No Point Making Apologies ...

So here, let's sit down and set the record straight:  I'm not perfect.  I know, what a shocker eh?  I, as a mother and as a person, make mistakes on a daily basis and sometimes even at a rate of several WTFs per minute.  That's human nature I suppose, I just wish that we all could realize that.  Wouldn't it be nice if we all came to the conclusion that we're not all perfect, omnipotent sentient beings that roam this earth with infallable moral code and sense of right and wrong?  Honestly, I believe it's impossible considering it's the fallacies and imperfections that make ups all human and beautiful. I know I personally live life with my face in my palm and asking myself "what was I thinking?".  

I'm not 100% sure where I'm going with this, how this post is going to pan out but I decided to let my brain go and just write.  I guess my point is that I've been looking square in the face of judgement and finger pointing for a little while, at least that's what it feels like.  Any of you, dear readers, ever feel like you were at a heightened sense of awareness just because it felt like someone was constantly looking at you and criticizing every move you made?  Ohh paranoia but I'm sure you know what I'm talking about.  Living in a fish bowl or rather, a terrarium (I don't know about you but I can't breathe underwater).  We go through this at work, at home, with friends and family and neighbours and those crazy people in the grocery store who give you the side-eye when you threaten your children with leaving if they don't stop arguing with each other.  It's annoying and gets our backs up.  Some of us let it roll, some of it take it to heart.  None of us like the boss breathing down our necks when the pivot tables are having errors, our siblings looking at us over the rim of their glasses in wonderment of the next stupid move we're going to make or our friends shaking their heads as we reason with ourselves and make our excuses.  Sometimes we can almost feel the gossip oozing out behind our backs and the discussions of our behaviour without our presence to confirm, deny or defend.  Most of us just don't want to to know when that happens but we can't help our gossip "Spidey Sense" from tingling and whether or not we're giving the opportunity to defend ourselves, it doesn't hurt any less.

But it goes both ways!!  See, right now you're judging me for starting a sentence with "but" and I'm judging you for being so uptight that you'd really care about that.  My point is that as much as we hate feeling those fingers pointing at us, we do it ourselves.  We point our perfect fingers at the lesser people who we believe are totally f**king up (sorry for the lack of a better term there).  We decide what they should and shouldn't do behind their backs without them sitting beside us to either defend or discuss what is being said.  I bet the people we talk about behind their backs feel the gossip ooze coming from us.  My thinking here, my idiotic logic, is that maybe we should all just stop.  I'm trying at the very least, finding my sense of peace in my own little world with my babies and my animals but some  people will always make me raise an eyebrow.

But then we have to look at it this way:  would we want people to tell us exactly what they think all the time?  What would hurt more:  the gossip or someone in your face about your mistakes?  That's a tough call.  Sometimes I think I'd rather live in ignorant bliss about what people think of me or say about me and sometimes I think I want to face it.  Of course, my Ma used to say that I should just let people talk because if they were talking about me, they were leaving someone else alone and how very right she is.  So, we can easily discount the gossip but what about when you're faced with it and what about when someone angrily calls you on a mistake that you made?  How do we deal with that?  I know what I do, I turn and walk away.  There's no point in getting into an argument no matter how hurt we may be and until nerves are calm, there's no point in discussion.  Screaming may feel right in that moment but I know myself well enough that I'm going to make it worse if I stick around, especially if I'm hurt.  I know that making me angry is one thing and I can effectively recognize it and deal with it but hurting me is a completely different ball of wax.  I can quickly forgive being angered, I have trouble with forgiveness of being hurt. 

I guess my point is that I am who I am, I'm not perfect and nor do I claim to be.  I do the best I can with what I have and there are things that are important to me that may not be important to others.  My house is never polished clean, my laundry is never finished.  I've been known to manipulate and tell a fib to get me by.  I can be just as boisterous as I can be withdrawn.  I'm not thin, I'm not beautiful in the conventional sense plus  I've got scars and marks and wrinkles.  Most of the time I don't realize my stupidity until the mistake is over, it's never intentional or malicious but I can seem that way.  I'm aloof.  I can be flighty and hard to get to know.  I guess no one really does know me.  My relationships are usually fleeting because I can be demanding but sometimes much to complacent.  I'm a loner with a fragile ego, self-conscious but can sure as hell fake confidence when I need to.  I'm still coming to terms with who I am and discovering the process of becoming a better person.  I do what I feel is best with the little bit that I have and sometimes it doesn't make sense but hey, at least I'm doing something.

