Wednesday, December 21, 2005

Stolen advice but valid

I recieved this as an email today. Ever hear something that rang so loudly with the truth you couldn't shake it? This did that for me.

Merry Christmas Everyone.

Let it go for 2006 ..

By T. D. Jakes

There are people who can walk away from you.
And hear me when I tell you this! When people can walk away from you: let them walk.
I don't want you to try to talk another person into staying with you, loving you, calling you, caring about you, coming to see you, staying attached to you. I mean hang up the phone.
When people can walk away from you let them walk. Your destiny is never tied to anybody that left.

The bible said that, they came out from us that it might be made manifest that they were not for
us. For had they been of us, no doubt they would have continued with us. [1 John 2:19]
People leave you because they are not joined to you. And if they are not joined to you, you can't make them stay.

Let them go.

And it doesn't mean that they are a bad person it just means that their part in the story is over.

And you've got to know when people's part in your story is over so that you don't keep trying to raise the dead.

You've got to know when it's dead.

You've got to know when it's over. Let me tell you something. I've got the gift of good-bye. It's the tenth spiritual gift, I believe in good-bye. It's not that I'm hateful, it's that I'm faithful, and I know whatever God means for me to have He'll give it to me. And if it takes too much sweat I don't need it. Stop begging people to stay.

Let them go!!

If you are holding on to something that doesn't belong to you and was never intended for your life,

then you need to......


If you are holding on to past hurts and pains ......


If someone can't treat you right, love you back, and
see your worth.....


If someone has angered you ........

If you are holding on to some thoughts of evil and revenge......

If you are involved in a wrong relationship or addiction......


If you are holding on to a job that no longer meets your needs or talents .


If you have a bad attitude.......


If you keep judging others to make yourself feel better......


If you're stuck in the past and God is trying to take you to a new level in Him......


If you are struggling with the healing of a broken relationship.......


If you keep trying to help someone who won't even try to help themselves......


If you're feeling depressed and stressed .........


If there is a particular situation that you are so used to handling yourself and God is saying "take your hands off of it," then you need to......


Let the past be the past. Forget the former things. GOD is doing a new thing for 2006 !!!


Get Right or Get Left .. think about it, and then ..


Sunday, December 18, 2005

Chronicles of Narnia

Forget Simba... Aslan RULES!

Together with my 9 yo, 4 yo and my son's 20 yo girlfriend I took in Chronicles of Narnia today.

Took it in... that's about what I did. I haven't inhaled a movie like this in a while.

It took me a few minutes to orient on the story, as I'm more familiar with The Magician's Nephew than The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. We have listened to the books on tape version so I do know the story, although unlike another (soon enough to be) 7 book series I don't know it *cold*.

I was pleased that the sound level wasn't overwhelming. I guess I'm really getting old, and dislike to be bombarded by sound. The bombing is quite startling enough without it blasting you with a wall of sound. With the train scene, I took a moment to whisper to the 9 yo about how the children were being sent to the country for safety. After that about all we exchanged were mostly looks of delight and one very dismayed crumpling face (from her) at *THAT* point, however a bit of judiciously applied motherly assurance, (Don't worry, he's in the other books) which was met with incredulity, (That's IMPOSSIBLE) took care of that part. Although more than one tear was shed by each of us then.

Over all a great film, one most definitely to be purchased and rewatched at length. We'll await the DVD with anticipation and unbridled impatience if I know my kids.

And Aslan? He's EVERYTHING one could ask for in a CGI lion *GRIN*. I particularly loved the way his mane was done. The cheetahs are great too. Not to mention the unicorn, Phillip, Tomas and the beavers... ah yes... the beavers. Oh and can't forget the fox, nor the wolves either. All yummy. All anyone who believes in anthropromorphism could desire in an animal or twelve. However, the siberian white tigers were on the wrong side, *harumph*.

Friday, October 21, 2005

It's that time of the year...

Whilst out running errands today I found myself at the local Esso, needing air in an annoying tire and since I was there (and in need of some legitimate daydreaming time) decided to pop in and pick up some lottery tickets.

