Tough Love

Regrets? I don’t regret. However, I do wonder from time to time about the people who have left my life because of my decision to practice tough love.

No matter how much you love someone, sometimes loving them isn’t enough when they’re suffering. Watching a loved one spiral into a dark place, where all they can see are the negative aspects of their life, is painful to watch. It’s even more painful when the loving hand you extend is rejected. Sometimes it’s good enough to be a warm body in that person’s life. Sometimes, however, tough love is required.

When I make the decision to act out tough love, I don’t do so with careless disregard for potential outcomes. I make that decision after careful analysis of the situation. It usually comes after months of encouragement and listening – after recognizing that being a warm and supportive body isn’t good enough.

I recognize the risks when I take on the role of asshole. I recognize I may lose a friendship because my actions are regarded as too harsh. My hope is always the same – I hope they will benefit from my harshness. By rattling their cage and saying the things that nobody else was willing to say, they’ll be able to rise up out of their funk and start pulling their shit together. Anger can be a huge motivator.

Losing the friendship is always a possible outcome and I have to be okay with that. The love in my heart motivates me to do the things others may not do. I know the reality is that tough love is often mistaken for assholery. They key word that gets missed is love.

My heart is full of love. It hurts, but sometimes hurting myself for the benefit of those I love is worth it, if it means their anger at me motivates them to live a better life.

On Sunday I saw an old friend across the street from where I stood waiting for a bus. A few years ago I played the tough love card with this person and I lost the friendship as a result. Seeing this person after a few years of silence, I noted they were smiling, they looked healthy and their family unit was together. Recognizing they were no longer sporting the dour face of self-inflicted misery, I was filled with joy.

Is it worth it? Yes, because they looked like they were living a happy life. I have no idea if this person holds hate in their heart towards me. I hope they don’t, but can’t control it if they do. All I can do is continue to love them, even though they will probably never know.

Sleep Revolution

I have been a night owl for as far back as I can remember. I’ve also been an insomniac for as far back as I can remember. I’ve often mused that the reason I am a night owl is because I am an insomniac.

All this has changed since a sultry Sleep Goddess shared her sleep revolution with me. Who knew it could be so simple? I didn’t.

Vitamin B 100 complex and Calcium-Magnesium supplements have changed my life. No longer am I cranky bear in the morning. No longer do I toss and turn at night. Sleep is restful. Sleep is peaceful.

My body is a sensitive vessel and it took less than twenty-four hours for the supplements to take effect. The first morning I woke up refreshed, I actually cried. I’d long given up on achieving restful sleep as a possibility in my life.

I’ll be honest that I do miss my night owl. She was a huge part of me, but I’ll gladly set her free if it means achieving a good night’s sleep.

Who knew the morning light would be so bright. I’d long forgotten what a sunrise looked like because I was busy being exhausted.

I can feel my body chemistry changing…and I like it.

You Forgot Your Garbage

Last night Boobs and I were standing at a bus stop when we both looked down at the sidewalk and saw an array of gift cards, store point cards and a business card.

We dutifully collected all the cards and noted the name on the business card matched the name on some of the other cards. Boobs and I both agreed that the scene appeared suspect. Perhaps Maxwell had his wallet stolen and the pile of cards we found were the unwanted remains the thief tossed aside.

As our bus pulled up, I took out my phone and dialled Maxwell’s cell. When he answered, I explained to him I’d found some of his cards. I asked if his wallet had been stolen. He said no, though he offered no explanation about how his cards wound up on the sidewalk.

Asking him where he was located, we determined we were less than a minute away from him. Not giving him the opportunity to say no, I told him to sit tight.

As we got off the bus, Maxwell half-heartedly waved. Boobs and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows. He didn’t seem very pleased to see us. If anything, he looked ridden with guilt.

Boobs leaned in and whispered to me, “What’s going on here?” I whispered back, “I think we’re about to give this man back his garbage.”

Sure enough, after checking his ID to make sure it was him and then handing off the cards, we watched Maxwell toss the cards in the garbage can as he walked away.

So what’s the lesson? Don’t leave your fucking contact information lying next to your litter. Boobs and I will find you.

Snippets #5 – Tasty Eyes

Male: “You have the most beautiful blue eyes I’ve ever seen.”

Female: “Thank you.”

Male: “They look really tasty.”

Female: “Uh.” <laughs nervously> “What?”

Male: “Your eyes. Your eyes look really tasty.”

Female: <begins to back away> “I’m not sure I want to know what a human eye tastes like.”

Male: <lifts glass and swirls liquid around> “I’d love to pluck one out and stick it in my martini glass.”

Female: “I’m going to go stand over there. Don’t follow me.”

Plump Little Fucker Must Be Stopped

Yes, I’m that woman – the woman who writes about a squirrel. Plump Little Fucker is no ordinary squirrel though. He’s an asshole.

