she sort of didn't care. Little details, like she didn't cleanse the area first or moisturize it afterwards like her employee had. When I called from the rain there was no answer there, so I took a chance and cold-called into another local place. It was a whole new experience, and worth every pence of the two pounds more it cost! This girl was so thorough and so effortlessly good at her job. This girl covered a much larger area, some of which she accessed by getting me into very undignified positions, she had her tweezers out, she moisturized, we had a great conversation. It was an entirely different experience: it's everything I wanted the other place to be, I am wholly satisfied with the work she did and feel like I have met my waxer for life. I'm adding this girl onto my list of things I'm really going to miss when I move back to Canada.

When I got home there was a handwritten letter I couldn't place. Turned out to be from AlmostAnAunt's CousinY'all, who'd heard I was coming to London and offered me a place to stay if I needed it. I haven't made any London plans beyond the in-my-head planning, but she was on my list. So oddly formal to get a handwritten letter from a seventy year-old I've met three times, asking me if I need somewhere to stay and wanting me to visit her. We went out for lunch once and she ate corn on the cob with a knife and fork because she said her Mum never let them eat with their fingers. I ate my corn with my fingers anyway, because it would have flown across the room if I'd attempted it with cutlery. I think it mildly horrified her. If we go for lunch this time I'll not order anything that comes with corn.

This morning I was expecting a work e-mail and my inbox said I had one message waiting. When I clicked it open it was from GeoSister, which was a thousand times better than work crap. I couldn't wait to reply and hate that I can't just call her up whenever I want. Fuck that, I hate it I can't see her whenever I want. The question has come up recently about me attending my brother's wedding, which is only a consideration because we are pretending money isn't an issue. Going would only be for a three or five day trip to Ontario during exam season. It may be asking too much to imagine I can pull off all my schoolwork as well as a quick jaunt home. I could barely manage an evening with the girls at that time last year (I did get out to see the SATC movie but I was a total zombie the whole time). I also think it might be harder to be there such a short time. I had to call the parents today to tell them how great GeoSister is. Her message was the best in every way, it reminded me of how we're close even when we're not. She offered to chuck a few bones into the pot towards a ticket so I can witness this wedding fiasco firsthand. Because of her lead, it suddenly seems like it actually could happen. I'm considering it as a true possibility. I told the parents I'd look forward to so much if it were to happen, but none of the things I was excited about had to do with the wedding! Whatever, it would be good for my relationship with J for me to make an appearance, it means if we can manage to be civil my not being there will never be able to be held against me in resentment. Plus the reality is we are not close and there will be about 200 'intense' friends of his there, so I can probably get through the wedding without really interacting with the grooms(?) much at all. I can't believe I'm considering this but it would be great to see GeoSister, the dog, and the parents even just for a few days.

After my fabulous wax and receipt of a letter and an e-mail, I gave an aromatherapy massage. I like to think I'm as good at what I do as my new waxer is at her job. Then I ran out to my local coffee shop just before they closed to grab a mocha and we talked for 20 minutes about bears, which made me feel like Dwight Shrute. I'm back at home now, clearing up after the massage, doing laundry, getting ready for grocery night (where Rob and Tattooed go shopping and RedWriter and I go out for drinks).

Despite getting caught in the rain, it's been a pretty good day so far and there's still a glass of red wine to come my way later this evening. I liked my good morning text, the London invite letter was a sweet surprise, GeoSister is the best ever, my massage went really well, and yet above all of that goodness, the thing I am truly the happiest about today is finding the best Brazilian waxer in Bristol just around the corner from my house. When it was mediocre I didn't really know any better but suddenly it's great and now I know the difference!! Yes, this is what changed my world today, so much so that I'm rating it up there with having my first orgasm and eating tiramisu in Milan which made me understand how food can be better than sex. I wasn't going to even talk about the Brazilian revelation here but then I thought of my admiration of this girl to say all kinds of stuff that makes wax-chat look tame and appropriate, and after all, I can't believe how happy I am that they didn't answer at the old place and that I walked into the new place. I got some damn good vagina karma today.

How Terribly Strange To Be Seventy

2009-02-21T10:42:00.008Z

I wish you could put YouTube videos on repeat. If you could, I wouldn't be interrupting whatever else I'm doing every 3 minutes and 53 seconds to bash replay on Skinny Love. It's the latest tune I can't get enough of, I want to hear it all the time, literally. When I'm listening to something else I wish it to be this song instead. Except when I'm running, when you need at least one aspect of the activity to not be monotonous (because of my need to run on grass I run around the parameter of a soccer field for half an hour, which is less than exciting). When I'm jogging the music player is on shuffle, which is a such a gamble. Sometimes you hit the jackpot and get motivating songs all in a row, like when Eye of the Tiger came on I totally ran faster just because of the song. But then today I got good songs that are not good for running, all mellow tunes suitable for a rainy evening glass of wine, like Damien Rice and Portishead. I still jog-plodded along for a full half hour at un-upbeat tempos. This running soundtrack put me at just the right pace to segue seamlessly into another afternoon of relentlessly listening to Bon Iver.

The first few times I heard Skinny Love on the radio I thought the lyrics went like this: I told you to be patient/I told you to be fine/I told you to be badass/I told you to be kind. Turns out the actual lyric is balanced, not badass. I liked it better as badass, frankly. But I still can't stop listening to it.

Once when Diablo and I were listening to Nick Cave's Ship Song, he commented that it was such a typical Kate song. As I hit replay on Skinny Love again I thought how if I included it on a cd I'd make for Diablo, he wouldn't be surprised by this selection. He would probably expect it. Three days later I received a cd in the post from him, which included two Bon Iver songs. Not Skinny Love, that would have been way too Chicken Soup for the Soul. But Bon Iver on the disc at all gave me a contented feeling of being well-known by old friend.

