shiz.ca

From an email ...

My brother asked me an awful question. If Obama is not the nominee, and it comes down to McCain vs. Clinton, what would I want and who would I choose.

I think if that happens I might decide to (metaphorically) shoot myself in the head. How about you?

IM Highlight re: Sudan

Friend: In theory, maybe the UN could do something. I have no real confidence in the UN though. I mean ... how long has this genocide been well known? Several years, I'm sure. Is the UN just waiting for American Idol viewers to call in and vote for helping Sudan?

So the universe? It sucks.

So, this year, in 2008? Everything has been sucking.

I was reminded early on in the year about some bad relationships I have, and those have been bothering me. Depressing me, even, making me off-and-on unhappy. Work has been getting mind-numbingly boringer by the day, and my husband is in pain and facing a possible lifetime of multiple surgeries/rehab/pain for his hands which have some weird disease.

And my hero of a husband who is so often "up" is now down. He's concerned about what this new diagnosis is going to mean to his health and livelihood, and whether or not he'll have to someday give up photography because his hands don't work anymore. And, in my opinion, he's already had his share of long-term health trials. In my opinion, although he hasn't had cancer or MS or anything quite so stark, he has already suffered and now he's suffering again. I say that even though it's less freaky than cancer doesn't mean he hasn't suffered. He has. And I dare say it's been ENOUGH. I feel like the "How long, O Lord?" version of David in the Psalms:

"How long, O LORD? Will You forget me forever? How long will You hide Your face from me? How long shall I take counsel in my soul, Having sorrow in my heart all the day?" - Psalm 13:1-2

"How long, O LORD? Will You hide Yourself forever?" - Psalm 89:46

"Do return, O LORD; how long will it be? And be sorry for Your servants.O satisfy us in the morning with Your lovingkindness, That we may sing for joy and be glad all our days." - Psalm 90:13-14

"Be gracious to me, O LORD, for I am pining away; Heal me, O LORD, for my bones are dismayed. And my soul is greatly dismayed; But You, O LORD--how long? Return, O LORD, rescue my soul; Save me because of Your lovingkindness." - Psalm 6:2-4

THAT'S the kind of feeling I mean.

All in all, it sucks. I'm particularly down at this moment because I got some frustrating news that really isn't at all important but is frustrating all the same. So ... CRUST. ZOUNDS. FART. I am dismayed.

But no, not everything has been sucking, not really. There is love. My husband and friends all love me and I love them and so many people have sent the husband their love. So the love part, there is that, and that is ok.

But everything ELSE in the universe needs to smarten up.

The night it snowed.

My dear sweet friend L -- I'll call her Llama from something my hubby once said -- is having a hard time. Her family is having a hard time. Her body is unhappy. At every turn it seems she is either suffering a new loss or reminded of an old one, suffering from a physical or emotional pain. And it sucks for Llama and her family and her friends. We love her.

If this were the last night of the world ...

If this were the last night of the world, what would I do? Unless it were wine in the Sahara under moonlight with you.

Miss you, Tunisian.

Happy Birthday. To me.

Picture: www.toothpastefordinner.com

I am very very very blessed to have a husband so wonderful and in tune with me that when I say that I don't want to go out to a restaurant on a noisy Friday night, that I want to stay in and eat tacos and drink wine, he takes me SERIOUSLY. He doesn't think I'm being silly or playing him, expecting other than what I say. So he gave me exactly what I wanted: a warm home, dinner, wine, a dvd, contented cats, a quiet evening, and a reminder that I am loved, listened to, and admired, that my wishes are respected, that I am so very loved and blessed and in the best hands, ever.

Husband, you are the very best. The best, I tell you, the best.

Thank you, God, for him.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

The husband is home.

I am exhausted.

He is exHAU-HAUsted.

Life is good.

I have to sleep now.

(Bunny = Look how tired we are! We are tired like the bun!)

New idea

I have decided: I hate painting.

Only four days left until my husband is home. I can't wait.

I'm sick. Sick with the throat and the headaches and the achey-aches and the sleepiness and all. But I am sooooo close to being done with the painting. And that will be nice. And then I will sleeeeeeeep and do nothing and do some more nothing. Ahhh.

And then the husband will come home and sleeeep for fourteen days straight. But he'll be home, and that will be good.

Ok, off to .... get better. Or something.

Turns out the Earth has an edge to it, and I kind of fell off that edge.

My hubby is still away and I'm trying to stay sane doing stuff to keep me occupied, including a HUGE paint job (45 hours so far! I think! I'm delirious!).

But for the eight of you who still check in monthly, I will put up a post this week, and when the apt is painted, you'll get BEFORE & AFTER photos. How cool is that?

Playing on the stereo: Ron Sexmith's Blue Boy. He nice. Oh, and Waterdeep's Heart Attack Time Machine.

Sneak Peek

From the hubby; this is El Salvador:

This one's for you, D

Happy anniversary, Handsome. Here's to year five.

Guess what time it is?

