Turn On The Light

It seems as though the world is turning on its head.  It’s imploding with people condemning each other to friendship hell if they vote the wrong way, and other people tormented by inner demons to the point of taking their own lives; a ‘c’ word broke up a country and caused a wide divide, and the rest of us are left clinging for dear life hoping the assholes of the universe will suddenly realize by some divine intervention that the real logical courses of action exist and will redeem themselves with unbelievable compassion.  And humanity.  We hope.

We are missing something.  We are missing the spark of human conscience that guides every person on the planet to do and be in the light.  The positive voices that were once abound with energy and forethought are being

drowned out by deaths and guns and hate.

We are missing thoughtfulness and

mindfulness.

The once thoughtful intelligent discourse that filled the air is being pushed aside by social media insta-posts denigrating anyone who disagrees, anyone who takes a side and anyone who says the sun will come out tomorrow.   Guess what?  The sun will come out, people will disagree, there will be sides and the positive voices will sing.

Humanity has taken a big punch in the gut.  Compassion has taken a backseat to shaming.  Truth is a lost art.  The gun debate rears up and then fades away as fast as it arose.  People’s attention spans are at the ultimate minimum since we repeatedly seem to forget our own history. Allies are not allies anymore.  We would rather be at each other’s throats than by each other’s sides.

It’s painful and exhausting trying to wade through the muck of negativity and shameless heartlessness that seems to be waiting around every corner.  My generation, those of us in the throes of our fifties, are looking around baffled and bewildered by utter lack of empathetic voices.  What happened?

We forgot.  With all of the technological advances at our fingertips, with self-driving cars and instant cooking pots and ultimate quick efficient non-thinking gadgets, life got easier.  We got lazier.  We forgot to take care of the little things that we once thought were insignificant, but really are the most important.  We forgot people’s feelings; we forgot that people wage war with themselves that we know nothing about; we forgot to take care of our relationships, our friends, our family; we forgot what if feels like to struggle, to extend a hand to someone, to be neighbourly; we forgot what it’s like to be scared, lost, and alone; we forgot that someone else’s thoughts and life are as just as important as our own.  We forgot that whatever personal battles we are enduring, there is always someone else battling their own shit just as hard.  We became a self-involved, altruistic society with a big ego and multiple platforms on which to perform and display that ego.

We’ve forgotten how to think.  We’ve forgotten how to care.

The screeching tires that you hear in the background is the future of humanity revving up and getting ready to careen carelessly onwards.  It will run over anyone who stands warily in the road, waving her arms pleading for a hand with a flat.   If everyone stands in the road together, maybe we can get it to slow down a bit.  And help out.  And care about the girl with the flat tire on the side of the road.  Maybe.

If you are battling something that’s too big

for you to handle, there is always a choice.

The suicide hotlines are listed here.  http://www.suicide.org/hotlines/international/canada-suicide-hotlines.html

Take care of each other.

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The Fifty-One Year Old Teenager

The realization that I’m older than I feel I should be, is hitting me hard.  A ‘mature’ woman of 51, I’m still prone to bouts of pimples and the monthly bloat.  I simultaneously have wrinkles and acne.   It’s like I’m a twelve year old pubescent and a menopausal maniac at the same time. I’m considering shares in Clearisil.  Mood swings, crappy hair days and my bra size seems to shrink weekly.  My wine stash is dwindling at an alarming rate and I hate to hear that I need to wear pants after 6pm.  Jeopardy is gaining some admiration on my end and I have yet to attain the exact correct root cover-up hair colour that actually matches whatever the hell is growing out of my scalp at the moment.

Oh, yes it’s gray, but it should be a lovely copper colour, that despite my scouring of every drugstore in the city and the wonderful intentions of my bestie hair stylist, is impossible to match.  It’s not red.  It’s not blond.  It’s not brown.  It’s not golden brown nor golden blond. It’s not golden-reddish or golden-blondish-with-a-tint-of-auburn-yellow-shit. It’s not even an –ish of anything.    It’s in between effervescent- blondie- coppery- goldie and orange.  Try to find that on a shelf.   I WILL PAY YOU TO FIND THAT ON THE SHELF.  The other day, D1 was too embarrassed to leave the house with me until I ‘do something with that on your scalp.  It looks like you’re bleeding’.  Yeah.