There, that's about it I think.  I make no apologies for the person that I am and dammit, none of us should.  We are all perfect human beings and by that I mean, we're all nuts.  Let's just remember our own flaws, deviations, mistakes and quirks before we appraise the value of another by their actions.  Maybe if we do that, we'll find compassion and acceptance, not anger or cynicism.

Drill Sergeant or Mrs. Cleaver?

I'd like to think that I'm going to look back at some of the things my kids do with a sense of humour and have a laugh about it all.  Does anyone have any idea about when exactly that happens?  Do I have to wait until they're grown and out on their own or does it come sooner?  I know the teenage years are out of the question for that to happen considering my own mother's curse of "I hope when you have kids they are just like you" is already coming at me in wonderful karmic justice and since my worst years were the teenage ones, I've concluded that I'm on a downward spiral.  Thank you Ma for reminding me all those years that what goes around comes around.  Those are your words of wisdom that ring in my head every time one of my kids tells me they hate me or I find that drawing on the counter in permanent Sharpie fine point marker.  That is my ultimate **face palm** moment; my mother's wish came true, it sure as hell came around ... times three.

I do have to laugh at most of what happens.  I went to the washroom earlier to find a really pretty purple line tracing around the trim of my bathroom door.  Pretty pastel purple and squiggly, the handiwork of a six-year-old girl.  When I asked the nervous faces of the little motley crew of children in my living room, a unanimous finger pointing indicated that my detective work was correct.  Plus the much too emphatic "It wasn't ME!" was all the proof I needed.  So, Little Miss Picasso was sent to her room for a time-out only for me to putter into the kitchen and find my son's birthday cake had gone through some sort of ritual sacrifice.  Once again, the work of a tiny, female Van Gogh with the help of her brother, Vlad the Pastry Impaler.

It seems lately that my pleas of "don't leave that on the floor", "dirty underwear don't belong in your bed", "stop ripping the legs off of your dolls", "leave that last sip of milk for my tea please", "stop hitting/kicking/slapping/screaming/whining/banging/pounding/throwing/tossing/spitting/grabbing/pinching/gouging ..." are going unnoticed.  No matter how many times I stress to not to make that face/grab that toy/throw stink eye/pitch attitude/put that back/take that out ... it falls on small, selectively deaf ears.  Please insert a mental image of me with two handfuls of my hair and boiling blood pressure.

Time Out has run it's course, it doesn't work anymore.  I almost mourn the many years that Time Out and I have spent together but, in true universal fashion, everything has to come to an end.  Spanking and I never had a good relationship, we kind of just stare at each other  Me on one side saying that any violence isn't worth it and it on the other saying, "C'mon, it'll get the point across.  Just remember 'Mom's Helping Hand' ".  Scolding, talking and the eventual barking like a drill Sergeant are all part of the Mommy Repertoire but they are failing me.  And yes, I know hollering is not a good thing but dammit, they sure as hell notice once I bellow and dearest readers, I haven't been referred to as "Roseanne" for nothing.  Along with my friend Time Out, Confiscation of Coveted Goods is also running away.  Taking the toys, the crayons, the fun away for a set period of time used to be my charm.  It worked so well the first few times that just the threat of La-La-Loopsy living in my bedroom for an undetermined amount of time would stop any radical behaviour (e.g.:  colouring the bathroom and some paper with a brand new tube of bright red lipstick).  I miss the days where threats of Time Out and Confiscation would work or a bellow would stop my animals, er, kids dead in their tracks.  

Now, don't get me wrong here, I don't punish and take without explanations as to why I did what I did.  I ensure that after the inevitable dramatics of some little drama queens and my son's wide-eyed shock and awe have dissipated, we have a sit down to discuss what they did and why they should not, can not and will not have a repeat (oooh, rephrase:  hope we don't have a repeat).  We talk about respect for others, adults, friends and most importantly, themselves.  Considering that their mother is a fledgling Buddhist, it's important that values of consideration, empathy/sympathy, understanding, non-judgement, acceptance, compassion, honesty and awareness are taught.  It may be in small doses but hey, I'm still figuring this shit out for myself too.  

