Socks and Bartholomew III, September 1993
Grade 2, Ms. Meowstein's class, Kittydale Elementary
]]>
Socks and Bartholomew III, September 1993
Grade 2, Ms. Meowstein's class, Kittydale Elementary
]]>
The Christmas season has passed, and I feel blessed to now be spared from the auditory terrorism of Christmas carols that made blood ooze from my ears like strawberry jam. However, my artificial Christmas tree still stands tall, its once charming demeanor now exuding a stale, almost offensive egotism, like some overly manicured douche bag taking up space in the corner of my living room. "LOL," says my douche bag Christmas tree, "better add overcome chronic procrastination to your list of New Years Resolutions, you lazy @!$%!."
The only resolution I made this New Years was to resume regular postings, here, on my website, regardless of how ridiculous the rest of my life gets.
Oops.
]]>
. . . . . . . WHAT?
The only down fall was that no one in my family bothered to tell me that Bah Humbuggery had been cancelled this year and that we were planning a legit gift swap. IT'S NOT LIKE I DIDN'T ASK, EITHER. So when I walked into my parents house with my boxes of chocolate and I noticed all the presents under the tree, I realized that, yep, this was definitely the year that I was going to walk away as the asshole, which was compounded by the fact that the "I love you, but fuck it, here's some money" cheque I wrote Laura was made out in her maiden name, because I subconsciously refuse to acknowledge that her ex-husband exists.
I did donate to a handful of charities in honor of my family after recalling the sponsorship of love Will n' Matt gave to the exploited babies in Cambodia in 2009 - you should probably read about it here. And although I knew that the money had gone to better causes than the accumulation of random shit, I still felt like that socially awkward relative who makes everyone personalized welcome plaques for their front entrance from recycled newsprint and raffia paper.
After experiencing a strange Christmas Eve, I was inspired, largely by Liz, to write my own version of Twas The Night Before Christmas, and I read it at my family's Christmas gift opening. Here is the internet-friendly version:
Twas The Night Before Christmas, And Shit Got Weird
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through my complex, not a creature was stirring, not even the usual suspects. I was alone in my apartment, feeling a little laissez faire, in hopes that dawn's sunrise soon would be there.
(Photo of Red Deer sunrise by TrevorGB)
The kitties were nestled all snug in my bed, while visions of the muchly missed, albeit diarrhea inducing, Whiskas wet formula danced in their heads. Snortie with her horrific hair cut, and I in my new cat shirt, lay lounging in bed feeling less than alert.
When out in the hall there arose such a clatter, I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the door I flew like a flash, and unlocked the dead bolt, even though I looked like white trash.
The hallway remained quiet and dimly lit, surely to hide the shoddy construction that the owners won't admit. When what to my wondering eyes should appear, but an elderly woman in leopard print pajama gear.
Thinking her husband was ill, I responded with grave worry, But soon realized she had Alzheimer disease, and it was making her mind blurry. More rapid than an eagle, I grabbed my keys and my phone, and began a long journey through the complex to take the little old lady home.
(art work by Kelli Doyle)
"You're the only one who would answer your door," she said in appreciation,"That's because this place is full of douche bags, and human abominations." I asked her her last name, and she said it was Price,
so I tracked down the number of her suite through the intercom device.
Back up we went to walk into a strange condo and hope for the best, for if it were the wrong one, it may become one hell of an awkward conquest. The suite sat dormant and the little old lady swore it was not her home, but I continued on my mission and threw out a bone.
"Hello?," I called out, not once, but twice, and from the bedroom came the stir of a man-- her husband-- thank God almighty and his son, Jesus Christ.
"She's never wandered before," he told me, his face angered and worried. "You're going to have to go in a home," her face now shamed and covered in flurry.
We said our goodbyes and shared a melancholy hug, then I went to the lobby for a tea, where I met a man drinking his fourth egg nog mug. This was his first Christmas since separating from his wife, and while he was thrilled to have his boys with him, this wasn't the easiest time in his life.
He was excited to be done wrapping the gifts, even despite his recent down falls, although he admitted he wasn't good at this kind of stuff, and all the presents looked like "fucking footballs."