As I entered the store my eye fell upon an older couple. I’d noticed them walking ahead of me but when the gentleman turned to face me and smile, I took note of his royal blue blazer. On his left chest were a number of beribboned medals. I wish I could tell you what each one stood for but 1. Sadly, I don’t know. (I’m working on rectifying that) and 2. I didn’t get that good a look as I was more interested in studying his face as we chatted. I smiled and said, oh yes, it’s that time of year isn’t it? He nodded and agreed that summer had passed us by as its usual speed of light appearance and disappearance.

Ordinary waiting in line conversation for Canadians; chatting about the weather. As we spoke the people in front of us concluded their business and they gestured me forward. I said oh no, you’re ahead of me (more Canadian line etiquette in action :P). Besides I added, I’m only buying lottery tickets, your business is more important than mine. Pshaw, he says, I’m not important. I have to tell you, my eyes filled with tears and I stroked his arm. You’re awfully important to me, I replied and gave his arm a squeeze. I did go ahead then, as it was getting awfully cloying in there, GRIN.

As I sat in my car afterwards I was a little ashamed of myself. I really wanted to go back in and give this man a hug and thank him properly. I’ll go by later today and buy a poppy to wear. I think that maybe this weekend I’ll pop in to the legion and have a few beers, throw a game of darts or two and talk with some of the veterans there. Maybe I’ll get my chance to thank one or two of them too.

Go buy your poppy today, teach your children why you wear one and you know what, when November 11th passes by, leave the poppy on your coat or hat or visor and remember when you see it. This isn’t a once a year thing. And if you get to hug a veteran on a regular basis, give them one for me, will ya?

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

“I am Woman, hear me roar…” …or whine…

There is an awful lot of worship of the girly girl going on around me these days. I’m starting to look at the grass over there and think that a few mouthfuls might just be a tasty treat.

Alright, now that I’ve compared myself to a cow O.o Let’s get on with this.

I used to thrive on being the self-sufficient type. I liked being the one who killed the spider, shooed the mouse outside, changed my own flat tires, put up my own drywall, taped and mudded it and then sanded, painted and finished the room. I’ve cleaned horse stalls for a living, working on the race track and being the only one on the crew who could handle the studs I had 7 studs and one cantankerous old mare on my string. As well as receiving the respect of all the other grooms for it. It was good being that person. Mostly it is good being that person. I remember enjoying being that person…

Sensing a change in the air that doesn’t feel like fall?


I really did enjoy being that person at one time. However, when I look at my rough worn hands, feel the crick in my back and can’t escape the smell of paint cleaner that hangs about me, I’m starting to think that maybe this isn’t what I signed on for. Strangely enough I don’t mind the smell of the horse manure.

I detest girly girls. I don’t want to be a girly girl…but sometimes… the grass looks pretty darned green over there…

I’m thinking it might be nice to be the delicate beauty that all the guys (and gals) flock to when she sighs. It definitely would be cool to not be the one crawling in under the sink with the hammer to try to flatten er chase the mouse. Fainting at the sight of a spider would be okay, so long as no one expected me to climb up on the chair and squish it into a tissue. Of course, under the condition that the Fabio clone, Marlboro Man version caught me gently in his arms instead of hitting the floor. Clunk!

I know that at least a couple of friends of mine will roll their eyes and mutter about whining if they were to read this, but you know what? TOUGH frozen titties.

I’m sick of being expected to do all the tough chick shit and the obviously not so tough chicks sit around and collect all the baubles and accolades and attenion. Next time you look at a tough chick, take a good look at her hands, and her hair.

Check out that manicure…guess what guys, that costs anywhere from $35 to $50 a month to maintain. Oh, don’t forget the hair? That will cost an easy $80-120 every six weeks not counting the dye job. There’s likely a pedicure in there every few months, too. But since I’ve never had one in my life I have no idea how much they are.

Low maintenance my ass :P. $200 plus every 8 weeks, hah.

Bitter? Yes, just a touch.

Why so cranky, you ask? This isn’t something new, or sudden in my life. Most of the time I’m quite content to leave things the way they are. Or it’s possible that it’s just less hassle than trying to change it.

This is like being the nice guy, and always being the friend instead of the hero who gets the girl. It’s one of life’s little imbalances that everyone says will even out in the end, but it never really does. The nice guys and real girls end up with the short end as often as not, regardless of how well their lives turn out and how many of God’s unanswered prayers there are.

