Sunday, February 4, 2018

Why I Don't Follow News...

I have to say that the teeny tid-bits of news that filter through my force-field of late have me feeling rather sick to death of this society.

I'm not even exaggerating that. I'm sick of us, as a whole.

Between the politicians that dropped off over the past two weeks due to undisclosed 'sexual misconduct' and the news release from the RCMP that the number of women coming forward with complaints about the physician they were forced to see in order to have their job, is growing daily.

A doctor who referred to himself as "Dr. Fingers", according to multiple accounts. I know that we mustn't assume ... and that he hasn't been 'proven' a sadistic, power-hungry piece of prehistoric excrement... but can I be frank in saying the following: I am so mother-fucking sick to death of a society that allows this kind of bullshit to happen every day, I could scream!

Sick of it.

I can't tell you that I have been a victim of sexual harassment. Mainly because I'm sincerely too stupid to recognize it. I think I worked with a manager at a Trust Company when I was 18 that might have given that a go, had he not been transferred out to another branch. 

Somebody else had to explain to me why that was good news for me. 

Then when I was older, I was fat and therefore, unattractive. I didn't experience any advances ... but I had a boss that called me "Mimi" to the male agents with whom, I had to work. 

You know Mimi ...

Image result for mimi bobeck pictures

Yeah ... that's what my boss used to call me to my co-workers behind my back.

I've experienced lots of other kinds of abuse in the workplace ... but to be forced to attend a doctor, in order to keep or get your job ... who raped you? And then to be so afraid to say anything, because you would lose your job. I mean, you're already an hysterical woman, for god's sake! You can't let them be right ... feed into their stereotype.

Nope! Nobody wanted to be labeled a whistle-blower ... or shit disturber ...

...and so, this blatant abuse of power continued for more than THREE DECADES!!! 

Three decade, people!

This story makes me throw up in my mouth a little.

I have two daughters. 

Two future women. 

Two freedom fighters.

I look at the world we are leaving for them and wonder if anyone is ever going to tip the balance between the sexes.

I suppose if this generation gets its way, everyone will refuse to identify with any one gender ... maybe that is the answer. 

Evolve into androgynous beings. 

Problem solved.

I don't know if that is preferable to me. I like our differences. What I want is to see both sides of the equation equal each other using entirely different methods. 

Why in hell is that so bloody hard?

GAH! People!!

Rant over.

Friday, February 2, 2018


Have you ever had what you thought was meaningful contact with someone over a period of time, and then suddenly - like a cold, clammy hand landed on your throat - wondered if they even ever actually liked you?

Even people I don't like can't 'not like me'. It drives my obsessive little mind absolutely mad.

I've recently had an experience that has left me with a bit of a welt. It's a metaphorical welt ... I mean I wasn't back-handed or anything ... but there is a mark, for sure. I suspect it won't leave permanent scar tissue, but anticipate a lengthy recovery, none the less.

Even by-standers are shocked by this turn of events. By-standers that have a stake in my having no  such association. 


I'm very honestly replaying scenes in my mind ... looking for clues. 


Of what, you ask? 

That an experience meant something?

I have a terrible habit of looking for meaning in everything... I really wish I would outgrow that particular naivete already.

It makes me ashamed... every time I am duped.

Not sure if you knew this about me, but I am super good at shame. I don't need any further experience with it. I've long since filled my quota of a lifetime.

This behavior leaves my soft little under-bits exposed to molestation.

... how can you not even like me?

... and why do I let it matter to me so much?

... and why don't you like me?


I will say this much and then with any luck, nothing more: 

Nobody will ever make me feel this paltry again.

Wednesday, January 24, 2018

Killy! Killy! Stab! Stab!

I need to complain.

I know the consensus around here is that Hubs is good people, but even good people need a smack up the side of the head now and then. 

I need to be petty and snarky and the type of woman that carries her handy list of infractions around in her back pocket for just such an occasion.

I need to do it here so I don't do it out loud. 

I hate that woman. I don't want to be her in the world. I want to be the kind of partner that is level headed and calm and patient ... and can talk it through and resolve the bad feelings. Problem being, of course, is that I'm not typically any of those things.

It's about this whole pink job vs. blue job disparity. 

I'm not gonna lie here, people ... I am a good wife and partner. 

