This is my friend, Mikel Jordan Nielson photographed with his feline half, Kiwi. Mikel has recently come back on crew with us at work. Much air guitar-ing will ensue.

Photo by Terence Gillespie of Innisfail, Alberta.

Can anybody tell me why God won't speak to me? Why Jesus never called on me to part the fucking seas?

Why death is easier than living? You can be almost anything when you're on your fucking knees.

Not today, not my son, not my family, not while walking is still honest, and you haven't given up on me. . .

I can relate to these lyrics. Evidently, so can some of the people who were in the crowd at this show.

And then I made a visit to the South Wal-Mart location. I battled through a maze of corporate evil, and poor merchandising, and blue vest wearing, part-time employees staring up at the florescent lights while drooling and walking in circles (LEFT TURN! LEFT TURN! LEFT TURN!). And I can't forget the People of Wal-Mart, like the forty-five year old cougar who wore a mid-drift FCUK hoodie paired with saran-wrap style jeans that squeezed her gunt into a lower level uni-boob to match her mom lumps ontop. I now have a new appreciation for my Mom's polo shirts: "Guess where I got this, Linds? VALUE VILLAGE. Guess what brand it is?! GUESS! DENVER HAYES BRAND. GUESS HOW MUCH! NO, GUESS! GUESS! $6.00! B-R-A-N-D N-E-W!"

Anyway, I finally found the missing puzzle piece of my soul:

I know, look at little Laura Ingalls. So precious.

And look at her here in an action shot. . .

"The crop was damaged by the hail storm?! For whatever will we do for winter, Pa'?!"

So I've decided that if I ever bare children, I will declare one day a year as Laura Ingalls Wilder day. We will dress up as prairie pioneers (when the children are between the ages of two and six and are too naive to wonder how mommy ever got laid) and we will visit the local Western Development Museum. And when I write "we", I really mean that they will dress up as little prairie pioneers, 'cause I am too cool for that.

Last night our boss met us at the front as we walked in looking particularly haggard. We hobbled in like arthritic whiteheads because of the forty-five minute kick boxing class we attempted earlier in the week that had owned us like a 200lbs lesbian gang member in a prison shower. Our eyes were red, glossy, and didn't quite align-- not from drugs, just life-- and our crusty complexions were sad, tired, and speckled with surface trauma; mine iced with makeup like a home made cake baked by a four year old who used baking soda instead of icing powder.

As I passed through the sliding doors they began to shut on me and I growled as I plowed my way through like a zombie, or a homeless drunk who no longer had any social etiquette. "Fucking door!" L barked behind me like a sketched out meth addict.

Our boss looked frightened as two meth-head zombies stumbled towards him, spitting profanities, faces riddled with some sort of small pox variant. He kept his ground and maintained a smile, but he reconsidered asking them to disassemble the eighteen foot pallet of Storex storage files-- it just wasn't worth it.

As women, PMS is the least of our concerns and only a fraction of the conglomeration of shit that makes us cranky. And I am not even going to touch the stressors of child rearing because that topic deserves a spotlight of it's own. Plus, I don't have children. Remember? Oral contraceptives? Cystic acne? God punishing me?

Women reside in an alter reality, a world skewed by romantic comedies, Cosmopolitan magazine, and Megan Fox. And most of the men we've been with since our teens have been like, "(SCOFF!), do you need to spend an hour getting ready in the bathroom?" Or, "(SCOFF!), you don't need to wear make up. Make up is gross," or, "(SCOFF!), the new girl at work is smokin' hot!"

#1 rule for men when dealing with that special woman in their lives: sometimes it's better to just not talk.

Most men don't get women or the reference points in which we were raised, nor do they fully recognize the hard work and extra curricular time we commit to withholding the Western illusion of what a woman should be. They don't get the deep rooted insecurities that many of us battle, either. Don't get me wrong though, there are some naturally pretty, low maintenance women out there. We call them models.

Bear has asked me numerous times to go camping with him in the summer. I like the outdoors: the smell of nature and waking up to the sound of a Meadow Lark at dawn. I also like shaving. And shampooing. And exfoliating my skin. "We wouldn't go for long," he ensured me, "no more than five days." Five days?! FIVE DAYS?! THAT'S HOW LONG I MENSTRUATE.

