Funky doodads and all that jazz....

Happy Holidays from the Pugsley Street Posse

2011-12-18T20:07:00.001-06:00

I always want to start off every Christmas letter by exclaiming, "Where the heck did the year go?" and I'm sure you feel the same way. I remember "older people" always telling me that time will go by quickly the older I get, and now here I am, stuck in that time super highway, desperately trying to slow everything down! According to some physics theory, as Brad patiently tries to explain to me, the faster a motion is, the slower time will go. So why does it seem that when I'm rushing from the point A's of life to the point B's of life, I don't have enough time to do what it is that I intend to do? I think he'll have to re-explain that theory to me because it isn't fitting in to this artist's logic of the world. haha But what a deliciously fantastic year it has been; full of creativity, love, and adventure even if it has gone by at lightning speed.

Last winter started off with a lot of excitement, as Brad moved in at the beginning of December 2010, and shared Christmas holidays with Alexander, Sandy the Wonder Dog and I. We all got caught up in the chaos of feasting, jamming to carols, burning down sliding hills in dangerous positions, spending time with families, and kissing under the mistletoe. *blush* We headed down the highway to Brad's stomping grounds on Boxing Day where the Beckman's put on an annual skating party/bonfire. Alexander had his first hand at playing hockey and really enjoyed himself, not coming off the ice until he was literally numb. I on the other hand, didn't attempt to put on my old figure skates and preferred to sit by the fire and meet all of Brad's family, extended family and friends. What a fun crew!

It wasn't long before Brad had to pack his bags though, and headed "South" to Ottawa to attend Algonquin College for Part 1 of his apprentice for plumbing. We were very thankful for technology and the ability to keep in touch daily through Skype. It made me think a lot about the war time wives and how horrible it must have been to not hear from their better half for excruitatingly long periods to time, if at all, which kept me humble and remembering how lucky we truly are to have the conveniences we have today. We continued to have our nightly reading time with Alexander and got through Book 3 of the Harry Potter series via Skype. It was also quite romantic to send and receive letters back and forth and send care packages to remind Brad of home. He was quite embarrassed, yet thrilled, when I sent him a big bouquet of sunflowers for his birthday and he had to carry them to class before having the opportunity to take them back to his dorm! All of that time apart was not in vain, as Brad got an almost perfect GPA, and even spent time tutoring other students and teaching some of the math classes when it was apparent that he was doing a better job of explaining the theories than the professor! (Oh, he's going to hate that I'm bragging for him. haha)

While he was gone, I was busily preparing for an art show, and spent most of my alone time working in my studio. Unfortunately the show was postponed, but will supposedly run this summer, so I will have an opportunity to re-apply for the show and hopefully show what happens when someone is holed up in a studio for two months!!! haha

Here's a link to my Facebook art page. Enjoy browsing around!

At the same time, I was also in the process of preparing to direct a community mural program, as artistic director of three groups that painted murals around the theme of "My Red Lake". I was the leader for the teenage group, and we had a blast getting together once a week through the summer months, making a wild mural that focuses on what it's like to be a teenager in a small northern town. If you are ever going by the OPP station, check it out. It is posted on the Treasure House building thanks to the generosity of the Weaver family. My son also participated in the program and painted a mural about his favourite activities; biking and fishing in the summer, and skiing in the winter. That mural can be seen downtown on the fence beside the pharmacy. I love that our downtown is coming alive with colour and creativity!

Alexander also spent time in his studio, conjuring up his next award winning Science Fair idea. He won a "scholarship" from the University of Toronto's Young Engineer program and also an Ontario Hydro award for his idea about solar power and how variants in the colour of the light source changes the amount of power given to a controlled object such as a remote controlled vehicle. Where does he come up with this stuff??? I'm curious to see what he's going to design for this year, albeit the older he gets, the less I understand regarding his scientific interests. The important part is that I support him in what he does, and it's also a big time guarantee that I am NOT one of those parents that does their project for their child. haha

Brad and Alexander usually spend the weekends waking up early and scheming on different inventions and designs, theorizing about concepts around time and space and speed and force and all of those things that allow me to sleep in on Sunday mornings. They worked on a trebuchet this summer which is kind of a flingy catapult, and had a working model in the yard. The intent was to make a huge trebuchet on Brad's property out by Vermilion Bay. Eventually, we are going to see pianos and pumpkins flying great distances, so keep your head up if you're in the neighbourhood, and perhaps keep your cat indoors. haha Just kidding, kind of.
It was only fitting that Brad, Alexander and I went to the Leonardo da Vinci exhibit in Winnipeg this fall, so that they could tinker with replicas of his amazing inventions and I had an opportunity to get a closer look at his intricately detailed art work and learn more about the mystery behind the Mona Lisa painting.

Summer came upon us quickly and we busily got to work on the "BoBeckman" farm, making the gardening plot a bit bigger, planting a ton of veggies and working on other landscaping projects. We finished off the rock pathway and Brad built a beautiful gate using birch trees and adding permanent planters at the bottom of the gate so that annual ivy can shimmy up the gate in the summer. My perennials (compliments of the late Leni Sadtler) worked double time this year, and I even had the opportunity to divide and share my plants, twice! Even though it was a hot, dry, fire riddled summer, we were able to use mainly rain water to keep everything lush and productive. Brad and Alexander have big plans to create some kind of recycled water system with pipes (and God knows what) dug underneath the yard. Next summer we're considering making the garden even bigger, and I still want to have an outdoor tub to lounge in under the stars in the evening. I'll definitely have to invest in some mosquito netting!

We also had an opportunity to go on a super fun vacation after Brad and I pointed to a dot on the map and decided a road trip west would be fun. We did a bit of research but kind of let the wind just take us, with the destination of Saskatoon in mind. The goal was to go to the Saskatoon Ex. The true fun was in the journey there and back though, stopping in every small town along the way, exploring abandoned farmsteads, stopping in an artist community to give a critique of all the paintings at a local gallery (They asked me! It was quite entertaining!), stopping in at a sod house in Elbow, Saskatchewan, enjoying the sand dunes at Great Spirit Lake, coming back to a soaked tent at midnight, meeting a luthier who let us into his home to try out all of his beautifully made instruments and tour his workshop (eventhough he had to clean the house because his girlfriend was coming over), and of course, counting endless cows and hay bales. I love the prairies!

We even had the opportunity to meet up with one of my dearest friends, Steph, and her kids who were heading back to Alberta after being in Red Lake, while we were heading back home. Yet again, because of the power of technology, we were able to communicate via cell phones, meeting up at a greasy spoon on the trans-Canada, somewhere on the border of Saskatchewan and Manitoba for one last hug goodbye until we meet again. This road trip was a great way to break in the new truck we bought at the beginning of the year. I sure missed my big red truck, so we bought a Chevy Silverado and it's giving us the pleasure of tromping through the bush and across the country yet again.

We also spent an excellent couple of days at the Winnipeg Folk Fest, with the highlight being KD Lang. If you ever get the opportunity to see her live, don't miss out. The ticket price will be worth it. She has a phenomenal stage presence on top of her incredible voice, and she'll have you weeping one minute and on your feet dancing the next. But keep in mind if you're going to the Folk Fest and you don't have intentions of camping, that you should seriously consider booking a hotel room well in advance. We learned that the hard way, after having to spend a creepy night at the Montcalm! I still pucker when I think about that experience! Lesson learned!

Here's a link to the blog about that "interesting" experience.

September came quickly and I was back in the saddle, teaching the awesome students that make my job entertaining on a daily basis. I swear, I learn more from them than they do of me. And nothing makes me more proud than to see them grow into the beautiful, intelligent people that they become in those short four years that I have the opportunity to spend with them. Many graduates swing by for visits and it's awesome to hear about their life journeys. That is one of the perks of living in a small town, I guess, because Red Lake has a way of bringing people back to see what they've left behind. It's not sooooo bad here afterall! :)

Along with our busy jobs, Brad and I also had the task of harvesting everything in our garden and deciding what to do with it. We made many a jar of pickles this year, along with pickled beans, cajun pickled beans, salsa, and canned tomatoes. We have a freezer full of shredding beets, carrots and more tomatoes to get us through the winter. Yum. But all of the canning created a ripple effect as we decided to make a cold room in the basement, which led to adding extra walls, which led to redesigning the whole space downstairs, and finishing the laundry room. Brad has almost completed the drywalling, taping, mudding and sanding of the den (his man cave and music room...haha) and I'll most likely spend the Christmas holidays doing a lot of painting and decorating.

But we are about to have our lives changed again, as Brad has decided to take a job at with KPDSB as one of their maintenace men. We are thrilled that he will have steady hours from 7 to 3 so that we can spend more time together as a family to do all of the crazy, kooky things that make us who we are. Change is good, and that's the way we roll around here!

And on that note, I'm off to spend more time with my kooky family and hope that you have the time to do the same with yours. We hope that your year has been filled with joy and that your future is filled with adventure surrounded by the people you love.

Happy holidays!

Love Rhonda, Brad, Alexander and Sandy the Wonder Dog

Midnight at the Oasis?

2011-07-12T11:03:00.000-05:00

You know that dreaded feeling you get when you walk into a gas station bathroom and it’s so filthy that you worry your vulva might disintegrate if it makes contact with the porcelain? And you know the more dreaded feeling of desperation when you know you have to succumb to that horrible idea simply because if you don’t you will most likely spontaneously combust in the nether regions? I think it is subtle control in the gas station industry….the attendants could care less whether the bathrooms are clean or not. They know that you’ll go if you really have to go and they’re tired of cleaning up after you if you’re not even willing to spend a dime there. I picture them thinking, “Go ahead and take a shit. You’re not going to like it. Heh. Heh.”

Now apply that same feeling of desperation to this scenario; imagine that it is almost 1am and you have been on a manic search for a hotel room in the city for close to an hour during one of the busiest festivals the city hosts. “Sorry, we’re full. Um….do you know there’s a festival this weekend?” is equivalent in hotel front desk lingo to “Are you stupid?” Yes, we had intentions of sleeping in our tent which was already set up and ready to go, but it started to rain and we just got lazy I guess, and decided we didn’t want to be tough Canadians after all. We were succumbing to the notion of comfort. That was a very, very bad mistake.

When we drove past the Montcalm, we cut our losses, reasoned that it was only for a night, and took the room. The thought of sitting naked on that bed sheet still makes my butt pucker. I just couldn’t do it. We should have known something was fishy when we were given room number “zero”. Yes, that is right. Our door actually said “Room # 0”. It was beautifully printed onto white paper and scotch taped to the door. What does room zero mean?! Does it mean that as soon as the door opens you’re going to enter zero gravity? No, we quickly realized that the zero means zero maintenance to the room and absolutely zero cleaning duties.

You know, I’ve dealt with a lot of dirt in my days. I’ve worked some pretty crazy jobs, and ironically, my first job was working for a restaurant picking garbage in the parking lot. And I was a waitress in my university days and there’s nothing greasier than dealing with slippery plates all day. Plus, that was back in the days when everyone was allowed to smoke in restaurants, so not only was it dirty, it was stinky too. I can go on about a plethora of different experiences with dirt, but man, room zero was just downright gross. The toilet rim was indescribable. (Poop is supposed to descend vertically from the body, is it not?) Why was there a partially used bar of soap in the grayish, brownish, tannish, yellowish bathtub. Where were the bath towels? Did we want to use them even if they had any? Brad found a Winnipeg Sun in the dresser that was dated March 18^th, 2011. We figure that was the last time the room was cleaned.

And at the same time that I was appalled that we actually paid to sleep in filth, I was also appalled that I was being such a wuss about it. Am I that OCD about dirt that I can’t handle a bit of goo? I have slept on dirt in the bushes. I actually slept in a horse shoe pit in a camp ground once. I woke up with a lot of sand in my mouth and for some reason that was ok with me. And I have been puked on, pooped on, peed on. I’m a mom. It happens a lot. And I’ve also been to a lot of crazy parties where that also happens a lot. And then there are the times that I’ve walked through the bush and picked up the occasional moose turd. I marvel in the fact that I am holding something that came out of the rectum of a large hairy mammal. For some reason, that seems ok to me. Moose poop is all natural. It has fluctuated between being washed in the rain and baked by the sun and in my mind that seems clean.

So why was I being such a freak about this place? We were both being freaks about the place. Brad and I polished off a full bottle of wine, swig style, in a matter of minutes to try and deaden the anxiety of sleeping, hover-style, over the bed sheets. Usually in a hotel room, I take the bed spread off immediately, because I’ve seen too many CSI shows that use black lights to emphasize “stains”. But in this case, I wasn’t too sure which layer to peel off and sleep on. I longed for the soggy tent and was creeped out completely. I started making assumptions about what happened in that room to earn this status in my mind. After all, the bar downstairs is called “Lipstixx” with the token XXX. They advertise that the dancers start at noon on both Thursdays and Fridays and even give “shower shows”. I wondered if their shower floors were any cleaner than room zero’s was and then thought perhaps that is what the shower shows actually were….hotel room tenants simply trying to get clean after spending a night in room creepy.

I also made the assumption, based on solid evidence, that they don’t even clean the rooms because the option of putting a “do not disturb” sign in the door slot was not even available. There wasn’t the distant din of vacuums and chattering that usually accompanies waking up in a hotel so there weren’t any cleaning ladies disturbing anyone that day. Again, just like the gas stations, the owners of the Montcalm monopolized on our desperation on a Friday of a festival in Winnipeg and didn’t care how grimy the experience was going to be for anyone. If you want it, you want it….if you don’t, you don’t. At least we got a key for our room. When the man standing in front of Brad at the lobby desk told the clerk, “My key to my room isn’t working,” the clerk simply said, “Oh, just tell me when you want to be let in and out of your room.” So, it’s going to be like this, is it? We are at your mercy.

I have had other equivalent experiences with creepy rooms. Once in Lake Linden, Michigan, I discovered that there wasn’t a phone in my room. When I inquired at the front desk, the eight thousand year old lady in the sailor suit and pig tails said to me, “Oh, we didn’t get into that”. You didn’t get into phones?!!! Where the fuck am I? Once on a family trip, I refused to sleep on my bed because it was clearly apparent that someone had been murdered on it, as could be seen by the splattering of blood across the sides of the mattress. At a hotel in Edmonton, I took a dip in a pool, and assumed I was blind when I opened my eyes underwater and couldn’t see the bottom of the pool. It was only 4 feet deep. Perhaps that is why I always steal the toilet paper from hotel rooms. I need to walk away from these experiences feeling like I haven’t been completely annihilated by the big guy and if it means being passive aggressive with toilet paper, that’s what I’ll do.There wasn't any extra toilet paper to steal in room zero at the Montcalm. We were lucky to even get any.

