Five years...

R -

A bite of a tuna sandwich.  That was the last thing you ate. The strangest memories find me sometimes.  That would be the most recent.  Your sandwich, that you ate a bite of sometime in the middle of the night.  You ate a tuna sandwich and then a few hours later you died.  I hate tuna sandwiches anyway.

Five years later, and I'm thinking about a sandwich that you didn't even like enough to finish eating it. Out of five years, this was the first year I didn't count down to this day.       This makes me happy.  This also makes me feel guilty.


Death works in mysterious ways I guess.

On the day you died, I woke up and you were already unresponsive.  I figured you were tired, your mother said there was something wrong.  I was a stubborn 22-year-old, and I was wrong.  Your mother called the nurse to come to the house to check on you, and I took our son to daycare, preparing for another day of nurses and PSWs, just like any other day.

I told myself on the way home that if the nurses car was still in the driveway when I got home then something was wrong.  I remember holding my breath as I came around the corner, and my heart skipped three beats because the red car was there.

The rest of the day was a blur.  I remember my apologies to you.  I'm not sure if this is a tradition when someone is dying or what, but I was told to apologize to you.  So I did.  I held your unresponsive hand and I cried and simply said "I'm sorry".  I assume you understand I was actually apologizing for a lot of things.  Like the time I almost burnt down the kitchen and you burnt your hand putting out the fire, for not being able to stay up all night with you, for blaming you and for not fighting hard enough.

Two days before you died, I wanted nothing more than to leave.  I wanted to take our son and get out.  One day before you died I was in laying in your bed, our fingers intertwined, talking about our future and laughing. I had hope, I think you did too.  Life is cruel.

.


This was the first year I didn't put everything on hold to rush to the cemetery.  The place that used to bring me comfort, now just feels like another chore.  Wondering who left you flowers, wondering if anyone left you flowers, fall clean-up, spring clean-up.  I gave up on that place, because that is not you.

Today I went back for the first time in a long time.  It was raining and as I got out of the car, the rain came down harder.  Armed with flowers picked from my garden, well my old garden, tied together with string I found on the ground somewhere, I tried to find your spot.

I wandered around at first casually but I soon realized I couldn't find your stone.  The first thing I thought was that there was some sort of bill I didn't pay so they took it away.  Then I thought they might remove them after so many years.  I was just about to call your mother, when I saw your spot, you I guess, and everything was okay.  I realized I don't have to be there and things will still be okay. 

Our son didn't want to have anything to do with the cemetery, and I can't blame him.  For his age, I think this is a very common reaction.  After I found you and I set down your flowers, I looked up and see that M. had left the car and was standing in front of me.  He said he knew that you were fishing because your grave stone had a fish jumping out of water on it.  He is starting to understand that you are never coming back, but he is having a hard time understanding the little details.

I miss your voice.
I miss your hats.
I miss your hair.
I miss your annoying ideas.
I miss your Garth Brooks impressions.
I miss the mornings with you.
I miss you trying to quit smoking.
I miss your crappy taste in music.
I even miss your stupid dog sometimes.

I miss you.

-n.

How to plant a tree and make new friends...

I like to call this one "Mr. Serious Plants a Tree"

 

When I was a kid (how many times have I said that lately?), planting trees was not really something we looked forward to.  It was actually a deceiving event. We would get so excited to go on a field trip, only to be lugged off to the Post-it Note factory to plant a crap load of trees for a whole entire day.  The first tree was always fun, but the novelty quickly wore off as we dug gigantic pail-sized holes in the sweltering sun.  It seems that something has happened since I was a kid because now kids love to plant trees.  

So when we went to the park this past weekend and came across a group of people planting trees, Mason was more than ready to get his hands dirty, quite literally actually.  So we grabbed our supplies and broke ground.

I had no idea how to plant a tree.  The last time I planted a tree was way back in elementary school at the Post-It factory and that memory had been locked away in hopes to never think of the traumatic event again.  So I took note of the size and shape of everybody's crater and I came to the conclusion that it had to be a big, round and very deep hole. 

So we kept digging.

We dug through rocks, worms and glass pieces until I decided that the hole was deep enough, even though I really had no idea if it actually was, I was just tired of (endlessly) digging.