I think there is also the unpreventable confusion of being raised by a single mother who happens to be working full-time from Monday to Friday almost twelve hours a day sometimes.  Some days it feels like I have evening and weekend custody with child care costs being a twisted form of child support.  I'm sure a lot of parents feel that, even in unbroken or blended families with two working parents.  Balance isn't easy, especially when you're lop-sided like me.  I have to try to balance the cookie baking, sweet as pie, fun-loving June Cleaver with the hard ass household dictator.  How the hell do I do that?  Wear fatigues and oven mitts?  Do I make up drill songs to the tune of songs from the Sound of Music?  Am I Mary Poppins who repels in from a Sikorsky C-148 Cyclone helicopter wearing a house dress and an apron instead of floating down on an umbrella?  Okay, you have my point.  Now just think, if that oxymoron role of easy-going disciplinarian is confusing and frustrating to me, how must it feel to them?  I need a resident psychologist, behaviourist, yogi, meditation specialist and a monk to give me all of the answers to the questions I have.  Blech and pout.

So, I'm told consistency is key and consistent I am, or at least doing the best that I can to maintain it.  I have all my fingers and toes crossed, insight meditation, loving-kindness meditation and the proverbial rabbit's foot at the ready in hopes that someday my house will find peace, harmony and Roseanne will be able to leave with Time Out.  I'm sure they'd make a great couple.

For now, I have to go let the girls know that dimes do not belong in their brother's nose.

Let the search begin ...

For a long time I've been looking into a mirror and wondering where I came from.  Yeah, I know that sounds a little silly but it's a normal thing to question in my circumstance.  You see, I have never known my biological father.  My mother had me very young, at twenty years old and my father, through either his decision or that of my grandparents, was never in the picture.  I've had conflicting stories as to what happened and it leaves me pondering what is the truth and what isn't.  Nobody talked about my biological father during my upbringing and I was too scared to ask.  

When I did ask at 16, I was driven out to Sand Lake for a quiet chat in the car over tea and told that he was the one who walked away and he was the one who gave up on my myself and my mother.  I was told that trying to find him was pointless and that all I would accomplish by doing so would be to break my parents' hearts.  You see, my mother was diagnosed with MS when she was 16 and, as a result of her disability, I was adopted and raised by her parents, my grandparents.  I never wanted to break their heart, I never wanted to hurt anyone but it still didn't stop my wanting to know where the other half of me was and where I got pale grey eyes when my mother's were so brown they were almost black. Why was I so almost blonde when my mother's hair was chocolate brown?  Why was I so short when my mother was tall?  Now don't tell me that it could have been from my grandparents because it can't be, it's impossible but that's not a story for right now even though it does tie into this one, it's not my place to spill those beans.

I was told years ago that I wasn't planned, I was an accident.  Years later I was told that wasn't the case and I actually was a planned and wanted child.  I was told that there was a hard time choosing my name.  Years later I was told my name had already been chosen long before I was born.  Years ago I was told that my mother didn't know she was pregnant until well into her sixth month but years later I was told different and that she kept her pregnancy a secret to avoid being forced into terminating the pregnancy due to her medical condition.  Years ago I was told the plans for my adoption by my grandparents were almost immediate but again, years later I was told that Child Services workers were at the hospital when my mother was in labour and ready to take me to an adoptive family with only my mother's pleads for her wanting so much to keep me being the reason I was allowed to stay.  I was told that when I was 18 and away at university my biological father tried to contact me but was told I wanted nothing to do with him and that couldn't be farther from the truth.  

