I Will Not Give Up!

He-ey! I'm still here, my dearest reader. I think about you often but waste far more of my time on facebook than anywhere else. My IQ may have suffered slightly.

In truth, I've been on a bit of an emotional roller coaster. I was taking an anti-depressant/anti-anxiety that was doing diddly-squat for me and my life is always full of exciting things! I arm-wrestled my GP for a new prescription, I was going for Wellbutrin, he wanted a clear diagnoses -Was it anxiety or depression? Or both and which was worse?- (with a husband in the military and the best procrastination, my medical records are scattered all over the damn country) and so sent me back to Kelly, a therapist I had begun seeing some time ago to manage my anxiety and then fell out of touch with, and referred me to a psychiatrist for a full psych evaluation. I had a panic attack at the mention of psych eval because my family's mental health history reads like a who's who of the madhouse. I finally accepted that I wasn't going to get anywhere with my new doctor -did I mention he was new? Yup, live in a semi-isolated locale and you tend to get a new doctor on the regular. If you can get one at all.-until I co-operated. And so I've begun therapy to manage my anxiety again. I plan to stick with it this time. My doctor relented a little and changed my prescription after I wrote down all of my symptoms and personal history and had a session with Kelly. He still wants the psych eval. My next post may come to you from the Ward.

 Is there anywhere else in the world where a patient can research a drug and then suggest it to their doctor other than North America? I find the practice odd. Not odd enough to not do it, obviously, but odd nonetheless.

Have I told you that my daughter is a lesbian? Yup. Wouldn't otherwise be important really, unless you are trying to date her, but it has a car in my roller coaster and so I'm telling you. We've known for years. The "coming out" to us was difficult for her. After a difficult conversation in which I thought I had said all the right things when she was around 13 she began to pull away from her family. I've never thought of homosexuality as anything other than normal. It was a part of my life when I was a child, several of my nearest and dearest are, and so I never questioned whether it was right or wrong. It just was. And so it was a non-issue for me. It was a bit more of an adjustment for her Dad but honestly, it took him a hot minute to accept it. And all before she willingly came out.

After a number of very difficult, rebellious years, our relationships are nearly normal ones again. I think this is as normal as I'm gonna get. Hell, this is a normal I had imagined as a kid but never dared hope for, so I'm good.

Like I said, homosexuality is a non-issue for me but I have become hyper-sensitive to the reactions and opinions of others. I become rage-y when I hear ignorant thoughts voiced, I'm damn near murderous when I read the uneducated and small-minded opinions of people I am related to or acquainted with, and I am sad and tired of seeing my little girl affected by it. I've already had to wipe away tears caused by young ladies who wanted to partake in the bi-curious trend and have managed to break my girls heart. I want to gouge out eye-balls when she gets stared at in the women's washroom. She attended her first Pride Parade a few weekends ago and remarked on how liberating it was to be able to walk into a public washroom without judgement. Let me repeat that: She felt liberated walking into the fucking toilet! I was at once ecstatic for her and bone-weary at the ignorance and idiocy.

And here I am, at my point: I am worried sick that, at the graduation she has worked damn hard to attend next weekend, some bigoted asshole is going to say something regarding her suit. Because she is not wearing a dress. It wouldn't be her. She is wearing a light grey suit, fuchsia pink shirt (to match her date's dress) and pink and cream striped tie. I won't go ghetto. I won't even give in to a severe tongue-lashing because I don't want to embarrass her. I will teach her discretion is the better part of valour, dignity is worth way more than a few seconds, or even minutes, of satisfaction.

But I fucking hate that I have to worry about my daughter's night being ruined because we live in a world where hate is still more prevalent than acceptance. 

This blog? I'm not even going to bother trying to make promises to you! We know each other well enough now, don't we? I want to write, I love to write! I've just lost the motivation to write anything more complicated than a facebook status.

Something Witty Goes Here

I was going to write a post about my depressingly dysfunctional relationship with my mother but I changed my mind. I don't think I'm capable of putting a humorous spin on it, it's too depressing.

So, what to write, what to write....?

Oh, this is going to be good.

*finger tapping*

*thoughtful looks*

*several false starts*

Eureka!

This isn't going to win the pulitzer or anything, but I'm trying to flex a muscle here, folks, bear with me!

Earlier this spring I suffered a bout of temporary insanity and volunteered to be the team manager of my daughter's soccer team.

I know, I should just check myself into an institution for the soft minded.