Lesson learned. Lesson learned. Lesson learned. 1) Take your own towels with you anywhere you go. 2) Bring a garbage bag to sleep on so that anything that could potentially crawl on you will simply slide off. 3) Bring two bottles of wine not just one. Oh yeah, and 4) book ahead. That one’s pretty important, supposedly.

Beating Wings

2011-03-13T11:56:00.000-05:00

A rural yard sighed under the sharp heat of a mid-morning eastern sun. Berries held on to any moisture that still resided under their skin, waiting to be plucked. Rocks basked under the fiery glow, happy to shake off another cold, damp starry night. Daylilies welcomed the sunshine with an abrupt shot of yellow; violently greeting the skies with pure, primary colour. And a finch struggled, frantically entangled in a dried shrub that had escaped through the cracks of a weathered pallet that was abandoned along the side of the yard.

Her little legs were trapped by a frayed piece of tarp that had let go after being beaten and abused by the elements for so long. This gnarled piece of blue string only traveled as far as this beautiful bird’s delicate legs before it decided to rest. This bird was probably being adventurous, looking under the nooks and crannies in that area. It’s dark and cool underneath that tarp; probably laden with an overabundance of bugs….a bird utopia. She perhaps didn’t even notice the ugliness that was wrapping around her body, she was so enthralled with the hunt, so self absorbed and oblivious to the dangers. Then she had her fill and it was time to share her findings with others, tell the world of her riches without actually sharing the specifics. She started on her way but was violently snapped back. She tried again, pushing her wings a bit harder now, to no avail. The blue string was weaved through the dried branches like an inexperienced child’s attempt at playing cat in the cradle. Panic set in. She could see underneath her that life was continuing to move. There goes a bug that I missed, she thought. Oh, how I would love to have that little bug in my mouth right now, juicy and delectable and all mine. Above her she could see that the skies moved freely, clouds flicking in the light breeze without a thought to her plight. Nobody cared about her quandary. Her wings were moving as quickly as her heartbeat now, fervently. Exhausted, she sat, resigning her will to the snare that embraced her. The sun was sitting heavy on her now and it wouldn’t be long before predators would come by, the scent of fear permeating the air. The first thing they would do would peck her eyes out, so she was blinded to the pain that await her.

And as quickly as these dreadful thoughts inundated her mind she was flying. Her wings bruised from beating the dry, brittle branches, her heart palpitating with fear and confusion, she moved in swift undulations with the slight breeze of freedom. She perched in a nearby tree, the blue stringed reminder still dangling delicately from her leg, to safely observe and clarify in her mind the situation that she had somehow magically and narrowly escaped. But all she could see was a large, silhouetted figure quickly dragging a tarp into a garbage pile, a pallet being lifted, a weed being pulled, and life resuming without a second thought to the her predicament….

Happy Holidays from the Pugsley Street Posse at the Milk Carton!

2010-12-15T17:11:00.000-06:00

As I write this, the furnace has kicked in for the umpteenth time, chronically reminding me that it’s winter, and it’s here with a vengeance. *sigh* You’d think after 38 years of living in the North that I’d just accept the cold, but it still shocks me every year. Perhaps I need to start booking warm vacations during the Christmas holidays as bit of a reprieve from this insanity. We’ll see in next year’s letter whether I follow through with that or not!

But on to the highlights of this year, starting with a nod to my cultural roots; around Easter time, I took a fantastic workshop on how to make pysanky, or Ukrainian Easter eggs. Wow. Talk about process! I don’t know how people take the time to make the multicoloured, intricately designed masterpieces that they do, because it literally took me all day to design two very simple eggs. And if you’ve seen my thumbs, then you know that it is not even a simple task to HOLD an Easter egg, let alone decorate one. So, I chalked this one up to experience, gave recognition to all of my Ukrainian forefathers and mothers that would have spent many hours on those little suckers, and moved on to other art forms.

The next art form came in the way of a tattoo. I had been playing with the idea of getting a family tree tattooed on my arm for a while, and started muddling with the design over the course of the spring. Thanks to the power and efficiency of Facebook, I was able to post my rough draft sketches and get a lot of positive, constructive feedback from friends. The design started off pretty “typical” but then I sat through a grad ceremony with a Sharpie marker and paper and doodled up the second design that you can see here. I liked it so much that I went back to the drafting table and decided to merge the two concepts together in to the final design. Eight hours, one pizza and lots of pain later, I had a completed tattoo, done by Mike Magee at Underground Ink in Thunder Bay. I highly recommend his service if you’re ever considering getting any work done even if my Auntie Mary thinks I’m a “stupid ass” for getting it done. haha! I love having my family tree on my arm. They’re always with me.

My next big artistic endeavor was the completion of a 12x16 foot mural painted on the side of the Lakeview Restaurant here in Red Lake. It took just over 61 hours to complete, done over a span of three months…darn rain! A few years back, I re-designed the cover of the menu for the Lakeview, and the owners of the Lakeview, Pearl and Grace Fleming, decided it was high time that the imagery also blasted full throttle across the side of the building. What a fantastic way to pass the summer hours, with many visitors to the scaffolding, and “interesting”, perpetual commentary from the passer-byers. I got pretty good at keeping my headphones on after a while. ;) This project has also stimulated another mural project that is hopefully taking place the summer of 2011, with the idea of being the artistic director of the program, working with a variety of age groups, and painting four murals that will display Red Lake’s identity and diversity.

I also spent a substantial amount of time preparing for the Trout Forest Music Festival this year, determined to have an art booth during the festival. Unfortunately, the weather was dismal practically the whole weekend, with the rain and wind escalating over that time. I was forced to pack up all of my art work and forfeit the opportunity to sell and simply enjoy the festival at all, actually. (Fortunately for me, Facebook is a fantastic market for my art work, and most of my work has sold since then.) But I did have the awesome opportunity to get my hands on some face paint, and paint a very pregnant woman’s belly!!! Maybe her daughter will grow up to be an artist from the experience in utero?

Luckily, I had a great feast of music earlier in the summer, taking my bestie Deanna to the Winnipeg Folk Fest for her first time. It’s pretty magical to introduce someone to a new experience, and we had a great time dancing in the mosh pits, eating delicious food and meeting a plethora of interesting people while listening to awesome music in the grass and the heat. I was even able to hang out with my little man Alexander, who was at the festival with his dad. In a few years, I am sure I’ll be getting back stage passes to festivals across Canada, as either a groupie or manager of my son’s musical career.

Deanna and I also packed up our young ‘uns and took them to the city for their first experience at the University of Manitoba’s “mini camp” where they were given the opportunity to take a focus program for a week. Alexander signed up for a physics camp, and enjoyed the experience, but preferred the Science North program that was hosted here in Red Lake the following week. But as parents, Deanna and I both felt it was good for our kids to have the opportunity to see what university life was like, moving from faculty building to faculty building, and even staying in residence for the week. While there, Alexander was given the opportunity to brag about getting first place standing at the local science fair, and second place standing at the regional science fair for his study on bottle rockets. We had a heck of a lot of fun blowing up the neighbourhood with our air compressor and pop bottles for a good week. Alexander still likes to entertain his friends with this experiment on any given day. He’s even introduced food colouring to the experimenting so we have a rainbow of colours spraying my car and house. All in the name of science! As long as there aren’t any matches involved, it’s all good. I am petrified what is going to happen this summer, since my boyfriend, Brad, and Alexander have big plans to create monstrous things that catapult and fling and do all sorts of questionable things. I’ve overheard them saying things like, “We’ll have to go way out in the bush to make that one because it might do some damage in the neighbourhood.” Oh oh. I’ll keep you posted.

And that brings me to introducing you to my wonderful boyfriend, Brad, a fantastic man who moved to Red Lake from Vermilion Bay just over a year ago to take up a new career at Red Lake Plumbing and Heating and swept me off my feet in the process. Actually, it was a long process, because he tried to sweep me off my feet about a year ago and we ended up getting into an argument instead and didn’t speak to each other for a while! Fortunately, Brad is a tenacious man, and obviously isn’t afraid of a stubborn woman *ahem*, because he was able to woo me with is charm, good looks and great cooking and is now a permanent resident at the “milk carton” here on Pugsley Street. Alexander and I love sharing our life with him and Sandy’s kinda getting used to the idea. Haha! We’re in the process of transforming the basement into a music jamming room and looking forward to filling our lives with music, fun and happiness. Life is good and we’re all reveling in it.

Brad and I even had the opportunity to “work” together this fall, both being involved in the local theatre group. Brad was highly involved in the arts back in Dryden, where as I’d been on hiatus for the past 10 years or so! I was going to slowly ease my way back into the group by helping with some script writing, but ended up taking on what turned out to be a very busy and entertaining role! The group put on a “Ukrainian wedding” dinner theatre production where the Ukrainian bride was being married to your “typical” Anglo-Saxon, southern Ontario groom from a high class family. Well, you could imagine the chaos when the fleet of Auntie Mary’s decided to take over the kitchen, ensuring that prime rib was replaced with kielbasa, perogies and cabbage rolls. The groom’s mother had an affair with the groom’s best man (who he happened to meet on “BFF” a best friend’s version of eharmony) which ended as a “dance off” later in the night, the bride’s family got very drunk, and the wedding planner almost had a complete meltdown. Brad can be seen in the picture with the groom having his photo taken by the wedding photographer. He played the role of “Chaz”, a very put out best man who was highly insulted that “Taco Diaz”, the groom’s best man was given more attention and recognition that he was, even though he grew up with the groom! People who came to the show said later that they felt like they were at a real wedding reception so I guess it was a success!

This fall also brought Alexander into the double digits, and I now have an official ten year old on my hands! I can’t believe how quickly those first ten years went by and hope that the next ten slow down a little bit so that my baby isn’t out the door sooner than I think! (Don’t get me wrong though, I don’t want a 40 year old living in my basement. Haha) Alexander celebrated the event with a few classmates and a first class birthday party out at his camper on Flat Lake, complete with fireworks, marshmallow roasting, a swamp walk and ghost stories. I highly enjoyed seeing eight big eyeballs stare back at me while I told the old “fingernails on the roof of the car” horror story. Hee hee!

Sandy the wonder dog continues to grace us with her presence, albeit a bit slower than last year. She is really into barking a lot lately, demanding treats more often than she actually deserves, but I humour her. She is close to 80 years old and should get a cookie close to any time she wants one as far as I’m concerned. She likes to bark any time Brad and I kiss or hug! Oh, what a mighty protector she is! Haha As we speak, she’s lazily snoozing on the couch, oblivious to the fact that such kind words are being said about her dear old soul. She’s a beautiful girl.

Other quick news is that I finally sold my Chevy Avalanche, albeit with much sorrow. That was definitely my adventure truck and I’m truly missing having her with me. I will buy a new truck of some kind, but haven’t really even starting thinking about researching it. I guess I’m still thinking about all the great memories I had in that red beast and haven’t moved forward yet to thinking about new adventures. But we have big plans for the summer (refer to paragraph about catapulting things in the bushes) so I think that will be my project for the new year…..buying a new adventure beast. Yeehaw.

I continue to teach at RLDHS, moving in to my 14^th year as a teacher, and 13 as the Visual Arts teacher! Wow! I had an excellent experience at this year’s Subject Area Group Conference at the Winnipeg Art Gallery, where the focus was on social justice in the arts. I’m hoping that some of those concepts can be implemented into the mural program that we’re developing for next summer. I was also fortunate to listen to Sir Ken Robinson speak at the Burton Cummings Centre in Winnipeg a few weeks back about motivation, education and the Arts. I really feel that we are in a revolutionary new age of thinking in terms of the way our world views employment, motivation and self fulfillment and am excited to be a teacher going through this engaging process. I never thought I’d be excited about pedagogical philosophies and here I am writing about it! It will be interesting to see what kind of teacher I am within the next 5 to 10 years. I think it will be very different from the approach that is implemented in classrooms today! I’ll keep you posted.

Until then, from Brad, Alexander, Sandy and I, we wish you an absolutely fabulous holiday season full of love, excitement and great health. If you’re ever in the neighbourhood, please, swing by for a drink of good cheer. We’d love to see you.

Cheers!

A Funny Thing Happened On My Way to Write a Blog....

2010-12-10T14:18:00.000-06:00

A funny thing happened on my way to write a blog....I fell in love. Whap you in the face with a cast iron frying pan love.

Strange. It's been a long time since I've actually allowed this emotion to even remotely tap on my cranium and strum away at these rancid old heart strings. I held my head up high and convinced myself that I didn't need love. I was soooooo over that feeling, and could live a fulfilling, incredible existence without it. (Who was I trying to kid?) Instead I played a game of convenience; allowing a modicum of intimacy if it was timely, if I was amorous, or drunk. Very drunk. I liked to call up my girlfriends and we'd chat about whether "this guy would be the one" but we all knew that really, he wasn't. Not this one. I was just up to my shenanigans again and getting a bit more bitter and damaged in the process. We would spend time over endless cups of coffee, or long, drawn out Facebook messages figuring out the lapse in connection between me and "the guy"; basically psycho-analysing the shit out of the situation. Scenarios from childhood, experience, connections....nothing was left to the imagination as we emotionally raped the psychological makeup of anyone within a 10 mile radius of my heart. It was a good way of covering up for the actual truth of the matter; I was afraid to be in love because it means being completely vulnerable and relinquishing my doubts in trust. Whew. That's a tough one.