There are many other examples of these things and it's hard to know who to believe.  Do I believe the women who became my default sisters through the adoption or the woman who was one of my mother's closest and dearest friends who admitted to holding these secrets until the time was right to tell me.  I'm sure, dear readers, you can understand my confusion and my want to be loyal but to which side?  I can't ask the parents who raised me, any of them, as they have all passed away.  My mother/grandmother lost a battle with cancer in June of 2000, my mother succumbed to MS in April of 2005 and my father/grandfather fought a great fight but lost to ALS in March of 2008.  I can't go to them now for answers but only hope that now they can look down and understand my want and need to find the other half of my DNA.  They know how much I love them, they know I would never try to replace them but I just hope they also know that I want to understand the other side of the story, the other side of me.

My whole life I felt as though my existence was a burden on my family but that's not the case.  Even if I was to be given up for adoption to a strange family, the decision was made for me to stay, even if it was last minute.  Regardless of those circumstances, I was taken in and loved by everyone.  My mother, my grandparents who became wonderful parents and three sisters (I can't call them my aunts, they're my sisters regardless of paperwork or circumstance) were and are an amazing family.  I think a lot of the feelings of burden were placed there by myself and not knowing exactly how exactly I fit into the dynamic.  I remember telling my friends at school that my "real" father had died before I was born.  My family environment was an anomaly in the early 1980s, I felt very out of place and very much on the outside of my circle of friends because of it.  I had to have a reason why I was different, so I made one up.

I do want to clarify before I continue that I had a great childhood.  My parents, all of them that I was allowed to know, did what they could for me and raised me well.  I wasn't easy on them, not by any means and especially not when I became a teenager.  I held a lot of confusion and anger with my family dynamic as well as a lot of other circumstances that don't need to be discussed here.  I had a great family, a loving and a happy home.  It was full of affection and gentle caring and I could not have asked for better.  So, please don't think of me as complaining here, I'm not.  I'm merely questioning some of the circumstances of my birth and why my biological father was not a part of it, whether it was his choice or he was forced out.  I have so many questions that for many years I was afraid to ask but now, there really isn't any reason why I need to hold back and ask them.  I am a grown woman with a family of my own, it's time I got the balls and started the search in earnest.  

Aside from using the excuse of wanting a medical history since I'm trying to build one for myself and my children, I want to ask him what his reason for walking away was.  I want to ask him the hard questions that I've been too afraid to ask for far too long.  I don't know if I can trust the answers that I was already given and I want to hear it from the horse's mouth, so to speak.  If I find him and I get turned away then so be it but at least I tried.  A big part of me is screaming to start searching now because I don't want to find him when it's too late and our first meeting would be me visiting his grave.  Part of me thinks that maybe since he missed out on my entire life thus far, that he might want to get to know his three beautiful grandchildren.  And can I believe that my children deserve to get to know their grandfather in some capacity?  Regardless of what happened thirty-one years ago, things change and people change.  If it turns out that he wants nothing to do with us then that's the way it will be.  I won't force anyone into trying to build a relationship with me or my family.  As disappointed as I would be if that were to happen, it would be another case of having to accept it and keep moving on.

I was given the name of a long-lost cousin to try to reach who could give me some clues to my father.  I found her, we talked and it was wonderful.  I was accepted by her with open arms and we chatted about my little family here and my father only slightly but she gave me the biggest surprise:  my father has five other children, three daughters and two sons.  Holy crap!!  My kids have a whole ton of other aunts and uncles!!  After some wriggling and with the benefit of having an amazing friend with a hardcore case of "get it done" OCD, we think we may have found my siblings.  They're beautiful and look accomplished and so happy.  I'm being completely creepy here because I don't even know if they know I exist and here I am looking at pictures of what may or may not be them.  Resemblances are uncanny though and a photo of a man who may be my brother looks way too much like my son to not be related somehow.  It's such a resemblance, it's eerie.  I haven't contacted them and I won't just yet.  I want to find my biological father first and hopefully talk to him about everything and ask my questions before I consider approaching my siblings.  I've never done this before, never really talked to someone who has and as a result, don't know the delicate etiquette of saying hello to someone who probably doesn't know you're their daughter or their big sister.