I relayed that conversation to L at work. "He said only five days! ONLY!"

"Poor men," she said as she belly laughed and sighed, "they're so naive."

As I pondered the reality of camping out in the woods for five days, I got a little stressed. I haven't seen five days of euro-style growth on my legs since I was in grade six. Would this lead to me getting recruited into a freak show as Wolf Girl? Would I end up as just another coked out, baby doll circus performer? Suddenly I felt like my world was unraveling, all because my sweetheart wants to spend some quality time with me under the star splattered blanket of Mother Nature. I'd almost feel guilty for my vane insecurities if it wasn't for the fact that I grew up getting mind fucked by Seventeen magazine and superficial ex-boyfriends ogling on about models and plastic surgerized actresses and porn stars who did that "so hot" sexual act while taking direction from some greasy adult film director with a comb over and a botched circumcision job that left him with a three inch penis.

I dare say that many women carry specialized, departmental stress compartments in their heads that most men do not. The ongoing fascination with "do I look fat in this?" resides in one of those compartments and is unleashed when flooded by the right level of hormones. Men, trust me as I tell you that if you nurture your lady's self esteem, she will become a lot less annoying and your relationship will see positive gain. If anything, let her have her time to primp in the bathroom if it makes her feel better about the image she is presenting to the world. Especially if she is PMS-ing.

Many of the stereotypical, female insecurities are brought on by life long brainwashing, and if there are people who think that men, as a whole, do not help perpetuate these insecurities (whether they mean to or not)  have been exposed to a very biased sample of men. Possibly a sample of gay men. High on Ecstasy. At a rave.

Later that night I came back from the washroom, looked at L and said, "okay, the real question is...  do I use Polysporin to moisturize the herd of hotness gestating on my chin, OR, do I leave it to dry out in hopes that it will rejuvenate itself?" She responded by listing some of her own desperate, at-home remedies: alcohol, give it air, etc. Then she gave me a defeated face and admitted that she, neither, had pinpointed any dependable remedies. To ease our frustrations we joked and laughed about our seemingly never ending teenage complexions and pondered what it would be like to be one of those girls, the kind of woman who has a clear complexion, shaves her legs once a week, and walks confidently without the war wounds of stretch marks. Women who have normal sleep patterns, too, and in L's case, no ex-husband to wear on her psyche. "Fuck those girls," L said.

"Yeah," I responded, "fuck those girls."

Every night over the past month I would text Jimmy Bear from work and ask what he was doing. "Watching a movie with Sophie," he would text. Or, "laying in bed with Sophie." Or, "throwing a toy for Sophie." Or, "playing xbox with Sophie." Or sometimes, "cleaning up kitty barf." On Monday morning Bear went back to work where he is expected to stay in camp for ten days. Sophie is devastated:

"Where's Jimmy, Mom?"

I give her helicopter rides like Bear does, but they're just not as good. I bounce her up and down off of the floor like the skunk from Bambi, but I just don't do it right. I put my hands on the sides of her bum and jiggle her so her fur stands up on end, but Bear does it better.

I know that if Sophie could translate her meow into words, she would ask me to post this for the man she is missing-- the man who has become the wind beneath her wings.

We miss you, Jimmy Bear.

• My degree did not train me for a job. At all.
• 99.99999999999999% of employers want trained hirees.

But those are only a few common-sense factoids that I've generated from the cess pool of mind fuck that is the modern day job market. Recently I had the all-time biggest mind fuck of an interview-- an even bigger mind fuck than the interview I had with a local construction company where I was stood up for the first interview, and during the second interview one of the HR ladies texted on her phone and the other one, a no-nonsense twenty-something, arrogantly sat across from me while wearing a pair of Scooby Doo pajama pants.

I nailed the interview. I did not get the job.

The interview that I had recently was for a job that I really, really wanted. I researched the company and the details of the job title. I spent a couple hours reviewing common interview questions and mapped out how I would best sell my experience and characteristics for that particular position. I even picked up some new clothes that whispered I have my shit together. Don't get me wrong, I am not saying that preparing well for an interview automatically makes me worthy for the job, I am just pointing out that yes, I covered the basics, and I didn't go in wearing a pair of Scooby Doo pajama pants.