If you have a baby apparently it means I will bring you a quiche every time I come to see you. Yesterday I took the train to Taunton to hang out with some of my British favourites: Splodge the dog, Lelly the amazing, and Peanut the baby. Back in Bristol in the evening I walked to the psychic circle to meditate. One of the fellow circle-sitters said they envisioned me holding a baby. I smiled, as I had held Peanut as much as I was allowed to all day. I held her in awe that my friends had made this beautiful little person, I held her in joy of her smiles and giggles, I held her relishing her sweet baby smell and loving the weight of her tiny body in my arms. As I held her I wondered if I will ever have my own, if I could, if I can. Someone in the circle asked why I'd been holding a baby, and I thought maybe I'd been holding a baby because I was lucky, or because it had simply been a good day. What I said instead was something about visiting my friend and how she'd needed a shower and I offered to hold the baby while she washed her hair. The circle-sitter commented that I was a good friend and I replied without thinking that really, it is Lelly who is a good friend. She taught me about truly being there for someone, she makes it easier to be me all the time, she's one of those rare people I can be hugely honest with about things I wouldn't want most people to know I even thought. If I am a good friend to anyone, it is only because of people like Lelly who have taught me about what being a great friend is, by their generous, shining example. Besides, holding her baby felt like more of a treat for me than a help to her. But I'd do anything I could for her, to make a day easier. And if I don't know how to, I will bring her a quiche every time I go to visit.

I forced myself to listen to a few other songs today, to spare the neighbours going insane and general health reasons. As in, it isn't healthy to hear the same song for hours on end, and I wouldn't like to start hating the song tomorrow. Two songs which prevented me from getting carpal tunnel from clicking replay were Simon & Garfunkle tunes. First one was Old Friends. For nostalgia, for knowing people like Lelly and Diablo who I am going to be old friends with. I look forward to sitting on a park bench with them when we are strange and seventy.

Second song was Bridge Over Troubled Water . While this isn't one of my very favourite songs ever, I was feeling filled up with friendship yesterday and when I'm nostalgic in that way, this song often appears. I often struggled in high school, and it was hard on my friends. After a particularly tumultuous time, finally all was right again in my friendship with Eugenia, and I was so relieved to have not lost her during my self-destruction. Later that night we had a concert at school and she was singing the solo in this song. I was standing at the back of the auditorium when she began to sing. She sang so clearly and beautifully that I cried. It was the first time music had moved me to tears and I could enjoy it too, because she wasn't mad at me any more. She taught me about the capacity to understand and forgive. We withstood my adolescence and remain firm friends. She also still touches me to the point of tears when she sings (except for the times when she makes me laugh).

Predictable Comment on Valentines Day

2009-02-14T22:07:00.003Z

I took my parents out for a fancy meal once and CuteDad ate every morsel of every course. On the way home I took the scenic route, until finally CuteDad said "Could we just go right home please, I'm so full!" ChickenMummy had also eaten a lot and she suggested that when they got home they should lie on their bed and roll around. I think she meant in the manner that GeoSister and I roll around on the floor clutching our stomachs and groaning after Christmas dinner, but CuteDad took it suggestively and rebuked her by replying "Not tonight dear, I'm too full!!" So if you don't want to put out on V-day after a fancy meal, here's one excuse you could use.

Valentines Day, (exasperated sigh), is something I care equally little about both when I'm single and when I'm not. Either way I don't want to buy into it but I can't help but be aware of it. (The exception to buying into it is the day after it when heart-shaped Lindt chocolates go on sale. I buy a few boxes into that chocolaty goodness). I'd love to pretend I took no notice of V-day at all, but I'd be lying because I do, albeit on a disdainful, superficial level. How can you not be when everything everywhere is heart-shaped and pink or red?? (Today I wore a red shirt and a pink bra. Because I like to secretly clash or because everything everywhere is pink and red right now and I've been commercially manipulated?? I don't even know!) No matter what happens on V-day, it inevitably ends up feeling lame and like trying too hard to reclaim it or reject it or whatever. Feigned nonchalance in every case. Today, and V-days past, I have thought twice about phoning certain friends in case it is misconstrued (there is frequently either a fumbling history or undercurrents of such possibilities in many of my friendships). In places where I have agonized over dialing, it would never have been a hint, but I've hesitated to ring or write an e-mail in case it was received as loaded. I hate that I can't be unaware of this kind of thing.

This V-day started early, I was up at 7am to be at Fi's house for half 8. She was being whisked away to a surprise destination for a romantic weekend while I'm hanging out with her kids, Sparkle and TheNegotiator. I suppose if it's a sure thing I won't be getting much romance today, I should at least free up someone else to get some. Besides, these kids have made for a pretty hilarious day. TheNegotiator did not want to go to the library at all and made me promise that if we went we would only stay for 10 minutes. As it was more about getting out of the house than being at the library, 10 minutes was fine. Then we got there, he found a book, and an hour later we were bargaining over staying 10 more minutes in the library. He's great to strike deals with because he honours them. If you let him stay up until 9pm he will brush his teeth and get ready for bed in the commercial breaks and go straight up without complaint exactly on time.

It was also cool that Fi said she was leaving with no worries about them at all. It didn't even occur to me that she would worry, but it was surprisingly complimentary to know she wouldn't. This is who I think of myself as being when I'm at my best: someone you can trust with really important things. Like people. But damn! Even kids who can wipe their own asses take a ton of energy to run around after for a whole day. If I did have a lover tonight I'd be making excuses because not tonight honey, I'm too tired.