And it happened. It happened and I can't even really explain how. Guess a lot can be said for pheromones, because when I'm with Brad it just smells right, and that's kinda funny because he's a plumber. haha But I think "relinquish" is the key word in this scenario, because when I realized that I trusted him completely, as cheesy as it sounds, those nasty ol' rusty shackles were hacked off my wrists and ankles. A huge weight was lifted and I was released from the burden of mistrust and just allowed myself to feel love. And he really does smell good. Ah pheromones....I like how Wikipedia has defined it; a secreted or excreted chemical factor that triggers a social response in members of the same species. Sha-wing! A definition like that definitely takes romance out of the equation, but interestingly, it helps to defy the logic that others may see in what may be considered "mismatched" couples. How many of you have laid in your bed at night with your partner saying, "I can't believe he's going out with her!!!" or "Man, I don't know what she sees in him 'cause he's just a big goofball" or whatever. People are sometimes judged for their choices in mates, without putting a bit of thought into this bizarre, magnetism that is part of our genetic makeup. I know that I've said it of others and it's been said of me. Consider this a public apology. Pheromones defy logic. It's base. It's raw. It's true. It's love on the purest and smelliest level. Snort.

And with that is that fantastic feeling of lust. Wow. Nothing tops that crazy, coo coo, banal feeling of desire that makes you plum dumb right to the very core. I wrote a whole blog about it once and now I feel myself reveling in that very thought and it's not even March! Woohoo! Who needs Spring to feel desire?

Cavebabies are Born in December

I kind of giggle when I read that blog, because it reminds me of my philosophies about passion. Anyone that knows me knows that I seem to live through the words of Leonard Cohen, and I may have even mentioned it here before in the lines of my blogs. Just like Cohen, I don't seem capable of sharing passion for a lover and passion for my art. It's one or the other because love is so overwhelmingly consuming. My studio is filled to the brim with half done art pieces, and snippets of ideas, and I have basically moved all of my Christmas wrapping into that space for now, because I don't have any interest in devoting my body, mind and soul into my art. I'm just not passionately there. It's why I haven't been blogging. Everything's back-burnered, including my understanding friends that send me messages teasing me of my neglectful ways. I suck at spreading my passion evenly among friends, family, pets, art, health, and housecleaning. I know that eventually I'll find that balance, but right now I'm getting swept up in midnight kitchen waltzes, fervent debates about ideologies, beautiful delicate whispers and fresh bouquets of flowers and I wish that for you too.

So go smell that special someone and tell them that you love them, even if you may have forgotten (maybe just a little bit?) what that's like. You can read this blog some other day.....

Absorbed Words

2010-09-25T20:12:00.000-05:00

I wrote a letter recently to an artistic friend of mine in the hopes that he would join me in an imaginative Art adventure. I had a spark and I was pumped to share. I spilled my beans and waited for a response and alas, he's too busy and can't partake in my creative concept right now. Bummer. So I went home and grumbled for a while and then thought....what the heck! I can do this art project with ANYONE! And EVERYONE! or NO ONE! It doesn't just have to dissipate because he's too busy with his own artistic visions. It's whatever it wants to be, and isn't that what art is all about after all? Whoa, didn't mean to get all existential on you there. So, here is a proposal to all of you, whoever you are, in the interest of art's sake and all that it encompasses. Follow along, if you will.....

Since I was a kid, I have written things that I need to remember on my hand. I used to write them on the palm of my hand but over the course of the day, washing my hands, (wait, I NEVER washed my hands which is the reason why I was never sick as a kid) sweating and so forth, the words that I would write would fade away. So, instead, I started writing on the top of my hand. That way, I could see the words and they didn’t get washed off. Somehow I was capable of only washing the insides of my hands, which is a fantastic talent to master.

Over the years, I have been constantly teased, chastised and questioned on both the reason why I wouldn’t just use a piece of paper as well as what the words actually meant. I found both forms of questioning quite personal, considering that the words were an extraction from my mind and a mental connection of some form to my own personal thoughts, even if in a rather mundane way. And if I thought that a piece of paper would have solved the problem, I would have done so originally, so the question is offensive in that it questions my mental capacity.

Beyond the simple social interaction that writing on the hand conjures, there is also the concept of memory that is connected to writing. I try to condense a concept as much as possible so that it still makes sense to me, and will trigger my thoughts, without having to write too much on my hand. There have been times where my hand has been covered in words, and there have also been times when I don’t understand what I have written and it either comes back to me at a time of deep rest, or subconscious thought, or not at all and I am left simply with a random word that has absorbed into my skin.

That brings me to my next thought; absorption. I have been writing on my hand for at least 30 years, I figure, having my first conscious memory of doing so when I was around eight. The only thing I can think of is that someone told me to write it on my hand, and I thought it was ingenious. Or perhaps it was just a voice in my head because I used to do really weird things like chew a pencil right down to the graphite and had wood and paint chips literally floating around in my mouth. I have no recollection of anyone telling me to do so; it was a self directed habit. Alas, I have used ball point pens of all sorts, as well as Sharpie markers. Permanent ink has been soaking into my skin for a long time. I’ve been literally absorbing these words both mentally and physically.

So with those concepts in your mind, I propose that every time I write something on my hand, I post those words to you to do with them as you wish, considering concepts such as social interaction, memory triggers, and absorption. I will use my friend Harriet's suggestion, and post them on Twitter. (Twitter is so ridiculous that I might as well write random words that will seem senseless to everyone on there anyway.) I'll post my Twitter link at the end of this blog. (I also learned in the process of figuring out Twitter that after you have posted something, it's called "tweeting", not "twitting" or worse yet, "twatting"....Yes, I have learned.) The project would be random, yet perpetual, albeit timely (I do have a feeling that this project does have the ability to go on for the rest of my life while I still have hands and markers are still available). I too will do the project and then we can compare notes in a year? Two years? It will take a while for the project to work, as I never do know when I am going to need to write something down. I do have concerns that my hand writing will be contrived now, but then I realize that it is because of my lack of short term memory that I have been doing this for the last 30 years anyway. So it has been contrived and will continue to be.

My personal approach to the project is once I have written something on my hand I will go home and write it on a pair of jeans that I have in my studio. I like the idea of the ink absorbing into the fibers of the denim. It bleeds a little bit, just like the ink bleeds when it settles into my skin.The words will be written randomly and not in order. I am also going to attempt to document what people say to me when I write on my hands. My nephew's words were the first to be documented, when he came up to me and said, "You're not supposed to write on yourself." (I look forward to the conversation he and I can have when he's a bit older about how people have been ritualistically and ceremonially "writing on their hands" since the beginning of time. He's a budding artist and am surprised that he hasn't coated himself in markers yet. My son was multi-coloured any chance I gave him when he was a toddler. He was always naked and always had a marker in his hand. *sigh*)

And I also have intentions of wearing the word covered jeans as I would any other pair of jeans and am curious of the conversations that will ensue not only with my inquisitive nephew, but with others as well. Words stimulate words.

I don't know why I have the urge to do this. I have no idea why after all of these years, seeing the words "EGGS" and "stapler" written on my hand suddenly seemed so poignant. The mind is a funny thing and I'm just following this concept for a while with curiosity and interest in the direction it may take. Are you game to join me?

Here's the link to my Twitter account....Man, I can't believe I have a Twitter account.

My Big Red Truck

2010-09-13T22:52:00.000-05:00

I am in a complete state of awe right now, because today, I walked away from my big Victory red 2003 Chevy Avalanche; passing the keys on to the new owner. Wow. She's gone. We had a six year relationship and now she's gone.

Big Red was my key to independence....something I hadn't had in a long time. I was newly separated, settling in to a little house on the corner (shivering 'cause it was sooo damn cold in there) and driving my parent's borscht-mobile. It was on its last legs and I was feeling kind of desperate. (When I was selling that car for $500 I actually added a clip art photo to the sale poster of an old lady in a babooshka saying, "It's cheap like borscht!") So, I kind of had a running mantra in my head, "When I get my shit together, I am going to buy myself a big, sexy, red truck". I NEEDED a truck. Seriously. Do you know what kind of woman I am? One that likes to haul ass into the bush and tromp around a bit. (Not too much though, 'cause I'm afraid of bears.) I'm not into mud slinging, but I like to know that if I go down a dirt road, I'm going to get out again. The call came, a truck was available and my dad and I headed down the highway to Dryden to see my future partner in crime. I remember when I saw it my thought was, "Well, isn't that ironic. It's actually a big, sexy, red truck. Fuck ya." Sold.

The trips started instantaneously. Suddenly Harriet and I could fill the whole back of the truck with stuff from the dump (which simultaneously meant that my house was getting furnished and Christmas gifts were being given). Deanna and I were loadin' the kiddos in and going on picnic adventures by beautiful streams, blueberries were being discovered down secret roads that nobody else has ever been to before, (I'm sure of it....haha), rock after rock was slung into the back to be potentially cemented into my yard, Christmas trees were being cut, then lost, then mourned. Sod, dog poop, art work, artifacts, children....you name it, I had it in the back of that truck and it helped turn intentions into realities.

And don't even get me started on the romantic opportunities that my truck has provided me. Ok, get me started.....if it wasn't for the Chevy Avalanche I wouldn't have had the confidence to drive by myself to the boonies of Northern Michigan, sicker than a dog and sleep deprived, (thank you Lewis the kitty cat for bouncing on my face all night for your sheer entertainment when I had an epic journey ahead of me the next day) to see a man that I was sure I was totally in love with. And I certainly left Northern Michigan in love or as close to it as I would dare myself to be, but was relieved that my Chevy wheels would spin out of that creepy little town where phones seemed to be obsolete and a strange man knocked on my cobwebbed hotel door and asked, "So....do you like to drink?"

If it wasn't for my red truck, I wouldn't have had the experience of being a passenger with my mud caked feet sticking out the window, fresh from a fantastic music and camping experience at the Winnipeg Folk Fest with a long lost boyfriend. Twelve absent years of confusion were laid to rest through conversation in that Chevy.

And how else would it have been possible to take a fine, foreign musician down Nungessor Road at midnight to watch a moose graze by a stream under a full moon while we lean against the truck, kissing and living in the bliss of being? My big red truck was immortalized in poetry after that night. I smiled every time I got behind the wheel.

And that truck of awesomeness saved my life a couple times, and perhaps the lives of others. This is when I realized the sheer power of the automatic safety features that kicked in to play on black ice. I remember feeling the pull of the vehicle and thinking "Oh shit...here we go," which then turned into a "Huh?" (but say it really drawled out and Scooby-Doo-ish) and ended with a, "Did you feel that? It's like we're in a hovercraft!" My friend and I hallelujah-ed all the way down that icy highway, thankful for technology and our lives.A couple of summers ago, I hit a weird patch of water that send the truck on an autopilot struggle that left me completely helpless and submissive again to the power of automation, and once again in front of a gaggle of cross country skiing students that were also thankful for automation. Good thing they were all kids from the Catholic school or God knows what would have happened....

And in that whole time that I owned Big Red, only one catapulting partridge lost it's life to my grill. But I can't say the same for my friend's minivan and a post at Blue Lake. Hey, I'm left handed and Avalanches are notorious for their blind spots. And why do all of the provincial parks make their camp site indicators "tree trunk brown" and the height of a truck tire? If I was a tyrant, I probably could have sued them for that one. Not bad in the 6 years I had 'er....two dents by me, one dent to me. The woman backed her vehicle out of the grocery store, across two lanes of traffic and straight into my truck door. She forgot that she had a steering wheel and the opportunity to decelerate. It happens some times. My biggest concern was that my dog was in the back seat and it's not cool to mess around with my dog. She could have been hurt.

So, when it came to starting to toy with the idea of selling the Avalanche, I was really apprehensive to do so. Yeah, it's a big truck and I really don't need that BIG of a truck, but man....I have personified that baby. I really loved Big Red.To kind of get off topic here for a minute, I remember coaching high school boys soccer a few years back and there was a big tough kid on the team that had a tendency to get yellow carded all of the time and I was watching him and he honestly wasn't being aggressive on the pitch. He just had the luck of being a big guy and he stood out in the crowd. So I started calling him "Avalanche" and I explained to him that my truck was the same way. Big, red, flashy trucks just scream for attention, and if you go one kilometer (or maybe two or three) over the speed limit, you are being called on your actions. You just simply stand out in the crowd so you live with the stereotype. I see him everyone once in a while around town when he comes home from university or where ever he is now, and the first thought that crosses my mind is "Avalanche".

Big Red's next destination is up to a small community North of here. I was teasing the guy that bought it, saying he's going to be stacking it with moose, but only if his wife ever lets him drive it. He said he's going to be hauling a lot of wood in it. He also said that he comes up to Red Lake quite often so I'm sure over the years I'm going to see Big Red parked at the restaurant or grocery store, getting loaded up with supplies to take back home to their community. She's going to continue to serve her purpose, and I hope that she continues to nurture sleeping children in back seats, initiate crazy sing-a-thons with girlfriends, instigate city shopping expeditions to Costco for oversized boxes of cereal, make strangers turn their heads and whistle and fill up their life with excitement and joy like Big Red has done for me.

On to the next adventure. I'm going to have a beer in honour of Big Red and if you've ever had a heck of a good time with us in the Avalanche, maybe you'll want to put your glass up in a toast as well. Cheers!

T'is the Summer of Chaos

2010-08-24T15:45:00.000-05:00

Delhi to Dublin mosh pit and broken sunglasses
banana airband roadtrips

Coffee demanding visitors from foreign countries
graduating art students heading off to meet the world

bare toed bum-crack tickling
Ukrainian interpretation romance
Grasshopper beer and bracelet sucking babies
slippery shoes in bathroom stalls and a bruised elbow

over stuffed taxi cabs and steamy backseat pauses
outhouse photo ops with friends

Mennonite twin jam session
12 leeches on my dog and an overused salt shaker
beer pong refereeing and swatting cats
dangerous dancing and terrific consequences
Physics camp and walking on water
4x4 puddle jumping in theatre parking lots
Blue Moon beer
7 hour tattoo session friendship

balance board compatability tests

sticky moustache bum faces

Mondragon southern fried tofu
moose stew nightmares and lightning storm washouts
I hate you. I love you.
rainy Trout disappointment

7am thankful pick up: Harriet the Savior
torrential rainfall puddle jumping shivering
broken locks and air conditioner escapes
shirt swapping
pregnant belly painting

duct tape wrestling belly flop costumes

Sibley stomping and sea lion observations

Bobinski beer bashes and tofu hotdog moccasins
Hotdog Ninja Warrior artistry

outdoor shower stall inventions and torturous forms of tormenting
tattoos for cancer research
wet art
the essence of Johnny Depp on the Bounty
Zombie Ramona

mural mayhem and scaffolding scandals

Sportsman Dinner curiosities
pickle juice and sock drawers

Silver Islet rock theft

pansy filled veggie garden of pathos
revived friendships
aerobic livingroom danceoffs

half cemented sidewalks
dump disappointment
invention organization

Cat Empire African dancing
soccer frustrations
blueberry sweat and secret picking holes
carrot cake bliss
googly eyed real estate agents

Animal cracker paintings
sleep deprivation

I seized the summer. I'm ready to go back to work.