I keep hoping and having the fantasy of a wonderful reunion that answers all of my questions and brings on the beginning of what could be a great relationship with a side of myself that I've been questioning my whole life.  The side I was told to ignore ... but how can I ignore someone who, in one way or another, made me and regardless of relationship, is part of who I am?  There is a whole family out there that would be wonderful to get to know.  I was always an advocate of the more people there are to love in your life, the better especially when it's family.  I know I'm getting my hopes up and as much as I'm trying to be my usual self and expect the worst outcome, I can't help but wonder what it will be like, what it could be like.  I will say again, I'm not trying to replace anyone.  I never could but wouldn't it be nice to have the extra?  Maybe I'm greedy, maybe this is a selfish search but I just want to know ... everything.

So, readers, here are my questions for you:  where the hell do I start?  My long-lost cousin has all of my contact information that is hopefully going to be passed onto my biological father but I'm getting impatient and don't want to wait.  Do I wait longer?  Do I take the information I have and start making calls?  I know his name, his age, where he's from and approximately where he's living now.  I know people who may be related to him and the town where he's from is not a big town.  What do I say when I call and who exactly do I call?  Do I start where he's living now or do I start in his hometown where a lot of his/my relatives still are?

Am I completely insane for doing this??

Just for Sharts & Giggles ...

Yes, you did read that correctly, the title of this post is "Just for Sharts & Giggles".  Sharts.  That, my friends, is a scary word.  It is one that we try to avoid using in reference to ourselves because nobody on the face of this earth really wants to admit that they "sharted".  Really, who do you know proudly proclaims that they shit their pants while trying to fart?  Okay, some of us know that special someone who tends to share too much but we love them anyway.  We just make sure to add a helmet under their name on the Christmas gift list.


So, to get to how this little post got started:  this day seemed to be full of shit.  Well, the smell of it, talk of it and the finger pointing as to who left the smell in the bathroom.  It all started this morning with the smell of a fart on the bus and carried on through work with all of my asphalt boys blaming one another for the smell in the bathroom.  (Very important lesson to learn ladies:  when you're the only woman on a work site, no one ever blames you for the horrendous smell in the unisex bathroom).  The poop talk continued all the way to my son trying to get to the bathroom to poop only to have a little girl race him there so she could do her doody.  Get it? Doody = duty?  Nevermind, that was horrible ... and funny so, dammit, laugh.


Between all of that mess, there seemed to be an incessant talk about poop, farts and other things related to all things rear-end.  So, here's an ettiquette on farting, sharting and pooping.

Farting

Rule One:  Always blame someone else unless it's a distinct impossibility.  If you can't place blame, be proud of your emissions.

Rule Two:  Sounds of a passing train and a forklift are wonderful for hiding the sound of a fart but always check the direction of the wind.  If the wind is blowing directly in your friend or co-worker's face and you are upwind of said friend/co-worker, hold the fart or move downwind, otherwise they are going to taste the nitrogen and carbon dioxide.

Rule Three:  Asking someone to pull your finger is ALWAYS acceptable.


Rule Four:  Remember that if you can hear people having a conversation from 300ft away, they can also hear you fart.

Rule Five:  Farting during sex is inevitable and unavoidable.  Laugh and move on.  Sharting can be inevitable and unavoidable as well so be aware after you eat the extra spicy chili or the suicide wings.


Rule Six:  Make sure it's just a fart.


Rule Seven:  Keep in mind that silent is always deadly.  It's the secret 11th commandment that they all must be that way.

Rule Eight:  Don't light them.  Third degree burns on your ass brings new meaning to the term "ring of fire".  Try explaining that one to the ER nurse.

Sharting

Sharting doesn't have rules.  We don't shit our pants on purpose so there can't be a rules surrounding it.  When it happens, and it will, just pretend it was a really stinky fart and go to the bathroom.  While you are in the bathroom, throw out your bloomers (preferably wrapped in a plastic bag), wash your ass and pretend it never happened.  If you're home, take a shower but if you're out, it's okay to go commando just remember that the next time you feel a fart, excuse yourself and fart on the toilet just in case there's more to the story.

Pooping

Rule One:  No one wants to see a picture.  I don't care how big your turd was or what weird shape it was in or the fact that you managed to shit out Jesus' face, don't point your Blackberry/iPhone/Android in the toilet.  Aside from the fact that you're probably going to be going on a really nasty fishing trip, it's just gross.


Rule Two:  It is perfectly acceptable to bring your cell phone to the bathroom.