I was nervous as I sat in the foyer and waited for the interviewer to fetch me, but I was more pumped than anything. I was going to shine, shine like Celine Dion in her A New Day Las Vegas show doing her infamous, Francophone power growl. And then Buddy came around the corner and stretched out his hand. Or maybe I stretched out my hand. Either way, our hands met, and BAM! It was instant awkward.

Why? I don't know, maybe it was the look he gave me and that subtle pause of hesitation that said, why did we bring her in? And then my following thought of, great, a perpetual nerd from planet Academia; help me Jesus.

Besides Buddy asking two or three questions that actually pertained to the job I was applying for, most of the questions asked were, well, annoying.

What is makeup artistry?

A little back story: as advised by my previous employment counselor, I have included miscellaneous achievements from over the years in my resume, even if they do not pertain to the particular job I am applying for. Since I have limited hands-on experience in the area in which I am pursuing, she insisted that this would help promote me as diverse and adaptive individual.

So yeah, what is makeup artistry? Sigh. Really? I mean, really. As I later relayed this to Bear, his reaction was, "Jesus [explicit] Christ. It is exactly what it [explicit] sounds like, [explicit]!" And that's coming from the man who responded to my use of the word "affirmation" by pointing to himself and saying "high school drop out", then pointed to me and said, "university graduate", then asked, "now what is affirmation? And can I buy it at Co-op?"

Another gooder:

What was your biggest challenge with selling Mary Kay?

Or,

What would make your current job more meaningful? How do you know that you're successful at your current job?

Or,

What newspapers did you do freelance writing for? If you could write full time, would you?

Don't get me wrong, I realize that Buddy may have had the intention to ask me off beat questions so he could divulge less censored answers from me. I get that. And when responding to these questions I did my best to twist the answers so they actually related to the position I was applying for, but at the end of the interview I walked out without ever really having the opportunity to sell myself or even discuss why I thought I was suitable for the job.

A few times throughout the interview I referred to working with young people and how I enjoyed acting as a mentor to them. Buddy later stopped me and pointed out how he thought it was funny that I referred to them as "young people", as I am so young myself. Then he went on to say that it is great that at my age I am in a supervisory position-- my employer must really see me as a leader.

This is the moment where I should have hit the pause button, ripped off my Celine Dion face and put on my Eminem mask. The moment where I should have stood on the chair and pointed to the dates on my resume with the toe of my boot while grabbing a fist full of hair and yelled, "I AM A WOMAN. I WILL TURN TWENTY-SEVEN THIS YEAR. YOU'RE WONDERING HOW I DIFFER FROM SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD BOYS IN HIGH SCHOOL? IT'S CALLED A MORTGAGE. IT'S CALLED GRADUATING FROM UNIVERSITY FIVE YEARS AGO. AND AS FAR AS YOU KNOW, I AM IN MY SECOND MARRIAGE, HAVE THREE KIDS, AND I AM SPORTING SOME WICKED C-SECTION SCARS. AND NO, BEING IN A SUPERVISORY POSITION AT MY AGE IS NOT IMPRESSIVE. PEOPLE MY AGE WHO HAVE BEEN AT THE SAME JOB FOR AN EXTENDED PERIOD OF TIME WHO ARE NOT IN A SUPERVISORY POSITION HAVE DEVELOPMENTAL ISSUES. AND BY THE WAY, WHO ARE YOU? DO YOU LIVE ON EARTH? AND NO, I DON'T HAVE ANY MARY KAY SAMPLES ON HAND.

But I missed the moment. It was one of those unexpected comments that left me stunned with a WTF thought bubble bouncing above my head instead of an assertive retort on the tip of my tongue. You know, the kind of moment that you wish you could go back in time and re-do. Dammit, I hate those moments.

My failure to progress to the next step in the hiring process was finalized on Friday when no one called me back. SURPRISE! But it wasn't much of a disappointment due to the interview being a patronizing mind fuck, which is why I am unabashedly ripping the experience apart on my public blog. I just don't care anymore. I don't think I will ever understand the social-political bullshit of the professional sphere. I am not sure I want to.

On that note, here is some uplifting words from my favorite deceased, overweight rapper:

The Revolution