I know I just flipped my lid for the past few years, but in that time I still maintained a house, raised our children almost entirely alone and I was never not contributing financially. Even when off work, I still had a small pension income. (defensive, I know - but you'll see why)

...and this man is treated to the 'Hero's Welcome' when he comes home from working away all week. I clean the house from top to bottom the day before he gets back, mopping all floors and ensuring all laundry is finished and put in its place. On Friday, when he actually gets home, after I leave work (which I do nearly full time now) I go do the weekly grocery shopping, hit the liquor store and make sure we have ample wood and kindling for the evening (and this past weekend, I also spent an hour at the DMV trying to get plates transferred). Then when I get home, I put it all away, make supper, fix myself up for him, have a bath, fix my make-up, put on some perfume and something that looks nice - maybe jeans and a sweater, or shirt if it's warm ... and then I wait for his arrival.

I almost wish I was kidding as I'm reading it on this page.

Then when we can break away from the kids ... let's just say there are a great many jobs at which I am a black belt. 

He's got it pretty good.

I truly never nag. Never bitch at him about anything to do with him. I really don't bad mouth the man other than in a joking or playful way. Some women trash their husbands everywhere ... not really sure why. Not my gig at all. I gather up and do his laundry, usually make him sandwiches and pack up serving sized meals and snacks for his next week on the road. (Although, admittedly I'm not as good about that right this minute. I'm feeling this resentment toward him and just like I love with food, I punish that way, too.) Even when there are pressing issues ... like I was driving a vehicle back and forth to work that had an expired inspection on it ... and we had bought a winter beater instead of fixing said vehicle because it was less money. But the new car needed brake work and although I will say it has been rather cold to be working on brakes ... we've had the bloody thing since November. It just got on the road last week ... I never uttered a single word to nag him to do that. 

It feels like for every blue job that actually exists - and believe me, there are not many things I expect him to do: keep up on the cars, drag the recyclables/cable/whatever to the depot and shoveling in winter and the lawn in the summer - there a couple of hundred pink ones. 

The inequity is seriously plinking my nerves just now.

The worst of it is that he fucking well knows it! I can't even give him a pass on any of it for being a dumb man... noooooo ... he makes these little passive aggressive comments under his breath (in front of me - on the phone - sometimes even in text conversations), although conveniently loud enough for me to hear, that he needs to try harder and do special things for me or ... and here it comes folks, the kill shot ... I'll leave him for another man. Ah ... let's bring that up again and remind her she's flawed.

(Fuck that shit, man ... I'll be looking for another pink if I get outta this one.)

So ... what he actually wants is for me to give him a pass... and he wants it to seem like my idea. Fucking Geminis! 

I'm really irritated.

I do not want to spend time on arguing. It isn't worth it to me. I just need to find a way to impress upon him the kind of damage this is doing. I'm resentful ... and I'm not getting right with it. He needs to do something.

I mean JESUS! He left on Monday and when I got home from work, the dishwasher hadn't been emptied, there were a couple of empty coolers sitting in the middle of my kitchen floor, dishes all over the counter, stinky and overflowing garbage and recyclables... upstairs, there were clothes all over the place in our room and dirty laundry on the floor of our bathroom (there's the list).

He didn't leave until like 2:00! I mean COME ON! I imagine I sound petty, but I get to come home from work and clean up after him before I get to make his children dinner, clean up after it and then fight with the oldest for two hours to do her damned homework already! Oh and I was signed up for some seminar at the school to be a career coach for my kid. It was two and a half hours long! 

It isn't fair that I am revered so little by the man who used to prioritize me over everything else. Used to be thoughtful. Left little notes. Sent flowers (not that we have money for that crap right now), staged mini scavenger hunts that led me to a bathtub with a glass of wine.

I miss that guy.

I feel like I have three kids for whom I am an indentured servant.

Okay ... I'm done. I'm gonna go now ... and do more fucking laundry!

I'm not sure if I feel better or not. 

I guess we'll see how stabby I am this Friday when he arrives.

D - out.

Monday, January 22, 2018

The Pubening 2.0 ... Not Shorty, Too!

My newly fifteen year old decided to cut off her long blonde hair in favour of a 'faux hawk' type style. She has the sides of her head buzzed right off and everything!

I have to say, it is really cute. 

It's happening ... she's maturing into a young woman. Developing her own 'style'.