Because at the end of the day, they still see themselves as inadequate rather than recognizing the inadequacy of the girl that goes for the hot bod and snazzy car and that little touch of danger that she’s sure she’ll be able to tame out of him. Or the missing part of the guy with the snazzy car and hot bod who thinks that fake nails are just an affectation and not really what she’s like and she’ll really want to pull wrenches with him on every Saturday evening instead of being taken out to the newest club.

These imbalances exist.

There’s always someone at the office who buys all the birthday cards and often no one remembers their birthday. Hello, people, why the hell do you think this person goes to all that trouble? Because they know what it’s like to not have the one special day that’s only theirs acknowledged.

There’s the one person in the family who everyone tells their troubles to, and no one bothers to ask about theirs, because they must be okay if they have time to listen to whines and moans from everyone else.

So the next time you forget someone’s birthday, phone your mother to whine about your boyfriend or drool over some hot chick on the street, think a minute, are you a nice guy or a tough chick that’s getting the wrong end of the shaft or are you the one handing out the shaft.

Friday, October 07, 2005

My own special talent

So to those of you who know me this won’t come as a huge surprise. More like another piece of evidence of the aura that surrounds me.

Things break around me. I don’t mean I walk down the street and buildings crumble in my wake (looks over her shoulder...) but things have a habit of going wrong or breaking when no breaking is expected, anticipated or usual, when around me.

Case in point, years ago I had a Chevy Cavalier. We were rear ended and when we took the car for an insurance assessment at the shop, I noticed the one mechanic/adjuster looking under my car and appearing puzzled. I went over just as two others joined him, all looking under the car and then nodding to each other and appearing puzzled.

“What’s up?” I asked.
“How’d this happen?” one fellow asked me.
“We were rear ended.” I replied.
“By what?” asked another.
“mmm, Grand Am I think,” said I.
“Huh, I would have said a gravel truck.” He laughed and I stared.

“You see, miss (grins, I was younger then) that part,” I looked and sure enough, there it was, some little brackety piece hanging down from the underside of my car, obviously broken. “That part never breaks.”

This is a true story, I kid you not.

Some dear friends online were quite disbelieving of my ability to break stuff without even trying. However after a couple of them helped with installations of various OSs and other apps and found annoying little mishaps happening when no such incident has happened before, to them, to anyone…ever. They changed their minds.

We went from this is so easy, it’ll take us about an hour. To, well let’s see I can probably help you on Saturday I’ve got a few hours free then. To, want me to just do this for you? What’s your password? To forget it, I’ve still got the access I set up to fix this for you and I’ll do it myself.

Some might think that tells you that I’m simply an idiot. The perpetual loose nut behind the keyboard. I’m not. I can do these things and do, do them. However if there’s a little niggly thing that can screw things up I appear to have a multi-leveled talent for finding it.

We won't even get into the whole 'get this car, it's the best car and you'll never break it' thing. :P

Which brings me to this.

And the flipside of things.

Go figure huh? That’s after 5 days too. The kicker? I did this sitting down. Well, sitting on a horse. And not the obvious way of falling off the horse, I did this sitting in the saddle. I did eventually fall off, but my ankle was already done in well before I hit the ground.

Here's how this little fun house event happened. The horse I was ponying had an issue with being led (suddenly and out of the blue) and popped up (bucked). Since I’ve walked home a time or two, I’ve learned to never let go of the reins. This was enforced as a habit when I worked as a studgroom on the track. The last thing anyone wants to deal with (other than a whiny owner who can’t understand why his horse isn’t winning) is a loose stud, so you just never let go. Guess what? I never let go of the lead line, so when he popped he also tried to climb the horse I was riding. My horse is pretty cool but when another horse tries to get into the saddle, most horses have issues. So he shied away from the popping horse. Strangely enough, the lead line is still stupidly clutched tightly in my hand. By now I’m stretched between one horse who simply wants to get away and another who’s having a pretty cranky attitude attack. Something had to give. For most people it’d be a shoulder, but I’d gotten yanked off center when he lurched away in a buck and my foot got twisted in the stirrup. See that dark bruise, that’s the part that stretched. I really don’t think that your foot is supposed to bend that way. In fact, once I climbed out of the patch of thistles, (why is it always thistles? Or manure?) and up on my feet I was pretty damned sure that your foot isn’t supposed to bend that way.