It's FREE GIFT time at the Clinique counter. And that? Makes me think of a story:

Overheard in My Livingroom

The hubby and I saw Transformers last week ...

As I lay me down to wake

I hate sleep. Sleep is a horrible, horrible bitch.

Schmupdate, Part the third

So I'm seeing a psychiatrist now.

Update, Shmupdate

A little while ago I eluded to having some health issues to do with my meds.

Run for the Cure

So I ran the CIBC I'm-Too-Lazy-to-Link-to-it Run for the Cure today.

I RAN right into this one ...

So I was playing with the cat last night, waving one of her kitty toys around, and she was really into watching and chasing it. At one point I moved my head in closer to watch her, and she stopped watching the toy and looked at me.

"Why are you looking at me," I said, indicating the madly whirling toy, "THIS is the thing that is crazy."

About four seconds passed before the husband snickered, then I realized what I'd said, because I certainly qualify as "the thing that is crazy" on even my best of days. It was like the pot calling the kettle crazy.

People beat down my door to have me write

wickedly wonderful sentences like this:

"Then some armpits decided that, "Hey! If there aren't withdrawal symptoms for Prozac, there won't be any for the sister drugs, either!" and everyone listened to the armpits even though people everywhere know that armpits talk out of their asses and are not to be trusted."

Moved

Home Sweet MoFo Home!

Surprise!

So while I was working on Tuesday, the husband had the GALL to go ahead and move our whole house, save a small 1/2 minivan load. SURPRISE TO ME! He and friends did about 97% of the moving work.

I came "home" to the new place, expecting about 25-30% of the move to be done with, and instead it was all done.

On "moving" day? I unpacked 6 boxes, washed some dishes and cleaned my old fridge, plus did tons of "after-move-in" stuff like putting dishes where I want them.

I was moved another time while I worked, but later I found out that the mover, who OFFERED to do it, was resentful. Bitch.

On the other hand, David was thrilled to do this for me. He got a huge kick out of my reaction. There was squealing.

ON HOLD

Blogland, the time has come: I don't want to blog anymore, not right now.

I don't know if this will last or not last. For now? I don. Huh. Wan. Nuh.

You, and this blog, are on hold. Enjoy the pretty hold music and settle in with a bag of Oreos.

PEACE.

Addenda: I like my little "Someone Said" list. I may keep doing that.

That dress looks nice on you

This weekend the husband bought himself a skirt.

(I say "skirt" because he has goats to get. As in, "getting one's goat" and also, "they can't get your goat if you don't have a goat to get," and lastly the exchange:

"I've got a goat."
"Well, I've got a herd.")

We went to See Attl, where we slept on a wee sailing vessel a few bocks from Pike Place Market. (Let us practice, peeps: "Pike Place," not "Pike's Place.")

It was sunny, there was wine and "handmade" cheese, and handmade cookies (Which, Mary, you would LUURVE!). We took the freaking cool underground tour and lazed around on the boat. We listened to Garrison Keillor and folk music and watched some dvds on the boat.

And I went to Target.

AND I saw a beautiful, lovely & lithe momma and a wee baby harbor seal, playfully chasing a school of fingerlings around the pier. THAT was wondrous. I love seals!

On Lurching and Leeches

REWRITE:

My husband is in Addis Ababa, so I spent the weekend with friends in British Columbia’s Fraser Valley, and on Sunday evening, when it was time to return home, they drove me to the King George Skytrain station.

Vancouver's Skytrain is an ALRT, an Alert Light Rapid Transit system. I remember this because in 1986 the transit company sent representatives into the school system to explain how the Skytrain worked. Our representative explained that the trains are run by computers, not people, and that in spite of this the train is very safe.

The other thing that he told us was not to fall onto the train tracks because you could be electrocuted.

So Sunday I was on the train, tired. I'd taken the train a million times. I was used to the rhythm of it. I was used to the three-toned hum the trains make when they leave a station, to the swishing and the rocking, and to the sound of pulsing wind when a train traveling the other direction passes yours.

But this time the train lurched and braked violently. We were thrown; about half of the passengers gasped loudly.

We were stopped above a Safeway store. It was getting dark. I wanted to be outside, to be on the ground. We were trapped; how long would we be trapped?

There's a rumor among transit-takers that train delays are caused by suicides, and that is all I could think of: someone had just died. Was he hit? Or did she get electrocuted?

I told myself to relax. Maybe a teddy bear had fallen onto the tracks.

But I couldn’t relax with that thought; I imagined a panicked mother, clamoring after her track-bound, teddy-bear-retrieving daughter. What an awful feeling.

The train ws mostly full, but we all sat silently for a few minutes. No one knew anything. My body kept remembering the lurching feeling, the break-neck stopping.

It was nearing nine o'clock and I wanted to be at home. I wanted to return to my cat-children and take off my shoes. I wanted to have a glass of water, put on sweatpants, and hold my pet-children in turn -- first Brie, the one who hates to be held but purrs while you do it, then Willow, a people-friendly cat that constantly squirms. I would grab the nearest cat and flop onto the bed with her. Maybe I would fall asleep like that. It would be good to sleep like that.

