shiz.ca

"It's so sad. War is so sad."

From a very good friend of mine in DC:

"My friend R, the cameraman, was seriously injured while filming in Afghanistan this week. Really sobering. He's been airlifted to Germany and will come back to the States this week for burn treatment and surgery. It's so sad. War is so sad."

If you pray, or meditate, or chant, or recite Hebrew verses, maybe you could do some of that for R. Thanks.

When I get down, I remember these words

In my life I've seen a thousand dreams
Through the threshers all torn to pieces
And the land lay bare
Someone turned a profit there
And a good son lost his life in a strip pit

When the sun went down we would all leave town
And light our fires in Egypt Bottom
And the reservoir was just as good for Joni
'Cause we knew we would
Dream outloud in the night air

**

Put your elbows on the table
I'll listen long as I am able
There's nowhere I'd rather be

Secret fears, the supernatural
Thank God for this new laughter
Thank God the joke's on me

We've seen the landfill rainbow
We've seen the junkyard of love
Baby it's no place for you and me

I was born to laugh
I learned to laugh through my tears
I was born to love
I'm gonna learn to love without fear

**

I thought that we'd be
Further along by now
I can't remember how
We stumbled to this place

I loved you like a long lost brother
On a bad day maybe I thought why bother
I've seldom seen so much anger
In a face

I wanna do better
I wanna try harder
I wanna believe
Down to the letter

Jesus and Mary
Can you carry us
Across this ocean
Into the arms of forgiveness?

**

Walking out in the freezing rain
I feel nothing 'cause I numbed the pain
I'm lookin' forward to lookin' back
On this day

Prayed last night
Dear God please no
But I was never good at letting go
I'm lookin' forward to lookin' back
On this day

Good news can be so unkind
When it's everything you have to
leave behind
I'm lookin' forward to lookin' back
On this day

In the taillights
So much hindsight
Telling me what I already know
I know

On being Red

Many of you have probably heard about the Red campaign. My friend Mike over at Waving and Drowning has looked at the wee amount donated by Apple on the sale of the Red iPod: $10. It seemed small to him, so he and a friend decided to try to raise that $10 times 1000 people for the Stephen Lewis Foundation.

Read all about it here.

Another one for the books

The work thing? Hard right now. The looking for, the thinking about, the strategizing, the going to work -- all very hard.

So.Very. Hard.

And you didn't even know we were expecting.

At the end of his 1st full day in Malawi my husband wrote me to ask if we could sponsor another child, a girl. He didn't say whether he had someone specific in mind. I agreed and now we are up to 5 sponsor kids. There is Patthama in Thailand, Berenice in Mali, Centhia in Haiti and Weriton in Brazil. We are the proud sponsor-parents of four girls and one boy.

D had two sponsor kids when we met, and I had none. We increased it to three after "the" Tsunami, adding Patthi in Thailand, and added our Haitian joy when D discovered that he could go there and meet her a year and a half ago.

You know how, when you see photos of kids to be sponsored -- or even your sponsor kid -- they tend to look dour? They look like their favourite goat has just died. Centhia looked like that. We got her photo right before D's Haiti trip. Then he met her. She was not the same girl. The girl he met had a gorgeous, vibrant smile and radiated life and enthusiasm and personality. Do all child-sponsor portrait photographers tell the kids to look angry and poor? It doesn't work.

I can imagine most of our kids with a smile now. Weriton and Berenice let loose some teeny grins and personality in their pics, but each photo of Patthama looks like she's just been rudely insulted. I live to see the day when I have a photo, video, or in-person memory of Patthama smiling and laughing. One day I will see it.

We have 5 kids now, and we've already decided that we want 8 by the end of '07. This isn't bragging. Not everybody can do that; I didn't have any sponsor kids before I met David and co-sponsored with him. And we sacrifice so we can have them. But since we can, we can think of no better way for us to spend our -- well, "humanitarian dollars", if you will, even though the phrase makes me cringe.

I send the kids letters and they occasionally write back. I'm always nervous about writing, thinking I'll be unknowingly arrogant about our affluence, but one of our sponsor agencies has given us guidelines about writing and so many things are good topics according to them. So I write anyway, hoping my letters aren't boring but knowing that they can't be. When I was 11, a letter from halfway across the world was exciting! So maybe mine are to the kids. At least they know we are thinking of them. I tell them we keep their pictures out so we can see them every day -- although I personally do NOT mention that said pictures are on our refrigerator. Writing the letters also makes me feel connected. These kids will read what I have to say. I am communicating with them, even if they never get around to returning the favour or if it takes a while to establish a rapport. I love it. I put so much thought into each letter. And because with all but one of our kids we are encouraged to NOT send gifts, I adorn the letters with stickers and add pictures for them or local postcards.

