Brass, Sweat, Steel and Gunpowder

I walked through what looked like a dining room that ran almost the length of the building I just went into.  Rows of clean perfect tables, pine wood panelling and concrete floors with a directional star in the middle, shocking for the place considering what it was.  I stopped and traced the toe of my pink steel toe boot along the "N" depicting North and then the "S" that was pointing more toward the door that I needed.  I could see the lake from the windows across from me and feel the pine needles stuck to the bottom of my boots.  I scanned the place, found the smile I was looking for and followed the bearer to the door with some bundles of things we needed to do what we had come to do.  

He opened the door, the squeak of the hinges resonating though the building that was empty except for us. The room smelled like nothing I've ever smelled before.  I sniffed, laughed and commented on the different odour that was an overpowering scent of unpolished brass, sweat, steel and gunpowder.  It was an assault on the senses at first but after leaving to use the washroom and re-entering, it became welcome, almost comforting.  That could have been do to the person who was waiting for me to come back.  Did my brain make a connection between the smell of a shooting range to the person who was introducing me to it?  Probably.  I'm sure if I was dragged there against my will, that smell would not have become so pleasant.

We walked the length of the range together, checking out what was ahead of us and planning targets.  I poked the at the archery targets with the fascination of a child.  They're actually a lot more dense than I expected.  I don't know why I was thinking they would be soft, maybe because I'm warped by Robin Hood: Men in Tights since the targets are stuffed with hay and look so fluffy in that movie.  We found a target deer  that I became quite amused by and I'm sure my sanity was called into question when I walked back down the range to check out the hole in the boards that made up the wall at the end.  There was nothing but wood chips and angled styrofoam panelling, musty and pungent.  I walked back with a skip in my step and helped with picking the perfect position for a target.  We hung normal target looking papers first, then zombie targets.  I guess we were playfully preparing for the zombie apocalypse.  I can't hit the broad side of the barn so I guess I'm very lucky that my wonderful instructor nailed Eddie the Executive square in the eye.  

It was my turn.  Which one did I want?  I didn't care, I don't really know the difference between them all yet (relax, I'm studying and learning and still a newbie so please forgive my fuck ups).  With my MS I shouldn't really be shooting without my wrists braced but I felt good today, a little stronger than usual so I gave in to temptation.  He handed me two 9mm, told me to pick.  Not so easy while I eyeballed the .45 that I remember being so fond of the first time he had taken me to a range, that one outdoor.  The lighter one, it might be easier.  He gently reminded me how to slide the clip in, pull the slide and the whispered reminder to keep my damn finger off of the trigger until I was ready to pull it.  

It's a strange feeling to have a gun in your hands.  Having my two hands wrapped on something that has such a destructive potential feels both empowering and terrifying at the same time.  It's anticipatory adrenaline that brings your heartbeat to your ears when your concentrating on that target ahead of you and every time I pulled that trigger, felt that recoil and resonance of the boom, I felt stunned at how utterly powerful these weapons really are.  I was holding in my little squeals but I couldn't hide that crooked smile of complete disbelief that I was really doing this, the Buddhist was learning to fire handguns.  I could hear my charming chaperon giggling behind me, keeping me grounded and keeping me safe.  I'll reiterate, I cannot hit the broadside of a barn but I managed to get some on target and the only thing I really accomplished was realizing how much fun target shooting is, having some laughs and feeling a little more bonded with my tender attendant who is, obviously, a much better shot than I ever will be.

We packed it in.  I swept up the brass shells while he gathered up the equipment.  Oddly enough, the sounds of the brass banging together and pouring into the bin was almost musical, like a deadly falling xylophone.  I swept the range of the papers that came off our mutilated targets, happily pushing the dirt to the pile already started by the hole in the wall while I was quickly reminiscing on the day and smiling at the laughter I could hear at the other end of the building.  A hearty, infectious laugh that dissipates any shitty mood I happen to be in and brings down the guard I normally have quite high.

So, all in all, it was a marvelous day and one that I'm thankful for.  I can't wait to do it again ... and again.