My horse hadn't gone too far so with some assistance from hubby and a low spot I was back up in a few minutes. I was very pleased to see that my fear that I've spent the last 4 years conquering hadn't cropped back up and it felt good to get back in the saddle. I rode back up to the barn, caught hold of the idiot stick horse that had caused all the uproar and led him back too. Alls well that ends well after all.

And the next time someone tells you the best way to get over something is to get back on the horse, listen. This is the voice of experience telling you so.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Terri Shiavo et al

You know, maybe I'm some sort of unnatural parent...but I think you raise your kids to adult state and then you get out of the business of living their lives. Oh you never stop loving them, watching them, holding out a hand when they stumble but you let them have their own lives. That includes giving up rights about your children to THEIR nearest kin...IE the man or woman they have chosen as their spouse. Who in my opinion and I do believe in the opinion of the law becomes their *NEXT OF KIN*.

I'm the first to admit I don't know word one about the details of the Shiavo case, and maybe I'm missing something crucial, but here's my take.

To start with:

This was referenced on a blog I happened upon by chance, it's not a blog I read, nor one I'll likely go back to (and not based on this commentary or post either). I perused a few posts and frankly not my cup of tea.

Michael Schiavo Is a Vile and Petty Man

Terri Schiavo's husband buried her cremated remains in a Clearwater cemetery Monday, inscribing on her bronze grave marker that ``I kept my promise.''

Michael Schiavo, who had said he promised his wife he would not keep her alive artificially and waged a long legal battle to remove her feeding tube, also listed Feb. 25, 1990, as the date she ``Departed this Earth.'' That was the day she collapsed and fell into what most doctors said was an irreversible vegetative state.

Submitted without comment.

However...this blurb irked me somewhat...particularly the hypocracy of setting out an opinion; and then ending it with submitted without comment. Hmmm, seems that a comment was made at the very beginning. But hell, that's just semantics after all. Right, no comment there at all...


It seems to me, that as parents we do what we can to raise our children right. Teach them to have minds of their own, maybe even challenge us on our beliefs and mores to discover their own. Raise them, never stop loving them, never stop watching them, nor being proud of them or wincing when they make a mistake. Maybe as I said, even reaching out an unconcious hand when they stumble, but all in all teaching them to be adults all by themselves.

Part of that for many, is picking the man or woman who they choose to love, live with, form a family with. That person becomes their *NEXT OF KIN*. I don't really understand why the parents in this case even had any say in their daughter's life at that point. Call me an unnatural parent if you like, but I want my kids to walk away from me whole persons on their own. I don't have to love or even like my children's spouses. I do however believe that I have to respect their choices. (little side note: if there is abuse in that equation, that all goes out the window and woe betide the man or woman who abuses one of mine)

As I said, I'll freely admit that I know nothing of the details of this case. My only information is that this woman fell into a coma in 1990 and her wishes were that she not be kept alive. The coma was deemed vegetative and the fight then began. The woman's parents fought this man in court, and public opinion for 15 years. Making it impossible for him to get on with HIS life. And now are crabby (or rather their lawyer is crabby if I'm reading the articles correctly) because he chose to put something that meant something to him and her on her gravemarker. Note, that's not all that's on the marker.Note the picture of the marker. It also says Beloved Wife. Nothing like a little judicious editing to cast someone in a bad light, hey?

I guess in my world (the one I control that I can reach with my fingertips when I spin around in a circle) he had the *RIGHT* to abide by his wife's wishes. In fact as her husband he not only had the right but also the obligation. It's my understanding that it was clear that Terri didn't want to be kept alive by unnatural means. I sure as hell don't and have made my wishes abundantly clear to my spouse, my children and my lawyer. That's all I can do. Thankfully, I doubt anyone in MY family would challenge my husband's right to see my wishes upheld.

So was he thumbing his nose at his wife's parents? It's entirely possible and without speaking to the man I'd have to go with gut however that perhaps, just perhaps... this 15 years he's been striving to do just that...keep a promise to his wife.. and this is his way of achieving closure...

You know in all my years, at funeral after funeral I've noticed one thing.. the dead don't care.. it's the living that hurt, and hurt back. Things were said to me at a dear relative's funeral that I would have bet you 3000 dollars to a donut would never have come out of the person who said it, not in a million years, and yet there it was, blurted out in emotion and anger and loss.