A friend that used to work for a child-sponsor agency told us of a dentist in Canada who has over 100 sponsor kids. He has a wall full of photographs in his office and a full time staff member whose job it is to write to the kids. He loves it. And he wants more. Sure, he could write a large cheque to someone instead, but that's not how he likes to do it. I like to think that if we could ever afford to sponsor 100 kids, that would be the way that we would go.

Three things have made all the difference for me in having sponsor kids and in feeling connected -- a few years back I didn't know their names. But having my husband practically jump out of his skin with joy and excitement over Centhia was a huge turning point in making the kids seem real, and even Patthama, the girl who always appears to be on the verge of bitter tears, even with her I can imagine that she must smile and laugh and go to school and pester her sisters (if she has any). Centhia's first photo was unimpressive -- I almost wished we had a "better" sponsor child (you may flog me later, thank you) -- but she turned out to be a wonder-filled laughing delight who proved me very wrong. The second turning point was writing letters to the kids. Now they know who I am, more than before when they just had a name. And the ones that write us back -- they tell us that they love us! And the third thing that has made all the difference is D's getting to work with one of these agencies because he's been able to read about their programs, about how they handle nutrition and education and the things they take seriously and why and how. Sure there are things people can say against child-sponsorship in general and regarding certain specific agencies, but this is not a perfect world, and the work that is being done is remarkable.

And don't just take my word for it, find out for yourself.

How far is too far?

Check this out. It tells you how far places are from one another.

Right now? The husband?

9,671 miles
15,563 km
8,404 nautical miles

Siiiigh.

Like Alien Vs. Predator, and I'm whichever one that lost

So.

I've been rejected.

Again.

For those of you keeping score at home, that's

The working world, it has spoken.

And it doesn't want me.

So far away from me

When D & I started dating, we had about a week of whirlwind romance before he had to travel to North Carolina for a few days, a trip that would be the first of dozens (and then hundreds) of times where he would leave and I would stay. That year alone he travelled on nearly 100 trips and was home maybe 15% of the time during that first 6 months. I sometimes wonder who it was that I fell in love with.

He returned from NC with a gift, a sock monkey by the name of Monkey Doodle, just something fun -- for he certainly brought me all kinds of flowers and cards that make a gal get all swoony. I loved and do love Monkey Doodle, and D's instruction that Monkey Doodle could keep me company while D traveled has always stayed with me, and sometimes when he is gone I'll seek out my monkey friend for a special hug because I am just that nostalgic and pathetic all rolled into one.

I love him, my man-friend. Husband, I think they call it. Sex slave. Guy. Drinker of beer, giver of monkeys. My friend. My very best friend.

I am so very proud of him, he is jumping career tracks and doing so amazingly well I think we all might get whiplash from the speediness of it. He's moving into humanitarian photography and getting attention and accolades that people with far more "pro" time under their belts would love to see. It's really quite amazing. And with that comes travel, because the stuff he's great at is telling sories from exotic places, and in the next 6 months he'll travel to about 10 countries in Africa, SE Asia, Central America & the Caribbean. I *might* be able to join him in 3 of those countries.

Right now, for instance, he is about 4 hours from landing in South Africa on the way to Malawi. I left him at the airport yesterday, and while I am often fine with our partings (or fine-ish), this has not been an easy one. I am well aware that he is safe, that he is an experienced traveler that will soon be joined by another experienced traveler, and that the people he's set to meet in the field are professional humanitarian providers that are well-equiped to take care of him.

But. It's hard. There are bouts of anxiety I cannot tame. There are moments when I dread his being away, I dread being cut off from contact and worry about his well being and for mine. In 2005 he travelled to the Carribean while I was very sick; in January of this year I got the flu, was harrassed at work and had my tires slashed all within the same week while he was in Africa on a 3-week trip. I missed him so desperately. I felt so lonely.

I came to bed two nights ago to find D already sleeping, and Monkey-Doodle, who often rests on the bed all day, was tangled up in D's arms as though D was hugging him. I sighed. I crawled into bed and my sleepy guy-friend moved his arm around me.

It's hard this time. I've already had tough moments. I wanted him to stay. I wanted to run after him at security and say, "Hey friend, do you REALLY have to go take pictures of impoverished kids so that rich people will give them money, water, education & food? Stay here. Stay home with me."

And the trips keep on coming. And I keep encouraging him to go. He doesn't go anywhere dangerous -- well, not severely dangerous, but then he could step off the curb on Robson Street and get hit by a bread truck.

