Mar 26, 2010

The Story of Me: Part 3

I have been struggling with whether or not I should put this out in the open for some time now. What I am about to write is about me, only a different me. One that is so far removed from myself today, something for which I am very grateful. I always want to tell the truth on my blog. I want to write and not hold back. This blog is for me: to remind me of where I have come from, what I have gone through, and what I will experience until my time here on this earth is up. I write about the funny stories of my past and present, but I also write about deeper, sometimes darker times in my life. This story details the darkest. Read Part 1 here, and Part 2 here.

Back to high school.  Back to insecurity and anxiety, and feeling like I was always on the periphery.  I decided that I didn't care: not about how anyone looked at me, or about what anyone thought of me.  I was doing this for me. 

After enrolling I got a call from the principal asking my mother and I to come to a meeting with him that week.  We went, not knowing what it was for.  We soon found out that because I had been expelled from the school almost FOUR years ago, I had a lot of paperwork to sign.  Paperwork that made me promise super sweet with a cherry on top that I would be good, and not ruin my teacher's lives.  GAWD.  So much for a clean slate right?

It was the first day and we were all supposed to find our names on big lists on the wall, to see which class was our homeroom.  My name was not on any of the lists.  They forgot to enroll me.  And if that wasn't deterring me at all, they kept telling me to come back the next day and they would have a spot for me, but they didn't.  For an entire week.  Was someone trying to tell me something?  Because I was not feeling accepted with open arms back to high school, when it was already one of the hardest decisions I had made at the time. 

It was the next week that I was finally placed into a class.  The class was already under way when I knocked on the door, explaining that I belonged there.  There was no desk fo me so I had to go and ask another teacher if she had an extra one, which I had to drag into the other room.  With EVERYONE staring at me.  So much for not feeling insecure.  Since my high school career had ben all over the place up to that point, I was in grade 10, 11, 12, and OAC classes.  Grade 10.  When I was almost 19-years-old.  Grade 10 where everyone is 14 or 15.  Sweet Jesus.  The worst part of this was that I was in my little brother's grade 10 math class.  I would ask him questions all the time and some of the other kids caught on and asked him if I was his girlfriend.  Seriously, this was not okay.

But, it wasn't all bad.  A lot of the same teacher's who told me I would end up in jail or dead were still there, and it was nice to show them that I hadn't given up.  It was a struggle.  It was hard to get back into the abnormal normalcy of high school, and at times it was embarrassing.  But I was on the honour roll.  I put my head down and ignored everything and worked my ass off.  I also met a great guy that I spent close to three years of my life with.  It was because of him that I learned what relationships SHOULD be like, and how people SHOULD treat each other.  He was my first glimpse of what the word 'healthy' meant when it comes to people being together, and I am forever grateful to him for that.  Of course with many things that come into being when two people are young, it ended.  But nicely.  Normally.  And we are still friends today.  So going back to high school wasn't a total write-off.  I was with good people, I made the honour roll and I got a scholarship to university.  Of which I got accepted to every single one I applied to.  Looks like I wasn't a write-off either, and it boosted my confidence to know that I pulled it off.

The rest is history.  I took a loooong time to finish university (5 years to complete a 3 year degree program), but I didn't care.  Figuring it took me 7 years to get through high school, I believe I came out ahead.  And really, what was the rush?  This has become my motto in life.  There is never any rush.  For anything. 

I graduated and I moved to a wonderful, vibrant city that I love.  I have a nice apartment and I like to eat, so it's nice that I can.  I have my family and friends and that is the most important thing in this world to me.  I am with an amazing person who I love with every fiber of my being and there is no rushing, only lots of love and respect, and laughing. 

I think I turned out alright.  I have learned a lot about life, and I have made mistakes and fixed them to the best of my ability.  What excites me to no end is that I have so much more to learn.

Mar 25, 2010

"You're SOO Weird!"

Yesterday I commented to a friend that I think Weird Al Yankovic is a god.  Here is just one more reason why this is the truth:


Wordless Wednesday: Update On Thursday

Scroll down a bit or click here to go to the post to read what actually happened in the picture.  Copyboy and Ally were the ones that came close by guessing that I looked 'concerned'!

Enjoy!

Mar 24, 2010

Tagged!

So I know I promised no more pictures of me (sigh) but Lisa over at The Domestication of A Party Girl (you should probably go and visit her because she is actually amazing) has made me 'it' in a fun photo tag game!

The rules are:

1.  Go into your first photo file and pick the 10th photo in it.
2.  Tell the story behind the photo.
3.  Tag five other people to do likewise.

So, here goes!