Tattoo'd Good This Time

2010-08-08T23:57:00.000-05:00

I just went through the process of seriously inflicting an excruciating amount of pain on myself on Friday, getting my third, (and perhaps last? Nah....probably not) tattoo done. I walked in the doors of Underground Ink at 3:30 and didn't leave until after 11pm that night. I wish there was another way to go through the process without having to feel what I did, but ultimately, after everything is said and done, it was worth it. It's kinda like childbirth. Actually, the pain is akin to childbirth, and everyone continues to blindly go through that process as well. Otherwise, awesome artists like Mike Magee wouldn't have been born to do the work that he did on my arm. When I had my second tattoo done, I went with my buddy Corey to a studio in Winnipeg. We were both getting tattoos done for our children. Corey had not had one before so he asked the artist what it feels like, and the artist's response was, "Like someone is drawing a picture on your body with a razor blade." I thought that was a horrible description, being such a visual person, and had images of a blood letting. But in talking with my sister about that afterwards she said that is exactly what she would want to hear so that she'd be prepared for the pain. I guess I am a bit "fuzzy bunny" and like to be oblivious to the pain until it actually happens. And it happened, for about 7 hours. Imagine going through a full days work with someone "drawing pictures on your body with a razor blade". Yeah, not fun. I think I was probably going in to shock after a while. haha

So why did I do it? Am I a sadist? Certainly not. I did not get any pleasure in the feeling of pain. But this is how I described it to Mike, and why he was an important catalyst in a cathartic healing process that I have been going through:

It starts here. I go to Trout Forest Therapy and get acupuncture done for a plethora of reasons; to help with some nerve damage and cartilage damage, to help with the elimination of allergens and detoxify my body, and to emotionally detoxify as well. It is a fantastically awesome feeling. But sometimes when Deanna puts the needle in, I yell out something blasphemous. She always rolls her eyes and says something like, "Thanks for scaring away all of my customers." I have a potty mouth. When I question why I am on fire, she says that my body is getting rid of negative energy. That my qi (my energy) is being "cleansed" and that burning feeling is the escape of negativity. So when Mike was carving up my arm, I tried to focus and think about all of the negativity that was escaping from my body. He wasn't inflicting pain ON me, he was actually helping to release residual pain FROM me and it was going to hurt. My qi had a lot of cleansing to do.

My tattoo design is based on my family, and is an abstract, stylized Woodland Art-ish drawing that I did of a tree.(When Mike started working on my arm, I said "prepare to crawl into the mind of a left handed doodler." and "I hope you like circles.") At the base of the tree is the roots, and I incorporated all of my family's hand outlines into the roots of the tree. They are my base; my foundation. Above their hands is a symbolic representation of me. I am the raven's wing and I am the center of the tree. I am supported by the hands of my family and able to be the funny, trickster, carefree, person that I am. They have helped me to become who I am. From there, life flows from the tree in a plethora of circles (always evolving) and fresh, green leaves. The tree embraces a bear paw which sits in a dual sun/moon image. I too see myself as connected to the bear. The bear is my nemesis and has devoured many of my dreams but I also have a fond respect for the bear, and it's nurturing, caring, protective nature. I am a mama bear. The sun and moon is for balance, and to show that differences (as different as day and night) need to be appreciated and respected regardless of how difficult it may be to see that perspective.

This concept did not come to me overnight. It is part of a continual journey that I have been participating in while learning more about myself and my family dynamics and changing my perspective and feeling comfortable with the idiosyncrasies of our family. We all have family situations that trouble us, and my situation is no different. We have all felt pain, and I was ready to release mine and look at my family with new eyes and new appreciation and acceptance. Getting this tattoo is a perpetual reminder to appreciate what I have been given and what my family has done for me in a positive way. The negativity is gone. It's released.

I am proud of my family and who they have helped me to become.

And just to give you an idea of my family, I went to visit my Great Auntie Mary before I got my tattoo done and she called me a "stupid ass" for getting one. That was her way of saying, "I love you and don't want you to get hurt." I smiled and thought, she's 95 and can say I love you however she wants to. :) I am a stupid ass. I am a happy, stupid ass with a big mother trucker of a tattoo on my arm that rocks.

BiblePad and other Conceptual Doodad Thingers

2010-08-02T14:20:00.000-05:00

When I was at the Folk Fest with Deanna, we sat in on a gospel session and the music set deep in our souls. It made us giddy and reminiscent, and Deanna whispered to me that when she was in church as a kid, she would open up a bible and point out specific words to make up a sentence for her friend to read. What an ingenious way of communicating and making full use of God's products. It was like text messaging well before text messaging was even considered. She ingeniously labeled the concept, "BiblePad" akin to today's iPad. Lucky she was at a Roman Catholic church and not a Ukrainian Catholic church like I went to. I didn't know what the heck was being said or what I was singing. I just knew I liked it. (On a side note, I remember having to memorize everything in Ukrainian for my first (and only) holy communion and confession.....yeah, I should probably hit that some time soon. I remember living in a foreign fog of rolling tongues and "sshhhh-yaa" pronunciations. We were given a booklet to prepare for our holy communion and on the front cover was a picture of God giving a young boy and girl communion. So, being the little imaginative artistic 9 year old that I was, I was pretty adamant that the Big Kahoona was going to be giving me a piece of bread at the end of the week. While everyone played outside the church waiting for their chance to confess their sins (what kind of sins does a 9 year old have anyway?) I sat in a pew in my little mini wedding dress and spongy oversized white shoes, ready to puke. My mom tried to get me to go outside. I politely said no thank you but inside I was screaming, "I AM ABOUT TO MEET GOD!!!! DOESN'T ANYONE THINK THIS IS A BIG DEAL? THIS IS 'THE SHIT'!" You can well imagine my disappointment when it was some old, crotchety Ukrainian priest that I didn't understand. That began my healthy journey of skepticism in the strange world of religion.)

But this blog is not about my skewed concept of religion....it's about undeveloped concepts and creations like Deanna's fantastic BiblePad. Occasionally I go through the process of sorting and resorting my studio to try to Feng Shui the impossible. In that process, I usually find scribbled words randomly placed on ripped corners of paper. They say things like "free send day" and "traceable plastic bags". The brain gets a bit tingly and I go off on a delightful mind tangent of concepts that will never come into fruition.

I was getting some acupuncture done not too long ago and there is something about connecting with my Qi that puts me on a different intellectual level than I usually have an opportunity to delve into. I am forced to meditate and the ideas flow. I lay there looking at the patterns in the blobs on the ceiling and let my mind travel. On one occasion, when the therapist came back into the room to remove the needles, I begged her to please write down these words....traceable plastic bags. She humours me.At that time, I was thinking that it would make people a bit more accountable if they actually had their name and/or contact information placed on a plastic bag. If that bag ends up stuck in the trees at the waste disposal site, or along the side of the road, etc, the last name on the bag is the one accountable to that bag, and accountable to the fine that they would receive for their negligence and littering. When I proposed this idea to Deanna, she said that people will do what they can to not be accountable for those actions, so it would have to be the responsibility of the person who had the bag before them, to ensure that the next person's name gets put on that bag. Good thought. She too has a healthy dose of skepticism. Why are plastic bags still being made????? Who seriously does not have their fill of plastic bags? And I don't know about you, but I don't need anymore canvas bags either. I'm sure we all have a dozen of them. So let's stop making those as well, or at least put your name on it so that I can give it back to you when I find it at the dump. Maybe some kind of microchip tracking device stickers can be made that we just put on all of our possessions. And then when you give/sell that item, the next person to possess it puts their tracking sticker on top of it. (These stickers are wind/fire/rain resistant of course). If this item is lost in transit, it just needs to be scanned and voila....owner found.

So that brings me to my next thought.....a universal free shipping day. It's self explanatory, really. Post what you need on a site like "Freecycle" but like, on a big world level and someone else can send it to you. And I think it should be ANYTHING. If someone in India needs a car, and you happen to have an extra car, it will get shipped for FREE. If someone needs a bag of rice, send them a bag of rice. FREE. Free kittens, free french fries, free beach balls, free swimming pools. BUT people could not be exchanged in this process. And neither should underwear for that matter. There's that healthy skepticism again. I guess this concept would just makes people stop and take note of their excessiveness. What do you have that you really really don't need and that someone else could truly benefit from? Is it important that you make money when getting rid of that object or is it good enough to just know that the item is being put to good use? Kinda existential I guess...Oh, and I think movie stars should give up two things.

On a lighter note, the same concept could apply to socks. We need to all gather up that pile of stray socks sitting beside our dryer, meet on a big field with our strays and do something about this perpetual issue. Or perhaps we need to be more accepting of mismatched socks. It's really not that bad. Maybe we just need to have a Non-Judgment Sock Day.

A few weeks ago I made the mistake of keeping my windows down on my car during a torrential downpour. My friend Stan came over and said, "I have some really, really bad news for you," and then he commenced to telling me that I left my windows rolled down. Holy drama, Buddy! Stuff like that doesn't usually bother me, but the seats were truly soaked pretty bad. I had to sit on a garbage bag for a couple of days, and every time I slammed my door shut, I would get wet legs because there was water trapped in the door handle. And then it just started to get funky in there. I have a dog, and my dog likes to hang out in my car. I had just vacuumed and cleaned my car a week earlier, but that deep rain brought out a smell that is actually funkily unfathomable. It truly smelled like I had stuffed a carcass in the trunk. Invention time.....why the hell don't they make water sensitive windows. Why is it that the windows don't automatically roll up as soon as a specific amount of water hits the windows, regardless of whether the car is on or not. Are we not an advanced society? On that same note, why the hell can't these car companies simply make a coffee cup holder that actually holds a REAL thermal mug. And could it not have a heater in it as well, that automatically shuts off whenever the cup is not in the holder? Maybe that's already being done, but I've never seen it. I'm driving a 97 Chevy Lumina.

But when these types of thought come to mind, I think of how tolerant we are as a society. We put up with stinky cars and unmatched sock and plastic bags in trees. Or perhaps it comes down to incentive. I talk the talk but well, you know the rest....I don't follow through. If I had a bit more motivation, perhaps I'd get off my ass and organize a world swap day. Or make a shitload of sock puppets and sell them at festivals and donate the money to the church. The world isn't that big anymore compliments of the internet. I could probably make this stuff happen. I should go and write that down somewhere and get back to it. Yeah, that's what I'll do.

Winnipeg Folk Fest Newbie in Da House!

2010-07-13T09:54:00.000-05:00

So this year as a birthday gift to my bestie Deanna, I bought tickets for her to go to the Winnipeg Folk Fest with me. I've been going since 1995, so I've been blabbering to Deanna about the folk fest since 1995 because that's when we started hanging out. She had never been, and it was high time that she had "the experience". Now those of you that have been to even one festival will know what I'm talking about; it can only be described as "an experience" because you can't specifically identify it as just "good music" or "good food" or "good blah blah blah"….it's an all encompassing vibe that literally starts as soon as you get in to the car on your way there. Actually, that's not even true because the experience starts even before that, as you're preparing your gear for the festival. You start to ponder; will it rain? Do I really care if it rains when it's always scorching hot? Oh wait, it cools off so quickly in the evenings and if I'm damp from dancing in the rain, that won't be good. What kinds of clothing can I bring that is super warm yet light enough to carry with me all day? Maybe I'll just wear a blanket. Do I need shoes? If it does rain, the main stage area will be a big mud bog and I won't be able to wear shoes anyways. And it's awesome that there's no glass on site so that I can walk barefoot regardless(but man, that gravel by the food booths is uncomfortable under my tender tootsies.) Camera? Definitely. Musicians are cute. Hell, people in general are cute. Oooh, and we'll have to stop at the fruit stand and pick up some fresh fruit to have at the festival. Where is my folk fest chair? And I better remember to bring a watch so I can scoot from Snow Berry to Green Ash in a jiffy. Man, I better bring the sunblock and a waterbottle and a Sharpie marker so that band members can sign my CDs! Wipes. Wipes are a good thing because that water-free sanitizer is actually kinda gross and makes my hands feel really yucky. And I better check out the main stage program online and hey, I heard you can download an app onto your IPod now so that you can program what you want to see over the festival days….super cool and all this a precursor of thought to the main event. (And this doesn't even consider if you are a camper at the festival which I choose to not do. I want to be awake/alive and capable of actually listening and dancing to music during the day! Otherwise I'd definitely add Advil and Gravol to my mental planning list. Some say that it's not a complete "experience" without camping. I did it. Ugh. I've turned into a wuss, I guess. )

So, Deanna, always the trooper and one to usually go for it, even when it's definitely the unknown, said, "SURE!" and we took off down the 105 highway on a 5 hour road trip to get to the festival. Here's some of the experiences we were capable of sharing together; one as a "vet" and one as a "newbie";

The olfactory senses get a good shakin' when people have been dancing in +30 heat. Nothing like getting up close and personal with the world's true scent like at a folk fest, especially when you go into the dancing pits (no pun intended).

You meet a ton of people over the few beers had under the tent and almost everyone we sat with was willing to share their story. Over the course of two days, we chatted with a man that "accidentally" spent more money at the Folk Fest Music Tent then he should have buying CD's. He thought he'd wait over a cold beer first before breaking the news to his wife. I personally don't think she's going to be too upset, and hey, he got a free CD out of the deal. (They were giving away Folk Fest compilation CD's to anyone that dished out the big bucks.) We met a woman who was having a romantic dilemma and her friend asked us for advice on her behalf. I thought about how scary it was that I was giving romantic advice. We found out that everyone always ends up knowing someone from Red Lake. We met young carpenters that are hoping to be "responsible carpenters" by using reclaimed wood in most of their building projects. That made me reminisce on how nice it was to be idealistic when I was 24. We met a couple of fathers who allowed us to "ooh and ahh" over their babies while they took a well deserved, very short break from daddyhood. This is when I remembered that babies attach themselves to jewelry by their mouths as my bracelet was completely sucked clean with 7 month old baby slobber. We met a girl that was just about to move to New York City and we met a couple of girls that turned their noses up and didn't want to talk to a couple of small town girls at all. Well….their loss. All of that over beers; so really a beer tent isn't just a beer tent. Yep, it's an experience.