The train was full of garbage; I'd never seen it like that before. We started moving.

I was thrown like that when my Nissan was rear-ended. I had been stopped at an intersection, waiting to turn. And then I started screaming, and afterwards it dawned on me that I had been hit from behind, hit so hard that my fully-stopped vehicle was thrown an entire car-length and had to be written off. I spent three months taking Advil and massaging my temples.

I was also thrown like that in 1993, when a bus I was on abruptly stopped. A woman across the aisle from me began to shriek, and I remember thinking that she was panicked for no reason, until I learned that the bus in front of us had hit a child. We all sat in the windows, staring out at a freaked-out little boy, covered in a veil of orange blood.

In hindsight, my life has felt a lurch like that every time I've had severe depression, which was so often and for such long periods that I don’t know when one episode ended and another one began. I felt a lurch when my friends Bethany and Jill died, both very young, or when my grandfather died of lung cancer. My life lurched when I was falsely accused and almost fired, and another time when I was mistreated at work and actually fired. My life lurched when I had depression again, this time as a married woman, and the world stopped again. But the world doesn't really stop, it goes on and you stop. It's like getting hit by a car. You scream, a few come to help, maybe somebody watches; most others keep driving.

Last night I dreamed that a friend killed himself and that my husband and I were forbidden from telling his family. We had to wait until they found out some other way, probably by finding his body. It was another lurch. I woke up upset, terrified and angry and shocked. It was midnight. I touched the cats; they are my touchstones. They had not had the same dream. Their good vibes would quiver along their furs, touch my hands, and shoot like good electricity into my bones, veins and heart. I would be revived.

It didn't work as I had hoped. I was left with the nightmare imprinted in my mind and the soft feel of fur on my fingertips. Each cat acknowledged her stroke with a sleepy half-gesture. They selfishly retained their good vibes.

I felt another lurch in a dream when I was first getting counseling for depression. In the dream I was driving and a bright orange roadblock appeared out of nowhere. I gasped and braked and it woke me.

Things have been going so well for me that I subsequently worry that the Worst Thing Ever is just about to happen. Perhaps I'm a fatalist, though I've never thought of myself that way before. I'm still jarred by things that happened seven years ago, or seventeen, or twenty-seven, and sometimes I feel that I'm living my life as a person in shock, that life is one wreck after another, and the only reason we try to recover is to brace ourselves for the next pileup. Maybe I'm so used to coping that I can't imagine life being good and staying that way. I know that hard times will come no matter what I do and there’s no need to lure them in sooner with my moods, but it seems like there's an emotional-spiritual kink in my neck that's a throwback to old whiplash, reminding me of whiplashes to come, of heartbreaks and pains and soul-sucking days. And I rub that kink like an old, silvery scar.

I have a scar from a routine mole-removal. The doctor who did it chose to cauterize the area, and now the scar is of burnt tissue, smooth and watery and flat, and it occasionally itches. One time I unknowingly scratched it so hard that I drew blood. And that’s a good comparison for me, me and my kink in my neck, my spiritual scar, reminding me of the wounds, of the lurching and surprises and the hard times. Sometimes that scar itches, and if I scratch it could bleed.

And then I have to breathe.

I tell myself to enjoy life, to enjoy what I have, and to do what I feel is right. I can't ward off depression or sickness or heartache or death. These things will happen -- or not happen -- independently of what I think. Pretending that the Worst Thing Ever is just around the corner does not keep it away; it only causes undue stress.

My husband is in Addis Ababa. I know that he is safe. He is going to Awassa, too, and will be safe. He is going to Entebbe and Kigali and Gisenyi, and will be safe. I know to my roots that he'll be safe.

But I still have that scar, so I miss him fondly and pray.

Perfect Song

I've been tagged on the Perfect Song theme, by my good friend (and emotional twin) Mary. Here are the instructions:

1. scan through your itunes or cd library. refamiliarize yourself with the nooks and crannies of your musical options.

2. identify five categories — genres, if you will — of music. these should be obscure and finely-articulated. feel free to use modifiers liberally.

3. nominate — select, really — a “perfect song” for each category. include a link for each song to something (the amazon page for the CD, or the artist’s website, or whatever). you may find it easier, as i did, to find “perfect songs”, and craft categories or genres around them.

4. ideally, some of the songs will be nominally obscure, or, at least, not completely mainstream and overplayed. no need to tell us all about songs we all know!

And here is MY list:

The PERFECT song to play WHEN ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING SUCKS:

Not Your Year by The Weepies

The PERFECT song for LIFTING MY MOOD AND PUTTING A SPRING IN MY STEP:

Make it Look Easy by David Wilcox (The American/folk David Wilcox, not the Canadian/rock David Wilcox)

The PERFECT song for FEELING LIKE I'M IN A MOVIE AND THIS SONG IS PLAYING IN THE BACKGROUND:

TIE: Let Your Troubles Roll By by Carbon Leaf
Your Heart is an Empty Room by Death Cab For Cutie

The PERFECT song TO PLAY ON MY iPOD WHILE I'M JAUNTILY WALKING DOWN THE STREET:

Could Be Anything by The Eames Era

The PERFECT song for CURLING UP WITH A CUP OF COCOA AND RELAXING TO:

Mary Janes by Diana Pops

Like Mary, I had a hard time choosing. So many good ones.