This was taken in Blackpool, England, at a fun place called Pleasure Beach.  A friend and I backpacked across the Northern part of England, and we both knew that Blackpool was a must see on our trip.  It has a roller coaster called The Big One.  Why? Because it was really, really BIG.  This was taken in the morning, right before we had gone on any rides and learned that British folk don't actually have any standards when it comes to ride safety.  Ha!  I am kidding.  But seriously, their rides are WAY scarier than our rides, due to lack of harnesses and speed limits.  Right after this picture was taken, I went on a easy ride and needed a shot of whiskey afterwards.  Which I gladly took.  And added a few more friends to the first in my bloodstream.  Liquid courage, huzzah!

Now I must tag 5 other folks in the game.  Here are my picks:





and last but certainly not least, Josh over at The Technical Parent

Tag! You're it!

Wordless Wednesday


So I decided to jump on the Wordless Wednesday boat.  Sue me.  Oh shit, you can?  Errr....I take that back then! Please don't sue me!

What do you think is going on in this picture?  I will let you know if you are right!  And that's enough pictures of me for a loooooong time.

UPDATE:  So I promised that I would tell everyone what is actually going on in this picture.  Dave had just bought me a Macbook Pro and I was fiddling around with all of it's applications.  There is one called 'Photobooth' where you press a button, it counts down from 3, and then it snaps your picture.  So, I clicked on the button, it began the countdown...and then I heard a scary noise outside the door that literally scared the crap out of me.  My image was captured right at the moment when my head whipped around and a loud gasp escaped my lips.

And there you have.  I was scared shitless in this photo.

Mar 23, 2010

A Picture, So It Happened


Me at 16.  Just so you guys have a visual of the problem child that was me.  Yep.  See? I really did have a shaved head (for some of you who's favourite line is"a picture or it never happened".  Right Ian?

Look at that fake smile.  I was such a jackass.  All my parents wanted was a nice school picture of their child, and this is what they got (taken when I attended alternative school).  In my grandmother's sweater, mind you.

Enjoy!

Be A Good Person. Or Something.

Back in 2005, I had to bear losing a family member.  I am not going to go into how I felt about that because obviously it was awful and hard, and I was sad.  Without sounding like a heartless wench, I am going to talk about something that happened to ME at the funeral.  Hate me yet?  Because I am going to whine.  WHINE!

As usual with dear old me, I am going to inject a little background into this post explaining a few things.  Yes, I just said 'inject'.  I am going straight to hell.

I spent almost my entire school career going to a Catholic school.  My parents are not particularly Catholic, they just thought it would teach us some discipline.  Huh.  Or NOT.  As we have all seen in this social experiment they call their middle child.  Did I win the prize mom?  Dad....?

Anyway, even though I went to a Catholic school, I did not ever abide by the religion.  Not because I find anything wrong with it, I just live by a complicated and ancient adage which states one thing only:  BE A GOOD PERSON.  I try to do this whenever I can.  We all know I strayed when I was younger and I learned from that.  Sometimes I stray now, but nobody is perfect.  Especially the middle child.  We are allowed a little leeway when it comes to the straying, we would turn to dust without it.

So even though I do not practice any religious customs, I am still very familiar with those in the Catholic religion.  I mean, I used to recite an entire Mass under my breath in a nasally voice along with the priest, in order to make my friends laugh.  Oh crap, did I just admit that?  I mean I NEVER did that!  I knew how long my kilt was supposed to be in high school, we were made to get on our knees in front of the principal if he noticed they were too short on his hallway prowls.  To prove that it touched the ground people.  Jeez.

But I digress.  What I am trying to say is that I know the rules.  I know how to dress appropriately in a church.  I have stopped taking the Eucharist, being a non-practicing Catholic, but I remember how to, more so than most things in this life.  So I decided that in order to please my more Catholic family members, I would not be selfish this one time and practice the Mass the way I was always taught to.  By standing when I should, praying when I should, and taking in the body of Christ.  It was hard, I know, but I did it.

It was the Summer time and it was hot.  One of the hottest Summer's I can remember.  So I was wearing a black dress that bared my shoulders.  I made sure to suffer through the heat and cover myself with an old lady shawl.  None of my tattoos were sneaking cameos, I was not wailing too loudly.  I was sitting in a row with my siblings and significant others, and I was the only person in that row partaking in the Mass. To please my family.  

The priest doing the funeral Mass was one of those old school cranky models, the kind that find their strength in religious indignation, only happy to see a person crumble under their booming voice declaring that we are all going to HELL! And if you do not live your life as a Catholic and a Catholic only, well he felt sorry for you and he would twitter his fingers and leer at you from above when you are in HELL.  