Perhaps that's how this started...who knows... maybe her parents were just unable to let go. I can't say that I don't sympathise with them even if I think they were wrong to pursue this. We all hold on to our children as tightly as we can and it is just wrong to bury a child. However... my take still stands.

Mr. Shiavo had the right to bury his wife. She ceased being the woman he knew and married for all I know even loved when she fell into that coma and I'm willing to bet those dollars again that given the same set of circumstances, she'd have let him go.

Emotion had no place in this decision. Harsh, well yeah but the time to make these sorts of decisions are not in the throes of grief, nor is it when beloved members of your family who love you without doubt should find out what your wishes are. Take some time to talk to those you love. Find out what they want. Tell them what you want. Do it now, without grief and loss looming on the horizon. It's hard, damn it's nearly impossible to do about your children whose next of kin you still are, but it needs to be done. Done with a clear head and a mind unbefuddled by what do I do now thoughts. And while you're at it...sign your doner card and make those wishes plain to your loved ones as well.

Sunday, June 19, 2005

Remember Dad.

I remember the night my mom died... my dad was a short man, stocky, strong but only about 5'3" or 5'4" I had to remove my heels to dance with him at my grad.. but he was always 10' tall in my brain. Until I watched him walk into the family room at the hospital.

He was a farmer, one of the younger of 11, parents immigrants from the old country, first generation Canadian, Ukranian by descent, mostly. Farmer and oh so much more.

I don't know that much about my dad's childhood, or even his teenaged years, for that matter not much of his young adulthood either. I know he married a local girl, had 6 children with her, of which 2 did not survive. She passed (I believe) of cancer at a young age, my info is sketchy but I think she was 39.

When the youngest was about 12 (my brother) he married my mom. A widow, crippled at aged 7 with polio. She'd been the housekeeper. My sisters, then 14 and two older as well (gotta keep the details down to a minimum you understand, as well I'd have to do the math to figure out how old they were.. suffice it to say both were married and well on their way with their families. I'm older than the oldest's youngest of 5 by 2 months.) Anyhoo... the housekeeper, quite a scandal.

Again, my info is sketchy...not because I don't care, but because I'm hesitant to ask.. to hear the versions.. I prefer my dad's information, given to me at the birth of my first daughter, when he arrived on my doorstep after a rather interesting conversation with my eldest sister... "Dad wants to come visit you and the baby..." "Okay, when are you guys coming?" "No, DAD wants to come, on his own... on the bus..." "...." "Yep..." "Ummm...okay...." You see, being a farmer my dad never voluntarily went on a holiday in his life, to my knowledge. So for him to want to come to see me was odd, and to do so on his own, even more so. But whatever... the point is, during that visit he told me that he loved my mom. That she wanted a child and that he'd have given her everything. That is good enough for me.

I am my mom's child. I didn't fall far from that tree when it comes to crafts, cooking, sensitivity or intelligence. Not that my dad wasn't an intelligent man.. he was ... very... I don't remember him sitting down ever without a book to read, unless he was playing cards. I grew up an only child, with a father who was 56 when I was born. My mom was 41. I don't remember either of them without white or grey hair. I don't really recognize them in the early pictures in the photo albums.

But the ones where I'm standing next to him, a huge umbrella of hay in a pitchfork over his shoulder, me with a much smaller umbrella and much smaller fork for that matter, over mine. That man I recognize.

The one who hid my mom's best knife for 6 months because despite warnings from her to the contrary he just had to cut the frozen keilbasa with it and snap the blade off in a half moon. That man I remember well.

The one with the twinkle in his eye as he told me some outlandish explanation for why the planets revolved around the sun to see if I knew my facts on space well enough for a test. The man who came in with tears in his eyes to tell me that my dog Laddie had died, and who bawled as he dug the hole for the faithful friend. The gentle hands on my horse's leg as we dressed and soaked a wound day after day, the same ones that packed the mud and chicken shit tightly in the burlap sack around his forelegs when he foundered and the voice that told me to stand him in the creek till my legs were numb. The guy who agonized with his 5th grade education over my 8th grade arethmetic. The guy who read my text books at night when he thought I was in bed to stay ahead of me. The one who danced with me at my grad, my chin nearly resting on his head while I did.

The man who at 76 turned a somersault (of which I have pictures) because his granddaughter asked him to...

The one who lay in the bed at the nursing home, curled on his side, eyes blinking furiously when I told him I was there.

That man I remember.