I keep meaning to write down chronological lists of notable occasions, before I get older and they get longer than I can remember. Every year I don't do it there are more years to arrange into order, so it won't get easier and I should do it now. Specifically, I'd like a list of all the birthdays I can remember, and Christmases, and New Year's, just quick notes about where I was and what I did. I can reel a few off stand-out years events easily, but would need to think hard to fill in all the years. For birthdays a few are simple, like 16, when I had a surprise birthday party that I knew was happening as soon as I walked into the house and saw all kinds of party food ChickenMummy would never usually buy. It was a lame party in that it was held on a Sunday afternoon and ended around 7pm, but secretly behind my teenage nonchalance, I felt pretty special that day. I could recount the most recent five years no problem because they were recent. But 22-26?? I'm sure I could figure it out if I concentrated. Christmases are simpler, but New Years blurs. I know there were two years in high school when I went to Niagara Falls and one year the Mickey Mouse Club performed and I would love to know if Britney, Justin or Christina were there too, (because how awesome would that be?!) The other year at the Falls Alanis sang at midnight, but this was way back when her 'hit' was Too Hot. I kind of love it I saw her when she was such a hot mess. I know I spent one new year downtown Guelph waiting for fireworks and it was so cold we huddled in a bank vestibule to stay warm until five to midnight. Fortunately fireworks can be seen from many vantage points and Guelph doesn't get too crowded so there was no need to freeze outside in order to claim a prime spot. So I know all these things happened on new year's eves, but I couldn't tell you which year was which. I'd like to get these lists written down soon.

Hey, you know one day I won't be making a list about?? This one. (Suck on that, V-day!) Because it just doesn't matter and besides this one, I can only remember two. One was when I was with Gandalf, we were in Guelph, we got takeaway curry and shared it with ChickenMummy and GeoSister and when we were all full of yummy food we watched half a dozen episodes of the Simpsons back to back. The other was when I sent GeoSister a package of chocolate and hearts and I hadn't even known how much she needed it, but she did and it felt awesome to get it so right for someone I'm never going to stop loving. I might remember today too though. Not only did I hang out with some cool kids, but someone else had a memorable, movie-esque romantic day, and I helped because they aren't at all worried about the children. I may not have been swept off my feet or received roses or been kissed today, but there was still love. Knowing your friends trust you and helping out your mates brings a lot of love to any day.

A British Battering (This Is Not a Post About Deep Fried Mars Bars)

2009-02-05T23:19:00.000Z

This one time, I cleaned AlmostAnAunt's house and did a stellar job. Like actually got into every corner and scrubbed and hoovered intensely for hours. I was pretty proud of myself, for having done such a good job for her. And when she called later I suppose I hoped she'd say she was pleased...and instead she was calling me to inform me I had forgotten to clean on top of the fridge. On that day AlmostAnAunt was very hard to love.

England is a bit like that right now. Sometimes returning to this ridiculous country is like stepping up to be repeatedly punched in the face. I'm feeling slightly beaten up. Everyone says it's the time of year and maybe they're right. But I think it has more to do with some very specific things that have been culminating towards my full transformation into an overtired and irritable version of me.

Firstly, I spent four straight days sat in front of the computer writing a research paper on depression. It's done, it's an embarrassingly weak piece of work, which could have been better if I'd started a day earlier but it also could have been better if the topic had been something other than depression. I poached a bunch of info and references from a paper I wrote last year on depression, and stupidly ended up re-reading the whole thing, which was as horrible and masochistic as reading an old letters from an ex. Writing that paper made me cry every day for three weeks. That paper made me sure of what a BAD. IDEA. it would be for me to study depression again. Enter shitty luck and Sod's Law and see depression being the assigned topic for one of my classes. I dealt with it but it was still as bad of an idea as I thought it would be. I don't wanna be reminded of all my least favorite/most scary moments of life. Living through it was enough, surely?? Oh really, those are symptoms of depression? Oh wait, I know them because I've been them, for really long amounts of harrowing time! I managed okay for most of the semester but writing this essay has not been fun, I'm not proud of it as a piece of work, and even though it was handed in yesterday I still feel mildly traumatized by the whole affair.

It took awhile to recognize it in the first days of being back, but soon enough I figured out hey, I remember this feeling. It went away in Canada but as soon as I was back on British Road, there it was again. I just hadn't realised I didn't worried about being burgled in Canada until I got back and found myself worrying about it daily. In Canada I felt safe everywhere and I didn't sleep listening out for intruders. I didn't hold my breath as I opened the front door, wondering if the house was going to be torn apart, I didn't feel on guard and alert all the time. I didn't check locks I already knew were locked twice a night. I didn't hide my wallet, phone and portable music when I went to bed. I do all this stuff here in England and it sucks feeling unsafe at home.

There is more snow in Britain, I walked home in it falling lightly last night, which was nice, kinda. I've only seen snow fall two other times here, and both times it was so comforting and the familiarity made me feel closer to home. The days of snow this week have had a different effect. It's making me sadder and totally homesick!! My automatic reaction to snow right now is to want to shovel the driveway in Guelph, far, far away Guelph. The people who have made me laugh the hardest this week are my parents and GeoSister. The feeling of missing them is a slightly duller extended version of how I felt saying goodbye to GeoSister in the Hamilton airport. I feel myself not phoning Canadians because it makes it harder and sometimes I need to just let the distance be as far as it really is.

There's not even a lot of snow. There's not enough to shovel, but there's enough to close hundreds of schools, including mine. I'd been planning to go jogging this morning before school anyway, because the essay writing made for a sedentary four days. I usually jog around a small field near my house, because I have bad knees and must run on grass, and because there's less dog crap there due to the high fencing and the sty you have to climb over to get into it. Occasionally when I run there is a parent and a small child toddling around, or some frisbee players. We seem to have no problems sharing the park. It hadn't occurred to me that the park would have three groups of teenagers playing in the snow, as well as the smaller kids this morning. I could still run around the edges unobtrusively, so I began to. The first round was uneventful, but then one group of kids began to throw snowballs at me as I went past. I carried on as usual for two more laps, but then I made a smaller circle to avoid them as they pelted me with snowballs each time I jogged past and were getting progressively more aggressive about it. Then they encouraged another group of teens to join in, so I was being hit with snowballs from two sides. I gave up one round later after a snowball each to the ear and face. I had only been running for 6 minutes! That's how quickly these kids literally ran me out of the park. I get it that snow is a novelty here and if they had each thrown one ball once, fine. But there was no way I could have run for an entire half hour there. It was only snowballs so I feel stupid and don't want to be dramatic about it but I did feel threatened. They were yelling a lot too but I had earphones in so was spared hearing their jibes as well as being their target. I was determined not to let them give me an excuse to be lazy so I walked on to a bigger park. My tiny park has a soccer league on the weekend, so I usually run in a bigger park then, which is a nice change except it's an open park with plenty of dog shit to have to watch out for. I went there anyway today, even though all the dog crap would be hidden by snow, and hoped there wouldn't be teenage assholes. There were way more people but none of them threw snowballs at me and I was able to finish my run.