(watch the youtube video of Flippycat being wrapped)
And it was on this eve that I was reminded of my blessings, from the health of my family, to my wicked ass car and its heated-seat dressings. Some people score the ideal and their Christmases are cheered, for others, life goes on, and sometimes shit gets weird.
]]>
Because it takes a village.
It's been a few months since she left our mutual work place after securing a higher paying, future-friendly man job (which I am immensely fucking proud of her for) and the withdrawal I've experienced from not seeing her everyday in a semi-controlled environment has been emotionally jarring, especially considering the Gary Busey style of dysfunction that has not only filled the void of her absence, but has leaked into other avenues of my life like toxic decomp, and for those who aren't familiar with bio hazard clean up, that means "liquid body rot."
When we approached each other under the fluorescent halo of the asphalt parking lot, she shone like an angel, or possibly an original My Little Pony circa 1988, like Baby Apple:
Or maybe more like Princess Sparkle:
Wow, so pretty.
Oh, sorry, guys. Vagina, here. I get easily distracted by sparkly things.
The kiddies were waiting in the car as her and I attempted to jam two months worth of random, story recaps into a five minute conversation. Meanwhile, Gavin, her middle child, the one with the tendency to defy rules, and who I admit to having a soft spot for (go figure, as my mother said), bounced around the interior of her Mini Vans Can Go Fuck Themselves sports car, his chipmunk-inated child voice nattering away at the speed of light as he projected it out the window towards us.
"LOJO!!!! LOJO!!!! LOOWW-JOOOO!!"
I waved enthusiastically.
"R THER PRESENTS CHRISTMAS GIFTS SERPRIZE SANTA DO U HAVE SOME OMG AWESUM STUFF CHRISTMAS . . . . YAAAAYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!!"
I assured him that I did, indeed have some loot for him and his siblings, who at this point, were sitting in the back seat sharing eye rolls.
BOING! BOING! BOING! BOING!, his miniature body continued to ricochet off the car's interior as Laura and I resumed our conversation, and as we discussed the art of ball-breaking douche bag idiots, suddenly a familiar sound resonated from the background.
"VVVRRRooom. vvvrrrOOOM. VVVRRRooom. vvvrrrOOOM . . .
. . . VVVRRRooom."
"GAVIN!," Laura turned towards him with the dexterity of a Soviet sniper. "The automatic windows work. We got it. Thanks, buddy. NOW CHILL OUT!"
He flashed her a mischievous, albeit accomplished smile, the same smile I make when I break the will of a boyfriend from dedicating hours to perfecting my James Hetfield growl, or I sing the Don's Tire and Auto radio'mericial in a munchkin voice for the 20th time in a row.
When it was time to go, Gavin escaped from the car, his Little Person legs moving at an astronomical speed, and when he gave me a hug, all I could think was, "shit, I really hope he likes the Zombie Apocalypse Survival Kit."
According to Laura, the kits were well received.
How to Make Zombie Apocalypse Survival Kits (for Kids):
1. Similar to an emergency road kit, the Zombie Apocalypse Survival Kit needs to be contained in some sort of sealable unit. A small tackle box would work. I made mine out of Crayola craft kits with the art materials removed.
2. Stickers. Cool stickers are a must, and while it was easy to find stickers that were appropriate for three year old Lili Bug, finding the right adornments for the boys was a more difficult feat. Some of the best stickers I used, such as the bullet hole stickers, were actually car decals that were purchased at Canadian Tire. A superior, more economical idea is to buy printable sticker sheets and create your own custom stickers (could be stickers of real-life zombies, ninjas, bio hazard symbols, favorite band logos, AK-47s, etc.), and I would have done this if my printer hadn't finally succeeded at committing suicide the week before Christmas, but unfortunately, I bought it at Staples, so it had been depressed for a while.
3. The zombie kits should include a well balanced combination of zombie resistance tools and non-zombie related goodies that reflect the child's interests, especially if the zombie kit is for a younger child, as my zombie kits were. You don't have to be a mommy blogger to know that children have the attention span of gold fish, and they do not yet possess the intellectual or emotional maturity to fully comprehend the value of preparing for the zombie apocalypse. So, throw in a few shiny objects and items that scream, "whooaa, BAD ASS!" and you should still come away as the crazy, albeit half-ass cool, surrogate Aunt.