It’s become clear that PLF hates birds. It could be because he’s territorial of the courtyard. My guess, however, is that he was traumatized by a bird at some point during his life.

It’s not uncommon to bear witness to skirmishes between PLF and the birds of the courtyard. On many occasions, I’ve watched him pick fights with chickadees and woodpeckers. These fights usually entail what I can imagine to be name-calling and rough pushes off branches.

This morning, however, there came a ruckus so loud from the courtyard that I ran to my bedroom window in concern. What I saw was a scene right out of King Kong. PLF stood on his hind legs in one of the trees, reaching out to smack at two chickadees as they circled and dived at him.

One of the chickadees managed to peck PLF’s head, which made him go berserk. He began to roll and tumble around in the tree, tail madly flicking as he lashed out at the two tiny birds.

The two chickadees, alarmed by this new development in their battle took off – straight into my bedroom window.

The sound of the double thud against my window caused PLF to freeze in the tree. As I stood in shock, PLF twitched his tail and crawled a few feet along a branch to peer down to the patio below.

Upon seeing the two motionless lumps of un-chickadee, PLF made the most bizarre clucking noise and fluffed up his fur. The strange clucking continued for ten minutes until more birds showed up in the courtyard. Their presence made PLF go silent and he quietly slunk from the tree to take cover in the bushes below.

I’ve concluded that PLF must be stopped. The two dead chickadees on the patio are a testament to his madness.

Silenced

I’ve been thinking about how our judgments silence people.

Recently, I’ve found myself frustrated as I stumble over my words, fearful of saying “the wrong thing” and causing upset with those that have been most vocal about judging me. This is unlike me. Normally I don’t let what others think of me prevent me from sharing my thoughts.

A recent conversation that left me feeling misunderstood, highlighted to me that the feelings of frustration I’ve been experiencing are a result of being silenced by critical judgments of my character. It’s not a nice feeling, being silenced.

Silenced. To be heard. To listen. The act of listening is a learned behaviour that comes from the ability to be still – to take pause. To listen, you must be present. What clouds our ability to listen are the snap judgments we make. Those snap judgments impede our capacity to see. Deeply.

Judgments about a person’s character prevent us from evolving with them. As they change and share, the judgments we make render aspects of their character invisible. By labelling, we deny a person new opportunities to share more about who they are.

When have you been silenced in your life? And by whom? I know that I, for one, am done being silenced.

Lewd Litter

I try to find time to go for a walk every day. To keep things interesting, I have a handful of routes I walk. Normally, I don’t walk the same route two days in a row, last week I took the same route three days out of four. The reason? A curiously lewd discovery scattered among the leaves, off to the side of the railway tracks.

The first time I found sex related trash was with friends. We were out roaming around, as teenagers do, when we came across a stack of porn and a tube of empty lube inside a cardboard box next to the rail tracks. The second time, I was in my twenties and out for an evening walk along the tracks when I literally tripped over a pair of latex gloves and a rather filthy looking dildo.

My curiosity is always piqued when I come across sex related garbage. Whether it’s a condom hastily flung into the bushes or a half deflated blow-up doll and three pink dildos, I always wonder why the person couldn’t wait until they found a garbage can.

On my Wednesday afternoon walk, I spotted the blow-up doll first. One hand had bite marks, though the doll was still partly inflated. Next to the doll was a torn plastic bag half covering three pink dildos. There were scratch marks in the dirt next to the dildos.

The image of a German Shepherd running off with a couples’ playthings popped into my head. “Um, honey, where did you put Sally and the bag of dildos? For that matter, where’s Rex?”

Klutz Report #2

Klutz Report for the Week of January 3 – 9, 2010:

• Sunday was uneventful.
• I awoke Monday morning shivering. At some point while I slept, I’d kicked all the blankets down to the foot of the bed. Grabbing the blankets, I pulled them back up and over my torso. The friction of the knit top sheet and duvet created a static charge. I wonder if my neighbours heard me yelp when I zapped both of my nipples.
• Tuesday I seemed hell-bent on destroying my eye:
  • In the morning, I had peanut butter on toast. Hours later, I discovered peanut butter in my cleavage. With my face precariously close to my boobs to inspect the ratio of peanut butter to cleavage, I used my finger to wipe the peanut butter off and promptly poked myself in the eye. The peanut butter made my vision blurry for roughly an hour.
  • In the afternoon, I examined my eye. I used my fingers to open my eyelid wider to inspect the reduction in redness. As I thought about how stupid this action was, I poked myself in the eye. Again.