Rule Three:  It is always acceptable to blame the smell on someone else: your dog, your cat, your kid but never your mother.  Blame your father, he's usually guilty anyway.  In fact, blaming any man will work because most don't realize that the more they protest, the guiltier they look.  Plus, it's fun to watch the antics while you have a funny little stinky secret.

Rule Three:  Never accept blame when everyone else is blaming another person.  Unless you love the smell of your own scat and think everyone else should too.  Or, you're a sadist and thrive on olfactory forms of torture.

Rule Four:  "I need to shit" is perfect for getting out of any conversation but can be over-used.  Before you know it, you will have a doctors appointment and a trip to day surgery for a very large tube with a camera being shoved in your bum.  One word:  BARIUM.  **shudder**

Rule Five:  When answering the phone while on the throne, just keep in mind who you're talking to before you tell them where you are.  New love interest? No.  Old friend from highschool? Yes.  Boss?  Depends on how much you like them and your job.

Rule Six:  It is okay to hang onto whatever is closest to you while you pinch a nugget.

Rule Seven:  Don't hang on so tight it all falls down.

Rule Eight:  When you have to yell for toilet paper, don't tell the person bringing it what you're doing.  Their reaction when they pass it to you will be priceless.


Rule Nine:  Always look after you wipe.  Only you can prevent skid marks!

Rule Ten:  It is totally acceptable to use an entire roll of toilet paper to prevent skiddies.

Rule Eleven:  Never drop the kids off in someone else's pool and leave immediately after.  They will never look at you the same way again and it is impossible to ninja a poop unless you're a bonafied ninja.

Rule Twelve:  If you must take a steamer in a public bathroom, do so with class and dignity.  Stink up the joint and leave like nothing happened!


Well, that's all I can think of for now.  I hope you enjoyed this horribly written post and please, if you know of any other rules, please send them along!  And before anyone asks, not all of these are personal experience but mostly second hand knowledge.


Goodnight dear readers and please, read this on the toilet.

Drastic Changes ... At Least on My Head

So, if any of you lovely readers know me well, you all know that my hair is huge.  Seriously, huge.  It's down to my butt, thick as old hell and curly.  I decided to change it.

When I changed it I started thinking about the correlation between women and their hair and how our hair can drastically affect our moods or how when we know our lives have changed in some drastic way, changing our hair somehow helps us women overcome the obstacle that's facing us.  We go through a bad break-up, we change our hair; new job, change our hair; new baby, change our hair.  I was one of the few women I know that rarely, if ever, changed their hair.  I was known as "Alyson with the hair".  Always big, always curly, always long, always my secret love, my security blanket.  It made me feel safe, it made me feel sexy, it made me feel different from all the other sheeple out there.  It's gone and I feel wonderful and new and alive.  How weird is that?

What I find strange is that sometimes we change things not realizing how much we needed the change, how much we needed that turn of events.  Whether it's deciding on a move, a new job or even something as silly as a damn haircut, there are times that we don't realize how much we needed it until it was done.  Sometimes it is the change itself, welcome or otherwise, that makes us wake-up to the realization that the change was needed.  We break-up with someone and it's not until we're going through the healing process that we realize just how f**ked up that relationship was, just how much of a drain it was on our emotional psyche.  We move and we realize just how much we never really felt at home until we're in that new place, surrounded by new people who start feeling like a lost and welcome family.  We women cut, colour, curl, straighten, weave, blow out, tie up, bun, streak, or shave our damn hair while men, well I don't know what men do, they defy my logic.

Anyway, my point here is this:  sometimes, during snap decisions (like a haircut) we look up and realize just how much our lives have changed, sometimes over extended periods of time and sometimes, like me, in just a few short months or weeks or days.  When I looked into that stylist's mirror the first time, I wanted to strangle her, she thinned my wonderfully thick hair, she cut off too much and gave me bangs to look like Blossom.  I lost who I thought I was in that moment, the old me was gone and an aging banker was left behind.  I got home fighting tears and ran to the nearest drugstore and did another drastic and uncharacteristic move, I dyed the remainder of the the curls on my head.  It was when I looked into the mirror after what looked like the murder of a Smurf did I realize how much my life had changed, how much I had changed.  I realized how much I needed to reconnect with who I was, who I am and who I want to be.  I am becoming me.  It's a long road after 31 long and tumultuous years but I'm going after things that I want and barely even realized, even if it is starting or maybe ending,  with a damn haircut.  