You learn very quickly that even a "short chair" is a bit too tall for the folk fest. The ones that that Mad Nomad used to make years ago were really the best ones and I kick myself for not buying one when I had the chance, but I always invest in something beautiful for my neck from the artisan's tent instead of something practical for my butt. But I use the camping seats that sit on the ground and have the supportive back and they do the trick, and it's really easy to sneak into small spaces when you use one of those (like in between tarps at main stage). And they're cheap and light and easy to tote around all day. And I put a strip of florescent pink duct tape on the back of the chair and advertised the Trout Forest Festival on it for people behind me to read. Nothing like a bit of a plug for another awesome festival, right?

You learn that everyone is different shapes and colours and sizes and heights and styles, and we're all beautiful and lucky to be together under the same sun.

You see that music is transformative, and a folk fest is not what it stereotypically seems. There can be a stigma attached to the term "folk fest" (especially if you live in a small little town….ahem) but the Winnipeg Folk Fest does an excellent job of making sure there is a selection and eclectic variety of music for all tastes. One minute we were sitting in our chairs "butt wiggling" (as I like to call it when you politely dance while sitting) to the sounds of "Delhi 2 Dublin", and the next thing you know, we were in the middle of a wicked mosh pit, bouncing around like a couple of teenagers to their wild fusion music. We started our day on Saturday morning with the soulful gospel of the Sojourners, and we ended our night in the dark with Australia's Cat Empire. And in between that there were a few fantastic Ukrainians.

You are so close to strangers in the crowd, that it really is tempting to touch some times. And sometimes that's ok.

Tattoos are the norm at the fest. It's an excellent way of seeing new artistic body creations and delightful to the eye. A woman even asked to take a photo of my tattoo which I was honoured to do. Wait until next year when my family tree is carved into my left arm which I'll wear as a badge of honour.

It's said; "Eeere-o", not "Jy-row" at the Greek food booth, and they won't give you what you want unless you say it right! (I'm sooo glad I say it right.) I broke my rule of not eating meat to have East India House's buttered chicken. I apologized to the poor factory farmed chicken that suffered for my gluttony and divulged. Then I had an amazing vegan meal at the Mondragon the next day. Call me a hypocrite. Everyone has their weakness and mine is folk fest food. There was Thai, Greek, Italian, Vegan, vegetarian, meatitarian, sweetitarian, fresh, processed….everything delectable for the palette along the food strip. Dish out the coin and help the local vendors by buying their food. Plus, it's a huge pain in the ass to tote a cooler around. I immediately taught Deanna the importance of going for a meal during "down time" to avoid the lineups. But the line ups are kinda fun too because of the various conversations you pick up and the interesting characters that walk passed you to get to where they're going.

DOES ANYONE REMEMBER THE SUCTION CUPPED NIPPLE DECORATIONS FROM A FEW YEARS BACK? I almost built up the nerve to get some this year and they weren't selling them. I don't have a lot of time left with gravity. Time's running out. But I'm learning that doesn't really matter….at least not at the fest.

I also learned that you can't control the festival and Karma is fantastic. Let me elaborate. Deanna was having a extraordinary time at the festival and I was super happy that she had an excellent experience. We were at main stage on Saturday night and the Cat Empire was just starting. We scooted our chairs into an excellent free spot and pulled out the bug dope. Then Deanna's neighbour asked her what she was spraying on herself, so she told him. Then she sat down and her neighbour asked her whether she needed a blanket, and she kindly declined. Then Deanna's neighbour asked her where she got her camping chair, to which she briefly replied. Then it happened, and in all of my 15 years of going to the festival, I've never been subjected to such ignorance. The woman in front of us scolded Deanna, specifically Deanna, telling her that she should go over to the dancing area if she wants to chat. I was personally embarrassed for my friend who was just being polite, and just being a part of the experience by chatting with a stranger about Folk Fest-ish kind of stuff; warmth, bugs, chairs….you know…main stage topics. I apologized to Deanna, explaining that was not a common occurrence. In my mind I thought, man, if that woman was so desperate to hear the Cat Empire in pristine conditions, then she should buy the Cat Empire DVD, which is available, and watch it at home in her controlled environment. Or she should get off her ass and buy a tarp ticket so she can be a part of the tarp run and not have to sit way at the back with us other chumps. I also thought, maybe this woman has just had a bad day, which is an oxymoron, considering she's at the WINNIPEG FOLK FEST, and then she made her second "error" which led me to a pseudo psycho analysis of her….a young boy was walking passed her and she redirected him so that he wouldn't walk in front of her. Obviously this woman had control issues. So, this is where karma comes in, because something completely beyond her control happened next. The Cat Empire demanded that the whole audience get off their feet and dance. DANCE! DANCE! DANCE! 10000 people stood up in front of her and danced their faces off and she couldn't see a thing because of course, she didn't stand up. This is a woman that doesn't do what SHE'S told. And I knew allllll the words to their fantastic music, which probably didn't help a woman with control issues. I didn't have to say a word to the woman that doesn't realize that she can't control a folk festival. Karma and the Cat Empire took care of that. Does that mean that I think people should be loud and obnoxious and talk on cell phones at festivals? Hell no, but Deanna was not that at all, and neither was her neighbour. They were being folk fest-y the best way possible by cashing in on the whole experience.

You know that cliché saying "dance like nobody's watching"? Do it at the festival. Everyone else does and nobody cares.

When you're driving back to your hotel or friend's house or where ever after the festival, and you stop at a red light and turn up the music really loud and decide to see whether you and your friend can make the car shake with your butt dancing, make sure you don't have a cab full of people pulled up beside you watching in shocked surprise. Or refer to the point just before this one.

Buy at least one piece of pottery, one piece of jewelry, and one piece of clothing that remind you of the warmth of the festival during those stupid, cold nasty winter days. And take the time to chat with the artisans. They put in a lot of time over those cold, nasty winters to give you something that represents goodness.

The folk fest hones in on your perspective, what you think is important in life, your philosophies, what grinds your gears, what makes you an individual…..it smacks you in the face when you hear a drum beat that resonates so deeply in your flesh that it's all you can do to catch your breath, when you hear words arranged so eloquently that all you can do is weep at the blatant truth that you denied until you heard it sung so sweetly, when you sip a beer and smile at your best friend who understands more about who you are through "the folk fest experience". I have gone to the folk fest with a lot of different people and I actually think it's an excellent way to know whether you "click" with someone or not. Throw some sweat, music, food and bugs between you and that person you dragged along with you, and you'll both walk through those gates knowing way the hell more about each other than you did when you initially got that wrist band put on (too tightly, I might add). Haha

Hey, Deanna; let's do it again next year, my friend! Happy birthday.

Calling All Small Town Artists

2010-06-28T14:35:00.000-05:00

Have you met my friend, Harriet Carlson? If not, you're sure to miss out, because she's a fantastic person, and incredible photographer. She actually has taken the photo that I use as my title image for this blog site. Harriet and I have a superior relationship based on creative energy which puts us at a level of ease in understanding each other's perspective. We are also connected by the unfortunate commonality of being perpetually judged. It's tough to be an artist in a small town. I remember when I went off to university, (and I really didn't even go that far...I went to the University of Manitoba which is only a five hour drive away), I walked into the "School of Fine Arts" (which we affectionately called SOFA) and felt like finally, finally I was hanging out with people that spoke my own language. They knew what I was talking about, they understood my perspective, and a majority of these people were left handed AND WITH TOE THUMBS TOO! (I've always stuck to my guns in believing that having toe thumbs is an inherent artistic genetic trait.) Not once in those four years at SOFA was I called "Artsy Fartsy", not even by someone that afterwards said, "You know I'm just kidding." or "You know I don't really mean it." (You know you're just passive aggressive....)

So let's put this concept into perspective with a true to life scenario that just occurred last week. Harriet went into a public office to deal with some kind of mundane paper work. Harriet happened to be wearing her favourite leather jacket with a spectacular red ruffly flower pinned to the jacket. She looked dynamic. Instantly, the woman behind the counter commented on Harriet's appearance with a "good for you for dressing up like that" kind of statement. She might as well have said, "Good for you for having the courage to wear something so ridiculous that I would never be caught dead in." Harriet wasn't sure whether that kind of statement was supposed to be responded to or not. Was she supposed to thank this woman for pointing out Harriet's ignorance in not realizing her ridiculousness? Was Harriet supposed to apologize for her natural instinct to like beautiful red flowers and her yearning to surround herself with beauty at all times of day?

You may be reading this thinking, Come on, what's the big deal? She was complimenting her! But that is far from the truth and the scariest part is that this woman actually would genuinely tell you that she was giving Harriet praise that day. There is a fine line between being flattered and being offensively insulted and judged. Incredibly, many do not know the difference. Here is where the difference lies: a compliment is nice and a judgment is not nice. Sounds fairly simple, but there are so many complexities intertwined. Why was Harriet so rightly offended by the "good for you" comment? Because in that sentence, there were implications that Harriet is weird. And above that, there were implications that Harriet is so comfortable with her "weirdness" that she can handle being constantly told that her appearance and actions are considered weird by others.

Imagine this; take the one thing about yourself that you are the most self-conscious of and then imagine that people were chronically pointing that one "flaw" out to you and saying GOOD FOR YOU FOR blah, blah, blah. Or even imagine your culture, your gender, your sexual preference, being perpetually exposed and discussed at the most inappropriate times. Imagine standing in line at the bank waiting to do a deposit when someone walks up to you and says, "Wow. You must be Ukrainian. It's soooo obvious that you are Ukrainian. Good for you for being so Ukrainian." or "Oh, I see you're in a wheelchair. Good for you for using a wheelchair." For some, the need to point out the obvious or unavoidable at any inopportune time is apparent. So, here's what happened to Harriet the day after being insulted for wearing a flower on her jacket (doesn't it sound ridiculous to even say that?!). She went to the grocery store and ran into a person that she had just recently met through a mutual friend. In Harriet's true personable nature, she started to talk to this individual, who interrupted her conversation to point out to her that she had "hanging irises". Excuse me? The person then went on to explain that Harriet happened to have an eye condition called hanging iris, which we were unable to find later in Google searches. Have you seen Harriet's eyes? Gorgeous, along with her personality, and this shmuck couldn't get passed his own pretentiousness to keep any comments that he many have felt the need to speak out loud to himself. Even later when Harriet ended up at the same social gathering as this fellow, and she gathered up the ambition to call him on his rude comments, he barely apologized, feeling he was just stating a fact and had the right to do so. Scary. And harmful. And dumb on his part because now he'll never get the opportunity to know a great person because of his issue with eye conditions that he couldn't keep to himself.

I get that too. I get that all the time. Someone is always commenting on the type of clothing I'm wearing (It has actually been said like this to me before, "No, no, no. Why do you have that on?" AND "What the hell are you wearing?") or the colour of my hair (Why green, Rhonda?), or the type of bike I ride, or the type of art that I create (When are you going to take that weird shit off the wall and hang up some real paintings for sale?)

or the shape of my eyebrows, or where I spend my time (Where you going today, Rhonda? Garbage picking? hahaha). It's one thing to share in my zest for life with fun comments but it's another to downright criticize. And I worry that one day, someone's just going to get blasted, completely blasted in the middle of the produce aisle with an "Are you kidding me? You in your Disney laden embroidered clothing? You in your matching earrings, belt, shoes and purse? You in your clothes that is all about comfort over style? You with your old lady perm? You with your perpetual need to go shopping for crap that you don't need? You with your......" But I never say those things to other people because it's just not fucking nice, and who am I to feel I have the right to control what others do, say or have? I simply don't, and if I do judge people, as is human nature, I simply keep it to myself. Simple.

And then I hear people tell me that it's because I'm different; that I call it on myself. Do you think I'm not aware of that? Do you think I wake up in the morning and think, "Hey! How can I mess with everyone's minds today based on what I choose to wear and make them want to say something about me? How do I draw more and more attention to myself?" Trust me; that is not in my thoughts at 7am. I'm barely alive at 7am. This is just the way I am. I am a creative, artistic being and this is how I view my world and live in my world and never once have I asked the public for their opinion in that regard. When I do want to know, I ask - point blank. Do you think I want to change my lifestyle or personality or style or hairdo? No thank you. I don't want to live an existence where my definition of excitement is sitting down in front of the TV to watch my favourite show. (Oh sorry...did I just offend somebody by saying that?) Instead, share with me, celebrate with me,embrace our difference and recognize that we are all unique individuals with our own take on this big, big world. See the difference? Don't assume that I am unconscious and incapable of being hurt just because I may be different AKA weird. I am different but I'm not a robot, even though I can do a wicked robot dance. I'm sure I've been judged for that in the past too.

Alas, in a double edged sword kinda way, I have pretty thick skin now, and have learned to throw it back at the offensive individual that seems to think that they are somehow better that me and have chosen to say what's on their condemnatory mind, even if oblivious to that concept. But it took a long time to get to this point. I did keep my thumbs tucked into my palm of my hand until I reached university so nobody would see their shape. And I look back on my photos when I was a child and I never smiled with my mouth open because I didn't want anyone to see the big space I had in my front teeth. And I learned to turn it around too. I think, what is this person missing in his/her life? What is he or she lacking that the need is so great to turn their insecurities onto others? They should really just deal with their own shit. Have I mentioned that is my life mantra? "It's not my shit". Sometimes it's hard to acknowledge it when I come across this type of scenario on an ongoing basis. I really thought that one day I'd grow up and be allowed to just be me, but unfortunately, people still feel the need to squelch that. Fortunately for me, that's not going to happen. But I'm not others, and if it's happening to me, and it's happening to Harriet, then it's happening to others as well.