One More Pet & I Can Charge Admission to My Zoo

I had a doctor's appointment today, I'm pretty sure it was appointment number 125 556 926 or at least that's what it felt like.  I'm sure I spend more time with my doctor than I do with my friends.  Today we filled out the paperwork for long-term disability and that was certainly not fun.  I have a list a mile long of things that my body just does not want to do or does without my permission.  Thankfully, I do not require diapers ... yet.  I'm sure I'll have a wonderful long post about that if the time ever comes that I welcome Depends into my life but as of right now, I'm good.  Well, I have to cross my legs when I sneeze or laugh too hard but I'm going to blame that on my kids.

During the question and answer period about whether or not my hands are working yet and a giggle about how my left bicep gets spastic when I lift my right leg, my doctor looks at me and says I look a little stressed.  I fell into sarcasm mode and replied with, "yes, another $150 for three pieces of paper to be faxed to a multi-million dollar corporation while I sit figuring out what bill I can avoid to use the money to pay for the report is always good for the stress levels".  Her raised eyebrow and suddenly pursed lips showed her surprise at my response but it was a true statement and she understood my frustration.  

Then the magic happened, my soft-spoken and well-meaning caring Egyptian doctor who never lets me leave her office before she tells me a corny joke makes a statement that I think is her corny joke, "you should look into adopting a companion dog for yourself".  I'm sure I choked on my own saliva before I explained to her that I have three kids, two cats, a free-roaming iguana and a tiny corn snake so if I added one more pet, I could start charging admission to the zoo that would be my apartment.  yI had to ask if she was volunteering to buy food and pick up poop because I have enough shit to deal with.  Seriously, between the litter box, terrarium and nightly iggy baths plus kids who forget how to flush and my own potty trips, I literally do have more shit than my fair share.  I'm not really complaining, I don't mind the poop but I certainly don't need to add another bum to this equation.

Then she explains to me that I should see the other animals, not including the kids here, as more of my owners, that cats and reptiles see the human they live with as their provider of food and, when they feel the need, affection.  They also see us as their cleaners of poop and other assorted pet tasks.  So basically, they love me but to them I am merely a caretaker and I get paid in random acts of affection that usually mean "get up and feed me".  Dr. Smiley then explains that dogs see us as caretakers but also see us as friends and actually value our companionship, love us unconditionally, give us affection without ulterior motives.  I beg to differ because I know if I was unable to get myself to the bathroom, I would be the kindest and most-loving creature to the person or alien that was going to be taking me there.

So, I've come to the conclusion that as much as I would love to have a dog around here, it's simply not feasible.  I know the kids would love a dog and I know if we adopted an older dog I could avoid some of the initial costs of having him fixed and the struggles of potty training and just get through the struggles of introducing an older dog to a ridiculously strange family dynamic.  Maybe sometime in the future when things calm down around here with me settling into my new diagnosis, treatment and the family gets used to all changes that are happening can we make room for a brand new slobbering, furry mess of an addition to the brood.

... and no, I'm not referring to a man although some do bare a striking resemblance to our canine counterparts.

She sat there during the whole process of writing this post, bumping my hands wanting to be petted.
Voice recognition doesn't work when all you're saying is, "Sasha be nice!".
And yes, I am sitting on the side of my bed using  stacked Rubbermaid containers as a desk, shoot me.

Tattoos - A Different Kind of Discrimination

I left the house today in a sleeveless shirt, a nice dressy one paired with clean, comfortable jeans that I save for special outings and some dress shoes.  My hair was down but it's obvious that it's clean, brushed and taken care of.  I wasn't wearing make-up today but that's not unusual for me either and aside from that, I was having a girl's day out to a movie and maybe some dinner with my buddy Miss M so, make-up was not a necessity.  A greasy, fast food supper that would hit the spot with it's horrific, heart attack inducing deliciousness.  Sorry, it's been a while since I've had the pleasure of A&W and A&W is where everything ends up in this post but first, let's get the details underway.

Everything was great when we went out aside from getting stuck in the rain and having no coat.  We managed to time the bus perfectly, had enough time to wander around some shops and sat in the movie theatre with an almost perfectly timed arrival with perfect sweet spot, dead centre seats.  Everything was perfect to watch some 3D zombie mayhem.