And I tag ... Eileen Rothe, to post here in the comments (or in her MySpace blog). Oh, and my bro, Phil.

Overheard in my house:

"The sooner I go to bed, the sooner Santa Claus will come and make it Valentine's Day!"

GREAT Idea

OH. MY. GOD.

I've discovered two words in the English Language that BELONG TOGETHER: "Breakfast" and "Cake"

BREAKFAST CAKE

Some of my coworkers had a birthday cake this morning and I had to ask if it was leftover from last night or if they actually had it FOR BREAKFAST (thinking: please let it be breakfast, please let it be breakfast).

The verdict: BREAKFAST.

I ate a small piece. A piece of BREAKFAST CAKE.

YUM.

I so totally want to make a healthy-ish cake that I can have for breakfast EVERY DAY.

It would definitely have cream cheese icing. You know, for the protein.

Shiztory

Haaaaaa.

But look, me as a wee bairn:

Spawn of Dr. Evil.

Me and Grandpa Jack.

I was in a promising rock band.

Drinking the Kool-Aid.

I still do this.

Allow me to impale you with my pointy elbows. And chin. And attitude.

Apparently I had leprosy.

I was hoping to find a dead body.

There you have it, a photographic trip down Shiz-Memory lane.

Dream

So last night I dreamed that my current boss, a medical doctor, asked me to chop an onion for him as part of my duties.

So I said ok.

But I didn't chop the onion immediately, and he came by my office and said, "I'm going now, do you have that onion?" And I had to tell him that I hadn't chopped it for him yet.

LESSON LEARNED: Always chop the damn onion. And chop it RIGHT AWAY.

How Good, How Pleasant, When Brothers Dwell in Icy Unity

So the husband? He is here:

Photo by Sam Eftegarie

Sucks to be him, I know.

I am here:

Andy Clark photo

The husband, he is in:

But me? I am in:

So obviously I have it better.

Things are great, tho. The cats take up far less room in the bed than D, and they let me have the bathroom as much as I want, and they never dispute my home entertainment choices. I'm seeing friends daily and dreaming of painting our dark-and-gloomy-at-night apartment while he's away.

(D: JUST KIDDING! I would never do that! Except that one time. Well, it's tempting. But. Well. AAAANYHOW ... )

And that is the current scoop. The boy has a cold but is otherwise doing very well and he's taking some great photos. The boys (D and good friend E) have Agra and Varanasi ("Very Nasty") next.

But me? I have THIS:

Vancouver Sun photo

LUCKY ME!

So I did this thing ...

Remember when I was offered that promotion at my new job? Well, the deal was that I'd try it out for a while.

I did, and I've mostly loved it, but for various reasons I turned it down this week. Mostly it came down to the way I like to work versus the sort of energy/whatnot required to do the promotion-job. And I talked about it with my husband and he was behind whatever I wanted, and I realized I wanted the initial job more. And I spoke to my bosses and they are pleased with me; I think I was able to give them insight as to the sort of person who'd be best for this role.

It's win-win, and I'm so glad I didn't feel obligated by anyone - myself included - to take the role.

Good decision.

Happy Vij's Day to me!

They say it's my birthday, and that I'm going to Vij's!

Me thirty-one.

Smiths Falls

D and I are near Ottawa with his family, and surprisingly it's +10C (around 50F) instead of the normal minus a billion. And no snow! No frozen lakes! Us Westies could get used to that.

You know what else I could get used to? Being UPGRADED TO FIRST CLASS on the way here, thanks to my hubby who wears his fanny thin with all his travel. There IS something good about sending him away so much. ;)

Also? It is the husband's birthday.

Happy birthday, D. You are the light of my life. And of so many others. Wishing a world of good on you this year and in all things to come.

I love you.

September 2005

And a blue one, to be artsy:

Photo by D.

fuct

8:54 AM:

So depressed/sad/angry/mad/confused/sad/hurty/bad I want to CRAWL INTO A HOLE AND NEVER COME OUT, EVER. Not even for FOOD. Or KITTIES. Or SEX.

Ok, maybe the kitties can cuddle me in the deep, dark hole.

9:59 AM:

I'm SO HAPPY! SO FUCKING HAPPY! My eyes even have a TWINKLE in them. I'm all TWINKLY!

CONCLUSION:

The body, it be fuct.

I Lied

Sometimes, when the mood strikes, I'm a sucker for Mariah Carey's "All I Want for Christmas is You." *

I do reserve the right to be NOT in the mood and to bitch and moan about it at that time.