If you were to think about it logically, you would think that people would mind their p's and q's....if a young, vibrant, creative person moves back to a small town, wouldn't you think that you'd want that person to stay here, help the local economy and get established as a permanent resident instead of feeling the need to flee? "Good for you for embracing your weirdness" is not necessarily a phrase extracted from the Welcome Wagon's Guide to Living in a Small Town.

Here's an idea....take the time to process your words before they are ejected from your mouth. Decide whether they are going to be put in category one, (compliment?) or category two (judgment?) and act accordingly and responsibly. Nobody should feel the need to change anything about themselves to suit the needs of others and words can do nothing but perpetuate resentment if used without care and understanding.

*The first photo of Harriet was taken by Kemal Krluch who is a buff Bosnian photographer extraordinaire. (Now that was a nice thing to say!)

I don't know a thing about soccer.....

2010-05-24T10:53:00.000-05:00

I always seem to say I don't know a thing about soccer, yet, I'm a soccer coach. I have been coaching high school soccer for three seasons now, and every year I say, "Well, that was exhausting and frustrating and I think I gained 5 pounds," but not this year. This year I am 100% sure why I am a coach, and why I'll stick with it.

Let's put things into perspective so that you understand why I say I don't know a thing about soccer. I grew up playing soccer on the fields of Ignace with Jamie Larson, Joey Zappitelli and the other boys. If you ever go to the back of Ignace school, you will see that there is a section of trees that are perfectly smattered around the yard that instantly become goal posts. At any given time, you would see at least three different games of soccer being played at recess time within the confines of these trees, er....goal posts. And that's exactly what we did. It killed me that I had to walk home for lunch every day because it cut into my soccer time. Eating and walking was cutting in to my opportunity to kick a ball. (As a side note, I remember once deciding to wear a skirt to school, which was a rare thing indeed. It was recess time and I had to dive for the ball, did a complete somersault and flashed my strawberry patterned panties to the world. I was mortified and the boys didn't even notice. They were in the game. Lesson learned on two levels; it's all about soccer, and never wear a skirt to school.)

Then I moved to Red Lake and the boys didn't play soccer. They played tag football instead, and the rules were different, and hormones were involved. *sigh* So I had to wait until we had soccer in gym class, which was always ridiculous, especially because our gym in public school was carpeted. Who the hell decided that it would be a good idea to put carpet in a gymnasium? Hey! Let's see how many kids we can rug burn? Obviously administration at that time didn't think it would be worthwhile to communicate their "new age" concepts with the teachers and students before making that decision. Hmmm........(no, I won't go there. This blog is about soccer.) When I got to high school I was pretty excited because I thought for SURE that there would be soccer. And there was during class time. We all drooled as we waited for the snow to melt so that we could kick the ball around on that swampy, duck laden, bug infested, poor excuse of a field. I even went to the gym teacher and asked if we could start up a girl's soccer team to which he replied, "Girls don't play soccer." I think he's an administrator now. Seriously.

Then about ten years into my teaching career, we were all sitting in a staff meeting and it was decided that there wasn't going to be a boy's soccer team because they couldn't get anyone to coach it. The people that usually coach were burned out, and understandably so. I'll get into why in a few paragraphs, if you'll endure my babbling. Well, I just couldn't let that happen. IT'S SOCCER FOR CRYING OUT LOUD! A boy's gotta play soccer (and girls)!!!! So, I volunteered and immediately thought, "Holy shit." I turned to my colleague, Wilkins, and begged for his assistance.

I will never forget being in the gym with a bunch of sweaty teenaged goons, as they slam the ball so hard into the walls of the gymnasium that they were leaving dents. Did that dude seriously just do that with his own body? Holy crap. I was completely intimidated and uneducated. I would go home at night and read all I could about soccer. I was researching the game, trying to figure out the rules, what all of those damn lines on the field were for, and where the heck everyone was supposed to be in that space. And I wanted to do drills with them that actually helped them, that challenged them and I realize now how ridiculous that was. I do remember them telling me that they were impressed that I was taking the time to actually try, that I was showing them that I was at least interested in playing the role of "coach". But basically I just stood along the sidelines at games screaming along with the fans, trying to figure out why they weren't allowed to cross invisible lines. Damn offside rule......Alas, we finished the year, and I chalked it up to another experience and left.

That is until the opportunity arose to coach girl's soccer.This is what I've learned while coaching girl's high school soccer;

Catholic girls have potty mouths when they are away from God's ears.This may win them games now, but in the scheme of things, karma will get 'em.
Girls wear a lot of jewelry (that ends up loading down my pockets before every game.)
Nobody is allowed to bleed on a pitch, but a person can be in complete agony and the game will still play on.
"Some" girls can't sing, but can certainly dangle a ball.
We play better in the snow than in the heat.....typical Northern girls.
Girls are very gassy.
I always miss the goals because I'm too busy looking at the "holes" on the pitch (By the way, I call a soccer field a pitch. Some hate it, some don't. It's just what I learned and I can't unlearn it). I'm an artist, so I naturally look for ways to "balance" and when I see an empty space on the pitch that needs to be filled, I make sure someone is there to fill it. I have based my practices on space. It's kind of funny if you think of it that way. Just about as funny as an artist coaching soccer.
We should always have the "honeymoon" suite when we have out of town games because playing charades and painting our nails together are team builders!
Because I don't know the proper terminology for anything, we have come up with some really goofy names for some of our tactics we use such as "do a ham and cheese on rye", "pull a Diego", "fill that pocket", "dig in" or "shake it off like a zebra". We all know what that means, but the other teams thing we're weird. haha
Girl's are emotional and play soccer with their hearts more than their feet. To date, with every game we have dedicated to someone else, we have either tied or won. Let me elaborate;

Last year, one of our key defense players schmucked her knee really badly in the first five minutes of the soccer season. We thought she might be out for a game or two, but she ended up not being able to play for the whole season. She now has metal in her leg, and couldn't play any sports for a year. I think Syd is still struggling with knee problems. We dedicated a game to her and kicked butt. This year, one of the coaches from another town forgot her sportsmanship and was not very polite so I asked the girls to kick ass so that I could live vicariously through them, and they did just that for me. We also dedicated a game to my son who came to practices after school at least once a week, helped move pylons, and made sure we knew what time it was. And he's just damn cute and deserves it. But last week was the most important game we've ever played. A girl from our school was flown out to a city hospital, highly ill and struggling for survival. Most of her friends are on the soccer team and they were really trying hard to keep composed for the day. They knew that we were hosting the first soccer tournament the school has ever had, and that the whole school was going to be watching. The pressure was on to perform and there was a huge ache in their hearts. They dedicated their game to this girl, saying, "If she can fight hard for her life, we can try our hardest on the field." I didn't have to say a thing. These girls play with their hearts. I'm just the lucky one that gets to be in their presence and share the experiences with them.

Every year I say to myself that this will be the last year that I will coach, and I have to be honest, I said the same thing this year. It's extremely exhausting and I give up a lot of time with my family to do this. It's tough to do as a single mom, and I become highly dependent on others to fill those "pockets" for me. But there is something so rewarding about coaching these girls. I don't go into it to win, even though I truly do love to win, don't get me wrong, and it is a goal that I set with the team, but I coach because it's damn fun. And kids are good. And when they're not good we sit down together and talk about it as a team, and learn from the experiences, and move forward. As I coach, I watch these girls balance their school work, and their jobs, and their social situations and family dynamics, and they still come to practice with a smile on their face and a yearning to be supportive of others. Wearing a medal around the neck won't change that. They may not know it yet, but they've already won. And so have I.

Thanks girls, for an awesome season!

Click here to see how the girls dedicate their games.....

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Toasty Thoughts on Toast

2010-05-07T22:24:00.002-05:00

I write this shortly after eating a toasted egg sandwich that really wasn't evenly toasted. Disappointing. One side was obviously colder and softer than the dark, rich, crunchy bread to its immediate right (or left depending on how I ate the sandwich). Why is the idea of eating a completely evenly toasted piece of bread such a difficult concept? Why can't I have the fantastic experience of eating pumpernickel or rye holistically with sheer satisfaction? I'll tell you why; because in this crazy world, everything is exponentially larger than it needs to be, regardless of what that "it" is. It's because bread slices have been getting bigger and bigger, but toasters haven't. You would think that someone like Dyson would notice this by now. He probably doesn't eat toast. He probably just eats grass. Then you're probably thinking, if we made toasters bigger to accommodate bigger pieces of bread, then we'd be stuck with these big honkin', bulky toasters on our counter and that would just look weird and be downright inconvenient. But I don't think it needs to be like that at all, well, to a degree. I think that if they just found the biggest slice of bread they could imagine, and used that as the basis for the size of the toaster, then it would all be good. It's kind of a 'one size fits all' dealy. To this, you probably think, but what if I put a small piece of bread in that toaster? I'll have to use a knife to get it out (Yes, you have. I know you have.) and perhaps risk getting electrocuted (because I know you also occasionally forget to unplug it while fishing for that little piece of burnt bread.) Here's the solution; SENSORS! Sensors seem to be the answer to everything now a day and they're used for everything; from automatically opening and closing the garage door to ensuring that your dog stays in the yard….why can't they be used in a toaster? The toaster would automatically sense the size and weight of the bread in the toaster and instantly adjust the "basket" or internal walls of the toaster so that it gets just the right amount of equal toastiness from all angles. So if a small piece of bread is in there, the bottom of the basket just rises a little. Brilliant. No more soggy egg sandwiches.

So let's go back to size for a moment because if you're from a family of four and have one of those 4 slice toasters, then you are probably imagining a dishwasher sized toaster sitting on your counter. But perhaps I could propose the concept of excessiveness, and that perhaps we all just need a one slice toaster; especially if its sensors have just indicated that it has the largest slice possible sitting in its slot. Maybe that one slice could even be cut in two and shared after it is toasted. And then perhaps you think about time and how hectic your mornings are and how inefficient it would be to have to put one slice of bread in the toaster at a time. But maybe on "toast days" (instead of oatmeal or cereal bar or grass eating days), you would wake up a bit earlier, use your time a bit wiser, and leave more room to congregate with your family in the kitchen while everyone waits for their token piece of perfectly toasted toast. *Ding!* Maybe the toaster is like a metronome, set on the slowest pace possible, to make a family stop. ….just stop and wait for their toast and fill that time with conversation. You could say things like, "I wonder how that toaster makes such a perfectly even piece of toast?" or, "I wonder what Dyson eats for breakfast?"

Hmmmmmm…..I don't think I was trying to get too philosophical or metaphorical with my thoughts on toast. Mind you, you can take them anyway you want. These are simply the kinds of thoughts that go through my head on a daily basis. I don't know whether that makes me insane, or ingenious. I truly think that I may have been an inventor in a past life, albeit, not a very good one, because I have no engineering savvy or fathomable comprehension of physics in the least. Planes flying through the air are sheer magic to me. Projectable hunks of metal carrying hundreds of people over an immense ocean are sheer magic. Toasters that can toast evenly are sheer magic. Sweatshirts made out of recycled pop bottles….you got it….magic. But I'm always thinking of ways to make that experience just a little bit more magical, even if not very logical.

So here's a toast to the modern toaster. Cheers!

"Not by the Farm of My Hairy Kid," said Mr. Farty Pants

2010-04-11T20:39:00.000-05:00

My son has a hilarious book called "Gab Flabs". You've seen them before; they're the book that asks you to list off a bunch of nouns, verbs and adjectives and then you plunk them into sentences in a story with ridiculous results. For example, a sentence may say, "We (---verb---) nothing left to (---verb---). You'll have to sell our only (---noun---)." The best part is that your partner does not know what the title of the story is, just that he or she has to come up with interesting words. In this case, the sentence turned out to be, "We have nothing left to fly! You'll have to sell our only french fry!" This was of course from the tale of Jack and the Beanstalk.

Utilizing these books are an excellent way to learn about the diversity of words, as my son struggles to come up with a plethora of nouns that don't just connect to the word "butt" (but as you'll see, he has learned to use this word in a lot of different ways. *sigh*) He's also expanding his vocabulary and learning about the breadth of actions that are available at his disposal as I share words like "quiver" and "slither" and "snot". Yeah, sometimes I tap in to my inner child.....

Most of the stories are based on children's fables and tales, so it's delightful to imagine the juxtaposition of what we know the story to be, and what a nine year old child will conjure. Without further ado, I give you some of our favourite lines from Gab Flabs (but I've spared you the whole story....my last blog was long enough. This one is nice and short!):

The wolf cleaned as fast as he could to the dirty house, and bounced her up in one gulp. Next, he put on stinky books and diapers, and climbed into bed, waiting for Little Red Riding Hood.

Little Red Riding Hood thought her tired sock sounded a little gruff.

"Oh, what big hairy radios you have," said Little Red Riding Hood.

The wolf tried to chew Little Red Riding Hood but tripped on creepy carpet and rolled right into the Woodcutter's path.

On one terrible stormy night, with thunder and lightning, there was a booger at the stinky door.

She said she was a sweaty eyeball but the Queen did not sip her but decided to give her an icicle anyway.

The Queen invited the tongue to tea and said she could scrunch the wanker.

While the princess released her panties and ate woody knuckles, the Queen thought of a way to find out if she was a real princess.

Only a real princess could be so liquidy to jump a pea through twenty chickens and toe nails.

Once upon a time there were three bears who lived in a slimy bum in the woods.

"Not by the hair of my chewy feet!" said the little pig.

"Then I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll snort your eyes in!" said the wolf.

The wolf discoed on the dog.

"Not by the farm of my hairy kid!" said the little pig.

"Not by the pants of my curly banana!" said the little pig.

Jack lived with his juicy widowed mother at the edge of the woods.

On the way to the market, Jack instead snorted the pickles for a few, magic snots from a gypsy.

Suddenly Jack squished a butthole like thunder. "Bring me my nose and bubblegum machine!"

Jack slid down the beanstalk, grabbed his earwax and began to bounce.

....and a large Billy-Goat Gruff, who was the largest and with two smelly buttocks. (are you seeing a theme here?)

The grass was so green and tasty that they came up with a plan to retch the ugly old troll and get to the other side.