That red cover-up was Halloween-ghoulish in the bloody scalp department.  I should have just stuck a meat cleaver up there and walked around like a bad-prank-gone-horribly-awry, or victim of a random Zombie attack.  Totally believable.

I think this is the direction it’s heading. I already have the bathrobe.

I obviously need interventions on how to age with dignity and grace, without looking like my scalp was partially removed, then reattached and left in a bloody mess.  Or someone changed his mind mid- lobotomy and simply threw my scalp back over my head like a floppy toupe, or the Donald’s comb over repair.  My pimples make me look like I just walked out of grade 10 gym class and need a shower.  Face mask?  Sure…do they make a mask that has both collagen wrinkle-disappearing-potion and benzo-peroxide zit zapper shit in it?  One that’s not going to make me feel like I’m in a constant wind tunnel where my face is stretched so tight I’m constantly smiling, or so greasy that it looks like I washed my face with a pork chop?  Let’s see that shit!

How did it come to this?  What did women do before us?  How did they manage the whole aging process without looking like a Stepford wife or a throwback from Throw Momma From the Train?

There should be lessons on how to age after fifty without losing your sanity and your wine cache all in one sitting.

Or at least the sympathy and acknowledgment that despite the whole ‘fifty is the new forty’ thing, there are still struggles with pimples, bloating, weight gain and the emotional turmoil of a pubescent girl including the awkwardness of actually trying to walk and see at the same time.

My head hurts.

Maybe some lovely young woman will invent a new treatment for us older ladies so all of this magically disappears.

I guess I’ll have to wait for that golden moment, but until then there’s always alcohol.

CHEERS!

Pass the Clearisil.

Top Ten List of: Shit I Did When You Weren’t Looking

I haven’t done a Top Ten list in quite some time. I thought today would be a great day for one.
10. Ran a 10mile race. Maybe you were looking since I told everyone about it, but some people were still surprised I actually ran a race and still lived to tell about it, so not everyone is as in the loop as you.   

Me running, and not dying. Yet. 
9. Snuck a garden gnome in my garden and he is still there! Now that you know, DON’T TOUCH HIM. HE STAYS.

8. Texted my friend and gave her shit for missing my birthday but discovered she did leave a message that FB deleted so really, I looked like an asshole for being an asshole.

Actual conversation.  She still likes me…I think. 
7. Watched the beginning of a movie and the end without watching the middle which is usually a vital part of the whole thing. In this case, it really wasn’t. Now, I think if I watch the first forty five minutes and the last half hour of any movie, I should be good. No need for all the junk that happens mid-way. It’s just the whole plot, I mean really, who needs that?

Part of the movie I missed, but I don’t think it’s that important, right?


6. Told a first-time runner and neighbour there was going to be band playing during the race, which two years ago there was I swear, but this time there wasn’t and now he’s all “THERE WAS NO BAND! WHERE WAS THE BAND?! I WAS LOOKING FOR THE BAND!” for the entire duration of the race. In my defence, YOU WERE LISTENING TO SOME ON YOUR IPOD SO THERE WAS YOUR BAND. MOVE ON. Gawd, I can’t be right about everything….kinda. By the way, if my garden gnome goes missing in the next 48 hours I’M LOOKING AT YOU!!

5. Since Hubby has returned to work, I actually did two loads of laundry. Dried. Folded. Put away. I don’t want to brag, but I think I did a better job at it. *Hubby, if you are reading this, feel free to try to best me on this one. Seriously. I know you THINK you’re good at laundry, but uh, my folding technique rocks! Okay, if you really want to try to beat me at this one task, I’ll let you try….I’M A GIVER.

4. I submitted two job applications for freelance work that were epic examples of my wit and humour and pithy prose to which the reply was *crickets* Nothing. OKAY, IF YOU REALLY THINK MY PITCH FOR A HANGOVER SUPPLEMENT WASN’T AN EXCELLENT EXAMPLE OF INTELLIGENT STORY-TELLING, ESPECIALLY THE PART ABOUT GRANDPA’S DART TOURNAMENT FIASCO, THEN GO AHEAD AND HIRE SOMEBODY ELSE. Gawd.  