Mr. Sprite was volunteering as Head Coach and I was having visions of famous super hero duos and parent of the year awards and undying gratitude from players and parents alike. Ha! Fat chance.

First off, this was an under eighteen girls team. Twenty four girls with decision making power and zero regard for anyone but themselves. Secondly, parents are idiots. Why do the vast majority of us lose all ability to manage ourselves when there is a team manager involved? And finally, I don't think I'm much of a team player.

Let's begin with my last point, shall we? I originally offered to do it temporarily, until some other, more experienced and organized mother stepped in to take charge. I created an email list, I drafted and sent emails covering the various points that needed covering, including the need for a team manager.

My call to arms went unanswered. I rallied and decided to man the post myself.  My husband went to a meeting of the minds and returned to tell me that I now had two Co-team managers.

Despite having told him that I would do it, he assumed he was doing me a favour. He just didn't understand that this was my calling and I was prepared to answer it with gusto! I had created an email group in Gmail! Were my dedication and skill not apparent? Apparently not. But I am nothing if not accommodating and so I accepted my new colleagues with open arms.

It seems I do not play will with others.

It has come to my attention that I am woefully intolerant of incoherent text messages and emails lacking punctuation and grammar. I am also unwilling to be subjected to aggressive ignorance. But really, my expectations are exceedingly high.

When it dawned on me that, while two ladies that were foisted upon me were no doubt lovely, I was not on the same page as them. And rather than exert my dominance, I attempted to resign my position and leave the managing to them. They begged me to stay. The position was such that three ladies would serve far better than one. I caved. Not one for confrontation, am I.

Three was definitely a crowd.

Parents! A word of advice? If you have enrolled your child in an extra curricular activity, please read any and all, in its entirety,communications sent to you regarding that extra curricular activity. To ask for contact numbers that were sent to you three times makes you look like an idiot. It is a pity that LMGTFY is not an acceptable response to a query regarding the name and locations of hotels sent to you two weeks ago for the tournament this weekend. On Thursday. And finally, please don't make me send a repo man to your home because you still have not paid your dues. I feel qualified to offer such advice because I have been guilty of all of these as a parent and now know the special kind of torture it is as a team manager.

Finally, Ladies. You will one day soon venture out on your own. You are a short step from adulthood. It shouldn't be too much to ask for you to arrange your own transportation. It isn't difficult to notify your coaches if you plan to be absent. Your jersey is not too tight and yours is. Yes, your Pro-Wrap is fine, even though it doesn't match. Do we really need to wear two different coloured socks? This is soccer, not Americas Next Top Model.

Gah! I'm sure I have new grey hair and I expect compensation for my troubles and I have a new found respect for those who volunteer their time to support our kids and I believe they all need their heads read.

Where do I sign up for next year?

Sweet Dreams

I've told you that I recently began taking an anti-depressant/anxiety medication. I've struggled with both for the better part of my life. I had, for a long time, some semblance of control over it. But the last couple of years were particularly difficult and a move nearly clear across the country was the straw that broke the camel's back, I think. After sitting on my stairs, crying uncontrollably after an argument with my husband - not even a bad one- that was reasonably resolved, I thought perhaps it was time to talk to my doctor about medication. I talked to her about my previous coping methods, the stressful events in recent memory, the increasing number of panic attacks and my tendency toward rage and uncontrollable sobbing and she agreed. That was a lot of info leading up to the point of my post. A fun side effect of this particular medication is crazy dreams. And if dreams are your subconscious' way of cleaning house than mine is a dark and dirty little place.

Dystopia, torture, abandonment, power are all recurring themes. If my dreams are any inclination I have some serious issues. The shit happening behind the scenes is depressing! But don't get me wrong, even with such dismal themes, my dreams aren't all bad. I'm often in a position of some power or I'm self-reliant and successful. Others turn to me for support, protection or advice. Or I'm torturing people. Very satisfying, on occasion.

Then there are the rom-com dreams. These are the scariest of all and the ones I refuse to look at too closely. I'm afraid I'll discover I'm a pathetic, shallow shell of a woman whose every problem can be solved by the discovery and acquisition of a good-ish man. Gag.

And all of it happens in incredible, amazing, techno-colour, 1080p, hi-def detail. They are beautiful to watch.