Lastly, I've been having bus rage. It galls me when people smoke on the top level of the bus, especially spliffs. There is no reason to light up on the bus, it makes us all stink, and it's totally rude. It happens all the time and I can't believe people are so inconsiderate. Usually when I come into school mad about it happening people ask why the bus driver doesn't do anything about it or kick them off. I know why they don't! Same reason I left the park instead of continuing my run and refusing to be intimidated. It's not worth it. If the lone bus driver goes up and tells four youths to get off and they say to make them, what's the bus driver going to do? As a passenger am I going to help or offer assistance or get involved or just sit there ignoring the whole situation?? Smoking on the bus is forbidden, tolerated, and repugnant. I want to wag my finger at the perpetrators and say "Shame on you!!" but I only actually do it in my head.

The first week I was back in Bristol I spent over 20 quid on bus fare and over 12 hours on or waiting for city buses. (I accept the hefty price of transport here, but I do feel ripped off on the days there are no free newspapers. The horoscope in it is often uncannily accurate and I consider the paper as included in the exorbitant fare.) Last Friday afternoon on my way home I was sat in the seat in front of the wheel seat, which is higher up. The three year old behind me sneezed twice, all over me. I felt the sneezes fall on me, which was substantially disgusting, but it was a little kid, so whatever, I let it go. But the kid's teenage Mum thought it was hilarious and laughed a lot and encouraged the kid into thinking he was the cleverest boy ever for sneezing on me so he began fake-sneezing on me, which basically consisted of him spitting on me. His feckless Mum laughed and laughed and after he'd spat on me about five times I turned around and was like, come on, he's actually spitting on me, could she get him to stop please? She half-assedly asked him to stop whilst still laughing. He didn't of course, so she switched seats with him and then he screamed and screamed because he was no longer by the window. IdiotMum finally put him on her lap and another lady sat down next to her and asked why he was sad and they then proceeded to have a huge conversation about how I had ruined her kid's fun and was a total bitch! The problem wasn't the kid or the first sneezes, it was IdiotMum, and I hadn't been at all rude. Although aghast I said nothing and consciously didn't look back when I got off four stops later. I simply went home and sprayed lots of essential oils in my hair and washed my face and tried to stop feeling appalled.

I'm waiting for the spittle to wash off and for the snow to melt and I'm sure things will be brighter soon. But for right now? England is very hard to love.

Here, There and Everywhere

2009-01-30T23:20:00.011Z

When I returned to the UK from my extended Canadian Christmas I was only holding one passport, the British one. It felt so strange that my documentation would confirm I was a UK citizen and nothing else. I'd spent a month feeling more Canadian than ever and yet officially I couldn't prove I was one. My Canuck passport is set to expire in February and I sent it off to be renewed while I was home, which meant I didn't have it to travel back with. I felt oddly bereft, like I had a finger missing or something.

I had a weird internal tick in Canada every time I referred to where I lived in Bristol as "my home". I reflexively flinched because it didn't sound right, yet was technically correct. However, since I've been back I've had a strange fondness growing for Bristol. I figure I've been here 5 years, I better start finding things to like. After all, I'll be gone in 18 months and surely there are things I'll miss beyond my contempt for Bristol public transit and Pieminister pies. As I look around it has been much easier to identify things that are alright about this city than I expected it to be.

There was this one night in Toronto where I was at Eugenia's house lamenting plans that had gone awry and friends I wouldn't see enough, and I sat on her bed and cried and cried. I looked around and reminded myself, see, Canada can be lonely too. If I lived here, there would be bad times too, nowhere is perfect. Then Eugenia came home and said all the right things and reaffirmed all the reasons why she was my best friend in high school and my reference for my new passport, and I stopped crying and started laughing. Because I know she's right, that in two years I'll probably be sitting on her bed crying about missing all my British friends.

I had few responsibilities in Canada, I didn't think about school or work or anything in England at all. Everyday was about spending time with special Canadian people and little else except consuming as many pancakes and Timbits as possible. I was reminded of how important it is to keep in touch with far-away friends. I'm not so good at that, I'll leave it for months before I send individual e-mails, I'm crap at keeping in touch even though calls to Canadian landlines are about 2 pence a minute. I let it go for ages, too long. This time I returned with a steely resolve to be better at more frequent contact, to recognize how good it is for me to know what's going on with my people, to be more supportive and to be there as much as I can be from here. I also thought about my British mates and how I owe them more too. I get all immersed with daily issues and put off people until I have more time, which never happens. I want to shake myself!! I make time for work, school, exercise, cleaning and where do my friends fit in?? Not nearly enough. Tonight, for example, I hung out with Dancer. I have a paper due in four days which I half-heartedly took a stab at it this morning before going over to the Dancer's for a few drinks. We talked non-stop for hours, had a heart-to-heart, no-holds-barred evening and I left feeling great, supported and refreshed and bolstered by shared understanding. She lives a mere 10 minute walk from my college and yet this is the first time I have seen her since last September. Every time we see each other we resolve not to leave it so long next time, and each time the resolve seems heartfelt and genuine but it ends up being months and months before we get around to making plans that hatch. We'll see if we meet up again before Spring. I hope we do but our (my) track record isn't good. As for my steely resolve, it evaporated when I was knocked flat by a sinus infection two days after my return, followed up swiftly by a looming essay deadline which means the next four days will be eclipsed by intense bouts of academic writing and despair over my intellectual and organizational shortcomings.