Zombie Resistance identification badges were included in all the kids' kits, as were Nerf guns, although slightly larger models for the boys, and according to Laura, the I.D. badge was a big hit with Gavin. If I were to do it again, I would make more official looking badges on my computer if it had still had a pulse, but the most I could muster for this was printing off photos of the kids at my parents house and creating the rest of the badges by hand. For those who are crafty with graphic design, you could have a lot of fun with these.
WARNING:
Asshole Hazard - Before giving a Zombie Apocalypse Survival Kit as a gift to a child whom is not your own, make sure to warn/ touch base with the parent(s) to make sure that they are okay with its contents, both on a moral level, and also on a mental health level, because the last thing you want to do is instigate a familial break down that causes Mom to lock herself in the bathroom with a bottle of prescription pain killers as the kids wage war on each other by shooting each other in the face with Nerf guns.
That about covers the Zombie Apocalypse Survival Kit tutorial. A timeless and practical gift that can be tweeked to adhere to children of any age, and teaches the important value of zombie survival preparedness.
The transformation of my work place has been a gradual one, but over the last few months, the erosion of my job has hit the point of no return, and I now tread through an ominous Fire Swamp of work place politics. Rather than bush wacking as a sword-wielding pirate who eloquently accentuates a v-neck blouse with a well manicured pedophile mustache, and who slaughters Rats Of Unusual Size mere seconds after denying their existence, I am stumbling around as a swordless, pseudo-punk version who sports an ill-fitted, lesbian lumberjack coat, and instead of being accompanied by the moderately useless, albeit eternally classy, Princess Buttercup, I'm followed around by Snooki from Jersey Shore. And she's had too much to drink.
I continue to travel in circles, and every time I make another lap through the flame shooting muskeg, I think, fuck, maybe this is what my life is supposed to be-- a perpetual state of occupational adolescence. I begin looking at Snooki through rose colored lenses, like maybe she won't be such a putrid waste of skin once she sobers up, and I start reciting quotes from Westley, the original. "As you wish . . . as you wish . . . as you wish," I mutter under my breath like some Fire Swamp whore, and when the frustration of lapping through the dens of mutant rats gets to be too much, I feverishly hiss the words, "LIFE IS PAIN, HIGHNESS. ANYONE WHO SAYS DIFFERENTLY IS SELLING SOMETHING."
I've been exploring my options, or lack there of, and a few weeks ago I found myself at a government sponsored work training office. When my counselor's admin support failed to tell him that I had arrived for my appointment, and I ended up sitting in the waiting room for 25 minutes because -- hold on a minute, let me pop my collar-- because they don't have someone like me running the front end of their office, I not only earned a parking ticket, but also read a great article (via my phone) that parallels rape and the oppression of the working class called, My body, my rules: a case for rape and domestic violence survivors becoming workplace organizers, a quick read that I highly recommend, particularly for blue collar workers.
Eventually my counselor, horrified at the realization that I had been left to rot in the waiting room, fetched me, and I quickly swooned him with my charm and the smile my middle class parents bought me as a pre-teen via two years in I Wish I Were Dead orthodontic braces. Like most of the career counselors I've had, he seemed surprised that employers shy away from me like I am the ultimate Herpes sore of a potential hire, which was reaffirming to my damaged self esteem, but of no help in regards to getting the fuck out of retail.
After the appointment, we continued the application process through email and phone, and I found myself applying all the crafty argumentative skills I learned from years of fighting with people on the internet when he married himself to the notion that the sphere I needed to be pursuing was journalism. And I was all like, "no." If he had been hording some sort unglamorously boring, yet stable writing job up his rectum, I would have chest bumped him, thrown devil signs in the air, and yelled, "HOOK A CRACKA UP," followed with a powerful "WOOO" that would have hit the gel in his hair like a ferocious hurricane. But the only tangible opportunity I could foresee was dedicating my life to writing grade eight level dribble about community events for the local newspaper (which I've already done), and living off moldy bread as I meander my way up to a full time position in an industry that will continue to chip away, if not die within a decade or two. And that doesn't seem like a destination worthy of a government sponsored "free pass." I explained the unique niche that my writing falls into (cats, Femi-Nazism, seething social criticism, jokes about fecal matter). He understood my obstacles, but urged me to keep with it, and I was like, "bitch, please, I'm on it."