* This, mind you, is coming for someone who loves -- of all things -- Sesame Street Fever, especially Oscar the Grouch singing "Trash (I Love It)." Damn. So good.

I might not be the best judge of musical talent.

Mrs. Not-So Humanitarian

My husband was a children's entertainer when I met him, a comedian that did private shows primarily for family audiences. I admired what he did for a living and could appreciate the hard work he put into it, and his profession was not something I had any problem with. I never worried about what I would look like compared with him, how his profession would affect the way the two of us related or how it would affect our future lives. We decided that his travel would not be a problem; in most cases his trips were for three or fewer days.

My husband was also a man of faith when I met him, something I specifically wanted because I have beliefs that are important to me also. We agreed on all the major faith questions and I never imagined that we would have issues along the lines of "This thing that is very important to you is something I strongly disagree with," or vice versa. I never imagined we would be pulled in different directions faith-wise. We agreed, and wasn't that the proof in the pudding? (I do not believe I was not totally naive here; I tended towards an attitude of "Since our core values are the same, we will not have disturbing questions in some of these areas the way others might if they did not agree to begin with.")

Three years later my husband is well on his way to being an in-demand humanitarian photographer who's jetting all over the world for trips from 14-21 days in length. Take now, for instance; he is home just last week from sub-Saharan Africa and is set to complete five more major trips between January and mid-June (three and a half without me; one and a half with me), all for at least two weeks in length.

I am proud of my husband. I gush about him to anybody that will listen. I'm thrilled for his success, his notariety, and the attention he's getting. My husband is incredibly talented and he fits this new direction like a peg in its' appropriately-shaped hole. What I did not anticipate coming into marriage was his vocational change and the stress it would bring -- the stress of him traveling, of worrying for his well-being, of our being apart, of his witnessing heartbreaking world events while I stay in Canada to coallate and staple, of watching his faith be challenged by the earth's injustice while my own is challenged because I hate stapling so much, of feeling like a shmuck for kinda wanting to stay at home and watch YouTube while he is making a difference -- while I am not making a difference, not really, out here coallating and stapling. In Canada. In my rich, white world.

And do I dream of being noble? Of holding orphans and comforting widows? Of playing with African chiildren or of teaching English to the uneducated? At times yes, but often no. I dream of North American success, of accolades and pats on the back, of people falling all over themselves to tell me how great I am, encouraging me and loving me. I have issues; I'm insecure and deeply crave affirmation. I want rich and powerful and noteable white men to bestow on me their respect. And then my husband tells a story about a beautiful HIV-positive couple and their children, and he cries. And I cry. But also I feel like a loser.

I assumed that D & I would remain as we were when we married. That he would be the comedian guy and be home a lot and we'd have kids and he'd always be around and I'd someday get that dream job I'd been hoping for and working towards, probably working from home, and we'd give to the poor and we'd and take some foreign trips to help others and we'd love and help people but that we'd do it all together. And we'd take the kids to see what life was like in southeast Asia and spend some time with them in Africa and parts unknown. And we'd keep our strong mutual faith and be challenged and grow together and have some similar experiences and be happy happy happy and work like that well-oiled marriage machine that is just what we were meant to be. (Again, I don't think I was naive here. I knew there would be changes and compromise in our lives, but I was also certain that we were committed to working things out. What I did not count on was a major life/circumstance/vocation change for one of us and not for the other, and I did not anticipate a change for him that had the potential to make me feel terrible while he felt great.)

And it's not happening that way. I am having major life experiences that he is not having, he is having major life experiences that I am not having. He's in a refreshing career and I'm kind-of not (for the moment; I have no illusions that the new job is a dream come true in a life-long sense, tho it is in the short-term "need a good job" sense). He's seeing hope and humanity while I call a man on the bus a bastard because he won't let me get out. He's away when I want and need him, and I am not there when he wants and needs me, and we miss each other. And sometimes I feel like we are on very different roads. And when I think of joining him full-time, were it possible, the thought doesn't often appeal to me, nor does the thought of asking him to stay home away from what he clearly loves to be doing, is driven to do, and is awfully damn good at.

He's heard me say all these things, and I've thought and pondered and wept and been confused, feeling like he was going on ahead without me (not on purpose, mind you), or that God was playing some sick joke on us by sending him out and keeping me home to watch the clock and feed the kittens.

But now I've had a very very tiny revelation:

Why do I have to know what our lives will look like? And why am I assuming that these differences in the way we live are bad things? And have I been seeing problems where there really aren't any? It looks like we're apart, but are we? What makes this new direction a bad thing? Why don't I relax and enjoy the ride? Can't it still be us, him and I, on this adventure?

I'm nervous. I'm afraid this will hurt. I have unanswered questions. But this is our marriage, our lives and our family. And I'm going to enjoy it, even if I don't know where in Holy Living Heck we are going.

I must have shown them my BOOBS

TWO GOOD:

1. The husband, he came HOME
2. The Shiz, she was offered a goood job.

ONE NOT-SO-MUCH

1. Dyspepsia. I have it. It hoits. Call the WAH-mbulance.

Just as my last post did NOTHING to prove that I am embittered, this one will also do nothing to prove that I am CRAZY.