The Accident

As this decade ends, I’m reminded I began this decade by dying. The theme over this past decade, for me, has been about the struggle of new beginnings and the planting and cultivation of seeds. This next decade I’m ready to start my harvest. Sharing this with you represents the beginning of my harvest, as I finally lay the event to rest, in the form of a story ripe with symbols, a hell of a lot of luck and the power of the unknown.

In the summer of 2000 I was a bright-eyed young journalist, fresh out of J-school. My belongings crammed in my car, I was ready for my summer job in a small northern town. I was nervous and excited – my first assignment was to cover a court case against a pedophile, on my way to my new job.

Windows rolled down, sunroof open and music blasting, I headed north on Highway 1. It was a beautiful day by the time I hit the Cariboo. The sun was high, but a cool wind helped to ease the oppressive heat.

I was going too fast when a gust of wind pushed my small car on the gravel shoulder of an S-curve. My heart racing, I cranked the wheel to bring myself back on the road. The overcompensation threw the car into a spin, which took me across the highway. In retrospect, I’m grateful nobody was coming in the other direction.

As Otherside by Red Hot Chili Peppers blared in the background, the yellow lenses of my sunglasses gave the 360-degree spin across the highway a warm glow. Through the yellow swirl of the world around me, a voice in my head stated, “You can’t stop it.”

Snippets #4 – Hot Flashes of Cum

Female #1: “I keep smelling sperm.”

Female #2: <furrows brow> “What?”

Female #1: “I smell sperm. I breathe in and I smell sperm.”

Female #2: “Uh…well…uh…did he get some up your nose by accident?”

Female #1: “No. I don’t think so. I just keep smelling sperm. It’s like a hot flash – a hot flash of cum.”

Female #2: <snickers> “Like a phantom smell? Like when one smells burnt toast? Oh jesus, are you going to have a seizure now?”

Female #1: “Hmm. Maybe it will be a cross between Tourette’s and a seizure. I’ll fall to the floor – convulsing – and shout, ‘Hot flashes of cum, hot flashes of cum!’, while I make hand gestures imitating eruptions.”

Female #2: <snorts and laughs> “Good lord.”

Scenes from the Express Bus

Loaded down with a 100 pound suitcase and a bag full of stuffing, turkey, ham, baking, olives, pie, cheese, chocolate, half a turkey carcass and some fruit salad for good measure I queued up in the line for the express bus back to the city after unloading from the ferry.

The most challenging part of my journey home from the holidays with the family was about to begin.

I desperately wanted on the bus. The prospect of waiting around for another forty minutes did not appeal to me. When I’m done, I’m really done and I just wanted home.

I took solace in the fact that I wasn’t the only one carrying a heavy load, though I did note I was the only one with a large suitcase. Lovely. I’d be that asshole on the bus. Peering through the windows I also realized there wasn’t any room left for me to place my suitcase up front.

My eyes pleading for admittance, the bus driver eyed up my suitcase, large food bag and me with reservation then announced to the bus, “We’ve got room for five more desperate souls on this bus people. Come on now, move it to the back!”

Smiling at me with a grin full of pity, he said, “Into the sardine tin you go, my dear.”

Oh, The Things We Search For

Some of the more interesting search engine terms driving traffic to my blog, to date:

• why is my vagina tender
• cheeky cocks
• asshole and balls
• hot crotch punch
• crotch punch
• I punched him square
• murder expanding foam
• balls of fury
• tighty whities
• why do mice poop behind the stove
• why is my heart full of hate
• expanding foam in hair debacle
• naked man show
• I hate cancer poems
• freaky ass
• dirty dick
• she cursed me with voodoo.

Tom, Dick and Harry

The first six months of 2009 were chaotic. The thought of trying to squeeze dating into the mix of work, volunteering and friends threatened my sanity. Due to a lull in contracts, the summer months changed all that. On a lark, a friend and I dared each other to open online dating profiles.

I considered the dare an exercise in exploring my list of wants and needs, as well as fuel for some great adventures. Safety precautions in place, I set myself a limit of meeting twelve men. After that, I would delete my profile, consider my life richer for adding new experiences, and go back to meeting men the old-fashioned way.

Out of the twelve men I met, six never moved past the pre-date drink; four resulted in second, third and fourth dates, but ultimately they fizzled; and three made me marvel about being a magnet for the strange and peculiar. (I know the numbers don’t add up to twelve– that’s because one of the men I sparked with was also one of the weirdest moments.)

For your amusement, I’m sharing the highlights of those three dates.

Snippets #3 – Damn Voodoo Hands

Female #1: “We were playing Yahtzee.”

Female #2: “How delightful.”

Female #1: “I was on fire with the Yahtzee. Sometimes the dice and I really like each other. Sometimes they….”

Female #2: “Do they speak to you?”

Female #1: “Yes, they speak to me. I love Yahtzee. Anyway, I rolled another Yahtzee and The Hammer shoots me a filthy look and snarls, ‘You and your damn voodoo hands.’ She was taking it all very personally.”