3. I’ve decided that being a responsible adult is overrated and better suited for everyone else, but me. In future refer all important tasks to an adult who will take requests, demands and questions seriously instead of answering with “I know you are, but what am I?”  

2. According to viable sources, licking the top of a beer bottle will not dissuade other people from drinking from it. It just induces future licking of bottles and glasses until everyone is drinking from everyone else’s drinks, which really is kinda gross when you think about it. Next time, I’m switching the beer for…EWWW, NO I WASN’T GOING TO SAY PEE. UGH. THAT’S DISGUSTING. WHAT KIND OF PERSON DO YOU THINK I AM? BESIDES, DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT IS TO PEE IN A BEER BOTTLE?! You need a good *urinary device if you’re a woman, to pull that shit off…don’t ask me how I know that. (*medical terminology for a funnel or aid to guide the stream in the right direction. WHAT?! DO YOU KNOW HOW NARROW THE NECK OF A BEER BOTTLE IS??!! It takes precision and timing and…never mind. )

1. People in the ‘hood with pools: If you see a random rubber ducky in there, his name is Sid. No, I don’t know how he could have gotten in there, but don’t scare him. He likes to float around. Just sayin’…..

Looks just like Sid!!

18th Birthday Story – Rock Star Edition 

Today is my son Kyle’s 18th birthday. A milestone in any young person’s life, I thought I would re-post this story in honour of him. AND, for purely motherly love and embarrassment, because nothing says HAPPY BIRTHDAY better than an awkward story about when you were 3years old.  HAPPY BIRTHDAY, KID!!!

To celebrate this momentous occasion, here is a special story about the first time my son learned to speak. It’s all very dramatic and tears at your heart strings so get out your tissues…okay, it’s actually an embarrassing tale of music and Walmart, but still. It was traumatic for one of us. Maybe two of us. The innocent lady who witnessed my child’s descent into the debauchery and the morally deficient world of rock music and was probably scarred for life and myself, who led him there.

Once upon a time, in a land called Grand Falls Winsor, lived a nice little family with a mother, a father two daughters and a young son. They all lived happily in their house playing and frolicking in the meadows. ( okay, there were technically no meadows in GFW. AND we don’t frolic as a rule. Only on very special occasions like Christmas, or when some of us are really drunk. No pointing any fingers, just sayin’. ) Anyway, the boy, who was three years old, had not begun to speak any language intelligible to any human life form. The mother, being very concerned, took said young boy to a Speech Pathologist. The Speech Pathologist was a young woman of very good bearing and simply stated “There is nothing wrong with the boy. He will speak when he’s ready. Go home and rest your head, lady” 

So, the despairing mother took her young boy home and after a lengthy car ride listening to the young son speak something akin to the Cantonese and Ancient Tibetan Mongloid tongue , wearily escorted young child into the house. It was during this phase in the young mother’s life that she began experimenting with music. Music she adored when she was young and single and had somehow lost in the day-to-day tedium of Barney and Caillou episodes (it should be noted here that Caillou was seen as an evil child full of whininess and annoying shit that led the mother to bouts of anxiety and desperate pleas of “LET’S ALL GO OUTSIDE AND GET SOME FRESH AIR BEFORE MA HEAD EXPLODES!” ) Yeah.

One day, while playing her music very loudly, she noticed her young son sitting very attentively. The daughters, heard the rendition of Bryan Adams’ “I Wanna Be Your Underwear” and asked repeatedly to hear the ‘underwear song’. Mother was happy to appease her young daughters as she found this tune particularly humorous, obliged…often. After the young daughters had ventured off to school, the mother took young son to Walmart for a bit of shopping in the afternoon. The son, being very sleepy and ready for his nap at that time, was readily dosing in the cart and humming a tune the mother recognized as Joan Jett’s “I Hate Myself For Loving You”…Joan rocks. The mother, knowing the son was unable to speak, allowed the son to sing the song at will, while all the Walmart staff looked on adoringly saying how cute the little boy was singing to his mother. Yeah.