Ok, I'll stop for now, but I guarantee you, if you have bored kids in the backseat on a long road trip to God knows where, you can get away with not plugging in a movie if you have one of these books available. They are seriously hours of entertainment. And think of how fantastic an exercise this would be for writing Surrealist poetry, or any kind of poetry for that matter! And the drawings that could be created. These phrases mess with our minds, in a good way. Whew! So here's a plug for Amazon by connecting you to their link so you can get one of these books for yourself. Enjoy!

Tickle your funny bone with one of these books!

You Really Don't Want to be a Bossy Baboon, Do Ya?

2010-04-04T10:24:00.001-05:00

I just heard a great story at a conference a couple of days ago that went something like this: a guy (not just your typical guy, a brilliant guy that seems to really know his stuff ) went to Africa every summer to study a group of baboons. Sounds like fun, doesn't it....His intention was to study stress and how it affects baboons, so he would nonchalantly tranquilize baboons with a blow dart and test their blood levels and do all kinds of neat stuff in that regard. What he noticed in his 20 year plus span of studying the baboons was that the aggressive, assertive, dominant males were actually assholes. This professor quickly concluded that he didn't like the baboons, and the other baboons didn't seem to really like them either. Surprise, surprise. These alpha males didn't have a worry in the world. They never had to fight off natural stressors and always got their way with the baboon ladies, the baboon food, the best baboon trees, the works.....they were baboon pimps. Then one day all of the baboons went to a dumpster and started eating rotting meat. Little did this tribe know that the meat was laden with tuberculosis. Who do you think died? Did you guess the weakest of the tribe? If so, then you'd be wrong. You got it, the bossy baboons bit the dust. They died because they were so used to getting everything that they wanted while everyone else went through the stress of ensuring they were safe and taken care of, that the pimps never developed their own natural instinct to be aware of danger. And the weaker baboons sat back and snickered their baboon snickers as those gluttons gobbled away. At least 1/3 of the baboons in that tribe died. Naturally you'd think that other baboons would take over the role and start being bossy baboons all over again, but interestingly, the baboons were so happy that the big red-assed meanies were dead, that they decided not to allow aggression rule their tribe again. Now all of the baboons were taking care of each other, becoming more aware of their surroundings and responding to their environment and tree mates protectively and thoughtfully.

So, what the hell does this baboon story have to do with anything? Well, I personally think that story in itself is enough to sustain a blog on its own, leaving you to contemplate your own existence and whether you consider yourself categorized as a pimped-out baboon or not. But actually, this story was told at a workshop about attachment and how the brain and body responds to a plethora of attachment disorders. The baboon story was told in response to information regarding stress and how the body deals with stress in different ways, depending on whether a person has attachment "issues" or not (because ultimately, people/baboons that don't have attachment issues easily deal with stress.) Yeah. So now you're probably sitting there thinking, "Oh come on. Everyone in the world has SOME kind of stress in their life. It doesn't mean that I have an attachment issue." And trust me, I'm not hear to judge you and decide whether you're a baboon or not, and whether you have issues or not. (My life mantra is, "It's not my shit".) I just find this information fascinating and will leave you to chew on it for a while and decide whether it's worth regurgitation or not. Here's what I think I learned;

Attachment is an emotional bond which gives a sense of security and should be obtained from at least one parent. We start to form attachments as soon as we make a connection between pleasure and rewards, like when a baby is born and is immediately attached to the mother's breast to feed. That's the most typical example that can be most readily identified, I'm sure, but that's just one of many, many, many. Ultimately the most important part is that the parent and the baby do what is called "beaming and gleaming" where they look in each others eyes, the pupils dilate and they trigger a feel good chemical response in the right orbitofrontal cortex which is right behind the right eye. The right orbitofrontal cortex (which I'll from here on in refer to as the ROFC which is totally NOT a scientifically used term but it's a pain in the ass to type it all the time) is the big cheese of your cognitive brain. Your ROFC is the filter that controls your attention span, your impulses, your emotions and decisions. It's a pretty good area to develop and if you don't do that beaming and gleaming with someone then you're going to be in for it. Fortunately, the parent has up to 18 months to form these attachments. It seems like a long amount of time, but it's surprising how quickly that time can go by without thoroughly creating this fantastic chemical reaction and developing some hard wiring in the brain. It's one of those "you snooze, you lose" things, where if that part of the brain isn't used, those cells get "pruned" and don't create what might be considered "normal" attachments.

Here's an example of what I mean....

There's a really groovy chart out there called the Dynamic-Maturational Model of Patterns of Attachment in Adulthood which shows a wide spectrum of attachment "disorders". No, I don't like the word disorder, I'm going to say "issues" instead. Our goal as human beings is to be balanced of course, but man, it's really difficult to fit into that category on the top of that chart. And ironically, a balanced person is actually quite boring and we as humans, don't really want to be hanging out with the B type. They suck at making life interesting, but ironically, that's what we should strive to be. Check it out below...

So let me explain this chart in a nutshell, as best as I can, with all of my naive terminology and brief, three day understanding of what behavioral analysts have spent a lifetime developing. Right at the top you'll see the "B" person. In this case, "B" represents balance, and that is what humans without attachment issues are. They are pretty comfortable with life and can deal with stress pretty well. B can also represent "boring".

As you slide down the chart to the left, you start to tap in to cognitive responses to attachment issues. A person with an attachment issue may become a bit reserved and socially inhibited if they go down this slippery slope. This A type will also do whatever they can to please others without any consideration of themselves. As humans, we have a tendency to like these people. We consider them nice and caring and willing to go out of their way to help others, but actually they aren't even considering themselves at all in all of this caring that they're doing for others. They are a doormat and easy to push around. At their most extreme, before they become a psychopath, these people can get to the point of being compulsively promiscuous, and that doesn't necessarily mean in a sexual way. They will just mold to whatever others want them to be and have completely no sense of identity whatsoever. Sometimes we consider these people to be 'well rounded' because they are so malleable. These people listen to the strongest voice that just so happens to be in their face at that time and will follow those directions. Think gang mentality, think prostitution and then consider that these people most likely didn't have any gleaming and beaming in their life and you'll quickly recognize that they didn't necessarily make that choice to be where they are at that point in their life. Think of that quintessential, 'what kind of person are you', question. If your answer is "whatever you want me to be" then you're probably a classic type "A" person.

On the other side of this circle is the classic "C" type person who deals with their attachment issues in a completely opposite way; in an emotional way. This person may start off as just being reactive, and then transcend into threatening and disarming behavior. An excellent example is the child that pulls the dog's tail or scratches the siblings arms and then immediately responds with a "sorry" and an innocent smile. America's Funniest Home Videos is full of threatening and disarming behavior and it makes us laugh because of the cute factor. But if that behavior isn't rectified, then the person moves on to being more manipulative, more aggressive, and more capable of believing their distorted cognitive lies. They are the person that will punch you in the face and then come up with a really great excuse as to why they did it. They'll genuinely believe what they have told you, and will be manipulative enough to convince you that you deserved that hit. They're seductive and lure people into believing their thoughts. Ironically, most politicians are C types and we like them, even though we're well aware that they're full of shit. Here's the spooky part. If these people, as either A types or C types continue on their path of detached behavior, then they become psychopaths, the complete opposite of a balanced person. So, we may find the B type to be boring, but it's a heck of a lot better than the opposite side of that spectrum.

Now here's the kicker....most type A's seek out type C's in terms of relationships, and visa versa, and I mean all relationships, not just romantic ones. Caring, giving, doormat A's are looking for aggressive, manipulative, I can do it on my own C's. C's are charming and A's are cute and kind. Are you thinking about your relationship dynamics right now? I know I was. (It made me think of those scenarios when you see a really sweet guy dating a super bitch. You sit back in disbelief as this woman is completely capable of humiliating this man, but he continues to trod on in the relationship, catering to her every whim. He would never date the nice girl....he's naturally attracted to this type of person, because she fills a need based on his detached background. Mind boggling, but it makes sense.) So, are you thinking you're the bossy meat eating baboon, or the submissive meat giving baboon? Well, the good news is that most people either recognize those behaviors and look for ways to rectify those situations, or they have friends, counselors, teachers, and the like telling them to give their head a shake, usually with a good smack upside of the head (figuratively speaking, of course. I'd never let anyone smack me upside of the head.). For the most part, at least we can't say that we weren't told, right?

So then after I did the categorization of myself and thought about what I was and who I choose to surround myself with, I went on to think about how I deal with the stressors in my life because of my mild detachment issues (yes, I'll admit to at least a mild case of detachment haha). So, if you've got some form of detachment, which ultimately everyone does, except for "boring gramma's" (that was the presenter's words, not mine) then you've got to have some way of dealing with the stress of being detached, usually without even knowing it. This detached person lives their life with a feeling of insecurity in themselves and their surrounding. They have issues with trust and do weird stuff to compensate for all of these stressful issues. Self soothing begins and people start making strange attachments to different things, like objects or food or sounds or cults or other sensations that create that amazing pleasure/reward gratification (Like why the hell do some people need to be sniffing a pair of shoes to have any sexual gratification? I just don't get it. What happened there?!). By the way, the four ways that people self-sooth is through the mouth, the nose, the bellybutton and the genitals. Just saying.....(perhaps you just always considered it a "habit"?)

So, from my own personal experience, I had an "aha" moment. I was able to recognize all of my self-soothing behaviors, from sucking my thumb as a child to chronically biting my nails, using food as a substitute for love in my past, my perhaps robust love for beer, and finally, my pleasurable connection to music. Yes, I have come to realize that music is a major contributor to soothing my soul and keeping me "attached". And I'm not alone. The amygdala in our brain, our sensory receiver, tags these various sensors and decides whether we should be put into a calming mode or jump into a fight or flight response. One time I was freaking out over an incident that happened to my son at school. After opening and closing the fridge door subconsciously and unsuccessfully seeking what I needed, three times, I put on my sneakers and went for a run while listening to my iPod. I wasn't aware of the reasoning behind my actions until I had released the stress through my actions, and I felt great upon my return home. Much better than I did in the past when I would have just eaten a ham sandwich satisfying that oral sensation. I moved beyond my regular patterns and had a healthy response to stress.I should really chew gum........

A friend of mine recently shared his sensory experience with me about music. He said that he made burned CD's for his brother for Christmas, carefully selecting specific songs. He then said that he re-listened to those songs, and imagined what his brother was thinking when he was hearing those words and that rhythm and hoped that he was connected to his brother's thoughts through those songs. I totally knew where he was coming from because I too have a tendency to do that for others; share my music with them, and I too, had just given my mother 3 CD's of burned music for Christmas. To me, the words of music express what I perhaps can't say for myself, and it's not necessarily just the message of the song; it's the tempo of the song, the lilt in the rhythm, the combination of specific instruments, the tonal quality of the musician's voice. He also gave me the gift of songs that actually stopped me in my tracks when I had the opportunity to listen and I openly and unexpectedly wept at the generosity of that music. Music reaches and heals for those that don't know how to attach in other ways, perhaps. That may be why so many people love music....it's tapping on our amygdala and telling us that everything's going to be ok. Music is my gleaming and beaming. Nobody gets hurt through music. (As an interesting side note, if you listen to music from that perspective, you soon notice that most lyrics deal with some form of detachment; missing someone, loving someone that doesn't love back, feeling lost, feeling alone, yearning, craving, desire....Again, perhaps that's why I love Leonard Cohen's "Chelsea Hotel #2" so much....."we're ugly but we have the music".)

Now you've gotta listen to it.....

And it made me think of all the unhealthy ways that people sooth; through greasy foods, and alcohol and brain burning drugs (those people literally want to burn holes in their brain so that they don't have to feel anything at all ever again) and all kinds of high risk adventures. Those baboons were so detached that they were willing to dive right in to that poisonous, rotting meat without even questioning anything at all. Unfortunately, because they're baboons in Africa and didn't have the opportunity to go to the same workshop that I did, they didn't learn that you can repair. Even if you are in the depths of despair, being one pie wedge away from becoming a pyschopath on that colourful, spooky attachment chart, you can still change. You can still learn to deal with your hard wiring that was developed a long, long time ago and make those changes. That's the beauty of life and the beauty of the brain. Even if you think you're a cantankerous, stubborn, SOB that can't even consider the concept of change and that you're fine the way you are, (thank you very much for your pseudo-analysis Ms. Bobinski), at least it's nice to know that you can. And if you've always been that nit-picking baboon that 's going to preen everyone else before yourself, at least you should know that there's still an opportunity for you to be preened as well, if you want to be.

If you're willing to be.

True Confessions

2010-03-23T18:56:00.000-05:00

Sometimes it's good to just let it out...tell the truth, no matter how ridiculous it may sound. Perhaps this is connected to my Catholic upbringing; this need to be absolved from my little mundane sins. Alas, here I am purging and begging for blog-god's forgiveness.

I steal toilet paper from hotels. It all ends up in the same place in the end anyway (Oh jeeze, no pun intended!) so what difference does it make if it's used here in Red Lake or used there in Winnipeg or any other place that happens to have a hotel with an extra roll of t.p?

I am slowly poisoning myself with lipstick that is full of lead because it's a really nice colour and stays on forever ( I once was completely debilitated with a nasty virus and ended up vomiting profusely every 1/2 hour for a whole day. At once point, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was totally impressed that my lipstick was still in tact during this fiasco. That's good lipstick and also the reason why it will eventually kill me. It's gotta be toxic if it can withstand perpetual puke.)

I secretly think that people complain too much about illness and think that hypochondriacs are super creepy. People that focus on their childrens' illnesses are even creepier in my books. Who gets off on talking about illness? Does a person really need that much attention that the only way they feel they can go about doing it is by talking about their oozing sores and phlegm filled lungs? Why don't they go and run a marathon or write a great book or bake a wicked cake so that they get some cool, positive attention instead?

I think my dog has put her tongue in my mouth way more than is reasonable and it has definitely not been by choice. But today when it happened I actually thought to myself, "Now that's enough. I'm tired of snugglin' my dog and having her rotten old tongue go in my mouth." Why the hell can't I just keep my mouth closed when I'm petting my dog? No, I have to get in close and talk all goofy to her with things like, "Hi my little smooshy smooshy."