So, here's the issue:  when I go out with shorter sleeves it becomes apparent that I have tattoo work.  I'm working on a full sleeve on my left arm so I'm tattood from shoulder to wrist, have a couple of tats on my right arm, a piece on my chest and sprinkling of a few more in places less visible.  Today my arms and chest tattoos were out for the world to see.  Usually I think nothing of it and just go about my business with the attitude that these are mine, they're personal to me and if someone doesn't like them then don't look. By some standards I have a lot of work done, by others I have very little.  Tattoos and everything that surrounds them is subject to a lot of different factors with the biggest one being preference, of course.

Every time my tattoos are visible, I see people look and that's fine, I look at tattooed people too.  I do it because I love the art of it, the fact that we can use our skin as a canvas to tell our story amazes me.  I assume people think the same way I do, whether it's a respectful fascination and appreciation like mine or simply wondering what the hell is wrong with painted people, it's okay with me.  I've been pointed at and that's okay too.  I'm sure I am not the first or the only person with ink that has had someone point at them.  Sometimes people stop to ask me questions out of curiousity or a fellow collector in the permanent ink club and sometimes it's the weird guy who thinks that he can lick his finger and try to rub them off.  Sorry dude, they're not fake and you could have just asked.

I understand that even though our current population has more people with tattoos than without and the art is steadily becoming more mainstream, there is still a lot of prejudice when it comes to people with ink.  I still wear long sleeves on job interviews and cover them as much as I can in more "professional" situations.  My intelligence or capabilities did not drop when the needle banged some ink into my skin and my IQ doesn't drop with every new piece of work.  I see the issue with acceptance though, that some people just don't like the way they look and the old cliches that only the dregs of society have tattoos still sit in the back of some people's minds.

I guess what I'm saying is that while choosing to be tattooed, I also chose to be discriminated against.  I knew it going in but sometimes I'm just amazed at the lengths people will go to or what they'll say.  I have a family member tell me once that I'm intimidating because I look like I just got out of prison (no colour ink in the joint but they don't understand that) or some people drop their gaze from mine when walking toward me but that could be because I'm usually smiling like an idiot and say hello to everyone (a cultural thing that hung on and never let go).  To be honest though, I don't encounter much more that the occasional look or a point.  Long story short:  I am not a sailor, an ex-con, in a gang or a prostitute and I'm not intimidating.  I'm just me.

So with all that said, let's place myself and Miss M in A&W finishing those wonderful burgers.  We need to catch the bus back home so I run to the washroom to have a little tinkle before we head to our stop.  On my way I see a tiny girl with her grandmother happily bouncing about.  On my way back out of the bathroom, I see the same pair of cute little girl in glasses and the grandmother sitting at the table next to where Miss M and I are sitting.  The grandmother meets up with me as she's going to the counter getting their food, I smile and say hello and keep going to get Miss M so we can be on our way.  The lady I said hello to did not smile back but returned the greeting with that up-and-down look I'm all to familiar with and gave me a scowl.  That's okay, she's her own person and that's not an uncommon reaction to an unsolicited hello in the city.

Things changed for me when I sat at my table and noticed the grandmother moving her little girl away from me, looking at me like I was standing there with an ax in my hand as she swooshed the little girl clear across the restaurant.  At this point I'm shocked but my stomach flips when I notice she physically turns this kid's head when she notices the little one looking in my general direction while once again scowling at me.

My heart hurt.  Here was a wonderful opportunity for this little girl, nor more than three or four, to ask some questions or even just point at the colourful girl and instead her grandmother instilled the idea that tattooed people are to be kept at a distance.  I wanted to tell her that each of the cherry blossoms represent someone that I have loved and lost, the Buddha on my wrist reminds of my beliefs in living the best life possible by showing respect and love, the lotus on my chest with the skulls is something as simple as coming to terms with horrible decisions and finally being at peace with them, the ohm a meditative symbol, the treble clef a reminder of my pianist mother, my kids' birthdays in Roman numeral and the symbol of family with them.  I wanted to tell her that each of my three children are represented on my body with their own tattoo and that each and every one I have tells part of the story of the life I have lived so far.  I really do wear my heart on my sleeve or rather, have my heart permanently etched onto my body.