A few minutes ago, there was a girl here where I work waiting for an interview, and she was sitting right across from me. I suddenly slipped into daydream world, and in that world, I turned to her, made a gesture, and whispered, "Show them your BOOBS." As in, Psst! Here's my secret tip to you: SHOW YOUR BOOBS. THAT will SO get you hired.

I think these things without trying, by the way.

Am. Crazy

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.

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.

Where have all the readers gone?

So yeah, I had readers once.

I had a blog once. I blogged. People read it. They read-ed.

But then I thought, “Hey, I don’t need THAT,” and all my readers, the ones who read-ed, got tired of my blog being CLOSED FOR EMERGENCY ARZE-SAVING and never, ever, everevereverever writing because Hey! I could KEEP my job with the bastardz … or I could dance the dangerous near-doocing dance of HA! HA! HA! HA! HA! TRY TO CATCH ME, SUCKAHS, as I truthfully yet secretly tell all about your frequent heartbreaking wrongdoings. HA-HA!

Actually, I really liked the whole “tell everyone about the secret injustices” thing, but alas, yeah, that could have contributed to my say, getting fired and having an honest-to-goodness NOT SO SECRET injustice fall upon me and also to have reporters call me all the time and say, “You wrote about work on the internet? What, were you like stupid or something?”

So yes. Once. Once upon a time, I had readers. They would load my blog and READ IT. I have TENS of them, maybe even TWELVES of them. I might have even had thirty-six regular readers. THIRTY-SIX.

Now I think they all read That Egotist’s Blog. Or maybe, maybe, if the world is lucky, they read That Still-A-Celebrity-Yet-Not-Annoying-Person’s Blog.

My readers, I have lost them.

Dear readers, my apologies ...

In my defense, I mean, I was working for Genghis Khan, followed by the Wicked Witch of the West, and finally for that mean girl from that book about Blubber.

In short, they would not have liked the blog were any of them to find it. Oddly, I only think one of them would have outright fired me. One would have issued punishment and expressed “deep disappointment” in me; the other would have used it to berate and humiliate me for show. Hooray! Glad the workplace can be so ... functional. Healthy? Harmonious. That’s the word.

Anyhoo, the trick is that now, how do I get readers BACK? The interweb has changed. When I started blogging waaaaaaaaay back in the ancient day (February 21, 2004), I could just leave scattered comments on a few blogs and then ... people would click on my name (thinking I was SOOO clever) and actually, truly, read my blog.

I’ll have to think of something else. 2004 was like, so very long ago.

This is the post in which I break your heart into a million, tear-filled pieces.

I am eating a potato and preparing to tell you about my first kiss.

The summer between my grade 9 and grade 10 years, our family moved from a rental - the upper floor of a classic 3 bedroom + carport Cloverdale special - to our very first apartment. We probably moved because the landlord downstairs chain-smoked, possibly even in his sleep, the house had such poor insulation as to ice up in the mild West-coast winters, and the house was so ill-kept that the grass in the backyard grew to chest-height before we the tenants got so upset with it that we sent my brother out with a weed-whacker to mow the whole thing down. A scythe would have been cooler, but we had no scythe. In short, the house was dirty and disgusting, and I'm pretty sure that when we lived there it was a very depressing time for all four of us in the fam.

In moving, we had to give up our cat, my beloved Cali, a half-siamese calico baby we'd had for seven years. We gave her to a shelter that did not have a no-kill policy at the time.

Like I said, it was a pretty depressing time for the fam.

Our new apartment was not fantastic, but we were spared the stink of constant smoking and embarrasement of having a horrible residence. We'd moved a good seven and a half miles, so I was meant to switch schools: the new school I was supposed to attend was Guildford Park Secondary School, known among my peers as one of the worst schools in the district, although I have not much idea as to why. But we always said the name with disdain, Guildford PARK. Ewwwwwwww.

I didn't want to go to Guildford Park Secondary, so I chose to bus 35 minutes each way to my school in Cloverdale. I'd already changed schools mid-grade-eight. I'd made new friends: Lianna, Naomi, Christine, Liz and Lisa. I wanted to stay with them, not attend Guildford Park, and not have to start at a new school AGAIN.

So I bussed to school every day on pubic transit. There were a few other students who did this and over the course of the year became sort of bus-buddies, friends on the bus who really did not see each other anywhere else. There were the young grade-8 boy twins, a girl named Kim, a very round boy with a foul mouth who loved Madonna, a girl named Chandra that told us about her visits to a therapist, and others.

Two bus stops further along the route another group would board the bus, a handful of mentally challenged men and women who worked at a party rental place. They were animated as well, and sometimes the two groups interacted.

You can already tell where this is going, can't you?

My first kiss ever was not romantic, but from a young man named Carlos who was among the mentally handicapped group from the bus. Carlos was the clown of the group, and also highly suggestable. I cringed at the way his and my peers would encourage him to do or say embarrasing things. They exploited his handicap to make themselves laugh.