As the mother approached the checkout line, she noticed a woman behind her who seemed particularly taken with the young boy. She was smiling and cooing to the child as the mother flung her intended purchases on the conveyer belt. Knowing the young boy was securely occupied, the mother paid close attention to her groceries when suddenly she heard a most familiar sound. “I WANNA BE!” being sung behind her. She went swiftly over to her son. Could it be? Was that him? Had the spell of the Cantonese speak been broken and replaced with the x-rated lyrics of an old Bryan Adams song? The lady who had been occupying and smiling at the young boy thought the boy to be speaking to her. So, she replied “What do you want to be?” The mother, knowing the son was merely repeating the words to a raunchy song, attempted to intervene by pointing to a random balloon and distracting the boy. Alas, the boy could not be sidetracked. Again, he sang out “I WANNA BE!!“. Full of fear for the next line, the mother hurriedly began to throw her groceries onto the belt all the while, the nice lady said again, “What do you want to be?” and leaned closer to hear the boy. The young boy looked innocently up at the woman, his sparkling blue eyes dancing with joy as he sang, quite in tune I must say, “YOUR UNDERWEAR”.  

The lady, aghast and shocked by what she had just heard, recoiled in horror and glared at the young mother. Washed with embarrassment, and stifling a laugh, the mother simply retorted “Oh, it’s a song his father taught him” and pushed the cart out of the store, praising the child for his speech and promising to teach him more ‘appropriate’ songs. Like more Joan Jett, whose song son repeatedly sang henceforth as “I hate myself for lubbing you….” yeah. 

The son, now thirteen and three quarters has had a varied singing career. I have been called regarding his poor song choices including the popular titles “My Humps” by the Black ‘Eyed Peas, “I like Big Butts” and the infamous “Save a Horse Ride A Cowboy” which I am totally not responsible for. That last one was definitely Hubby’s country music influence. I did teach son how to do an awesome rendition of Blue Rodeo’s Bad Timing when he was four. I wish I had recorded it. 

Brought to you today in honour of son’s 18th birthday, and to all the women and men who care for their children everyday unconditionally, allow them to sing dirty rock songs to stranger and endure endless episodes of Caillou all in the name of love. 

Speaking and not singing. So proud!

Turkey Talk

Convocations have occurred with some fanfare and very little drama (thank Gawwwwd) and now, the final epic graduation of son will take place to end the graduation year ceremoniously, thus. Or something traditional and ceremonial like that….

His grad date and Mommy spontaneously dropped by to shake my hand and meet the mother of the young man who will accompany her first born on her graduation. I’m hoping I made a good impression what with the clean laundry littering the floor, Mags barking madly, Hubby chillin’ on the couch eating his snack and watching hockey news and me still in my stinky running clothes. WHO DOESN’T WANT TO MEET SOMEBODY FOR THE FIRST TIME IN THAT SWEET MESS?! She was sweet and then the turkey talk happened. Literal, turkey talk. Son and grad date will have pics taken at someone’s cabin or farm or something naturalistic like that. I went into a semi-conscious state when the question of ‘so what are your plans for that day’ was asked. I wasn’t aware I was to have PLANS. Like, real PLANS?!! Then on to the discussion, well really more of a statement than discussion, of having pictures taken where there was a wharf and water and oh yeah, could be turkeys wandering about. BECAUSE GRAD PICTURES AREN’T GRAD PICTURES WITHOUT A RANDOM TURKEY IN THE BACKGROUND. That’s how it’s done, people.  

If I get trampled on by a rafter of turkeys (I looked it up…a group of turkeys is a ‘rafter’. Now you can amaze your friends with your trivia and expert knowledge of turkeys. I DO RESEARCH! You. Are. Welcome) I want that escapade into awesomeness documented for future generations to peruse and envy. “Oh, yeah look at Grandma run from that wacked out turkey! HE LOOKS PISSED!”


It will be framed and hung in the most auspicious place in the house. The bathroom.