I love you Dad.

Friday, May 06, 2005

Shaken but not stirred...

Life has its way of taking you by the scruff of the neck and making you pay attention.

Sometimes we get so bogged down in the throes of our own woes and cares that we neglect to look around us. Now I'm not talking about the pleas for assistance for the starving masses that abound just across the ocean. Nor even for the unseen homeless that wander the streets of even my tiny prairie town. I'm speaking of the people that share the dinner table with you, or used to. Your kids.

Of late (over the past hmmm year or maybe even longer?) I've had a number of family related issues that have stretched and torn tiny holes in our family fabric. Over all, we're still a family (I hope) but we're not really one that can be worn out in public to a fancy gettogether.

That we are still a family was evidenced by a late night call from my sil who informed me that my eldest was in the hospital awaiting an emergency appendectomy. She is pregnant with my second grandchild and we haven't spoken in well over a month.

Why? Because as my second oldest informs me, "you two are too much alike and when you both think you're right there's no talking to either of you." Hmm...

But being family this goes by the wayside, or perhaps I should say onto the back burner, cause you just gotta know that this is gonna simmer over at another time. Hubby and I speak briefly to a drugged cherished daughter (mine but his by heart) and tell her that all will be fine, she's expected to go into surgery within the hour. We stare at each other, knowing the reality of a surgery being scheduled that quickly, and the added complication of her pregnancy.

After the call, I phone for a sitter, but am unable to go. We discuss which of us could go, I'm not well, neither is he. Plus he's had a couple of beers since dinner. So we wait. We sit up and play silly computer games that I'm sure neither of us can recall. Finally after turning the ringer on the phone up to SHRILL CAR ALARM status, we stumble to bed. I read, he lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. We don't talk, there's nothing more to be said, but our hands creep across the covers to clasp the others.

The hours pass and sheer exhaustion from being sick and up extra early the day before win out and we doze. The phone rings, by the time the second ring starts we are halfway down the hall, stumbling over each other and trying to not shove each other out of the way in our eagerness to get to the phone. He reaches it first, and his worried expression remains then a nod and it lightens as he passes me the phone, whispering she's okay. My sil tells me that she's sleeping, that the surgery went well and the baby is fine and still inside mommy. I breath. I tell him to tell we'll be there the next day, little platitudes you murmur in such times and we hang up. Hubby takes my hand and leads me back to bed for an hour or two more of sleep before work.

Late in the day we arrive at the hospital. Because I am sick I stop at the nurse's station to ask for a mask. Hubby and the littles go in ahead of me. She's pleased but then it registers on her face I'm not there. Hubby quickly assures her that I'm just getting a mask and a look of relief passes over her face. When I walk in she's crying and asks to speak to me alone. Hubby takes the littles for a juice and we talk. She's had a *gush* of fluid, the dr is coming to see her and she's worried it's the baby. She's obviously in a fair amount of pain despite the meds and I help her to the washroom. I assure her that all will be well, inquire about whether they've given steroids to the baby. An oblique way in my mind of ascertaining whether they (the ubiquitious they) are concerned she'll go into labour. She calms at my assurances. I may not really know but I'm mom after all and can sound certain when I have to. I mask my own fear and hold her hand for a few moments. Then the littles and dad come back in and we visit. Nothing comments about school and such. I watch my hubby's face. It's tight and that little muscle at the back of his jaw works now and then as he fights to stay calm and at ease. I ask him later why he didn't hug her, and he says in a choked voice that he couldn't, he would have held on so tightly he'd have hurt her.

She's home from the hospital now. She's spoken with hubby, they've laughed. Her and I have not spoken. I suggest to #4 that she call and see how she's doing. She does... her sister is giving her daughter a bath and calls back, I answer and she asks for #4. I hand over the phone and know the crisis is over. We're back to not talking ...til the next time we need each other.

Such is the fabric of my family.

Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Swimming along...

Do I strike you as the splashy sort? <grin> Let's explore.

I'm not sure who I am. I've let myself be defined by all these labels all my life, willingly and without need of any screeching I'm going to conquer the world, penis envying feminist who makes men eye me suspiciously when I approach a door.

(er, did I mention sooner rather than later?)

Ah, well, it's as good a place as any to start defining me. Who I am as it regards being a female of (muffled sounds) years living in the western world. Married, with children. Twice.