When it came time to receive the Eucharist, I stood in line and patiently waited my turn.  My sister, who was also plainly in this man's view and who was NOT being an active participant in the entire  Mass (that a-hole, she is super hot and wraps everyone around her finger, even priests), was ahead of me.  She demurely held her hands out to Father Hell and Damnation, and he gently placed the little disk of bread on her palms.  She whispered an 'Amen' and it was my turn.  I stepped forward and held my hands out just like I had a thousand times before.  The priest was busy retrieving another piece of bread from the bowl.  He looked up, holding the piece of Jesus's body up in the air....and then he LOOKED at me.  Like, as in, up and down.  In disgust.  Telling me with his eyes he believed me to be a heathen and a succubus.  A messenger of Satan and all that is from HELL.  And then he walked away from me, COMPLETELY SHAFTING me of my desire to please my family.  Sigh.

What did I do?  What did he see on my face?  Was he there that day when I was 12-years-old and was waiting for a friend's dad in church, and I was REALLY hungry so I went and stole the tupperware container full of the body of Christ and I ate it all?  Yes, they keep that kind of stuff in tupperware.  What were you expecting, a golden chalice blessed with the holiest waters of the holy?  

Hmm...perhaps my admitting that does not place a favourable light on my person.  How did Father Hell and Damnation SEE this?  Perhaps he was right in turning me away.  Maybe he saw the devil in my eyes, or maybe I would have burst into flames when I placed the wafer on my tongue.  There WAS that one time that I walked into a church and stuck my fingers into the aspersory (the bowl that holds the holy water), and you know what happened?  Sparks flew from my fingers as soon as I touched it.  I am not shitting you.  My brother saw it too.

Who knew my mother had her very own Rosemary's baby?

Mar 22, 2010

The Story of Me: Part 2

I have been struggling with whether or not I should put this out in the open for some time now.  What I am about to write is about me, only a different me.  One that is so far removed from myself today, something for which I am very grateful.  I always want to tell the truth on my blog.  I want to write and not hold back.  This blog is for me: to remind me of where I have come from, what I have gone through, and what I will experience until my time here on this earth is up.  I write about the funny stories of my past and present, but I also write about deeper, sometimes darker times in my life.  This story details the darkest.  Read Part 1 of the story here. 

And home we went.  It's crazy how big an impression that city made on me.  I would eventually go back there when I went to University.  It was my first choice school and it was a hard one to get into, but I did it.  My way.

I had procured a kitten while living in our little apartment on Park Street.  He came with me.  Sonic was his name.  I think it was good for me to have a little responsibility in my life.  I continued to do drugs for a while under my parents roof.  Believe me when I say that they had no clue.  When you do it as much as I did, for as long as I did, it becomes a normal part of your daily life.  They thought I was weird, sure, but never on any drugs.  At least, that's what I thought.

I was spending my days reading, sleeping, and laying up in my dark bedroom.  This went on for a few months before my parents told me that I either had to go back to school, or get a job.  I agreed that I would go back to school but only on one condition: I choose the type of school I attended.  No more regular classroom for me.  I hated it.  So we began doing research into alternative schools.  I went to an interview at one school, and the guy who ran it was an asshole.  I needed a nurturing soul not a drill seargant.  Not for me.  My mom set up a meeting at an alternative school named Genesis.  We were about to meet the two teachers that worked there when I got cold feet.  I told my mom I didn't think I could do it.  I couldn't go back.  Not after all that time.  I was scared.  She looked me straight in the eye, squared her shoulders and said, "That's fine. When we get home you can pack your clothes and leave".  I had never seen her so serious in my life.  It scared me even more.  She knew I didn't want to go back out there.  I was just a kid.  Later when I was in my 20s, my mom told me that was one of the hardest things she had to say to me at the time.  Because she knew she was taking a gamble.  She knew that it could go either way with me; that I would have taken her up on it and she would lose me again.  Possibly for good this time.  Her little girl.  Mom 1, Kato 0.

I attended Genesis for almost 2 years, until I was 17.  In that time I met a friend named M, who also attended the school.  M was my age and had a daughter who was a year old.  She had been living on the streets for a long time, heavy into drugs when she became pregnant.  She instantly moved back home to have the baby.  When I met her she was a beautiful young lady, with a secure head on her shoulders.  I knew I would learn a lot from her.  She was far away from that girl who slept on sidewalks, and I was amazed at her inner strength and what an absolute wonderful mother she was to her daughter.  I started spending a few days at a time at her house, as it was closer to the school then my parents house, which was an hour's drive away.  Eventually I 'lived' at her house from Monday to Friday, visiting my own family on weekends.  I lived that way on and off for a year or so.  It was cleansing.  It helped me to repair my relationship with my folks.  I stopped doing drugs.  I ripped the heavy blankets off of my bedroom window, and I let that sun shine in until I was blinded by it.  I wanted to start over.  Seeing the strength that M had, I knew I could do it too.  She helped me see that anyone can change, any way they want to. 