I loved my time in Canada. ChickenMummy was worried, I was worried, about how it would be when I had to go back to England. But I'd always known I was heading back at the end of the month, so it wasn't a surprise. It wasn't a choice and I have a clear purpose in being here (to get my degree, to get my degree, to get my degree in my hot little hand and fuck off back home the very next day). I'm not pining for Canada now, even though I miss my Canuck friends even more acutely for having seen them each for a much-too-scant amount of time. Instead I feel lucky for having been there for a short while, for getting to live out a fantasy month of friends, food, fun and farting. It is hard, to have two places where your life plays out. We can all only be in one place at a time. By now in our rich lives, no matter where we each are, we always have someone elsewhere that's missing, we are always absent from someone's daily events. I'm so fortunate that coming back to Bristol was made easy by the people here I get excited about catching up with after a month away. I'm so lucky and feel like a spoiled brat for lamenting far away friends when, no matter where I am, I have good ones near by. But being so blessed does not negate how it can still be hard sometimes, how occasionally distance aches your heart so hard it feels like it is actually breaking. It seems like a cruel trick, that making the most of here and now appears to mean that the tear of leaving rips even deeper than if you had just been floating blithely by. I taste that bittersweet.

A Post That Needs To Happen Just So The Post Below Stops Being First Up

2009-01-08T02:38:00.010Z

JohnnyB and I were making plans last night when he told me there would be snow today. I'd heard nothing of this because I've not listened to any news or read a paper this week. But sure enough there was definitely snow today. I still love it, wishing I wasn't too lazy to get the camera out so I could take pictures of everything covered white and stick them into an album on fuckbook called Toronto By Snow. Instead I fear for the digital camera, that it will explode if I turn it upwards to capture falling, melting flakes. It's not mine, this camera, it belongs to my parents and I don't want to break it and I only know the basics about using it. I also have their cell phone, to CuteDad's great reluctance. I got more than one lecture about acceptable phone etiquette before I was allowed to touch it and he still claimed he wouldn't stop worrying about it until I've brought it home. Really? Because I'm not a feckless teenager anymore and I've had a mobile I've never lost for 5 years now and this one isn't even mine so I'll probably take even better care of it. Accordingly, I have not lost their cell phone. I did however drop it on Spadina and everyone waiting for the light to change sharply inhaled. I picked it up, dried it off with my mitten and it's fine, not lost at all and only slightly banged up.

I've been having perfect days. Eugenia commented that I'm so happy and I am, ridiculously bursting. For anyone feeling fed up I'm super-annoying because I'm all hooray for everything!! right now. Seriously, everything. Waiting for traffic lights to change, and the road is clear yet everyone is patiently waiting, so I jaywalk marvelling and loving how hilariously polite Canadians are! I love how clean it is like I'm a tourist, I use TTC transfers as bookmarks, everything about a bagel pleases me. Every morning is so exciting, looking forward to seeing more good people.

Although partings are harder. I haven't said any goodbye without tearing up and wanting to wail "I miss you!!!" I did pretty much wail that at my sister as we said goodbye at the airport, along with other mature sentiments such as "when you go away I don't like it!" CuteDad looked elsewhere, willing me to stop crying before we got back in the car, so I used my best trick to buy time to compose myself. As we drove out of the airport I said to him "So there seems to be a lot going on in Canadian politics, I'm not sure I understand it all. Can you explain it to me?" I didn't have to talk the whole rest of the way home and I learned some stuff and I stopped crying. Until the next goodbye.

A few reality checks have hit in the past few days. I had to do a mock exam for biology class and when I got the e-mail I turned into a cantankerous kid, because I just don't even want to think about school or anything not-Canada until I have to. I did it anyway though because I do have to go back and I am officially skipping school as of tomorrow so it isn't too much to ask me to spend an hour thinking about biology. But it would be cooler if they'd just leave me alone until I'm back because from here I simply don't care and this is the only month in the previous or subsequent four which won't be dominated by school and I want to pretend I'm free for a few more days, please? I'm hardly ever here and I'm not here for long. I was walking down Yonge today and I looked around and thought of all the places in the world I want to visit, and how if I'd been given a free ticket anywhere for this month, I still would have chosen to be here.

Because these are perfect days. Perfect simple days of massaging my friends, sushi on Bloor, extended sleepovers, wrapping up in layers, sharing Timbits and drinking mochas pronounced "moe-ka" not "mock-uh" and I want it to last just a little bit longer. Most of my friends are laughing at me delight in totally mundane, everyday stuff, but to me these are things I usually miss everyday.

Analogies Not To Use At School

2008-12-12T23:23:00.004Z

Today in college I learned about how inappropriate I could be with my analogies.

We are learning Thai massage, which is a lot of pressure and stretching. I love one of the feet stretches that turns your hips entirely outward, splitting you wide open right up your spine. The first time I had it done to me it felt amazing. Since then I just feel like my feet are being pushed into the floor without any of the liberating stretch. We played with angles this week, but I wasn't satisfied. My wise teacher eventually said that it would probably never be as good as it was the first time. Dismayed, I said the first sad thing that came to mind: "Oh, so it's like cocaine then, totally great in the beginning but every time after you're just chasing that elusive first high". I'm done with coke and probably wouldn't have said this if I was still indulging, but nonetheless, nice choice of example there, Holistic Therapist!!!