It would seem said style is that of a hipster. A style of which, I am truly not a fan ... alas, she is entitled to her own opinion in this case. It really doesn't matter what I think. But, it is actually nice to see her taking an interest in her appearance ... not that I want to see her obsessing about it, but she has had ZERO interest up to now.

It is a positive, but it sends hot little tendrils of fear through my lymphatic system. 

So, my increasingly mature Stretch found herself in a conundrum last week. She had been invited to a sleep-over that included a trip to the pool, but she was on her period. I gave her a few options ... I could take her up after they went swimming or she could go and just not swim, or ... and then I was explaining the necessitation of tampon installation edu-ma-cation.

After a great deal of embarrassed laughter and a small temper tantrum, she decided on the tampon.

I coached her from the outside of the door and she did it no problem! I have to say, I was pretty shocked. This kid is wound pretty tight, folks. I figured I was going to have a highly emotional, tampon-less crank ass that was refusing to go anywhere at all... ever!

...and, so I  was wrong and really very happy to be.

Not to be outdone, Shorty waited until I was away for work and taught her own damned self the art of tamponing. Little shit! She couldn't even give me that, could she? Man! That kid is as stubborn as a mule! I feel like I got flipped off by my baby girl.


They're growing up so fast now. It sometimes makes my breath catch in my throat. I'm headed to their school tonight to attend a 2.5 hour long training session with regard to prepping them for college or whatever they go into after high school. 
My fledglings are getting ready to fly away. I haven't a clue what I will ever do with myself once they don't need me anymore. It nearly stops my heart, to be entirely honest.

Signing off, a tearful D.

Tuesday, January 9, 2018

Home is ...

...where you can always scratch whatever itches.

True story.

So ...

I haven't posted anything for quite some time. There was a little writing, but most was 'un-postworthy'. I've just skimmed through a few pieces and I think they shall remain unpublished. 

I have been busy doing Herculean work... and I am feeling better than I have in years!

I have returned to the land of the gainfully employed! So far, it is a complete departure from anything I've done before. So far, it is a dream come true. So far...

The time has finally arrived for me ... for us ... to move forward. Lawd! It has been a long time coming, but it is here at last! 

I greeted 2018 with what I can only describe as ... hope. Real, optimistic hope ... for the coming 12 months. 

My mood on New Year's Eve was weird ... in fact, the whole season was strange this year. I was without my normal 'manic' energy. I liken it to a phantom limb... boy did I miss it leading up to Christmas! Now that January has set in, I am incredibly grateful to be regulated through what would normally be a four month, deep, dark depressive episode. I can feel my body's muscle memory trying to shift in now and then, but so far, the meds are holding their own. 

God bless pharmaceuticals!

I guess at the end of the day, promises whispered on the wind trump the lonely howl of winter any day. It's time for my ass to be attracting some universal abundance.

Happy New Year to anyone that happens across my blithering du jour.


Thursday, October 6, 2016

Twenty Sixteeni

2016 has been, by far, my best year in history.

It has also been, by far, the hardest, most painful and most dangerous year of my life.

It is not my desire to be controversial in order to create interest in my life, in particular. The details of any one life really don't matter to this story. Everyone has their own 'shit' to sort and, as luck would have it, a closely matching level of what they can manage.

Plus, you don't ever have to look far to see someone who has it better or worse than you. So why compete, really? It seriously doesn't matter who has the most, who does the most or who has it the worst or does the least. They're all ridiculous things to even consider. The only time anyone finds meaning in anything is when they do it for someone else, anyway. Even if their minds are good at convincing them otherwise.

You must also consider outside influence, like the impact wounds of life's machine gun array on any given day. Not everyone worries about the same things, but we do it with the same level of commitment. A wealthy person may stress over stock performance, while someone of lesser means might fret over educating their children. A homeless person worries about heat, shelter and food, while a person with mental illness may worry about their inner demons consuming them alive. Adulterers and tax evaders worry about being caught and a teenager may worry about not having friends. The point is, no matter the subject, the body's response is the same across the board... and worry is deadly.

This past year has seen me reach my threshold ... time, after time, after time. Each step - in any direction - stretching the boundaries of my heart, my mind and my body. The insight into my behavior alone, is invaluable ... and with all such things, a price has been paid.