After two years at Genesis, I knew my time there was done.  I had grown enough to know that I could make it somewhere else.  Beside's, the school I went to was only supposed to be for a few months, a time for a person to get back on their feet and move on, and I had been there for 2 years!  I dropped out again and continued my studies from home, but it was a slow process.  I got a full time job as a nanny to three kids, which humbled me and made me grow up a little bit more.  I worked with that family for a little over a year when I decided, at 18-years-old, it was time to take another stab at high school.  'Normal' high school.  My worst nightmare.

End of part 2

Mar 21, 2010

Cute Sunday

As you all might be aware, I am currently on the prowl for an apartment.  I love the apartment I am in, but it is time to downgrade (not in quality, just monetarily).  So in order to curb the frustrations of the actual hunt, something I don't find very fun, I like to look at things that I would put into my apartment that make me happy.  Here are some of those things:


I am really liking bright, happy colours these days.  Coming from a girl who used to be called Lydia Deets in high school, that says a lot regarding how much my tastes have changed.  Isn't that little yellow lamp adorable?


Those little bird vases are seriously awesome.  So is the chestnut secret box and the books clock.  A books clock! Be still my beating heart!


Okay.  I am not sure I can even begin to talk about how amazing all three of these things are.  Spoons with strawberries on them that resemble baby spoons, but are for adults.  YEAH RIGHT.  Yes please!  And ice cream bowls with scoops of strawberry, vanilla and chocolate decorating the inside of the bowl?   I would probably be anal and only eat the flavours of ice cream that went along with the picture in the bowl.  That would be fun to me, so I am guessing I don't think outside the box much.  And HOLY HELL THOSE ARE SPACE INVADER ICE TRAYS!  I don't even need to say anything else regarding those because they are just awesome.  

See how excited I get about all these little things?

Mar 19, 2010

The Story of Me: Part 1

I have been struggling with whether or not I should put this out in the open for some time now.  What I am about to write is about me, only a different me.  One that is so far removed from myself today, something for which I am very grateful.  I always want to tell the truth on my blog.  I want to write and not hold back.  This blog is for me: to remind me of where I have come from, what I have gone through, and what I will experience until my time here on this earth is up.  I write about the funny stories of my past and present, but I also write about deeper, sometimes darker times in my life.  This story details the darkest.  

I tried my first drug when I was 11-years-old.  I remember that the plan that night was for all of us to pitch in five dollars for some beer.  I know: what the hell is an 11-year-old doing drinking beer?  I hung out with older people, but they were not old enough to know better to be careful, to watch out for younger, impressionable kids.

When the beer didn't arrive, I got anxious.  I thought I had lost my five dollars, and some of the people I was with were acting a bit secretive.  We were moving from dingy house to dingy house, and I was just following, not really paying attention to exactly what was going on around me.  Maybe that was my problem.

It was starting to get dark.  We were at a some guys house when I was asked those fateful words that would change my life for the next few years: "Have you ever tried acid?".  Acid?  I didn't even know what that was.  I had never even heard of it.  I shook my head.  The older boy whose house I was at placed a small tab of paper on my tongue and told me to suck on it.  I didn't even question it.

After a while things started going very fast.  My brain would not stop going around in circles, things were fuzzy.  I didn't know what was happening to me.  It was dark and scary.  An older girl asked me to come over to where she was standing and she kicked me.  Hard, in the crotch.  I thought I was dying from the inside out.  Someone poured an entire bottle of coke over my head and it got into my eyes.  I felt blind.  I wandered around the streets all night, eventually sleeping in a park until I was ok to go home.

I smoked hash for the first time on my twelfth birthday.  We hot-boxed the car and I went home and ate a popsicle.  I was so high that I had orange drool hanging from my chin and I didn't even know it.  

Eventually it became an everyday occurrence.  I would smoke weed before and after school when I was in high school.  My drug of choice was acid.  I started to skip in the 9th grade, but not enough to get me into any real trouble.  In the 10th grade I skipped over 200 times.  That was essentially my whole year.  When I was in class I had to ask a friend to pen mark the lines on my paper because I couldn't see them.  My teacher would ask who was smoking the stinky cigars.  It got to be too much to handle, to pretend like I was normal everyday, and I quit going to class.  No wonder I got expelled.

A 'friend' of mine gave me a joint one day and told me to enjoy.  I should have known better.  People who do drugs don't just give them away for free.  I was naive.  So I smoked that crack, unbeknownst to me.  I had to go shoe shopping with my mom afterwards and I kept nodding out.  She kept asking me if I was sick.  Enjoy indeed.  That bastard was trying to get me hooked.  Thank god it scared me too much to want to try it again, but it could have gone the other way as well.  In a heartbeat.  