I remained persistent that I need to develop a career separate from my writing and explained my goals. My employment counselor tossed questions as he attempted to build a strong case for me, and the last question was, what do employers who advertise for these positions require for formal training, and do you have that formal training? Here in blue collar, trades-town Alberta, most employers don't even ask for a degree in regards to professional positions, just 25+ years of solid experience doing exactly the same job they are aiming to fill, but those who do demand formal training have consistently requested an undergraduate degree in the social sciences. DAMN RIGHT I have an undergraduate in social sciences, I thought. I'm just lacking the practical, on-the-job experience, and that's what this government program for underemployed suckas is all about, right?!
I was feelin' good. "HOLLA HOLLA," I joyously yelled to my employment counselor over the phone. "All my niggaz thats ready to get (DOLLAZ DOLLAZ), bitches know who can get 'em a little (HOTTA HOTTA), come on, if you rollin' wit me (FOLLOW FOLLOW) . . . it's M-U-R-D-A! . . ."
He gave me the stamp of approval to get into a government funded, work co-op, and the peach fuzz on the curvature of my ass cheeks stood on end as I waited for the final verdict from the Government of Alberta.
And a week later I received the news that my application had been . . .
REJECTED.
I'm not sure why I bought into the illusion that the government might accept me into a program that didn't involve me paying them. I'm a stable tax payer with a job, and I sit at the bottom of the totem pole of people the government wants to voluntarily help out.
The official response from the government was that I should go to Red Deer College, take a course that is not requested by employers pertaining to my chosen career path, and isn't offered at RDC even if it were. Last fall I enrolled in RDC to take a one-year Office Tech course, which would have equipped me with much more valuable (and transferable) skills than what the government suggested I take, and after spending $150 on my application, I was told that the already full course had wait listed me into oblivion. A month after classes started, I received a memo in the mail telling me that RDC and I would have to reschedule for, like, some other year . . . . . . mmmkay?
It is what it is, and now I'm back to the trials n' tribs of the grind, and the day to day struggle of smothering the fire in my soul so I don't lip off and/or throw inanimate objects at a superior, particularly the one who scowls every time he sees my face, yet throws a tantrum when I'm not around to hold shit down, and then demands that I bring him cookies and warm milk, and yells the words, "I HATE YOU!," followed by, "I WISH YOU WEREN'T EVEN ON OUR PAYROLL! . . . . Now come apply my diaper cream. Please?"
My mother (and possibly King Ralph) will be giving me shit for that last paragraph-- or who knows, maybe they'll be impressed with its comparative politeness. Either way, I hope you enjoyed it.
Stay tuned, as this episode will undoubtedly continue as a mini series.
]]>
Those days happen though, at least to me, when I get tired of all the bullshit and require a (somewhat forced) emotional release that usually ends up making me look like the kind of woman who posts images of kitty/unicorn hybrids on a blog. It's easy to get caught up in the negative aspects of life, and the unanswerable questions we impose on the lord, like why are those so many douche bags in the world, Raptor Jesus?, but sometimes those same things that weigh on our souls can bring us joy.
Via mockery.
That being said, I bring you Steve Who Works At Site, which appears to be the masterpiece of some Fort Mac boys looking to blow off a little steam, and is some of the best Alberta related comic relief I've enjoyed since Fubar II. While this series of Xtranormal cartoons may not be meaningful, or even make sense to those who haven't experienced Alberta oil culture, or more specifically, those who haven't lived or worked up in Fort McMurray, for those of us who have: LOL.
"If you have a nice rack, like to do blow in the Digger's bathroom, and like men with a big wallet, give me a shout-- I work at site."
"I have to catch my Diversified bus to the site so I can make a difference by driving around in fucking circles."
]]>
Randomly stumbled upon a Japanese stationary company named Jetoy, probably while googling something like "cat stuff."