To be honest, we had the best looking hole of them all. I made sure it was perfectly round and all the debris was piled up neatly beside it.  I was proud of our hole.

and then Mason brought back our "tree".  It was a joke! I mean I've found twigs bigger than this thing, actually no, this thing WAS a twig. The hole that I was so proud of, now seemed like it was a waste of time.  We had the smallest tree out there, and I was beginning to wonder if it was some kind of joke.

but in the end we were proud of our little sugar maple.  One day it will be a giant tree and we did our part to help the environment.  It was a successful afternoon. Even though digging and worms and mulch and little puny trees aren't really my thing, the feeling of doing something to help out really felt good. 

and after it was all done, we were rewarded with warm and fuzzy feelings and a chance to hang out with some warm and fuzzy baby owls!

Not all perfect...

I worry too much.

He does not.

I go into a mad frenzy when I realize that I do not have every ingredient.

He calmly replaces the eggs with extra milk.

I end up angry and surrounded by an unfinished cake.

He enjoys his not so perfect creation.

Everything can't be perfect.

(something I should have learned by now)

Blog Swap: The Best Thing About Being a Blogger (a guest post from Kris)

Today is the 20sb.net blog swap day!  I was lucky to be matched up with the lovely and talented Kris of Because or Why Not. If you miss me too much, I will be blogging over at Kris' blog today!

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I lead a secret double life.  In my real one I'm Kris, regular small town girl.  I work in a hardware store, shop for groceries, read books from the library and get chinese with my friends.  It's a good life, as far as they go.  Although occasionally drawn restlessly around the planet, I return to what I know in all its B.C. mountain splendor. 

But let's dig a little deeper shall we?  There's always something else, isn't there?  See, I am actually a much more intricate person then the last paragraph portrays.  Yup, I know you are too.  In my case I'm a traveler, searcher and fighter.  Passionate and deep I dwell in this beauty that is life in an involved struggle to draw from it all that I can. 

What you see of regular Kris is blue jeans and plaid shirt, paying bills in the bank.  What you probably don't notice is everything left to discover.  I'm not meaning to sound exceptional in any way.  I know I'm not.  We each have our own expression.  I just want to tell you what it is about blogging that I like best.  Let me try explain.

This other Kris is the one you'll meet as she stays up late typing handwritten words into her blog.  They're my art form, these words.  I play with them, stringing them together, striving to create something beautiful, or make you laugh.  My main creative outlet, words sort through what I really am.  My expression of choice for this deeper voice.

It could be called escapism, I suppose.  I prefer to call it exploration.  So I blog.  Answering only to my readers I toss feelings into the internet obsolete.  Knowing someone may stumble across my words gives me cause to take pride in these scribbles.  You may identify, wonder, disagree or be amused, but I want you to feel something.  I'm drawing from you as well.  I would write regardless, but when I blog I'll find an audience who will reciprocate.  It's justification, in a sense.  Knowing someone else has reason to bother with my words, and trying to give that to them.  I get a little high every time someone comments or follows.

Yes, they're closely linked, these two lives.  Intertwined, you'll glimpse both sides.  But on my blog exists, apologetically, my struggles, battles, triumphs, thoughts and feelings.  Whether I write them in blatant words, or not, you'll find them.  You'll also see my pulling my brown curls into a ponytail, or dancing in the backyard, because that's me as well.  My blog, well, it's my domain.  Within it I have the freedom to share as I work through this all.
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Kris has been blogging for seven years, although it's occasionally been hit and miss.  More recently returning to the game she's found joy through getting involved in the blogging community.  She maintains a lust for adventure, and tries to live her life accordingly.  You can find her at http://becauseorwhynot.blogspot.com.  Also, she would like to extend many thanks to Nikki for sharing her blog (which, you should be glad to be reading.  Because it's worthwhile).  This is her first time swap, and she looks forward to participating in others!

BEWARE of the house centre!

When I was in kindergarden there was a house centre.

I know you're fully aware of what I'm talking about here.

Only when I was a kid, the house centre was actually a ginormous house in the corner of the classroom, fully enclosed with one little window that had curtains that CLOSED.  Completely private, and kindergarden kids took full advantage of this area to 1. Pick their noses and eat it 2. Eat glue 3. Poop/pee their pants or 4. Kiss eachother. So basically the house centre in the mid 80's was equivalent to that of a grungy bar on half price beer night or a Michael Buble concert, your choice. Either way, it was bad news.