Drugs made me paranoid.  So in order to curb my paranoia, I did more drugs.  The cycle is a vicious beast.  I quickly spiralled into a deep depression, and everyone saw the change in me, including my doctor.  She recommended to my mom that I go to a 'facility' for problem kids, one that would be nurturing and help get me back on my feet.  That facility was in the dark basement of a big hospital; one where we got locked into our rooms every night and were not allowed to leave the floor.  It was a psych ward.  I did not belong there.  People there were seasoned heroin users, some were veteran pathological liars.  Kids.  Like me.  Many of them were on so many meds they could barely speak.  I was not.  I was completely and utterly aware of my surroundings.  I rebelled.  We were not allowed any sharp objects and there were no mirrors.  Somehow we got a hold of a safety pin and some ink.  I wanted a tattoo.  That guaranteed a swift exit from that place as I broke an important rule.  I would have broken it a thousand times in order to be free from there.

But I was only home for a little while after that.  My sister and I left and moved to a city four hours away from my parents.  We couldn't get jobs.  I was 15-years-old.  We ended up on welfare.  We were hungry a lot of the time.  We hit rock bottom when we were expecting a welfare cheque and it never arrived.  We called the welfare office and they said that they had sent it.  We were making our last box of Kraft Dinner, wondering what we were going to steal later that day in order to eat, when we received a phone call telling us that someone had stolen our cheque out of our mail box and was trying to cash it.  That was the last straw.  It was time to go home.

End of part 1.

Mar 15, 2010

In Ten Years...

I was tagged by some wonderful people (there were a lot of you!) to describe where I want to be in ten years.  Where I see myself, if you will.  So here is my projection of what I will be up to in ten years:

1. I will most likely be in Paris at one of my summer houses. I will have them all over the world.

2.  I will be super rich, if you couldn't guess from numero uno.  But it won't be money I earned, it will have just been handed to me.  Probably on a silver platter, with a tiny little silver spoon beside it.

3.  I will have aged VERY well.  *wink wink*

4.  I will only eat from the most expensive restaurants and drink the finest wines.  I will probably complain about how gross and low rent it all is.

5.  Dave and I will be jetsetters, taking off to wherever tickles our fancy for that week (or day).

6.  I will have under my employ: a chef, a personal trainer, a plastic surgeon, a flurry of cleaning personnel, a stylist, a personal shopper, someone who feeds me grapes, and someone who holds my umbrella. 

7.  I will have a driver that I order to go places, decide I don't want to be there, and then yell at him for not being able to read my indecisive mind. 

8.   I will have children, only to have them raised by nannies.

9.  I will have the fame and glory of a rockstar...just for going to rehab. 

10.  I will make sure the paparazzi take pictures of me getting out of a car.  In a dress.  With no underwear on.

What?  Isn't that what everyone wants?

Mar 12, 2010

The Great Powder Fight of 1990

At ten years old, I was already practicing my surly teenager skills.  I didn't want anyone touching my stuff, and nobody was allowed in my room.  So when I walked into my bedroom one evening and found my older sister lounging on the top bunk of my bunkbed, I went from zero to pissed in no time.

Let me paint a picture for you:  I was 10, my sister was 14.  My mother worked two jobs at the time and the only sleep to be had for the poor woman was in the evening.  Which was about the time I discovered my (already fully practiced) surly sister laying back with her head propped up on a pillow, on my bunkbed.  Grrr.

As quietly as can be so as not to wake my mother in the next room, I growled, "Get out of my room", to which she responded with a heaving sigh and a "Mmm.  No thanks".  Gotta love teenagers right?  Our conversation after that went a little like this:

Me:  Seriously Krista, get out of my room.

Her:  Are you going to make me?

Me:  When I scream loud enough to wake the dead, you will be in trouble.

Her:  Yeeeaahahh. Go for it.

It was the eye rolling that got to me.  I spoke a little louder, telling her to go away.  She was lanquidly petting our black cat Licorice, pretending not to hear me.  I grabbed a gigantic bottle of baby powder off my dresser and threatened the cat with it.

"If you don't leave I am going to sprinkle baby powder on Licorice!"

She countered my move by grabbing the second huge bottle of powder off my dresser (WTF was with me and baby powder?).  She told me if I put some on the cat, she would pour baby powder all over me.  We were at a standstill.  Both of us pointing our respective bottles at each other, like in an old western. 

And then, she squeezed.

Powder ripped out of the bottle at breakneck speed and poofed directly into my face.  That bitch.  That was the action I needed to let me know that IT WAS ON.

We then proceeded to get into the Great Powder Fight of 1990 in my tiny little room.  We were laughing and carrying on, shooting powder at each other and covering the room in white.  And I mean literally.  We were white from head to toe, the cat was white, the floor was white...everything in that room was full of dusty powder.  We were spluttering and coughing, calling each other all the horrible names we could think of and giggling about it, when we heard a knock on the door.