I’m still waiting for warm weather to appear, but the gods of Spring/Summer refuse to cooperate, so here we are freezing in our capris and sandals hoping for some temps above freezing to save our tulips and budding trees. Plants are defiant and trying to come to life despite the cold air and billowing winds. It’s dismal. All this while I sit in front of the fire and see that other parts of Southern Ontario are under a heat wave and have HEAT warnings. ACTUAL HEAT WARNINGS. “I’m just dying from this heat” said one lady on the news. “I have to jump in a pool to cool off” OH FOR FUCK’S SAKE, SHUT UP! And I think I may have hurled my wine glass at her. The dog looked scared and ran off. I may have frightened Hubby who suggested we go for a walk. THEN WE LOOKED AT REAL ESTATE IN MY HOME TOWN…which was so eye-opening. What’s with all the dark-stained moldings?

I don’t understand.

Also, EVERYBODY HAS A POOL!! WHY CAN’T I HAVE A POOL?!

Because I live in Newfoundland and have the fire going in the middle of June. That’s why.  

But, I still want a pool in my backyard and a cornfield in the park around the corner. 

 I CAN DREAM…. 

The Leaves Are Not The Only Things Changing Colour

I’m still catching my breath from the epic win from the Liberals and the election of a new Prime Minister, that I haven’t had a chance to see fall in all its glory.  The leaves are starting to change from their lush green to their auburn and golden hues and I haven’t been out with my camera to take any pics.  I’ll see if I can do that on the weekend if it’s not pouring out of the heavens.  This is Newfoundland…hail, rain and sun all in an hour.  I took some photos a couple of weekends ago, but the leaves hadn’t changed yet, so not so glorious.

cropped-img_1433.jpg

It seems the times they are a’changin’ along with the leaves and I can’t help but feel a little hopeful.  I may not feel a direct sweeping affect from a new government, but the shininess and brightness that has injected itself into our parliament has left me all giddy and schoolgirl-ish.  Ooohhh…what will PM Trudeau do now?  The Americans have pointed out the young handsomeness that is now our Prime Minister and I’m not above pointing out the obvious, as well.  I texted the crowd and pointed out I was pretty damned happy that our Prime Minister was a handsome young guy that we could laud over the world as our new bright young star…it’s a great feeling to be proud of our Prime Minister.  I think we’ve been missing that for a long time. ‘Look at our intelligent handsome PM who is going to stand for the environment and change the way the world sees Canada’…that’s the sentiment and the hope that goes along with it.  Everybody is holding their breath and waiting in the wings, watching the young man shake hands and smile with the people.  Watching him slowly move back into 24 Sussex and get to work.

This is our new Prime Minister...I hear you applauding...yeah, I know.

This is our new Prime Minister…I hear you applauding…yeah, I know.

Let’s see if Justin can do it…Let’s see if he can fulfill his promises to make Canada good again.

“Just watch me” says the note that is now selling on Ebay.  The note he wrote in response to the question “Do you think you can beat Harper?”

Just watch me…

Oh, we are Mr. Trudeau….We definitely are….

That Day I Was High on Muscle Relaxants and Pain Killers and Argued Politics With The Dog. Otherwise Known as Yesterday

The election is quickly approaching and there are so many ad campaigns and articles proclaiming who is the best candidate, who has the best policies and platforms and who just plain sucks, that it’s getting confusing and sickening and trashy all at the same time.  One promises daycare at such a ridiculously low rate that it’s laughable, one says he’ll invest in Canada and the other one, ugh.  He’s just condescending, grasping at anything and basically has such a look of desperation and a power hungry-beady look in his eyes, that people are rolling THEIR eyes and hanging their heads in shame on his behalf.  Don’t look at him, maybe he’ll take the hint and slink away under a rock somewhere.  Embarrassing, really.

It seems to have gone on forever, this election campaign.  Monday is voting day (finally) and I can’t wait to get out to the polls and exercise my right to make something happen…change or not.

Then, maybe all of this ‘he’s not ready’, ‘he’s unrealistic’ and ‘he’s just an asshole’ will all be over.  I think that last one was on TV while I was in my state of dizziness from my back spasm medication…too many burpees (ugh)  I’m not sure, though.  About the last ad campaign slogan, not the burpees.  I’m sure about those.

Anyway, get out and vote.  Be counted! Let your voice (or your ‘x’) be heard!

I’m sure I’ll be back to myself by Monday and ready to mark my ballot.  No more arguing about politics with the dog.  She was getting all confused, anyway.  I don’t recall any candidates promising free belly rubs and bacon treats to the doggies who vote for their particular party…do you?