Sometime over the years, the teachers became enlightened to the goings on of the house centre and by the time EVILBOY went to daycare, the house centre had come crumbling down.  Now it is a pretty harmless "area" with a fake stove and fridge and real cereal boxes that the teachers have taped up so the kids can pretend to pour out the contents.  We all know how much fun pretend pouring food is.  Not nearly as fun as picking noses, eating glue or boogers, pooping or peeing your pants or making out is though.

The teachers watch the house centre like a hawk, because they know that is where the bad things happen - or so I thought.

The other day I picked up EVILBOY from daycare.  When I got there, the teacher pulled me aside and said she wanted to report an incident to me. Turns out, another boy asked EVILBOY to show him his weiner in the house centre, to which my kid totally showed him. 

My kid showed another kid his "dee dee" without  even an ounce of hesitation. 

...because this kid told him he would give him an Oreo cookie if he showed him. 

The kid used the oldest trick in the book, and EVILBOY fell for it!

This put me in the very awkward situation of having to have a serious discussion about penises with my son.  In normal circumstances, I would defer such a speech on to his father, seeing as that is impossible, the weiner talk was my responsibility. 

It went a little something like this:

ME: It is not okay to show people your weiner
HIM: Okay.
ME:: and you should tell a grown up if anybody asks you to show it to them
HIM: Okay. I'm going to play Mario now.
ME (shouting after him as he ran away): AND STAY OUT OF THE HOUSE CENTRE!

Awkward penis talk avoided - for now. 

Although I have been giving him quizzes every couple days just to be sure he understands. 

The scariest part was that he didn't have any realization that this was wrong.  He just saw the bigger picture (the oreo cookie) and did as he was told. 

This could have been a much worse situation, and with him not knowing anything was wrong, I could have never even had known what went on. I always thought he was shy and wouldn't even think of showing his private parts to anybody, so this really took me by surprise.

I encourage you all to speak with your children about private parts.  I assumed that he would never do such a thing so we never had a sit down talk about it, so he honestly didn't understand it was wrong. Even if you think they are kind of young, just a quick little conversation to remind them of their privacy - and to never trust kids who make promises with Oreo cookies. 

Weekend Recap

Weekends make me happy.

So I want to remember them forever and ever.

This weekend was no exception.

but for some strange reason, I cannot remember Friday night.  At all. Which is weird because there was absolutely no alcohol involved, but I'm guessing it did involve cleaning up the old place and moving some more junk over here.

(no I'm not done moving)
(yes it is stressful)
(no I don't want to talk about that anymore)

Saturday Mason had a birthday party to go to and I got some stuff done, including a small bout of road rage followed by worries that I was going to hell. The rest of the day was spent cleaning, unpacking, moving heavy objects and packing up items to go to the Goodwill.  Overall it was a pretty productive day.  I spent the evening watching a movie falling asleep within the first ten minutes of some dumb movie with "The Rock" in it.

Sunday we went downtown for Car Free Sunday.  It was the perfect kind of day.  The kind of day where you get a sunburn on your cleavage and not realize it until you get an itch there and it feels like you are ripping your skin off with each scratch.  Yeah that totally happened.  It was also the kind of day where you end up giving your kid two baths, which can only mean one thing - spring is here! It also means that I should either start putting sunscreen on my cleavage or wear more modest shirts because this really doesn't feel too nice.

Ernie Has Rabies

A Friday night at the old house going through two (almost three) years of junk and I came across this puzzle. I was very close to donating it to the Goodwill but it's far too awesome (this is why I have a bajillion boxes of junk to go through)

Uploaded by www.cellspin.net

The Wedding Date - AKA How to be Dateless...

A co-worker and good friend of mine has invited me to her wedding.  I am typically not a fan of weddings since I have spent a good chunk of my life hating anyone who got married or even made out with someone in my presence.

Wedding invitations are always the worst when you are single.  They always (politely) come addressed to "EVILFLU and guest".  I'm sure the person knows I most likely will not be attending with a guest, but it is polite to think that I could maybe possibly bring somebody to this event.

I always hold onto these reply cards, not to be a jerk, but to give myself the opportunity to receive a reply from David Duchovny (scratch that, he's a creepy sex fiend now ((call me)) ) Sam Worthington (but he has to speak with an Australian accent all the time and he has to wear that getup he wore in Clash of the Titans when he was fighting that Kraken thingy.  Not even like Avatar Sam Worthington or Terminator Sam Worthington, I'm picky in my Sam Worthingtons.