Uh oh.  My mother: who we had woken up from the only sleep to be had for her that evening.   She asked us what we were doing and we replied simultaneously with "Nothing!".  She could hear the lie in our voices and began to open the door.  We looked at each other in horror.  We were done for, she was going to FREAK. 

She opened the door, sleepy-eyed and angry-looking.  My sister and I were standing in the middle of the bright white room, looking like tiny old people before our time.  She looked around the room, looked at us, and said,

"I don't know what you two are up to in here, but please keep it down".

And with that she shut the door on us, leaving us wide-eyed and amazed that she hadn't noticed the winter wonderland we were currently standing in the middle of.  Poor mama, she was so tired her brain hadn't registered what we had done. 

We spent the next two hours quietly cleaning my room, getting powder off the bed covers, the cat, ourselves and even in the cracks of the hardwood floor.  We worked in silence, but every once in a while we would glance at each other and giggle, bound in our knowledge that we had just shared something special, something that only we knew about.  One of the many things that get's put into the bottomless sister vault, binding you ever tighter with your knowledge of each other's secrets.  The kind of thing that we would hold close to our hearts forever, and cherish to our graves.

Mar 9, 2010

Just Wanted To Share This With You

The girl in this exchange is ME (click on it to make it bigger!)


This is so true guys. 

Joy In Lime Green

I am really enjoying the colour green right now.  Specifically this shade of green:


How delightfully happy.  I am thinking that in my new apartment (which I am still on the hunt for), I am going to incorporate this colour somewhere.  That's right folks: actually PAINT my apartment the colours I want it.  I know right?  The Queen of Hating Painting wants to paint something and not live with whayever colour is already on the wall.  That hurricane you just experienced? That was me screaming and throwing a tantrum, thinking about painting.


Ok.  This picture hurts my eyes but it is wonderfully bright.  And although I do not think I would ever own a couch in that particular shade, I DID own a couch in the exact same shade as the orange on the wall behind it.


I love this plate.  The colours are gorgeous together!


I would sit in that chair all day and stare out that window.  And then I would look down and see my pretty lime green chair and I would be happy as can be!


Well hello there.  I might eat one or two of you.  For Easter.  For the sake of the occasion, becuse I might be a bad person if I didn't.

I hope everyone is enjoying some Spring-like weather today!

Mar 8, 2010

RIP, Mark Linkous

You will be greatly missed.  When I heard the news I was shocked.  But at the same time, not really.  It's not like you had never tried to kill yourself before.


I just wish you didn't have to go.  You single-handedly revived my love of music.  You inspired and influenced so many artists and fans alike.  You were one of a kind.


I am glad that I got to see you play a show before you died.  I am glad that I was able to feel giddy when you brushed by me on the way to the bathroom.  And I am glad that Dave was able to share in that washroom experience with you.

RIP Mark.  You will live on in people's ears and hearts.

Mar 5, 2010

Foot, Meet Mouth

When I was wee lass of thirteen, my parents decided it would be a hilarious joke to move in the middle of the school year.  From a bustling city centre to the COUNTRY mind you.  I went from doing drugs on the street to sitting with the cows, telling them how beautiful they were.  Messed up, I know, but the truth. 

I started at my new school on the wrong foot.  Not even on a foot, an arm, it was so wrong.  I was in grade seven, it was about my second or third day.  I was standing at the back of the field by myself, trying to not look conspicuous and embarrassed, when I noticed a HUGE group of grade seven and eights marching my way.  I pretended not to notice, but alas, they were honed in on me.  The leader of the group was a girl named J, one of the most popular girls in the 7-8 class.  She marched right up to me and asked,

"Did you call me a bitch?"

"Umm...no.  Why would I do that?  I don't even know you", I said, trying not to poo in my pants and trying to look tough.

"Well my friends here said you called me a bitch.  Are you calling them liars?"

Oh my god! What the hell do I say to that?  I am backed into a corner and I can see any notion of popularity I may have entertained slowly being deflated.  I uttered a meek 'No' and hoped that they would just go away.  She snickered and said, "Well, I think you called me a bitch, when YOU'RE the bitch.  We don't like city folk around here so why don't you just go back where you came from?"

I know right?  She didn't just say that.  Only she did, and my nightmare of being trapped in a hillbilly town of pitchforks and dirty slaughterhouses was coming true.  Who wants to get drunk and drive around in a pick up truck?  Oh, sign me up for that Bobby Sue. 

So, I spent the next year and a half hanging out with the 'losers'.  But you know what?  Losers are actually pretty fucking awesome people.  The 'loser' crowd is where everyone goes if they are too smart, play video games, and listen to good music.  We are shunned at school but our parties are AWESOME. 