I miss him. He's only been gone one day and I miss him. He'll be back in just over 2 weeks, exhausted and thrilled, a bit more enthused and a bit more broken-hearted -- these trips always do a number on his soul -- and he will stay home for a WHOLE WEEK before traveling again, though long trips are on hold until the new year. And we'll keep doing this and figuring it out, figuring out how to live in a world so wrecked and so unequal that we even *have* to photograph the poor so that the rich know that they're out there. It's exhausting. But I'm very proud.

And sad, too. I think I need my Monkey Doodle now. And my cats.

Question

How has it escaped me my entire life that Frank Zappa's son is named Dweezil?

Your Eatin' Heart

Last Saturday morning a whopping six hundred people made poverty history by proving that nobody actually cares about poverty. The gaggle of protestors trickled through the city of Vancouver as a part of the 2nd annual Make Poverty History march from the Burrard Street bridge to the VanArt Gallery, causing at least seven or eight people to turn their heads and say, "Hey, get the f*ck off the road!"

In a somewhat surprising turn of events, five Liberal & NDP politicians showed up to pat their own backs regarding what a great job they are all doing to not give a sh*t about impoverished people anywhere, while a handful of passing guilt-ridden Benz-owners had the courtesy to honk supportingly in between snorts of cocaine off their custom lambskin interiors.

Although Vancouver regulary hosts hockey games for close to twenty thousand people and boasts a three hundred thousand-person attendance at all four evenings of it's annual fireworks festival, a turnout of three-tenthousandths of the city's estimated 2 million residents was certainly encouraging for the Let's Not Give A Rat's Ass About Poverty's simultaneous event, the second-annual Stay At Home And Do Nothing Except Maybe Eat Cold Pizza For Breakfast Day, which garnered an estimated one-point-nine million participants.

In the course of the short Make Poverty History walk, participants passed about 15 homeless or hungry people, giving them salutations of, "Be warmed and filled!" It is said that the homeless flashed the traditional hand-signal of blessing upon the walkers, a gesture that in essence means, "I hear what you are saying, and I thank you."

Overheard, 2005

BC Ferries, Horseshoe Bay to Departure Bay, 2005.

As D & I sit, the man behind us is reading a trashy BC paper. He folds the paper as he turns to his wife and says,

"I don't see why it's any of their BUSINESS who our President is. Why should THEY have an opinion about it?"

Shiz: head explodes.

And why should we? Because 655,000 dead people is only like what, the entire population of Baltimore, Maryland! No biggie. Why in the hell would *I* have an opinion about THAT? WHY IN THE NAME OF THE HOLY JET-PUFFED MARSHMALLOW WOULD ANY NON-AMERICAN *CARE* WHO THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES IS? IT IS TOTALLY NONE OF OUR F*CKING BUSINESS.

Somebody said it to me.

"I don't think God is taking me anywhere. Cause God doesn't go to hell a lot."

Love is not against the law

Are we defending life
When we just pick and choose
Lives acceptable to lose
And which ones to defend?

- Derek Webb

Derek Webb's album Mockingbird available for free download for a limited time.

Brie

Sleepy

How to get hit by a bus ... ?

You drive right into it.

Coming home yesterday on the #17, my bus was rear-ended at Granville & Broadway. One minute later, we had a brake-squealing near collision a few meters away.

We may have also run over six or seven pedestrians.

What-what-what-whatwhat-what?

The doctor -- the VEEEEERY young doctor, who was honestly, like 12 years old -- that wrote out my last prescription refill (as my GP was away that day) IS NO LONGER PRACTICING MEDICINE.

What in the hell happened? The man could NOT have been out of med school for more than fifteen minutes. Suddenly he's either ousted (OUSTED!) or has quit (QUIT!) medical practice, but the pharmacy made it clear that the man is no longer PERMITTED TO WRITE PRESCRIPTIONS, and that to me says ousted. It tells me that he is no longer a doctor, is no longer licensed, if you will.

Suddenly I feel very creepy that I was in a room alone with that man. And we may have discussed ... lady parts.

This one time? At bank teller camp?

When I was a young adult I worked as a bank teller for six years. Teller work is a no-brainer choice for high school graduates with virtually no experience who loathe flipping hamburgers and would like to earn more than minimum wage, sometimes earning up to two times as much as those burger geeks. And you go home smelling of money! What could be better than that!