Also, much to my displeasure, I am no longer a lucid dreamer. It's completely gone. I am still often aware that I am dreaming but helpless to control the turn of events. Which is really annoying. But I must admit that my subconscious is far more imaginative than my conscious. Fun fact: I Googled lucid dreaming to ensure I was using the correct term and there is a 16 step guide to lucid dreaming. I didn't read it. I may have to. I was under the impression this was something you can or can't do. It wasn't an acquired skill. It seems I was wrong and am but a how-to away from being in control once more.


Sometimes, the crazy dreams make for something less than a restful night and in the morning I`m often compelled to share the night's feature with the family (more than one interesting conversation has begun this way). My daughter, my musings biggest fan, insists I commit my dreams to paper. She knows my biggest wish to be a published writer and is always trying to get me to write. I adore her constant devotion and encouragement. And she's not wrong, a successful writer must do a lot of two things; read and write. One of which I do more than the other but not enough of both, really. Perhaps she's right and my dreams are the place to start. My muse in disguise? Perhaps. Stranger things have been known to happen.

Flu Assessed

My daughter came home from a weekend away with a fever and chest racking cough. My first thought? Swine Flu, of course. Now, I’m not an overprotective, hypochondriac type normally, but three of her friends had already been diagnosed and her symptoms were very literally the first 5 symptoms listed on Public Health Agency of Canada’s website and so I thought it a good idea to get her to a damned doctor. Imagine my dismay when I discover the medical community has far different ideas from my own.

I get up bright and early Monday morning to be sure I am the first voice my Doctor’s receptionist hears that day after a night of listening to my poor kid hack up a lung. Her coughing was so bad in fact that when she finally stopped, around 4:30 am, I had to check on her. This, after 2 tablespoons of a cough suppressant. Back to the Doctor’s office. The receptionist informs me they are not seeing possible cases of the H1N1, I have to take my daughter to the Flu Assessment Clinic set up at such and such an address for patients such as my daughter. Is there a doctor there, I ask. Oh yes, of course, I’m told. And so, I wait until noon (when the clinic opens), load my sick child into the car, cursing all the while because I am expecting a clinic full of hypochondriacs and real sick people causing a ridiculously long wait when my child could see her family doctor, be in and out in no time and be back home, snuggled up on the couch watching movies and drifting comfortably in and out of healing sleep.

At the Flu Assessment Clinic, we are greeted by security guards (yes! Security Guards!). My daughter asked me why the clinic needs security guards. Fucked if I know, babygirl, was my reply. They block the inner door whilst insisting we sanitize our hands and don the facemasks provided in the vestibule before permitting us to enter the Clinic. Then we are instructed to take a number. Luckily, we were the second people to arrive and so our wait was a short one. We are called into one of the patient’s rooms, where a Nurse introduces herself, pulls out a carbon form (triplicates! who in the holy hell are they all going to?) and proceeds with the questionnaire. We answer all of the questions, she dutifully checks off our responses on the form. Perhaps we’ll see the doctor now? No, no such luck. She then tells us my daughter may or may not have the regular seasonal flu, possibly H1N1 and it might be a regular run of the mill cold. All of which I knew myself and I said as much. She smiles and says they stopped doing the swabs because they were too time consuming. Just watch out for this and that and keep her home from school for the rest of the week. Apparently, Google is giving away nursing degrees, because that's what Google said. They did nothing. Waste of Time.

Well, That Was Easy.

My hubby is gone. Again. But you know what? I'm not too upset about that right now. Why, you ask? Because it's dang cold here and the weatherperson is calling for two centimetres of snow (not quite an inch, my Ameri-friends) but I gotta tell you, that requires a fire. And so I built the first fire in the stove this season and guess what? I have FLAME!!!! And red hot blazing coals! Whoo hoo! For those of you who do not rely on a wood stove as your main source of heat you are probably just smiling politely to yourself, thinking I've lost my ever lovin' mind. But if you have ever used a wood stove for heat, if you have ever been the one responsible for starting the fire that provides the warmth, then you know my satisfaction, my success.

I used 1 egg carton, a flyer, some birch bark and a few pieces of kindling (I usually need the equivalent of a newspaper, 4 - 5 egg cartons, and half a tree worth of kindling to start the damn thing) and I have a very impressive bed of coals. Not to mention, I put a junk of wood half the size of my thigh in there and it caught and is burning beautifully! I feel like I could scale Mount Everest tonight!