A personal favorite of mine by a woman named Amanda Conrad. "They poo all over themselves and just stink," Conrad says about her three cats. I appreciate how she captured such raw, feline emotion in this piece with her honest depiction of the horrific look a cat gets when it has a turd cling-on stuck to its butt:
Also, I recently earned my PhD in cat whispering after purchasing a book titled, Secret Language of Cats by novice cat whisperer, Heather Dunphy. Yes, the cashier at Chapters did hold up the line for five minutes while telling me about her five cats, her husband's threat of divorce if she brings in another stray, and how she doesn't care. Here are some interesting factoids I've learned from the book and from being a third tier cat lady, myself:
Anyway . . .
- awkward silence -
Thanks for reading?
]]>
Until the fever returned, that is. And as my body shook and my toes burned and I lost my ability to walk anywhere besides the bathroom to start off a 48 hour joy ride on the poo choo train to Diarrhea Land, all I could think was, seriously?
Thankfully I was coming off of my sixth day of work and I didn't have to go in that night, but it didn't really matter, because in the back of my head I had that same haunting thought I've had for the last month: oh god, I have a deadline tomorrow. And then when reality kicked in, my thoughts turned to failure: fuck, I'll have to email my editor and tell her that I can't make my deadline. Then the fallen-Catholic guilt: And I already missed one deadline this week, which means I'm going to burn in hell.
I looked around at my apartment, which no longer looked like a home, but like a vacant, hipster condo that a crack fiend had broken into to squat, and my fridge sat adorned with nothing but moldy Tupperware containers because five days had passed since the day when I was supposed to go grocery shopping. My giant, hermaphroditic Apple snail, Choda, was hidden deep within its shell, smothered in a tank of murky water, and it had been over a month since it had engaged in sex with itself and laid 2000-ish florescent pink eggs. My reproductive health was in a similar state, as I was no longer getting my monthly gift.
Then something in me broke: snap crack, pop!
I looked around at what used to be my (at least moderately) content life, and in a feverish outburst, I muttered, "fuckkk thisss."
Sh-h, listen, and you can hear the sound of Lojo quietly losing her shit.
"You always said you would never be one of those people who lived to work," my mom later quipped, "and that's exactly what you're doing."
And she was right. But one thing my mom doesn't understand is how hungry I am. Open doors rarely come my way, and when you've spent years trying to get somewhere with your craft and a positive opportunity arises, you're a fool not to give it your all, right?
If only it were that simple.
Because at the end of the day, I still need to make a living at my job to pay rent and to buy food. And toilet paper, especially since The Diarrhea. Sometimes the responsibilities of that job change, and sometimes the work load fluctuates, and sometimes it requires random shift changes. Sometimes after those random shift changes, I've been up for 24 hours straight and then have to go to an appointment at my lawyer's to sign paperwork so I get paid for the sale of my condo. Sometimes I get migraine headaches that leave me dry heaving over the toilet, and apparently when I have too much on the go, I get the flu. Like, every week. Unfortunately, all these things take higher priority over my volunteer writing gig. No matter how much I appreciate the opportunity to share my voice with a larger audience, my life must go on.
So, I gave my editor the bad news about my recurring flu and my botched submission, and also told her that I was taking this week off. The w-h-o-l-e e-n-t-i-r-e w-e-e-k. Then I didn't check my email for two days, or shower for three, and I mainlined on sleep. Every hour that passed replenished my spirit, and by the end of my days off, my apartment had resumed it's bachelor-pad look, Choda had its tank cleaned, I got over the flu, and even my lady parts started to work again. More importantly, I regained my creative motivation: I worked on my zombie novel, promised myself that I'd start studying the art of copy writing, and I realized how much I had missed the freedom of my blog.
Since I've delved into the world of legit writing gigs (not specifically the one I'm doing now, but the online industry in general), I've learned how exploitative it is of writers. Aspiring writers are a dime a dozen, and those who are in need of writers know that they can pay just that: dimes, if anything at all. The realization that the writing sphere is going to be yet another arena that will require me to fiercely defend my boundaries is disappointing, and figuring out how I will incorporate this passion into a balanced lifestyle will be an on going learning process.
I envy the people who can produce quality, engaging pieces with the efficiency of a McDonald's drive-thru, particularly while maintaining full time jobs, but I'm not one, and last week was that burn-out moment my friends warned me would arise prior to taking on this endeavor. Where I will go next with my writing, I'm not sure, but I do know that it's time to redefine my boundaries and lighten my load.
]]>