What I didn't know about teller work, and didn't REALLY know until I started banking jobs in the US Midwest, was that bank tellers take a horrible, horrible amount of abuse. During a given work-week in any of the subsequent jobs I held, even including that one time I was told that the use of the word "ladies" is offensive to my female co-workers, I was exposed to less than a tenth of the abuse I'd receive in a typical week at the bank. And here I'll tell you why:

1. No one wants to be at the bank

You work at Starbie's, 95% of your guests want to be there. You work at Bed, Bath & Beelzebub and a good chunk of your clients are just THRILLED about new bedding line or a $9.99 nose hair trimmer. Or you work with no customers and get some grumbling, but most of it is contained. But nobody, noBODY ever wants to be at the bank ever ever ever.

2. People are assholes

Or something like that. In a given week I could expect to receive three or four demoralizing, chastizing, ground-you-downs from clients who had obviously just come from having their private parts stapled together. I don't NEED to show you my driver's license. No, I am NOT overdrawn. I have NEVER had to sign for cash back before. And one of my favourites: I have TOO MUCH MONEY in this bank for you to be asking me to do that -- "that" usually being filling out a cheque or deposit slip. Which: I know. SO gruelling.

But that is not all. When you are in banking, you meet, as I have done many, many, manymanymanymany times, you get to meet the crazy.

In 1996 I worked for a bank called, let's say, The First United Bank of Kansas City, an institution with only one branch yet an amazing capacity to attract crazy people.

And here is where I tell you about Anita.

Anita was a small black woman of indeterminate age, looking about 50 yet she received a social security cheque from the US government. Antia was a goddess and wore a dot of red nail polish in the centre of her forehead. And she owned the bank.

Ok, not REALLY "for real" really, but she said she did.

Anita constantly complained to us about the way we treated her, or about the way some other employee treated her, and she was curt and poisonous and more than just a little bit scary. And she complained not only to us, but to The Federal Deposit Insurance Corporation (FDIC), a government arm that insures the clients of American financial institutions against bank losses.

This went on and on. Anita was abusive and strange, and we'd do our best to not piss her off. Several times we had to have the police escort an abusive Anita from the bank, and she finally sent a quarter-inch thick facsimilie to the FDIC outlying her complaints and how she was going to kill each and every single one of us. She OWNED the bank, damnit!

It seemed that Anita did not know my name, and I was pleased. I did not want her to know my name. But she did point out our Vietnamese teller, Eva, in her death threat by saying "I'm gonna get the little yellow one too."

AWSOME.

So the bank wrote her a letter giving her 45 days to shut her account and make arrangements to have her government cheque go elsewhere, otherwise we'd shut the account, send any remaining funds to her address (a PO box), and refuse any more of her social security money. And she was not welcome in the bank; Anita had to come to the drive through window. The drive through window where Shiz worked.

DOUBLE AWESOME.

So of course she came one day. The drive through was busy but as soon as she was standing in front of me, between the client I'd been helping and the window, I dropped everything. I would do nothing to piss this woman off.

And I was super-sweet, tho I did call our manager, Ted, to let him know that she was in the drive through. He came down with several other spectating employees and had the following "conversation" with her through the radio:

Ted: Anita, we are closing your account.

Anita: (going batshit) You can't do that, you can't close my account, I own this bank, I will call ...

Ted: ANITA. We are CLOSING YOUR ACCOUNT.

Anita: Oh hell no. You ain't gonna do that -- I will call the police. You can't shut down my account, just see if you can close my account ...

Ted: ANITA. WE ARE CLOSING. YOUR ACCOUNT.

Anita: No you're not, I'll call the FDIC ...

Ted: You can call JESUS CHRIST for all I care. We are still closing your account.

I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing at that point. Do not! Piss off! The crazy!

SO. Months passed, we closed the account and I never saw Anita. And one day I answered a phone call in the drive through and (FUCK) USED MY OWN NAME (FUCK FUCK FUCK) so of COURSE it had to be her. It was.

Anita: Hello Shiz, this is Anita. Now you know that I own the bank, right?

Shiz: Well hi, Anita! (Please don't kill me!) Yes, I know that.

Anita: Well I called the FDIC, and they said that if I own the bank, then there is an account somewhere where they would put all my money from owning the bank. I need you to find that account for me, and close it, and write me a cheque for the amount, and send it to me at ...

Shiz: (Super. Sappy. Sweet.) Oh, I'm so sorry, Anita, but I wouldn't know how to *do* that. That's not something I know anything about, I'm sorry. If you want I can connect you to our manager, Ted, and he'd be able to find that out for you.

Anita: No, that's ok. (hangs up)

DAMN.

The woman really did think that she owned the bank.

CRAZY.

Also, I am not too proud to admit that when I saw Anita in the neighborhood, I hid.