One day someone dared Carlos to kiss one of the girls, and then someone said, no, kiss this other person. The debate went back and forth: Kiss him. No, kiss her. No, kiss him. No-no-no. Kiss her!.

And then one of the ridiculously flawlessly-skinned grade-eight twins pointed at me and said, "No! Kiss HER!"

Stupid twin.

How was I suddenly involved? I was a mildly offended/amused observer. Now I might get kissed? By CARLOS? The debate switched to whether Carlos should kiss me or someone else. I could probably have saved my virginal lips by pointing out Person B as the Most Kissable Candidate, Ever, but instead I pointed back at ridiculously flawlessly-skinned grade-eight twin and said "No, Kiss HIM!"

But my argument wasn't strong enough. I'd broken the options into three. I unwittingly made myself the candidate with the most votes. I'd weakened my position.

There were lips. Wet, cold lips. I pushed him away. My instinct was to wipe my mouth in disgust and say "EWWWWWWW!" but I knew better than that. I didn't want to embarrass myself or make the situation worse. I expressed my distaste in a smaller fashion, mostly with my facial expression.

I wasn't kissed again for eleven years, and that was by was D, the man I would marry.

Recent Events

So this morning I trimmed my hair. It looks better in the mirror, but probably does not look good to a pro hairdresser. Oh well! C'est la vie!

Ever since I got so frustrated with flat-coloured hair that I went out and bleached it three times, I've had a bit of hair damage. And roots; my roots were visible in less than a week. LESS THAN A WEEK. Because, my hair, it grows like something that grows really fast, then with speed mixed in.

So I am cutting all my hair off, going short pixie once again, and not messign with the dye-more-than-once scenario. Sure it's FUN, who doesn't love HOURS of chemicals and not being able to touch anything for fear of bleaching it? If you answered, "Shiz" then you are right. I love it.

So I will have it all cut off soon, which is why the AM hairtrim didn't bother me today. I was all, "Whatever." Oh yes, I was! And since my last haircut was so SPECIAL, I've decided to go somewhere else this time. Perhaps on my lunch. And then I will dye it a colour closer to my original shade, but without the dirty-dishwater look to it. Dirty dishwater was so last year.

And I've lost close to 10 pounds on the Weight Watchers plan! In 5 weeks. At any rate, I'm losing, and that is nice. Soon I'll be a svelte little thing. If by soon we can mean, "In six months to a year, give or take." Awesome!

This post is boring and it talks about my hair and diet. Swimmin the deep waters, aren't I?

I know; this post should not suck so much. I'll work on it.

Ok, I'm here. Gah.

Well peeps, here I am, blogging. It's like I haven't done this in for-EV-er, which is pretty accurate actually. Because, like, it's been like forever. Almost.

So my husband is away for Easter Weekend and that bodes well for me with all the sleeping in and hair-dyeing I've been doing (see previous post). I dyed and dyed and dyed. My hair, it does not take dye very well. No, verily, it does not. A month ago I put in some red "permenant" (HA!) dye and in just over a week it was flat and boring again, albeit with red residue. So this weekend I thought I'd dye my hair. I had to go lighter before I did ANYTHING, because my brown hair will not take colour and keep it without prep. So I tried blonde, and it lightened a wee bit, BUT WAS STILL VERY FLAT AND BORING, and I said THAT'S IT, WHERE'S THE SUPER-DEE-DUPER BLEACH? So I super bleached it and THEN dyed it blonde again (the first dye kit made 2 batches for my short hair). I bleached my hair THREE TIMES. IN TWO DAYS. And then I bleached my eyebrows. THREE TIMES. I be crazy.

It was an expiriment; the result is fine, though still very red from the month-ago dye. I'd see a pro, but honestly? I have short hair; I'd have to cut it off in a month and bye-bye two hundred dollars. Yeesh.

So I'm blonde and orange and sorta red. Woo-Hoo! Or, as Sarah Chalke would say in Scrubs, "AWSUM!"

I love that word. Everything is awsum! now.

And Cat Willow, this weekend, decided she was a dish:

I did not put her in there. That was her own idea.

Actually, she always thinks she's s dish, but a BESIDE the dish rack dish, not an IN the dish rack dish. Her sister later copied this move, but not for long. Brie's one for comfort.

My absent husband hid an Easter Surprise in the house that I was not supposed to look for until today. I found it this afternoon, a Lindt milk chocolate bunny and a lovely card. Before he left town I slipped a romantic card into his bag that said something about drugs and insanity. I've already chosen a place for my Wife of the Year award, right next to my Most Awesome Blogger EVER award. I really rack up them awards.

Let's ignore the possible google searches this entry may collect.

I went to a fancy, nice, Anglican Easter service today with friends. The choir and orchestra performed Bach's Cantata IV, which was quite lovely. I realize I just used the words "nice" and "lovely" to describe church. I think it's time to put on the purple tracksuit and head down to the mall for some power-walking.