I took my girl to the casting call this evening. This morning I very quickly poured over every recent photo I have of my princess, and could not find one that I thought sufficient to land her the job of Actress (yes, I am taking this a bit too seriously). And, yes, I should have scoured over our photo albums before this morning, but I am the Queen of Procrastination Island. This is the way we do things here. Alright? Finally ended up taking 3 photos with her digital camera (it's better than mine) and then choosing the best one while I was at work. I corrected the red eye, and printed the picture at Wally World on my lunch. Drove the 45 minutes after work to pick up the princess, drove the 45 minutes back to the town I just left to fill out a form, provide my name and cell phone number as the parent to the child whose acting application I just handed over to a lady on the opposite side of a folding table. She promptly stapled my daughter right through the forehead so that her face would not become separated from her application. She told us they would contact us via email if my daughter was needed. By January. Okay. So....that was anti-climactic. I'm not complaining, it was kinda fun. But not exactly what I expected. I don't know what I expected but that wasn't quite it.

I signed up for the Cannonball Read II today. 52 books in one year. For those of you that aren't in the know, you can get the low down here. Reading 52 books in one year, a book a week, will be a cinch. Getting the reviews up is going to be tricky. I hate reviewing stuff. But I'll give it my best because it's for a good cause and everyone should read. It's good for ya. < -- That's evidence of the depth of my wisdom tonight, folks.

Anyhoo, tomorrow is another NWW. I will be sure to participate and I may even follow through with blogging about it.

Just one complaint before tomorrow. The Military has sent my hubby home for the week. That's right, he's in Toronto. I am green with envy. Green, I tells ya! I wanna go home too! I wanna stay in a five star hotel on the tax payer's dime in Downtown T.O. I wanna see my family and friends. It's not fair! *picture foot stomping here*

Pancakes and Watermelon Martyrdom

My daughter turned 13 at the beginning of the month. Yes, I heard the hiss your breath made as you sucked it back in through clenched teeth. And yes, having a 13 year old daughter is as scary as you think it is. Scarier, in fact. I remember being 13 years old. If she is doing half of the shit I was doing at 13, I need to remain blissfully ignorant. Ponder that for a moment, your 13 year old self and what you got up to. Oh, I know. You need to sit down? Yes, please go right ahead. I understand. No, no, please don't talk about it. My Dad reads this blog and he thinks I was a good girl (I was Daddy, I swear. This is all for fun. You know that, right? Right?).

Anyway, she wanted to have a sleepover. You have that image I helped you conjure of one 13 year old girl? Now picture 5 of them. They are Lululemon wearing, ipod Touch toting, Twilight watching, gossip mongers. Just listening to their interactions exhausted me.

As is the sleepover tradition, I cooked a smorgasbord breakfast. Kings and Queens have not known such plentiful fare! Well, maybe I'm exaggerating a little bit; there was scrambled eggs, bacon, chocolate chip pancakes, blueberry pancakes, and watermelon. I am usually a fantastic pancake maker, but I require an electric skillet to make my fantastic pancakes. Sadly, last fall, my skillet was in the dish rack drying (I do not dry dishes, they will dry themselves if you let them) atop a mountain of similarly drying dishes. I may have accidentally brushed the the skillet with the fold at the elbow of my shirt as I turned to reach for something and wouldn't you know it! The damned skillet jumped right out of the dish rack, threw itself on the floor and broke! Now I have to rely on a cast iron frying pan for my fantastic pancakes and it usually takes me 6 pancakes or so (3 fit in the pan at a time) before I get the temperature just right and those first ones are always a little darker than the average taste bud prefers. Who usually gets these? Why, me of course! I also got the ends of the watermelon. And so I pose this question: Why do parents do this? Why not make the kids eat the burnt pancakes and watermelon ends? Oooo, that sounds mean. Is it 'cause we love the little buggers? Do you think 20 years from now they will remember my pancake and watermelon martyrdom? I don't think so. Why don't I throw them out you ask? Because then I can hear the little voice inside my head that sounds suspiciously like my mother reminding me of all the starving children in Africa; waste not, want not, etcetera etcetera. So I eat the burnt pancakes and watermelon ends.

Mr. Sprite and I got our movie on this weekend. In fact, we watched 3. Allow me to play critic a moment.