A Glimpse

So, things haven't been fantastic lately, but hey, that's the way things go, non? But the husband did this thing that was very sweet and I thought you might like to read it and aww and coo and stick a finger down your throat so you could gag gag gag on the wonderful perfect sap that is my life.*

SHIZ.CA PRESENTS

An Actual, For-Real Instant Message Conversation Between Shiz And Her FABULOUS Man-Toy-Husband-Guy-Thing

Shiz: I'm depressed again. I'm hurting inside like someone has died.

D: Sorry.

Shiz: And no one has died.

D: We'll make this all work. There is light at the end of the tunnel.

Shiz: This is not normal. It hurts.

Shiz: I'm sorry your wife is so often so hurty.

D: Me too. But you always bounce back - and most of the time you weather the hurty with courage, grace, and strength.

D: And some measure of sexiness.

You may now congratulate me on locking that one down.

*Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

What they said in response

Do you remember when I said that the BC government budget surplus should go to improving the quality of life for the residents of Vancouver's Downtown East Side?

Here is the response I received from the office of the Premier:

Thank you for your email regarding the budget surplus.

After taking office, our government announced an end to deficit spending and a beginning to budget surpluses. We introduced a balanced budget with a surplus for 2004/05 and we are now projecting a larger surplus due to sound fiscal management, increased economic activity, and higher than expected federal equalization payments.

Since all British Columbians contribute to our efforts to balance the budget, we feel that they deserve the opportunity to provide input into how surplus funds should be dispersed. This is why, every September and October, we conduct province-wide public consultations to seek the views of all British Columbians on how the surplus should be spent, and we are pleased that so many are participating in this important discussion.

For more information regarding how to add your recommendation, that this year's budget surplus should be used to improve the quality of life for residents of the Downtown Eastside of Vancouver, to the discussions, please visit the Budget Consultation 2007 page of the Ministry of Finance website.

Again, thank you for writing to share your views on this important matter.

Anyone who wants to weigh in can visit this site to make their voices heard.

So this thing happened

I went to a perfectly good job interview yesterday - and, as I was waiting for them to come downstairs and get me (it was in a secured building), I had the overwhelming urge to just walk away from it. Because another interview? It is UGH.

My burnout, it is big.

I may have also wept so loudly last night that they could hear it in Saskatchewan. But that is only a rumor.

Something has GOT to be different.

Sometimes I blog good. This past year has not had many of those times. Sorry. Also? I am posting this while the sleeping pill takes effect. So, also sorry!

I am GOOD here with the sorries.

So some things are going on, and there are many, so I'll list them in random order:

I need to find a job again.* And this time, I am barely caring. I spent the better part of TWO YEARS now looking for work, chasing, and spending a LOT of time and a LOT of energy looking and looking and looking for work. And I'm burned out. I've gone to dozens of interviews, some of which have been fantastic, but I've learned that having a fantastic interview can really mean jack sh*t when it comes to getting a new job, because really the potential new employer has so much more going on that whether or not you give a killer interview really might not matter all that much.

My current job is not working out. I'm not going to get into it. I am so unhappy there I could not stay long EVEN if they weren't asking me "how things are working out" which at this point I simply can't lie to. But I hate looking for something new. Or for something new in a hurry. I already received a nice painful rejection just this past week. I hate looking for work, all I want to do is work for Starbucks, and our finances laaaaaaugh at that idea. They laugh a LOT.

Also? I hate being an administrative professional. If I get another admin job, maybe my heart will die inside. And I HATE that where I work calls it being a "Secretary." Yay, f-ing secretary! Total score.

Another thing: after my freak out about what missing my meds did to me at IKEA, I thought I'd taper down and get off them entirely, so I went down the standard 5 mg to begin easing off it slowly. That lasted less than a week, because I had two very baaaaad days on that. When I do taper off, and I will, I want to have a nice job that I like so that the badness at work doesn't make everything harder. But I also kind-of hate it that these drugs have me in their grip.

F*************************CK.

And we have ants! EVERYWHERE! Again. I've just killed 5 of them crawling on my iBook. WIKID! Teeny ants just cannot be good for the iBook.

I think I'd say more but the sleep really is coming on now. I'm also the lamest blogger ever. Well, maybe next to that one guy. You know who I mean. It feels so cruel to actually use his name.

* Keeping track, blogland? This is my last year after leaving job #1:
1. Admin job in science. Did not work out for various reasons.
2. Temp-to-perm job in admin. Did not work out for various reasons.
3. Service job in the interweb. Did not work out for various reasons.
4. Happy temp job that I liked. Did not turn into permanent work.
5. Took perm job once more. Did not work out for various reasons.