My Dad is Cuter than Your Dad

2008-12-02T09:43:00.002Z

There's been a bit of family brouhaha in the past few weeks over my brother's blog, in which he wrote some things about my parents which upset them. I get why they're upset but I also get how he didn't think they'd be interweb savvy enough to find his blog, (this surprised me too!) Kind of like I don't want my parents to find my blog either, not because I write mean things about them, but because I write freely about the pot they think I stopped smoking three years ago. However, I did want them to know that not all their kids slam them on blogs, so I cut and pasted the Roses post into an e-mail and sent it to them. I know they could search and find my blog with snippets and catchphrases from that post, but I respectfully asked them not to and it seems like they respectfully won't. This is the reply I got from my CuteDad this morning, who seems tickled with the blog-name I've given him:

Hi K8;

Loved all your writing in your e-mail with the subject line Don't go looking for it!!!! Don't worry, I won't go looking for it.

Luv Cute Dad. Ha ha!!!

I Love It Here But.....

2008-12-01T16:48:00.002Z

It amuses me when people preface an insult with something like "she's such a great person......" or "he's such an awesome guy....." because the next part of both of those soundbites is a huge BUT which leads into why this great guy totally sucks, only you can say why now because first you said how much you really like him despite his suckiness. Or the travelling version of this, when Americans say how much they love Europe but they'd like it even better if there were variety stores open 24hours and if they could get bagels for breakfast and if more people spoke English, you know, if it was more like it is at home. It's fun to watch homesick Yanks try to be easygoing, adaptable travellers.

I opened the letter from my brother this weekend. Fi was with me, as was a stiff drink. It wasn't so bad really, it was more like the artificial friendliness of a mean girl, seething with unspoken undercurrents of carefully disguised disdain. He played some funny angles, like letting me know how much it hurts ChickenMummy when we can't all be together on Christmas Day, as if I don't know that already and probably care more about how she feels anyway. What I know is that if we were both there it would end badly for everyone, because we inevitably end up fighting. Sometimes it's his fault we argue and half the time it's mine. I know this. I know I can't not either, so I'd rather not fail again at trying to tolerate being around him. I can't, I've accepted it, it's better, I don't want to go back there. How important can it be to him if it took so long (1 year, 11 months) to get back to me? He hopes my feelings have changed since I sent my letter. How?? How could they have possibly waned?? Especially when we saw each other after Granda died and how well that went. I said I was done then and have considered it so since. So why now?* Does he think I won't notice how offensively long it's taken?

He proposes getting together with a mediator while I'm home. I'm not really inclined. I've got too little time for all the good people as is. Furthermore, the letter was much better than expected and still look how it is taking over right now! I don't want my time with friends who are usually too far away for me to touch to be dominated by hashing out how I feel after time with my brother. I'm not opposed to accepting this proposal eventually, just not this holiday. Why should I rush? I feel like I made an effort to do this 2 Christmases ago and now he wants it I'm supposed to jump right away?? Or why not while he was in fucking England in August??!! Where a friend I see weekly and not once every two years could be my mediator, so it's okay if my brother is all we talk about for an entire day because it isn't the only day we get to see each other. Jeez! I know I had to read the letter but I knew this would happen when I read his letter.

*Why now is because he's getting married in May. Seems I'm getting an invite, which I didn't expect. Receiving a save-the-date card gave me the courage to open his letter, because it meant that he thought we could get over whatever we've both written in letters. I have exams right around the wedding, plus I beyond can't afford it, so I won't be going. I don't want it held against me forever though, if an attempt at future reconciliation is made, that I didn't come to his wedding.

I'm pretty certain it's a no to seeing him next month. My aunt is going to be enough familial stress for the season. So not now for me thanks, yet I can entertain it as an eventual possibility. Not that we'd be close, but that we could be civil for a family meal. He says he wants to know me now and I don't believe him or necessarily want to let him know me yet. But I might in time. He displays capacity to forgive in his letter, which I want to trust. If it doesn't have a time frame then we might have a tiny chance. And if it does, well, it's pretty big of me to even be saying maybe when I was very happy with my decision of done 16 months ago, so he either accepts the tiny chance or we go back to nothing. Either way I'm going to be fine with it, which is why it needs to be slow and without timing pressures.

We possibly could IF. If we got along. If we were different people. If we had any semblance of trust between us. If we could be honestly happy for each other. If we let go of the past. If effort was made. There are so many BUTs with my brother too. He's my brother BUT. I want to think it's possible BUT years of bitter experience have burned me.

In private moments I admit truths about my brother that are not so bad, that shows us as not so different:

-we both eat massive amounts of garlic, putting an average of 2 bulbs into most dishes (soups, pasta sauce)

-both of us have pretty impressive vocabularies and both of us can use our big vocabularies in a very off-putting obnoxious way

-we are both voracious readers

It'd be cool to be able to confess things to him, like to tell him about the time in high school when I poached one of his short stories and handed it in as mine for my Creative Writing class. I submitted it again the next year in university. I got great marks both times and I'd love to think I could thank him and we could laugh about it, not that he would get pissed off and call my old schools to try to get my marks revoked. Isn't that the kind of thing siblings are supposed to do in cahoots? I don't know if we will ever be like that or if I will ever tell him anything BUT maybe we'll eventually be okay eating at the same table without choking. BUT not this Christmas.

The Consistency of Habits (Deep and Thick)

2008-11-16T19:51:00.007Z

When I was five I had swimming lessons once a week, which I loved. What I didn't love was being rushed afterwards, getting dressed while still damp, and having my hair freeze the moment we stepped outside into the Canadian winter. I used to wear the same pants (trousers) every time, a pair of green corduroys. I used to call them my Oscar the Grouch pants because I was always grumpy when I had to get dressed after swimming. I recently got a new pair of green corduroys. This new pair also gets called Oscar the Grouch pants, because I can't help it when I look down to see green corduroy and because it's fun to remember what it felt like to be five.

Any time I have ever dried dishes in a strange house (or when I return home and ChickenMummy has re-arranged the whole kitchen) I will hold up an object and ask "where does this go?" and in my head I follow that with an instant answer of "to San Fransisco". It's like I can't ask that out loud without following it up with a singsong response in my head, I don't know why. Similarly, whenever I have to do any word response exercise, like when someone says a word and you are supposed to say the first thing that comes to mind, I always say the second thing that come to mind because the first thing is always spider. Always. No matter what the prompt is, my first response is consistently spider. The second thought varies but the first though never wavers.