Female #2: (scrunches face in displeasure)

Female #1: “I know. Every time I rolled after that remark she’d hiss and droplets of spittle would land on the table.”

A Smattering of Moments from 2009

I love photography, though I’d never profess to know anything about how a camera works. I have a horrid point and shoot that is overly temperamental. Since June it’s been dying a slow death. I don’t foresee the camera surviving to see 2010.

In honour of the piece of shite that still somehow aids me in capturing the odd, decent photo, here are a smattering of some of my favourite moments (so far) from 2009:

This is how I started off 2009.

I was surprised when I saw the result. Vancouver Art Gallery, as shot from a moving car.

Erectional Soup Series – Spicy Carrot Soup

Here is the third instalment of my Erectional Soup Series.

These recipes represent me “winging it”. I’ve tried my best to make these directions easy to follow. I encourage experimentation and substitutions. You can always use pre-made broth – it’s not a crime, but doesn’t have the depth and flavour of homemade stock.

Ingredients for Spicy Carrot Soup

• 8 – 10 medium-sized carrots (peel carrots ONLY if they are the woody, big bagged variety)
• 1 tbsp olive oil
• Fresh (or dried) thyme to taste
• Salt to taste
• Pepper to taste
• 1 medium size red onion, chopped
• 3 – 4 garlic cloves, chopped
• 1 1/2 tbsp butter
• 1 hot pepper, chopped (Serrano, chilli, jalapeño – your choice)
• 8 cups chicken stock

Black and White Time Machine

Three years ago, I found a box of old black and white photos in my late maternal Grandmother’s basement. My Great Grandparents bought the house in 1901 when they emigrated from Britain. In 1921, my Gramma was born in front of the fireplace in the house she lived in until the day she died.

When I’m feeling nostalgic, I like to paw through the box and randomly select a few pictures to inspect. The musty smell of time fills my nose and I’m transported back to muskrat swamps, slat board sidewalks, trolley cars, apple orchards and the face of a frontier port city before it rose up out of the bush. I spent a great deal of time talking with my Gramma – pulling stories from her brain over cups of Earl Grey tea. As a result, I hear my Gramma’s voice narrating the stories that go with many of the pictures. Yet, others remain silent. The silent pictures are special because those stories are lost.

Here’s a selection of pictures from the box that serves as my black and white time machine.

McCall's Magazine. Such a classic shot.

Erectional Soup Series – Parsnip and Bacon Soup

Here is the second instalment of my Erectional Soup Series.

These recipes represent me “winging it”. I’ve tried my best to make these directions easy to follow. I encourage experimentation and substitutions. You can always use pre-made broth – it’s not a crime, but doesn’t have the depth and flavour of homemade stock.

Bacon and parsnips LOVE each other. Much like bacon, pepper and garlic love each other. The peppery flavour of parsnips is a great compliment to bacon.

Ingredients for Parsnip and Bacon Soup

• ½ pound bacon, chopped
• 10 parsnips, peeled and sliced into 2cm pieces
• 1 large onion, coarsely chopped
• ½ head of garlic, topped
• 6 cups Parsnipy Vegetable Stock
• Few sprigs fresh thyme – remove leaves, finely chopped
• Fresh ground pepper
• Salt to taste

Erectional Soup Series – Vegetable Stock

Here is the first instalment of my Erectional Soup Series.

These recipes represent me “winging it”. I’ve tried my best to make these directions easy to follow. I encourage experimentation and substitutions. You can always use pre-made broth – it’s not a crime, but doesn’t have the depth and flavour of homemade stock.

Play around with the herbs and vegetables you use in your stock. The first vegetable stock recipe was made specifically for the Parsnip and Bacon soup. I included parsnips and omitted the tomato. I also used the same herbs in the stock that I used in the soup, to create continuity.

Plump Little Fucker

The squirrel is back, chattering away on my balcony. The Plump Little Fucker is looking right at me. I’m sure he’s been busy raiding condos and stealing dog food.

I used to think Plump Little Fucker was cute, until he killed my fuchsia. I wasn’t quite sure why my fuchsia died until I rooted around in the dirt and found a peanut shell. Inside the shell was one nut that had taken root, suffocating the roots of the fuchsia. PLF’s charm faded even further when he started munching on my herb garden.

Yet, with a quick flip of his tail and two cheeky pouches full of nuts, I’d forget why I didn’t like PLF. Then one morning in late August, he scared the hell out of me, while proving to me he’s also an insolent sod.

The night before, I’d left my balcony door open a crack to help circulate the heavy summer air. Don’t fret; I have a large wooden dowel I place in the door track to prevent the door opening more than 2 inches. I also sleep with a giant axe under my bed.