Then, there is panic. Here's a little unsolicited advice; until you have experienced completely irrational, debilitating panic, you do NOT get to have an opinion about it. When your own inner voice is creating monsters where none exist while completely ignoring the ones standing in front of you, it is very easy to lose the ability to discern the difference between threats that are real - like your deteriorating health - and threats that are entirely irrational - like believing in your chest that an oncoming thunderstorm is actually mortar attack on our fair city from some foreign foe.

Though, over time, your insight grows and eventually, you can stick little bits of rational evidence to the contrary of disaster into the cloud of panic ... convincing your mind to 'secure and hold', while your endocrine system has its panties on its head and is running around in circles, screaming at the top of its lungs.

Think about that seriously for a moment. Think about the kind of internal panic you would need in order to behave in that way. Then imagine that you know you shouldn't feel that way, but you do ... and then its as though your body and mind are at war... and you are helpless to affect it.

How do you look at your boss, for whom you have performed your function at a certain level for years and tell them "I just can't ... and I can't explain why". "I can't do the work, I can't handle the stress, I have zero tolerance for your crap and frankly, every time I look at you, hear your voice or even have a thought pertaining to you - I want to bash your head in with my ergonomically designed office chair ... and then make a bed under my desk and have a nap."

You don't ... if you want to eat for the foreseeable future.

How do you look at your spouse one day and say: "I still love you more than anyone or thing in the world and wouldn't change a hair on your perfect head ... But ... it isn't enough for me right now. I need more. More attention, more excitement, more sex, more money, more purpose, more love". More... like a gaping, ravenous black hole.

You can't ... if you wish to continue being with them.

How do you say to your close friends and family: "I know it is selfish of me, but I can't right now. I don't want to talk, because it makes me feel too bad ... I know that it hurts you that I won't, but I need you to understand that I wouldn't ask this of you if I didn't absolutely need for you to leave me alone. Please"?

If you want friends and family that you can continue to rely upon, this is not a great way to ensure it.

How do you look at your children and say: "Mama needs a little time out just now... like for a month or twelve. Can you just stop having your own 'kid' needs and problems for a while? Oh, and while you're at it, couldja cool it with the growing up so geezily fast? I know I am supposed to be spending more time enjoying you now because I'm going to regret not doing so when you are grown ... but seriously, guys can you cut me just a bit of slack?"

No, you say?

Here's a problem, there is only so much any one individual can manage. Some have a very low threshold, while others seem as though they are made of titanium. Sometimes, to simply keep your feet moving - no matter the direction - is more important than making actual progress. Sometimes we  commit crimes in small, insignificant ways ... sneaking things in such tiny increments, you fail to see your culpability in the drama you are feeding. Until, of course, it has grown its own legs and run away with your mind, your heart, your family and your security. Not to mention the years of your life that you are going to regret anyway, because you were supposed to be enjoying them instead of barely surviving them.

Whatever your vice, you are 'more likely than not' to reach out for it in the moments when your pain is at its worst. Whether it is for stunting or anesthetizing, it's still going to feel better than the hurt, and you are going to reach for it regularly. 

The pressure to be alive is suffocating. Add to that the expectations of your contribution to the outside world and the accompanying judgement and guilt of it all ... I some days don't know how there is anyone getting by anymore... yet we do. We live to fight another day ... or we don't.

So to each and every warrior out there, I submit for your approval: The Twenty Sixteeni

This poison is as individual as you are ... it is whatever is powerful enough to get you through one more minute, one more set back or, one more heartache ... but not deadly enough to blow a massive hole in your existence.

For me, the healthy choice would be yoga and writing ... somehow, vodka and chocolate always seem so much easier to obtain.