The lack of tv in our house in my childhood, (we had one but viewing time was strictly restricted) made me and my siblings into voracious readers. CuteDad used to hunt us down to help with the chores because we were always hiding in corners reading as kids. Most parents would encourage reading but we had to be dragged away from novels, especially as I would re-read books like most people watch re-runs. I always liked how reading the same part of a book over again would make me revisit the same feelings and thoughts I'd had the first time. I usually expected the book to be familiar but it often surprised me that my reactive thoughts were also repeats. It still does. It's different from deja vu, even though the basic sensation of knowing how you are going to complete a thought sequence is the same. The difference is that with this you know you have done it before and it's like affirmation that you are still you, however much later on it is. Which can either be a good thing or a not-so-good thing. The overall point is that some things stay the same.

Like habits, which are so bloody hard to alter, even when we know better. I stopped smoking last July but I'll still grab a puff off a mate's fag on a night out. I enjoy it but it wouldn't bother me to go without, it's more about habit than desire. I can recognize that and yet it doesn't stop me from nicking a cheeky puff here and there. Something else I should have known better about is what I'm currently wallowing in: my poor work ethic and well-planned-but-crappily-executed organizational skills regarding school. Every semester (highschool, uni or college) ends with proclamations that I won't leave things to the last minute next time, that I've learned my lesson from late nights and editing essays at 3am and will plan ahead and use my time more wisely in future. Ha!! While I seem to have learned this lesson over and over in theory, in practice I never apply the knowledge. Like right now, when 2 major projects are due in 9 days. I must have learned something because I'm considering now as crunch time instead of beginning it all the night before, but still, I've had ample time to make this easier on myself but by now it is clear I won't be doing much else besides school work this week. However, a change is that in finding myself in this position for the umpteenth time, I'm feeling calmer about it. The next 9 days are going to entail more stress and frantic-ness and less sleep than I'd ideally prefer but it is due to my own design. And I've learned from the past that no matter how much I wish I'd followed through on my best-laid plans to be ahead of schedule, in the end I will always get it done by deadline, (albeit with ridiculously large amounts of caffeine and stupidly small amounts of sleep).

Roses from My Friends (And Aunts Apparently)

2008-11-05T16:19:00.008Z

Rob drove me to the meditation centre in July, two days after GingerDreads lent me the Ben Harper Live From Mars discs. I'm the kind of girl who will kill an album or a song with overplay. I get stuck on repeat easily, happily. If I have a song in my head all day I will come home and need to play it at least eight times before my ear-need is satiated, but I love it the last time as much as I did the first. I've no doubt this ruins certain tunes for other people, like when I click Replay yet again I imagine my neighbours groaning and cursing me and questioning AGAIN!?!?!, (especially as I'm not above the occasional Britney Spears binge). As I'd been craving Ben Harper for months when I was lent these cds they became my constant soundtrack for the 48 hours before meditating. By the time we were in the car driving me towards ten days of silence I'd narrowed it down to three songs that I compulsively needed to hear over and over again before they were gone, I couldn't hear them enough. Rob patiently let me spend the whole two hour drive blasting a very small selection of tunes over and over again. One of the songs was Roses From My Friends. The chorus came back to me often while I was silent and sitting: stones from my enemies/ these wounds will mend/ But I cannot survive/ the roses from my friends. I can be like that sometimes. I'm tough and fighting with difficult situations feeling doubtless in my strength, certain I will prevail. Then someone does something nice for me and the kindness just slays me wide open and I didn't even see it coming, slashed through the heart by the roses from my friends.

I was worrying about money (re-budgeting post-theft) when ChickenMummy phoned out of the blue. She owed PowerAunt some money for a gift they'd bought together and when she asked how she should pay it back PowerAunt asked if she could just give it to me, because "she knows it's hard for Kate some times." And all afternoon I was welling up thinking of those words and feeling loved because my aunt knows how it can be hard for me sometimes. It can often feel like nobody knows how hard. But PowerAunt knew enough to know that even a tenner can make a difference. Well, a tenner and all that love.

My CuteDad sends me a weekly package of newspaper clippings. I love the Facts&Arguments page of the weekday Globe and Mail, so my Dad cuts it out every day and sends me a stack of them once a week, plus anything else he thought I'd find relevant or funny and usually a few things about health-related conditions ChickenMummy is convinced I have. Last week I was waiting for a friend in town but she was running late so I opened up the latest package from home. Among the usual stack of newsprint was another envelope made of wax paper. I curiously pulled it out to find it contained half a dozen perfect scarlet red maple leaves. I was touched beyond belief by this sweet gesture, that my father would have thought of sending me Canadian leaves, that he could have known it would make me feel a closer to home ( a wonderful feeling to have, even for a moment). We also had a good laugh later on the phone when I questioned how much Customs would love it if they knew rogue foreigner foliage had snuck into the UK, especially since I'd thrown a few leaves off a bridge (I wanted to see them falling).

I sent AlmostAnAunt a package last week and she was so thrilled with it she is sending me one back. According to my parents the package she is sending me will contain peanut butter cups but it is not yet sure how many as she has a plan to have the open package weighed and then add one peanut butter cup at a time until it costs too much to send. CuteDad and I concurred they are going to love her at the post office and ChickenMummy endeared me to give away the candy and not eat it myself (not so much because it's fattening but more because Reese's are not organic). I may not eat any but it still warms my heart to think of AlmostAnAunt standing there holding up the whole post office queue to send me a bunch of what she believes is my favourite treat. It's not but this package still has the best taste because it's full of the secret ingredient.