Actually, my friends Hoofda and his wife were involved in a kufuffle at church when they were getting up for the communion line. Hoofda is in crutches after foot surgery, and NO ONE WOULD LET THE GUY WITH CRUTCHES in the COMMUNION LINE. When they *did* manage to get in line, the people behind them all decided to bolt and squeeze past them to the tasty grape beverages and Jesus cookies. I think one of them might even have said, "Excuse me Cripple, us able-bodied persons need to get to the communion table."

I might be imagining that last bit.

Anyhoo, they were last to the communion table and then HAD to drink from the communal cup (individual cuplets were an option but I guess not RIGHT THERE) and then felt stoopid sauntering back to their seats during the Lord's Prayer, after everybody else had been seated. I assured them they did not look stupid. They looked pathetic, which is something different entirely.

HA! Just kidding.

Also, as soon as I accepted my job offer, potential employers came out of the woodwork to ask me to interview, at least 3 others, but one of them was a hoot. I didn't return one woman's Friday phone call because I was frantically busy and had just accepted a job offer, so she called me back on Monday sounding very very peeved at me for not calling her back, emphasizing certain words with volume, drawn-out pronunciation, and peeved off-ed-ness. It went something like this:

Blah, blah introduction/niceties, I called you Friday blah blah ... "I need for YOU to CALL ME so that we can SET UP A TIME to have you COME IN for AN INTERVIEW in OUR OFFICE THIS WEEK. I was HOPING to HEAR FROM YOU on FRIDAY. We'd LIKE you to COME IN on the EIGHTEENTH."

My spiteful side wanted to tell her I'd had a death in the family. My self-righteous side wanted to tell her that she was very rude. In the end my "when in doubt, be factual" side called her voice mail and said thank you very much, but I was no longer looking for employment, you hag.

I might not have said the "You hag" part, either.

So that's the lst bit-o-stuff that's happened. Oh, And? These people are moving (back) to Vancouver in 2 weeks! (AWSUM!) And? We have GUESTS coming from Alberta around that time, too. It'll be crazy-fun. Also: Awsum!

Because I would look in the mirror and say: "Boring schmoring."

Not boring anymore.

We so happy, we do Dance of Joy!

I, me, Shiz, after many much heartache, after over a year of searching, after getting a sore rear from sitting down for EIGHT HOURS STRAIGHT at the computer for many many days, after dozens of interviews, dozens of "You were THIS close"s, after two horrible, HORRIBLE and abusive employers, after letdowns, after disappointment after disappointment after WHHHHHHYYYYYYYY after HOW LONG, O LORD, Shiz has been offered a job.

I know, I know; the last two "permenant" jobs I've had sucked ass. They both started out looking good. Maybe I'm a sucker to hope, but this is with another division of the employer I'm LOVING temping with now, and I hit it off with everyone in the interview YESTERDAY AFTERNOON at 3:30 and they called me THIS MORNING at 10:30 and offered me the job. This one has REAL benefits, honest-to-God-you-can-take-it-this-year vacation time, and a SWEET Christmas closure for which I get PAID. And the people are delighful. And the job description is "Shiz".

So I'm hoping again, excited again. But this time? It does feel right. I feel like I've found a good one.

I begin in 2 weeks.

For the 37th time, I interviewed again ...

This time? A four-on-one interview. AND? I was able to give it a solid interview performance despite there being FOUR persons interviewing me.

I'm not holding my breath, but I did nicely, and I can be proud of that. They'll decide this week. It sounds like it'd be a nice job to have, and the interviewers were all quite friendly. I know it's at a good employer, that the benefits and pay, etc. are good and the location is easy to reach by transit.

If they do not pick me, I say it'll be because some interviewing GENIUS swooped in and outdid me in their freaking awesome interview self. And if someone can do that, more power to ya.

And now that I've done a great 4-on-1 interview, I have much more confidence in my interview prowess. Score!

The Verdict is IN

I am so much happier now. I'm out of not one, not even two, but three unpleasant work circumstances that I've worked at for various times during the last year. Even in my current temp job I get to do stuff that's more fun and fulfiling than I've done in several years.

And the stress? Sure life is still life, but my work now has a very reasonable amount of stress - the light, normal, good kind that propels you in an occupation you enjoy. I'm very happy here.

For various reasons I may not end up being offered this particular job, but I interviewed for another one yesterday in the same organization, and enjoyed the interview there, too. I kept making them laugh, and then I rocked the test they had me do afterwards! They want to hire quickly, so they'll probably let me know on Monday what their decision is.

Two friends who live in Delhi just stayed with us for a few nights, and we had such a great time getting reacquainted (and really for D, my hubby, to get to know them initially). We had such a great time and hit it off so well, we're already trying to see when we can visit them in Delhi. D's been planning an India trip to take pictures next year, so he had a lot of questions for them about the area. They had such a great time!

That's me for now. Sorry I've been awol.

** Oh, and another verdict is in: I didn't get the job. Back to the drawing board!