It was around the middle of grade eight that people started noticing that maybe I wasn't such a 'loser' by their standards.  They were starting to catch on that all of us 'losers' might actually be kind of cool.  So quickly our groups merged and everyone was friends.  It was a really fun time.  We all partied together, and the popular girls learned how awesome the 'geeky' boys really were.  They make REALLY good boyfriends.  The popular boys found out they couldn't easily get into the loser girls' pants, but hey, we could all talk about video games together!

It was at this time that J and I became friends too.  I told her that I never called her a bitch and she said she knew that.  People like to make shit up.  I learned she was a really nice person and cared deeply about her friends.  

We were still shy and tentative friends when our grade eight graduation day came.  The whole class was bonded as one huge group of friends and there was such an aura of happy energy around all of us.  We posed for a class picture and headed into the church for the ceremony.  J and I happened to be sitting beside each other because of our last names.  We were just taking our seats when I noticed HIM.  He was like a god.  Older, wearing leather pants and a vest.  Chin length hair.  He was beautiful.  Obviously much older than me (much) but a girl can drool right?  And drool I did.  J asked me at one point who I kept turning around to look at and I told her that THE hottest man was sitting behind us and that I would DIE to kiss him (I was young and had NO experience with guys  I just SAID stuff like that, don't worry).  I kept turning back to glance at him the whole time, barely paying attention to when my name was called and I had to walk up to the stage to recieve my diploma.  

After the ceremony was over, I babbled on and on to J about the hottie.  On and on.  Finally she asked me to point him out to her among the multitude of people.  I pointed and explained what he was wearing, telling her he was honestly the foxiest man I had ever seen. 

She stood on tiptoe to see who I was pointing at.  A look of horror slowly crept over her face when she saw who I had been carrying on about.  A look of humiliation dawned on mine.  I already knew what she was going to say:

"That's disgusting Katherine! That's my father!"

Thankfully we stayed friends.  Regretably, I never, EVER lived that one down. 

Mar 3, 2010

The Conversation Every Parent Dreads

The sex one.  I am sure anyway.  I am not a parent and therefore I am no expert as to how awkward that conversation must be, but I do remember ALL TOO CLEARLY having it with my parents.  Oh god.

Now, I was very, very lucky.  My parents were quite liberal when it came to sex.  Only the talking about it part.  At least, that's what I tell myself whenever a nasty thought about my parents sex life happens to pop up in my sick, sick mind.  Come on, it happens to you too!  It just did, didn't it?  Believe me, I know that they do, I have even talked to them about it which has left DEEP scars on my psyche.  But, my point is that my parents were open with us about sex.  They always told us that they know teenagers have sex and they would rather put their kids on birth control and teach them about respecting themselves and a potential partner, then have them pregnant at 15 with a 'ruined future'.  I realize that this is probably a pretty controversial subject with many parents, and many parents would rather a) pretend that their child would never do such a thing, b) they would absolutely forbid their child to have sex until they were 18-years-old and hope that this stern warning would work, or c) lock their kid up when they noticed all those horny little teens sniffing around their door.

I have no idea how I would react to this because like I said, I am not a parent.  I would hope that I would be like my parents and let my kids know that it was safe to come to me when they became sexually active.  Although at this point I lean towards option C.  I would lock them up and throw away the key.  No, I would swallow the key.  And keep swallowing it until they were old enough.  Which in my mind, would be never.

I bring this topic up because of that damn show 16 And Pregnant on MTV.  How is there an ENTIRE show about kids who are that young and pregnant?  Please do not think that I am judging, because I am not.  I have 'nieces' out there who wouldn't be here if some of my friends had not decided to keep their children when they were young and pregnant.  So how is it that these parents were not aware that their child was having sex?  I would know.  I would know if they were 10,000 miles away because my parent radar would be ringing and flashing intense red lights across the world, and I would sniff them out like a blood hound.

My sister did not tell my parents when she started having sex,  They just knew.  So when they asked her if it was time to go on birth control, what could she say?  She was busted.  It would have been stupid of her at that point to deny it because they were offering her what every teenager wants:  FREEDOM.  When it came down to my turn, I was almost eighteen.  And I still told my mother about it as if I had killed someone.  She laughed at me and made a doctor's appointment.  Which my mostly traditional European father took me to.  When the appointment was over (you know what I am talking about ladies), he asked me if EVERYTHING WAS OK.  I died.  

So what is your take on this?  I know a lot of you folks are parents out there.  Would you be like my parents and teach your kids about safety and respect, or would you tell your kids that sex made things fall off and they should just avoid it altogether?

All I Want For Wednesday Is...

A writing desk in the sunshine.  Like this one:


I would make a cup of herbal tea and I would enjoy the early Summer morning, when the grass was still wet with dew, and birds are busy gathering their breakfast.