I like being treated with respect, and yes, even some deference to the fact that I'm female. (and old but yeah, 'nother post) I like a door being held open for me. Not only because I'm female but because I believe in courtesy and manners. I've been known, much to the chagrin of my children, to hold a door open for someone, and if they haven't acknowledged my gesture with either a nod, smile or thank you to holler after them, "you're welcome!" So that's one checkmark. I'm mannerly and I like to be treated in a mannerly fashion.

I don't need some feminist screeching about my rights and how they are being contravened by some imagined slight. Maybe this is my rose colored glasses act again, but frankly I think that fight has been fought.

've watched friends turn themselves into nervous wrecks and basket cases trying to be SUPERMOM. It sucks. We aren't. Guys aren't SUPERDAD. They don't get twisted about having a career and being why should we. We work, we make do. Kids will survive without 3 hundred activities a year. They don't need to be in every sport, every club, every brownie troop/cub pack. I think that sets them up for all sorts of failure and psychosis later in life. They as children, are expected to be soccer players, gymnists, swimmers, basketball players and all around scholars. Hell for starters you got 4 different muscle training session there to excell just at the sports. Guess they are supposed to study on the treadmill hmmm? And recreation? Bah, we don't need no stinking recreation..we got organized activities, scheduled the nth degree.

Oh, in that whole definition thing....scattered thoughts has a pretty good position in the pack, y'know.

So next checkmark, NOT a SuperMom feminist who can conquer the world with a spatula in one hand, and a day planner in the other.. Check... Next...

Nope, sorry not done after all. When I was a kid and even now as an adult who enjoys RPGaming, I loved the feel of Just Say... just say you're my hero, and poof the other kid was. My littlest one #5 as we affectionately will call her in deference to privacy issues and such, is excellent at just say. I am by turns through out the day, the mother of a lion, a rabbit, a dog fairly regularly. It makes me use my brain when I say, "Ok time for little girls to be dressed." "I not a little girl, I a rabbit." So how do I tell a rabbit to put on clothes? HMM? Got any suggestions? be continued, but I guess you'd gathered that...

Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Diving In...

I've always considered myself reasonably intelligent, and not just for a female either. By the way, in no way is that to be construed as an admittance of male intelligence superiority or any other sort, but that said, I AM NOT A FEMINIST. Frankly feminists annoy the hell out of me. Believe me that's a whole 'nother post and will definitely hit this page eventually, likely sooner than later.

Now back to the issue at hand. About reasonable intelligence. Seems a pretty simple, straight forward phrase, no? Reasonable, as in not beyond expectation, desire or out of reach, and intelligence, something we as humans are supposed to possess. The ability to reason... reason...reasonable... hmmm...

Not so much, y'know? I look around my life and see every sort of intelligence, from the complete and utter lack to that coloured by age, or maturity or at the hands of that age old teacher, experience. Even the brand shiney new sort that sets your teeth on edge, because they think they know -everything-. I think mine is reasonable. I've screwed up, sometimes even more than once in the same way but for the most part I learn from my mistakes. Sometimes. Eventually. Hmms and considers that for a moment... Let's just say that I'm becoming more and more aware of the fact that Karma has a sense of humour.

So about this reasonable intelligence thing; I think that despite some rather startling incidences of evidence to the contrary, I'm reasonably intelligent. I can reason. I can even do it, without blurring the lines with emotion. Sometimes I choose not to and appear quite, hippy-esque, ala rose colored glasses and love beads, but often that's a conscious choice on my part not a lack of ability to do so. I prefer the world I expect and anticipate to the one that I actually live in, but it does not blind me to the fact that the later is reality. So I let the parts that have to be real be so, and revamp the rest in my mind to suit myself.

I recognize that I can't control others, no matter how hard I wish for the ability to do so. All I can be is who I am. Only...

That's not always something easily defined. Who I am, I mean. On the surface, it's pretty easy to define myself by who I am to others, I'm a Mom, friend, spouse, lover, confidant, whipping boy, sound board, evil letter writer (long story), buddy, chum, playmate... and the list goes on and on. But who am I? Who am -I-? Who is inside me, and do they want to come out? Do they like being anonymous, or would they rather splash themselves all over the scenery and never be anonymous again.

Maybe not, but maybe...just sometimes... that'd be okay, y'know, just not on a permanent type basis.