(you're welcome!)

On a side, do you guys remember that movie The Wedding Date? That movie used to be one of my favourites, until I realized it was kind of creepy and weird.

So anyway, this wedding is coming up quickly, and I had months almost a year to find a date, and since it looks like no sexy celebrities are responding to my pleas, and I can't afford a man whore (The Wedding Date) so it looks like I will end up dancing with Cousin Gus and being a mutant at table nine.

You know Cousin Gus right? The forever single bachelor cousin of the bridge who has some strange facial hair and smells like moldy old cheese. I always get set up with "Cousin Gus" because you see, I am the female version of Cousin Gus (minus the facial hair and moldy cheese smell - but I'm working on it). Every time I am forced to dance with Cousin Gus, my mind races.  I picture our house, complete with Avatar posters on our bedroom wall.  We will have 2.5 kids who will all have strange facial hair and smell like moldy cheese and a dog that runs around with an undiagnosed skin disease who also smells like moldy cheese.  I'm sure Cousin Gus is a really nice person but his addiction to Word of Warcraft and cartoon Flintstones porn and my addiction to frozen yogurt and crappy reality television just don't work together well. 

The reality of the situation is that I think I am becoming more and more like Cousin Gus (minus the video games and Fred Flintstone porn). My confidence is at an all-time low - I'm talking grade ten with glasses and ugly hair low. I recently threw all my sexy underwear in the garbage because they hadn't been worn since 2003.  I'm a lot older now and I find that the chocolate/peanut butter combination that I had loved oh so much has packed itself firmly on my ass and is not showing any signs of melting away. I am mean and angry and most days I hate the world or people who are assholey (that is not a swear, I just made it up!).  Also: I swear too much and R. always told me how swearing made me ugly.  Overall: I feel like a package of uglies and I feel like the only thing I could attract would be a hobo (for warmth) or someone who is deaf/blind/can't smell (I may be onto something here!).

(DAD STOP READING HERE)

In my early 20's, if I liked a boy I would show him my underwear and giggle a lot - and it totally worked like a charm every time.  For many reasons, this tactic is no longer effective and I think that if I showed anyone my underwear now I would get thrown in the crazy people ward for wearing cartoon characters on my 28-year-old ass (HELLO KITTY IS AWESOMENESS).

Trying to be attractive is really not easy as an almost 29 year old single mother who has a gray hair growing out of one of her eyebrows, is probably going to end up on People of WalMart before the year is up,  threatens to kick people in the "cooter" in public and who sings along with Michael Bolton.

What I'm trying to ask here, without sounding completely hopeless, is how do you make yourself attractive? I'm guessing things like shaving your legs on a more than once a month basis is a good step in the right direction, but what else can I do to make myself feel human again? (that made me sound like a werewolf or something, I promise I am not a werewolf)

PS -  If you know anyone who looks good in a "man skirt", is not a murderer,  doesn't mind an angry nerd mother who can't be out in public for very long before she gets grumpy, who can grow a gray eyebrow hair and still be awesome and loves Michael Bolton then feel free to send him my way. 

Apartment Life...

I have to say, I expected living in an apartment to be a lot more Melrose Place and to be lot less Golden Girls.

Living six floors off the ground is a big change though. Now the only other living things I see when I look out my window are birds and the tops of trees.  One time I saw a squirrel too.  Six floors up is pretty high for a squirrel I thought.  It's a lot different than looking out your window and seeing potential burglars walking by your living room window. 

I am still afraid to stomp on the floor.  I cringe deeply when I drop anything and hold my breath until I know for sure that the person in the apartment below me isn't going to come up and punch my face. I am also afraid to raise my voice, watch reality television or listen to sappy music because I know that someone on my floor would be able to hear and probably make fun of me.

It's going to take some time to adjust.

but I think we're doing okay!

I find myself laughing like a lunatic when I realize I don't have to go out and weed the garden, mow the lawn or pick the bags of dog poop out of my front yard bush (I know..wtf??).  In fact, I will never have to pick that bag of crap out of the bush again.

and that makes me happy.

Being way up high, having a cozy little space, being even closer to a park and re-arranging my furniture also makes me happy.

Lugging groceries up to the sixth  floor does not make me happy.  Just sayin'.