I would read until the sun was hot on my neck, and replace the tea with a cold glass of homemade iced tea.  My day would be full of sunshine and little green bugs.


I love the colour of the desk above.  It makes me want a red desk now.  If I can't have a desk out in the middle of a field, this one would be neat:



It a more urban take on enjoying the outdoors, and siphoning creativity from the sunbeams and spores floating through the air.  Even if you can hear the roar of traffic the next road over.  This desk is interesting:


How would you spend your morning if you didn't have to work?  Or take care of kids, which is also work?  What would you do if you had every morning to yourself?

Mar 2, 2010

A Little Housekeeping, A Few Bruises

Well hi there.  Long time no see.  I have been a wee bit absent as of late due to outside circumstances, as well as a few internal ones as well.  I have been battling the end of the winter blues, and for those who know me, they have been brutal this year.  I am hoping that the bright ball in the sky will lift my spirits and shake off the dreariness I have been experiencing extra amounts of in the past few weeks.  

Having said that, I am also in change mode.  I have been talking about big changes in my life lately on here in regards to my job and my apartment.  We pay a lot of rent and now that Dave has lost his job, it's time to down-size.  But you know what?  I think we wanted to already (LOVE this apartment, but we have just been getting by because of the expense of the place.  I want more out of my life than a big apartment, you know?), and this has been our kick in the ass to do so.  Once I get to thinking about doing something, it consumes me.  So I have been spending time doing a lot of thinking, tweaking, balancing and swearing.  Stress: brings out my inner truck driver.  I guess I am apologizing for being so absent, because I have missed you guys, and have been doing what I can to read your blogs and comment.  I will get caught up if it kills me.  I am not kidding.

So, now that that is out of the way, I wanted to extend a VERY warm welcome to all my new followers!  I an over at The Daily Dose of Reality (who is amazing and wonderful and you would be foolish not to click on that link above) had a bit of a contest last Friday where he listed five of his favourite posts of the week and had people vote on the best.  For some strange, unbelievable reason, I won.  I was up against some of the best bloggers (and people) I know, and their posts made me laugh, cry, and bow in the greatness that is them.  Hence why I am not sure what happened there.  A glitch?  The universe was aligned that day?  Was there a full moon and people went crazy?  I have no clue.  So I just wanted to take the time out to thank Ian and urge you all to check out the other contenders because they are the reason I blog and they are my inspiration.  Here they are in no particular order:

Bendigo at Bendigo's Rage



Samantha over at Apple Juice & Milk

And there you have it.  I know that a lot of you already follow these folks, but if you have yet to check them out, please do.  They are all phenomenal.

I also have a few awards to post here that have been handed my way over the past few days.  The people that gave them to me are exceptional human beings and their blogs are on par with their human being status.  Geof at Enter the Man-Cave gave me this little ditty that I think is one my favourite's to date:


The Zombie Rabbit Award!  How amazing is this one, really?  I want to give this one to two people, Kristy at This Train of Thought Has Been Derailed and Josh at The Technical Parent.  If we were rabbit zombie's I would want them to be on my team.  Kristy because she would be a resourceful zombie, and Josh because he has seen all the movies and would be in the know as to which zombie bars to go to.  You know how it is.

Jenna over at JennAventures was wonderfully sweet to give me these awards:


Since I have already been given the Best Followers Award once before, I am going to quietly accept it and not answer the questions.  There are only so many times you can read all about little old me!  I do though, want to offer the award up to EVERYONE who follows me.  Seriously, just accept it guilt free and place it on your blog under spotlights and marquees.  And THANK YOU!

The other award, the "You're going places, baby" award, I want to love and covet.  Because then I can hand it out later under my own discretion and care to the blogs that I love and cherish so much.

So thank you Jenna and Geof!  I appreciate it more than you know.  And everyone else, go check them out.  Their blogs are entertaining and amazing at the same time.  Why wouldn't you pay a visit?

Other than that, nothing to report.  I am getting caught up on my blog reading, and I am nursing a pretty crappy bruise that I received when I went on a date with a standard blood test yesterday.  The needle tried to get a little fresh with me and I resisted.  Want to see it?  No?  Well here it is anyway because if someone asked me if I wanted to see it I would say yes because I like things that are gross.  So here you are:


And again, just in case you were not satisfied with the first one:


I know right?  Yeesh.  The sad thing is that this is not the worst bruise I have ever had from a blood test. One of the downfalls of having extra fair skin.  Damn my mother whose fair skin gene was passed on to me instead of my father's European dark ones.  

So this is where I am right now folks.  I am taking a bit more time to write, a bit more time to comment, and a lot more time to figure my shit out.  I am still around though, don't you worry!