So I guess my point is that sometimes we need a kick in the ass to remind us of what's important and to remind us of who we are as a person.  Sometimes we need a change to wake us up to who we need to be or remind us that we are becoming the person we want to be.

Sometimes, a stupid haircut can remind us that all the past bullshit is worth the happiness we have today. 

The Transformation:

Before

 

Ahhh!!  I LOOK LIKE BLOSSOM!!!

The real process begins!!

Almost there ...

And there it is ... almost finished, just needs some fine tuning!!

My Own Personal Time Travel Revelations

My sciatica is acting up horribly tonight and sleep is just not an option.  I'm just laying in bed and listening to music.  Music is that beast that brings back memories more than any smell or sight or other sounds ever could.  It tends to bring back every emotion or memory of what I was doing when I first heard it or it was one of the songs that was constantly looping through my speakers.  When a certain song plays, I'm taken directly back to that place or that person, the smells and the touches of what happened during that time.  I know, I'm a freakshow but music has always done that to me.  There are songs I refuse to listen to because I just don't want to remember those times.  It's my own personal time machine.

Anyway, I'm sitting here on my bed, twisted in my blankets from trying to find a spot that keeps my leg from aching to the point that I want to cut it off.  At first I just layed here with the volume low and random songs playing in my ears to try to help me drift off.  I eventually found that I was singing along and thinking and turning the volume up while my aching toes kept a steady rhythem with the memories that came flooding back in.  It seems that all of my relationships - work, family, friends and otherwise -  are incredibly intense but incredibly quiet.  Fierce but silent.  I'm having a really hard time explaining this and it's mostly because I keep the intensity to myself.  It's not something that was every spoken or put into words but could be felt in the room; seen and experienced and felt but never spoken.  I don't think I really realize the intensity until I look back at the situation, and I usually don't look that deeply back until the memory is triggered and this is usually through music.

Sometimes music says all the things that we can't and the music we choose to listen to in each other's presence somehow subconsciously says all those things for us.  Mostly it's for our own amusement of course but next time you're with someone you care about, pay attention to the songs you feel like listening to as I am sure you'll be surprised what your choices are. I have one song that insanely reminds of the last time I spoke to someone ... yeah, I was "counting bodies like sheep to the rhythem of the war drums" that afternoon and from the slam of that car door, you'd think I really was.  Other times I was the "queen of pain" to the "king of cowards" but "saw forever in my never" only to come to the conclusion that "we could've had it all, rolling in the deep". 

I turn it up, I get lost in it, I find the intensity that I once had for the situation I was in and the feelings I had for
whomever I was with.  Lady GaGa always makes me smile, I just close my eyes and dance with my babies again, all the laughter and love that was in the moment of dancing to her with those three "little monsters" comes rushing back.  Great Big Sea's "Chemical Worker's Song" brings me back to giving my Dad a hug when I was kid and still smelling the coal mine off of his neck.  That smell was there no matter how much he washed and I can always feel his strength and smell him again when I close my eyes and hear that drum.  And there are so many others that bring these intense feelings and memories back, countless to be honest.

Science says that our sense of smell is our strongest memory trigger but I call bullshit on that.  Our strongest memory trigger (mine anyway) is listening to someone else sing everything you want to say but are too scared to say it; find the words for you to help pull that fondness and warmth to the forefront of our mind; allow us to close our eyes and relive some of our greatest or saddest moments.  A song can create a mood where just eye contact with someone you've been wanting can say everything you want to say, whether it's your devotion, passion and/or energy, enthusiasm.  I've been told once to "stop looking at me like you love me".  Hahaha, I just remembered that and you know what?  I'm listening to Billy Talent.  My lovely readers may not get that reference but that's okay, I do and I'm sure the gist is there.