And then there's my other actual aunt, who I had a horrible weekend with in September. Things were said without forethought, so we'd both offered some valid yet painfully true things to each other. At the end of it she said she never wanted to see me again and to be honest I was done with her too by that point. Trouble is we are both at my parents for Christmas, except that she threatened to cancel her trip because of me. As fed up as I am, I didn't want her to cancel. She sent a letter the day after our fight which was the most anger I've ever seen on a piece of paper. Reading it made me unable to sleep or eat for three days. That was two months ago and we've had no contact since. I was understandably nervous then, when an envelope in her writing arrived last week. At first I put it with my brother's letter. Then I decided I can't start building a pile of unopened letters from estranged and angry family members. (Most people avoid opening bills and bank statements and look forward to personal letters, I seem to be opposite at the moment). I sucked it up and tore it open to find a card with a teddy bear on it. Inside she'd written that she was sorry to hear I'd been burgled, to stay strong, and that she'd see me at Christmas. I was surprised and humbled; I'd expected a punch and I got a hug. It disarmed me completely. It's nice to know that even if she never wants to see me again, that doesn't mean she wants me to be robbed. I can also stop worrying that she'll cancel her trip now, which is a big relief.

I come off horribly in the above paragraph. What could I have possibly done to make a family member never want to see me again to the extent of cancelling a trip and holiday plans?? I'm too tired of dealing with it all to explain, but let's all agree that she extremely over-reacted. While that's an obvious perspective for me to present, my parents are backing me up. Out of this wretched situation with my aunt there have been some sweet supportive moments with my parents. The first phone call I had with them after the fight CuteDad shouted at me but ChickenMummy was the calmest diplomat and trusted me despite hearing only my aunt's side first. She even made my Dad tell me he loved me before we ended the call. A month later I confided in ChickenMummy that I feared he was still mad at me, even though he said he wasn't (because how awful would it be for my Dad to pick me up at the airport and be mad at me when I haven't seen him in a year and a half? Ummm, very awful.) ChickenMummy told him this and so later that day he took five minutes out of his twenty minute break from work to ring me cheerfully "just to say hello" which is his way of telling me he isn't still cross with me. And when I phoned them to tell them about the card from my aunt I said that hopefully now he wouldn't be stuck in the middle of me and her for half of December and he reminded me that even if he was he will always choose me first. He's said that a few times lately and I guess it has always been that way but I somehow didn't know it until he told me. I need to thank my Dad more, for permanently being in my corner, and maybe also thank my aunt, who helped me find this out for sure.

SillyYak sent me three hilarious pairs of neon socks with skulls on them for my birthday and I wear them at least twice a week. I love these socks a lot but I love it even more that SillyYak knows me well enough to pick them out for me so perfectly. These small reminders that I'm still completely known and understood even though I've been gone a long time makes me feel much less far away.

Things people make for me: cards, socks, bracelets, cds, wishes, long-distance phone calls. All of these things touch me more deeply than anything negative ever could.

So thank you friends, for all my beautiful roses.

Silver Linings

2008-10-29T21:16:00.002Z

When I was driving the big blue bus across Canada I backed it into a parked car once while trying to turn a tight corner. It was only a bump, we didn't even feel it on the bus, but it punched out a headlight. I didn't realize until later what had happened. I went back to the parked bus to see the damage and found a note on the dash of the car I'd hit from some witnesses. They pointed out the bus and noted the contact details painted on the side of it. I took the note and tore it up, didn't leave another one of my own. The very next day my whole carry case of cds was stolen. It was full of unique discs, many signed, none mainstream, that I knew wouldn't even be appreciated by most folks (James Keelaghan, Black Cabbage, The SilverHearts). I figured it was karmic retribution that my cds were stolen after I'd damaged a car without taking responsibility. Sharing this opinion prompted more than one person to suggest that karma doesn't work that quickly but surely sometimes it does.

When my cash and my weed got stolen last Monday I figured that I should start looking out for someone to be handing me half an ounce of premium smokey joy, as I was owed at least that much by the universe for being robbed. While it definitely doesn't work like that, it does work somehow. I haven't been reimbursed tit-for-tat of what was taken from me but so much has come to me this week:

-The day after we were burgled I had a massage client who always wants to pay me more than I charge her (she's on benefits and really needs massages so my rates are cheap for her). She brought me four new bottles of essential oils. She likes to bring me chocolate or homemade chutney or other little bits to top up what she pays me but this was the first time she brought me oils and it was very generous of her to bring four. Uncannily she picked four I needed to stock up on.

-OneOfThree also gifted me a bottle of essential oil, one of my favourite ones too. I'd fully expected to pay for it and was really touched when she offered it as a gift.

-Another classmate who works in a health food store knew I wanted to try some Omega supplements and last week a shipment of them came in damaged so there were a bunch of fish-stinky unsaleable bottles of perfectly good Omega supplements up for grabs - she snagged me two bottles which I never would have afforded by myself.

-I went to buy a new grinder and some rolling supplies at the local head shop on Saturday, where I lamented my theft to the proprietor who threw in a free lighter along with my new supplies.

-On Saturday I bought a lucky dip ticket in the lottery, which garnered me a win of 10 quid. I buy a lucky dip every Saturday and rarely win anything. A tenner isn't much but it buoyed me like it was millions this week.

I've been searching for the lessons in being burgled, trying to figure it out and rationalize what happened. It's a futile exercise, because concise answers don't exist. I'm never going to know who it was, what is wrong with them, why they felt it was their right to help themselves, or if they plan to return. Instead I need to discover why this happened beyond the obvious reasoning of "because I left the back door open". I wonder if I'd be so appreciative of all the things I've been given lately if it weren't for the things that were stolen? Perhaps the fact that I had stuff to steal suggests I was taking shit for granted. My greater-meaning lesson here may be to stop doing that, which will ultimately last longer and serve me better than the trifling amount of pilfered pot and long-gone cash could have. While no-one can accuse me of being rainbows and sunshine all the time this reasoning is pretty optimistic but I haven't let hippy-karmic-reasoning blight the knowledge that learning to lock the back door is equally (if not more in practical terms) important.