The Reader

I sat down to this one blind. I had read something, somewhere about this movie but I was damned if I knew what, where. Ahhhh, Kate Winslet, is this the one she won the Oscar for? By the time the movie had finished I decided it had to be. That was definitely the type of performance the Academy folk like. I haven't bothered to verify that. I may still be wrong. It was good. I enjoyed it. I don't want to get all spoilery so I will be brief and vague. She has an affair with a 15 year old boy (that's not a spoiler! It happens in the first 10 minutes or so), as he is young and impressionable, when the affair has run it's course (that may be an inadequate description, but I'm gettin' tired, sorry), she continues to plague his thoughts. She lacks a particular skill the rest of us take for granted. The lack of this skill, her inability to admit to it and the fact that she is a guard for the Nazi's lands her in a heap load of trouble. I'd recommend it. Not the happiest of love stories though, so if that's what you're looking for, look elsewhere.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Mmmmm, Brad Pitt......Oh! Sorry! Yeah, so unless you've lived under a rock this year, you have to have heard of this movie (the same could be said for The Reader, I know). A baby is born old and as he ages he gets younger. The baby is played by Brad Pitt. His love interest is played by Cate Blanchett. I think I may trade in my current girl crush, Scarlet Johansson, for Ms. Blanchett. She has such classic beauty. Is there anything she can't do? Anyhoo, not much to say. If you are talented at suspending reality and ignoring the numerous questions this premise begs, then by all means, see this movie. You will enjoy it.

JVCD

Meh. Jean-Claude Van Damme is cool, don't get me wrong. Cute, too. But this? This was meh. I didn't hate it. I wouldn't trip over myself to watch it again. It's supposed to be sorta, maybe, a little bit, kinda autobiographical, so I'm told (again, I haven't bothered to look it up. I'm all about repeating all sorts of unsubstantiated shit tonight, sue me). Back to the maybe, could be, sort of, might've been autobiography. Reeeeally? I raise one eyebrow at you, Mr. Van Damme. I imagine I would have to be a bit more of a fanatic type fan to fully understand what happens in this movie. Perhaps, if I had an inkling, I could do a little research and be enlightened. I'm not so much into researching my movies to be quite honest. I had a similar experience not so long ago, where I felt so strongly about my experience I was compelled to write an email to a website I frequent regarding a movie I had watched recently. Awww, What the hell, I'll include that too, since I am playing critic tonight. Oh! If you are looking for Jean-Claude patented ass kicking, don't watch this. If you are a fanatic, go right ahead, fill yer boots.

I'm Not There

Now, just in case you’re a huge Dylan fan let me explain before you hire a hit. I like Bob Dylan; in fact my affection resides in the much stronger territory of love where certain songs are concerned. My Father made sure I was well acquainted with the music of, in his opinion, the best musicians on earth. Bob Dylan was one of them. So, when I saw a preview for this movie I was excited. Unfortunately, life happened and I didn't get to see it as early as I would have liked. I happened to be at the movie store without the other half last weekend, and there on the bottom shelf, in the corner of the bottom shelf, were two copies of this movie. I got all excited because I had forgotten all about it and I remembered how much I wanted to see it. I scooped it up, paid for it, drove home, popped me some popcorn and fired up the DVD player. I watched all 2 hours and 15 minutes of it.

If I had an ounce of knowledge on the subject, perhaps I could say this movie is visually remarkable. I didn’t invest 2 hours of my time for the cinematography. If I had wanted to see the result of Todd Haynes flexing his writer/director muscle, then I might have been impressed (although I was intrigued by the idea to use 6 different actors to portray one man). What I wanted was to learn a bit about the legend. To walk away feeling as if I had been audience to a small portion of Bob Dylan’s life. What I got, however, was a whole lot of “What the…?!?”
I thought I should sleep on it. Maybe I would feel better about it in the morning, you know, digest a little. I woke up still confused. What was I missing? Everything seemed out of context, nothing tied one event to another. I mean, what in the name of all that is good does Billy the Frikkin’ Kid have to do with Bob Dylan? I obviously was missing some very crucial information here. And that’s it. This movie left me feeling like there exists some secret VIP Dylan Club for which I was not a card holding member. Amateur’s need not apply.

For what it’s worth, I enjoyed the acting. Heath Ledger can (could?) do no wrong. Christian Bale was broody and he does that well. Cate Blanchett is amazing and everything she touches is gold in my eyes. Richard Gere, well, again I ask you, what does Billy the Kid have to do with Bob Dylan? I should add that I did look up Billy the Kid’s relevance shortly after I woke up and the explanations I found left me still confused. I did find a satisfactory explanation of Marcus Carl Franklin’s character. Even when I didn’t know why he was there or why he was calling himself Woody Guthrie, I was amused by the kid.

This movie should come with a warning; if you aren’t a die-hard, a Dylan aficionado, get your kicks elsewhere. This movie’s not for you.

Th-th-that's all folks!