I don't know if this should have bothered me as much as it did but it made me sad to see someone so disgusted by my appearance which in all other ways was clean and normal and to project that disgust to the small child she was with.  I know I said I accepted the discrimination with the body art but sometimes, it hits a little too close.

Like A Kid Who Lost Their Nintendo ...

There is no delicate way to say this except to say, "holy shit it's hot today".  I'm cowered in my little apartment fighting with voice recognition software to try to write something to pass the time.  Fans and cold water are doing nothing to fight a "feels like" temperature of forty degrees.  Environment Canada's website is telling me there is a risk of thunder showers this afternoon and so, as I write this, I'm also saying a little prayer of sorts that at some point I will hear those blessed thunder bangs, a music in it's own right.

I know you're asking yourselves why don't I just jump on a bus and go to a beach or find a friend with a pool or sit on the balcony in the breeze I can see pushing the trees around.  The answer is simple: I'm not allowed.  I'd love to be able to get out of this stifling apartment and into the summer but it's simply not in the cards.  My doctor made it very clear during my last appointment by pointing out some of the symptoms I complained about that led them to scan my big ole melon in a giant magnet.  Kind of went like this:

Dr. Practical:  "Don't be out in the heat and humidity.  Try to stay inside until it cools off."

Me:  "Why? If it's a nice day I'd like to go out and enjoy it, even for a little while.  Go for a swim, maybe a hike."  (I'm smiling and dreaming a little at this point.)

DP:  "Photosensitivity. You burned in SPF100.  Your skin can't handle UVs even with protection.  Plus you got a sunburn on your legs through your bedroom window the last time I saw you, remember?"

Me: "Right."  (That was duh moment.)

DP:  "Don't forget the fatigue you get when you're overheated.  I know you're going to ask me and my answer is already a big N-O to energy drinks.  Those things make your tremors worse and you know how much your hands and legs swell in the heat so be prepared to lose more dexterity and have your symptoms amplified on the hotter days.  You'll be fine once you cool down and if it doesn't let up once you've cooled off for a few days in a row, call me right away since you could be having a relapse."  (Why is she still smiling?)

Me:  "Yeah, I know.  Cold water and a big hat?"  (Her cheery optimistic tone and sound advice has me a little defeated at this point so yeah, I'm sinking into the chair, pouting like a kid who lost Nintendo privileges and squeaking out my question that I already know the answer to.)

DP:  "Cold water and stay in the house.  Find something to do that doesn't require a lot of exertion so do your housework at night or first thing in the early morning and try to rest during the day or only work until you start feeling tired.  Stay inside though, especially during the hottest parts of the day.  Rainy, cloudy and cooler days though, enjoy the shit out of those ones."

Me:  "Got it, Captain."

That appointment left me feeling quite defeated.  These were symptoms of summer that I've had for almost as long as I can remember with the only exception being that now I can attribute them to something specific.  Then it hit me like a ton of bricks while I was skulking at home, pacing with my lip sticking out after the appointment, I really can blame all of this on something now and I don't have to feel like the resident gimped up freak who has two colours:  lobster red and Casper white.  Seriously people, I'm so white that I'm almost translucent. 

Put it this way, there have been times where I've been invited places or asked to do things that I knew I just couldn't do which would elicit the "she's so lazy" responses from people along with the looks of disbelief and the accusations of faking it so I wouldn't have to do anything.  I think I became known as a Master of Avoidance and Mistress of Excuses.  Well, neurological science bitches!  I'm not ashamed anymore or confused as to what the hell is wrong with me and I really don't owe anyone an explanation to begin with.  

I've come to the conclusion that I'm not trapped inside for the summer, I just have to rearrange my schedule. I'm not limited in what I can do, I just have to find some new ways to do them.  It's a new challenge and even though I didn't really get much of choice to accept it or not, I'm game for the next chapter.

Oh my fuck this heat sucks though ...

Here we go ...