Monday, July 25, 2016

Dispicable ... them

I find myself sitting in awe of just how vile my employer actually is... and this time I mean the financial institution from whom I receive my pay. Or not.
To catch up, our consumer proposal had to be withdrawn because Revenue Canada is refusing to settle my 2013 taxes. You know the one where I don't owe $15K. Yeah ... that's the one. 
Anyway, to put a positive spin, we can re-file once this all settles. It sucks we couldn't get it behind us, but it certainly could be worse.
I am off on medical leave. I have gotten bad enough that I really can't handle that office. I am simply awaiting treatment. Not trying to screw anyone ... just want treatment. I tried my EAP. They couldn't help. I tried the insurance company that provides my benefits, they couldn't help. Both would cover a psychologist, but neither would do psychiatry. I am stuck with MSI.
Unfortunately, MSI has limitations and ... very ... long ... wait ... time. It isn't my fault. My referral has been in since mid May. We're talking around 10 weeks now. I have an appointment for Sept 6th and the only reason I got that was because I made a nuisance of myself. I would have been looking end of Sept to early Oct. But the appointment is with a Nurse Practitioner.
So ... I will have waited well over 100 days just to be triaged. It friggen sucks.
I want to start getting better. I cannot imagine how I am going to keep going like this. I am so tired. So raw. So afraid of everything. My mind goes to 'worst case scenario' in every situation. Here's a 'for instance'; we had crazy thunder and lightening storm the other night. Normally, I LOVE thunder and lightening... I was still taking that attitude outwardly (for the kids) ... but inside my head all I was thinking was that it was mortar fire I was hearing. That the port of our fair city was under attack. My throat closed up and the panic set in and all I kept thinking was that we needed to start running away, instead of sitting here like morons, watching a thunder and lightening storm. 
I wish I was exaggerating, but I am not. 
Last night, my husband took me and the girls for a walk up to a local lighthouse around sunset. It was breathtaking. The road we walk up is barred with a locked gate. The lighthouse does operate, so I imagine people do work up there now and then ... but this was Sunday at sunset. There were two trucks parked up at the lighthouse. Queue 'Worst Case Scenario Girl'. I was certain they were bad people, up to nothing for which they'd want witnesses. I refused to walk all the way up. My husband doesn't understand ... but he still turned us around, bless him.
Last week, I was in the tub. I heard Hubs go out the front door. In my mind, one of my cats had been hit by a car. I was so frightened to get out and find out it was true. It turned out he was just letting one of them in.
It is exhausting.
My doctor wants me to go outside every day and exercise. I fight it, but I am trying to overcome that ... because she swears to me it will help. So I do it. Tonight we went biking. Wednesday, I have my second of six introduction to yoga classes. She also wants me to schedule my days. My mind is incredibly active and I need to work hard to keep it reigned in. Schedules are important.
I am trying.
So, riddle me this - why did I spend another 40 minutes of my life defending myself to my company's "Health Services" department, today?
This woman grilled me like chicken. "Well ... do you have a shower every day? Do you cook or do house work? Do you go outside? Do you drive?" ... just to name a few of the questions. This is my THIRD grilling, by the way. I still don't have a clue if I am even on the path to getting access to the short term disability that I HAVE BEEN PAYING FOR. No idea if I will get paid this week. She knows what the proposed diagnosis is, by the way. Yeah. Bi Polar disorder. A major mental health illness. Yet I spent most of an hour defending the fact that I am trying to get better.
Why is it that I need to feel like following my doctor's orders is somehow wrong of me in the eyes of the 'Health Services' people? She is grilling me. All I want is to get better. I don't give a fuck what their HR manual says. Fire me, for fucks sake! I'm not going back to work until I am under treatment for this disorder. That is the end of the story. Do I need to have stage something cancer in order to qualify for medical leave? And ... let's be real here ... I don't understand what the hell is going on inside of me. I'm like a complete stranger to myself. If they are calling someone into question, why isn't it my doctor?
This is so incredibly despicable, it actually smells.
Meanwhile, my actual boss has demanded his office keys back. What the hell does that say to me?
Anyway ... I don't really care at the end of the day. I mean, we need the money. I need to be working. We are trying to rebuild our lives. We are trying to move forward. More than any. other. thing, I want to be better. To stop with this constant pain. Constant evil monkey-brain ... and that monkey is a cunt. She says the absolute worst things about me. She sounds like crinkly paper at night. A constant susurrus of negativity, anxiety and paranoia. All fueled by the overwhelming evidence to hand that I am bad. I am a liar. I am a dirt bag ... and the universe is insisting I suffer.

This sucks donkey sack ... and all I am trying to do is get better. Why do I have to be interrogated by these people. I am sick, for fucks sake!

Part of my orders was to write. Even if I hated what came out ... just keep writing until it becomes creative again. All of this black, sticky tar needs to get out of me. Through yoga and bike rides and camping trips and days at the beach... and with writing and slowing the hell down before I am a statistic that I don't want my kids to have to shoulder.

Until next rant ...