But, it's 5:37am and I'm rambling like an overtired fool.  I think I'm going to take my Blackberry  and limp down on the front step to finish watching the sunrise with some tunes blaring in my ears.  I think it's time to make another memory, one of enthusiasm for the things to come and the experiences to be had.  (I'm such a dork at this hour.)

Loose Ends

Over the last few days I went back to places and spoke to people that I swore I would never speak to again in my lifetime.  People that I parted ways with on bad terms, midst an argument or feelings of hurt with no closure and no resolution.  I never realized how good it would feel to run into two of those people, talk, forgive and move on.  It's nice to move on without holding those feelings of resentment and anger.  The animousity we carry for people who have wronged us or that we feel have wronged us really can eat away at our soul.

While out for a walk downtown, I doot-dee-doo'd my way up Spring Garden (commonly known as Skin Garden Rd due to the amount of nearly nude people there in the summer) and when I looked up from switching the song that was blaring in my ear, there he was.  OOoooh, all I wanted to do was gaffle his short self and toss him out into traffic then take his wallet to get back the money he owes me.  I wanted to freak and scream about how much his words had hurt people that I love and his actions caused a lot of  upheaval in my life.  Like a movie flash, I could see myself hurting him and I wanted desperately to make him cry.

The Buddhist in me came to my rescue.  Meditation sessions and self-control (possibly medication) saved me from my impulse to draw blood.  I thought it better to let bygones be bygones and suddenly realized that the past deserves to stay exactly where it's at.  I walked up to that stumpy bastard and hugged him, apologized for the way things ended and was met with seemed to be a sincere apology back.  It was a good chat and I walked away knowing that even though the friendship was over, it ended respectfully this time.  I made peace with the situation and feel very at peace.  The demons of that situation are finally at rest.

Two days later while attempting bonnach bread, which turned out horrible, my MSN starts flashing.  Lo and behold there is the asshat to trump all asshats, King Arsehole himself.  Someone I had hoped was long forgotten along with the heartache, the broken and empty promises and his selfishness and inconsiderate behaviour.  A childhood heartbreak, my very first one from the first person who told me he loved me and then, seventeen years later, the purveyor of another heartbreak after leading me to believe that love, even immature love of teenagers, can come full circle and turn out wonderful.  No, lies and bullshit and loans that were never repaid and visits to fill my ear with promises and hope while he left to go back to his girlfriend that I had no idea wasn't really an ex.

Another moment of wanted to squeal and scream and type in bold, capital letters.  I deleted him, forgot to block him and there he was, appearing on my screen in his cocky self-assuredness to slime his way back into our "friendship". King Asshat asked to bring me tea and I, like a fool, said yes with every intention of pouring burning hot liquid over his head.  

Damn you Buddhist philosophy for making care about peaceful endings!! Instead of pouring it over his head when he walked in, I sat down with him and we talked.  Talked about everything from the relationship  that followed him (doomed as it was), the relationship he's in now and everything that happened in the meantime.  I was met again with sincere apologies for behaviour and craziness and the heartache that was caused.  I was met with laughter after that and a promise to keep his distance.  I don't have to promise to keep mine, that's a given.  I may have forgiven and forgotten but trust is hard to rebuild and I certainly don't have that fight in me, at least not with him.  Another set of demons laid to rest as he hugged me goodbye, another surprisingly easy ending to what was a tumultous, angst-ridden and seemingly unending (thanks to the moron that followed him) "relationship".

I'm breathing easier.  I didn't realize that these two friendships and how they ended weighed so heavily on my shoulders.  I thought I was over the fights, I thought I had moved on from the foolishness but, the teachings are very true in that forgiveness heals.  Carrying around that burden of anger was destroying a little piece of me that I didn't even realize and now that forgiveness has been given, on all sides, a sense of peace has poured in.  These two will never again be a part of my life again but I do thank them for giving me the opportunity to find the truth behind forgiveness.

I do have to say that it's amazing but I have a lot further to go (ending the violent mental images of things I'd like to do to people who pissed me off would be one thing to start with) and a lot more people to forgive and, more importantly, ask forgiveness from, including the moron.  Buddhism and it's teachings have given me the foundation to find myself, my heart, my strength and my confidence.  I'm a very happy girl now that I finally realize that one small action can make a world of difference.