Here we go, it begins again and by "it" I mean the job search.  I spent the day trying to retype my resume since my voice recognition software decided it hated my accent.  It will get done, slowly but surely.  I need to get back to work sooner than later so, I'm going to attempt to cross my fingers that at this time next week I will either have a return to work date, a new job on the horizon or some promising leads.

I promised myself that I was going to make this blog a little journal but I've been slow again.  Monday of last week turned into a trip to work to discuss new duties which are nothing and I'm being thrown back into a job that I couldn't keep up with but now I'll get to do it with a really weird keyboard.  I tried to explain that taking calls from clients is out of the question for me now since I cannot keep up with their metrics but they're not having it.  I'm told that I just need to pick which keyboard is easier to use and I'll be fine.  It definitely worried me a little that none of my new ergonomic equipment or desk was set-up aside from a lop-sided hydraulic desk even though my return to work is imminent.  Seems odd for me to say that given the above paragraph doesn't it but I'll get to that.

The rest of the week was trying to argue with my insurance company and my doctor that it shouldn't cost me $60 for two pieces of paper to show that although the symptoms that put me off work in the first place aren't gone but instead, we know how to work with them now that a diagnosis has been reached.  My doctor says getting back to a normal life would probably be beneficial while my insurance is screaming about liabilities.  So, a post-dated cheque, papers get faxed and my insurance company was happy to have something from my doctor telling them the same thing I was telling them for weeks:  "ready, willing and able but with limited capacity".  Insurance says legally my employer has to comply, they'll do a return to work plan with them, I'll probably be back within a week and I start getting excited to return to a routine.  With my blessing (more like begging) insurance sends the papers off to my employer aaaaand we wait.

And wait ... I'm rolling my eyes and realizing I have work clothes to wash and get ready for my return.

And wait ... Review payroll compliance legislature.

And wait ... It's Friday, I want to be back on Tuesday after the Canada Day holiday but still no word.  

Today I get an email with a letter as an attachment.  I had a little shake and dance thinking it was  my return to work plan but no, it wasn't.  Instead what I received was a letter stating that numerous attempts to contact my employer had failed and as such, my return could not be approved but my leave extended until August 4th.   What happens after August 4th?  I am advised to apply for long term disability until they can speak with my employer to work out my return and ensure that I can be accomodated.  I've been off since February with them having my ergonomic assessment report completed in December so this is not sudden news that I will require this equipment and the fact that I've been in touch with the members of the management of this company updating them regularly since I've been off, my current physical status shouldn't be a surprise either.

My brain went haywire, I'm sure even the lesions did a little W(hat) T(the) F(uck).  How can my employer, a nationally recognized, global payroll service provider not be reached?  My insurance company was reaching out to them for a week with no results.  Phone calls, emails and faxes were not returned or responded to or even acknowledged that the were received.  My case worker with my insurance seems just as frustrated as I am since my insurance is running out and she can't say, "sure, go back to work tomorrow" with no plan in place or the employer advising that yes, the doors will be open.

What do I do?  I contact my employer.  I call and email my supervisor, my secondary supervisor and the Human Resources department head.  Oddly enough, this company hides the emails and phone numbers of it's upper echelon very well and I was unable to reach out to them.  It's well passed the end of the day and guess what?  No answer, nothing, nodda, diddly-fuckin'-squat.  Is there a hint here I should be getting?  Seems that way.

Now, the real "WHAT DO I DO?" ... Panic? Cry?  Hell no, I move on.  I'd like to stay with this company and have a career there but if they're going to make going back there difficult for me then I'm at a point where I have to look elsewhere.  Maybe this is a hidden gem, a little kick in the arse telling me that I am meant for something else.  It's not going to hurt me to get that resume typed up and out there just in case this employer never reaches out for my return.  No point in getting worked up about it, I don't have the whole story yet and, in the meantime, my insurance is still good for the rest of the month giving me lots of time to get my shit together ... again.  All of this nonsense has a silver lining in it somewhere and, being oddly calm about the whole thing, I have a gut feeling that better things are on the horizon.

Holy crap!  I just realized that I am in a constant state of reinvention!  Interesting .... but before I ponder that tiny epiphany I have to ask:  anyone have a line on a job?