My sister got me a wicked Napoleon Dynamite toothbrush and the design is highly disappointing. Who doesn't want to have the sweet voice of Napoleon and the funky tunes of Jamiraquai jamming in their mouth at 7:15 every morning? But you have to put the right amount of pressure of the brush on your teeth in order for it to work, and it sounds all weird and muffled and makes my ears tickle just a little. My sister had awesome intentions and the toothbrush is a let down. I knew I should have kept it as a collectible but I'm constantly worried about becoming a hoarder so I use what I'm given.

Is it really graffiti if it has an important message? I think it's more like an art installation.

I walked into a dollar store in Winnipeg and actually had a bit of a panic attack because the whole place smells so bad of toxic plastic crap that I felt like I was being poisoned by cheap toys and gadgets. I feel extremely sorry for all of the workers in China that have to go to those factories every day and endure that nauseating odor. It also makes me crazy that people buy that shit, because I always see that kind of stuff at garage sales, and if they don't sell there, then I see that crap at the dump. True confession; that seriously makes me crazy and I have to calm myself down so that I don't go into freak out mode when I see stuff like that. (Refer to blog regarding precycling...)

The first time I said the f-bomb was in Grade 4, playing soccer at recess with the boys in Ignace. I screamed out, "F**k off, Billy!" because he was relentlessly teasing me. I found out later that he had a crush on me, but I just thought he was being a pain in the ass.There is a fine line between a crush and a pain in the ass and I'm kinda sorry that I didn't know the difference at the time because maybe Billy would have ended up being a great boyfriend.

I got caught raiding a garden when I was in Grade 6 and even the cops were involved. To this day,
I think that the cops should have told my parents but instead they just gave us a big lecture and let us off the hook. It worked for me; I never did that again and felt horrible about it, but I still think the cops should have made more of a stink about it. If someone raided my garden I'd be devastated because we're actually really dependent on it every year and tending a garden is a hell of a lot of work. I think I was actually in university when I finally told my mom what I had done.

I have a potty mouth and like to say things like bite me, suck it and blow me. I know it sounds horrible, but saying those little phrases sometimes gives me sheer delight because they're just so damn straight up and to the point. Sometimes there's no better way to say that you're angry with the world then a good ol' "suck it". My son has given me time outs for swearing. I take a nap on a chair for 5 minutes. It hasn't made me want to stop swearing. Time outs blow. (As a side note, you should go into the bathroom, close the door, turn on the fan, and just say "blow me" really loud. You'll feel silly at first, but if you say it a couple times, I can guarantee you'll feel better.) I really have to work hard at not swearing at school every single day. I hate hearing kids swear. I'm a hypocrite.

I have a crazy obsession with teeth. I will be completely attracted to a blithering idiot if he has nice teeth...super nice teeth. I kept my wisdom teeth and made them into a necklace that I wear occasionally and people always say, "Are those your teeth?" and give me a look of disgust. Teeth are awesome. I was a dental hygienist in my past life.

I have grown up on the lake all my life, and I have never run a boat motor by myself. I don't know why because I'm not afraid to, but every dude I've asked, including my dad and many other men, won't let me. What's up with that? I feel completely incompetent without having that checked off on my to-do list. Is being a part of the boat motor society kinda like being a part of the Mason's? Is there some kind of weird initiation or hazing that I don't know about? It also took me forever to build up the nerve to pump my own gas.

I think if I were to ingest a pickled egg, I would spontaneously combust. On the same topic of food, if you eat a banana beside me, I'll probably punch you in the face. I hate that sound more than anything else in the world.

You know, this feels really good. They may seem like mundane little tidbits of whatever you wanna call its, but it feels nice to actually let these thoughts out. My brain has a file folder, no probably a whole filing cabinet of useless facts and information that just sits there without being given an opportunity to just go. Isn't that what dreams are for? To get rid of the excess stuff, small little morsels of guilt and frustration that we have running around upstairs so that we don't have to think about it anymore? I don't recall ever dreaming about chewed bananas or hypochondriacs, but it feels good to purge about it all the same.

You should try it. Or better yet, share them with me. I'll absolve ya' of your guilty conscience. :)

Check out Napolean's sweet dance moves

Facebook Friends, Fans and Foes

2010-03-17T01:07:00.000-05:00

I love Facebook. I love being able to chat with Steph daily when she lives across the country. I can hear her voice in the comments that are sent to me and enjoy the banter back and forth. I love that I have reconnected with long lost cousins and take the time to stop and visit them on my journeys when I travel. I found several of those cousins in a Facebook group about "Bobinski's". I love the fact that I found my old public school friend and plan on meeting up with her in our hometown next summer to reminisce about our childhood. I love the fact that in my 37 years I have somehow been able to connected to hundreds and hundreds of people, and we like each other enough that we want to know about each other….even if just a little bit, for just a little snippet of a bit in our day. This form of communication simply would not occur for me if it was just happening through emails or telephone calls. Anyone that knows me knows that I actually despise communicating on the phone. I don't like to sit in one spot for too long and being on the phone makes me way too idle. That's another reason why Facebook works for me…..it works for my ADHD tendencies, and I can bounce back and forth between household chores, bike rides, kitchen dance parties and the like and still have the time to stop, take pause and throw a quick "howdy" to my sister where as otherwise I may have said nothing. (Teresa rarely leaves messages on my answering machine anymore because she says there's no point….I don't return calls. She's right. But I return a Facebook. It's faster. I do like to talk, I just have some kind of weird thing about phones which could be a whole other blog in itself.)

So who was it that said that today's generation is "disconnected"? I think people are communicating more now than ever before. Kids are texting maniacs. I can't believe that sometimes I hear myself saying to one of my students, "Text her and find out if she's coming to school today." Comments that come up between "mutual friends" on Facebook end up being discussed at further length. Links of interest are being sent to others. Information is being tossed around and words are flying like never before, zinging passed our eyes and ears, being quickly bitten and consumed. We are evolving into constant communicators and I'm digging it…..for the most part. We're getting to know our friends just that much more, and that isn't something to be ashamed about.

But then there's this;

I've curiously started to notice discretions in the terminology that is out there in Facebook land regarding "friends". I have a multitude of "friends" on Facebook and at one point I did start to do a bit of categorizing of those friends, and then thought, well, that's pretty stereotypical and judgmental of me, isn't it? Why am I categorizing these people? For some reason or another, we have decided that we want to know about each other's life in some small or big way and that's all I need to do with this list of interesting characters. To be fair though, I do have a list of "limited profile" friends, but that is simply to protect my privacy from the high school students I teach. They just don't need to know about all aspects of my life, but it doesn't mean that I don't want to share with them. When they graduate, I take them off of the limited profile, and then they find out that my life is basically what they expected it to be, give or take a bit. On top of this, I also have a fan page, where I showcase my art work and different artistic endeavors that I am attempting to undertake, and have a very nice fan base there. Now this is where I find that the terminology gets blurred. As far as I'm concerned, if a person is going out of their way to add my fan page to their own page, I am honoured by the respect they have given me as an artist. I appreciate that and consider that a kind gesture. A good handful of these people are not on my personal homepage's friend list, but a majority of them are. So if a stranger wants to add me as a "friend", I usually oblige, after doing a bit of research and letting my spidey senses check things out. Instinct is still handy when looking at a computer screen. We are still conscious after all.

So what has triggered me to write this blog anyway? I'm pissed off. Let me tell you why. There are a lot of other artists and musicians and creative beings out there that are taking advantage of this situation and using Facebook as a catalyst for their own "stardom" without giving their fans a modicum of respect. They have not distinguished between fans and friends, so when a fan becomes a friend on their personal list (because after all, it might help in getting a Juno/Grammy/reward some day) they oblige but do not acknowledge that person. Statistically, things look good because they have "x" amount of "friends" when in actuality they have a group of strangers on their friend list that they will never consider acknowledging and that to me is just downright rude. Oh sure, there will be blanket statements of gratitude, but will they really take the time to communicate with individuals if push comes to shove? Nope. Probably not. Excuses such as being too busy, or on the road, or in the studio come up, and if that's the case, then they should probably consider not using Facebook or other sites such as Twitter as a communication tool for their creative endeavors. They should delete their group, delete their fan page, or have someone with human qualities, such as compassion and respect, at least administrate the site for them. If someone writes on my fan page wall, I am going to make sure to respond to that person. I figure not doing so is the same as being acknowledged at the post office by a stranger with a "good morning" or a tip of a hat and not responding in a similar fashion or not responding at all. That certainly wouldn't be nice now, would it? It's just common courtesy to give a small returning gesture and that's what makes us human. That is where the disconnect happens. Not in the using of Facebook, it's in the ignorant use of Facebook.

Will it change? Will people out there in Facebook land see that creating a fan page is a hugely conscious undertaking that needs to be thoroughly considered before being created? Again, probably not. These people are unfortunately, riding on the coattails of their fans with swelled heads of idolization. They're using the adage, "But I'm giving them my music, or my art. I am sharing with them. I'm sharing my passion with the world" and blah, blah, blah, crappity crap. But that creativity should occur regardless of whether they have the fans on Facebook or not (if they are true to their art form). So it comes down to this…..technology can work to our advantage here. Call these fan page creators on their actions. Start asking them about their art, their music, their style, their drive, their passion. Learn about them, learn from them. And if they're not willing to share, then take advantage of technology and delete them, because ultimately, they really aren't that personable after all. Hang on to the human beings that will tip their hat to you, even if for just a bit. Because you're a human being with your own thoughts, and you deserve that respect.

Cavebabies Were Born in December

2010-03-07T00:59:00.001-06:00

Man, I just came back from a phenomenal house concert; JD Edwards and his charming, and equally talented girlfriend, Jessie Havey (formerly of the Duhks). My head is buzzing with exhaustion and euphoria and I really, truly should be sleeping but I'm caught up in the moment of this month and digging it. March is a great month, so far, and I'm less than a week down the road.

I decided not too long ago, the day after the month of February ended actually, that I from here on in declare that February is obsolete in my life. I've had it with that miserable excuse of a month. In my world, January will now be extended an extra 15 days, running to day 46. Then it will kick in to March, starting at negative 15. Screw February. It's the worse month ever on record of any month there is. It's miserably cold but starting to get muddy, so you never know whether you should wear rubber boots or can get away with sneakers. My dog's fur gets caked with dirt and ice after a walk and then slowly melts mud blobs all over the house, no matter how hard I try to keep her confined until I can give her a good rubdown with yet another good towel. By February, I'm tired of snow, and now I have to deal with mud and snow? No thanks.

And by mid-February I am a moody, brooding soul, at the pinnacle of artistic tension and frustration. It comes with months of being holed up inside, reading, conversing, focusing on my art and writing, being introspective and pensive. It takes its toll after a while. I feel I can't possible exploit one more thought out of my squeeze-dried brain. February makes me mentally tired. Bleck.

But as soon as the last second of February 28th ticked itself into March 1st, the moon blasted itself full and my mind went completely blank. Instant transformation occurred, thoughts were gone and my body completely inundated my grey matter. I have not had a silly thought in my head for a week and it's been fantastic. I think my knuckles have been bleeding from dragging on the ground and I haven't minded, just stocked up on band-aids. Because March is about desire; carnal, guttural, spring desire. And there must be some logical reason for what seems like an instantaneous switch from thought to desire that can be linked right back to our old caveman days (Man, those cavemen have had to take the blame for everything, eh?) I figure it's because the natural mood drug, Vitamin D, AKA sunshine, is absorbing into the bones and resurrecting the body. Most cavebabies were probably born around December. I wonder if the statistics are connected to this banal theory void of any research whatsoever. My brain's hurting from thinking this much. Did I mention that I haven't thought in a week?

And I don't mean to sound like suddenly we become a bunch of heavy breathing sexual heathens devoid of any intellectual capabilities in March but you can't deny this sense of "something's in the air"....people have more pep in their walk, doors are being opened for strangers at the post office, people are wearing brighter clothing, people are wearing less clothing and feeling the air on their exposed skin, windows are rolled down, you can hear the bass music from the truck that drives by making everyone undulate to the rhythm until they get to their desired locations, more eye contact is being made, smiles are being exchanged....collectively, we seem to be erasing the crappity crap (Thanks Jen, for sharing that quote with me) of the winter. That kinda feeling goes way beyond the mind. It seeps deep down into the blood where it pulses. And by the way, there's nothing wrong with being a bunch of heavy breathing sexual heathens devoid of any intellectual capabilities every once in a while.

So I suggest that if you're still stuck in the cavernous hell hole of February still, that you take the time to peel off some layers. Heck, go outside and look up at the night sky and take a deep, deep breath and just smell March and soon enough, you're going to feel it too.

"It hurts to see you leave without the taste of your last touch" JD Edwards "The Rose"

Purple Harley of a Bike

2010-02-17T22:49:00.001-06:00

Ah...biking has been on my mind lately. I think it's this incredibly warm weather, and being able to see just a hint of pavement. When I was a kid, I used to visualize blowdrying the roads dry so that I could pull out my big purple Harley. But I didn't call it my "purple Harley" when I was a kid. I didn't know anyone that had a Harley when I got my bike. Hey, I lived in Pickle Lake at the time and we were a bit sheltered there. It was just "my purple bike" at the time (actually Teresa and I shared it for some time, but eventually it became alllll mine), but in retrospect, it was the Harley of bicycles.

Man, that bike was sweet. Low to the ground, huge banana seat, shiny silver butterfly handle bars, a sweet plastic weaved basket in the front decked out with flowers that looked like quintessential gerbera daisies, a high bar on the back to hang on to or lean against, reflective pedals, and metallic purple paint. It was a beauty and it was my magic.

Having a bike when you're a kid equates to ultimate freedom, escaping your home, your parents, your siblings, your responsibilities. You've got a quarter in your pocket and a Revello on your mind and you have the means to get one without having to ask your mom 'cause you're on your bike and nobody knows where you're going. Freedom on wheels.

And that bike was completely loved for that reason. My dad used to make us put a bread bag on the seat of the bike once we parked it in the yard so that if there was a crack in the vinyl of the seat, the whole seat wouldn't get soaked when it rained, leading to a wet ass for the duration of a whole day. Plus, I think he just wanted us to preserve the seat a bit longer. He always oiled the chain for us every spring and made sure that the bike was in tip top shape. And we used to stick little plastic things on the wheel spokes that looked like straws that slid up and down the spokes when the wheels rotated, making a cool sound that is comparable to nothing else. It was a sound of its own. That bike even had a liscence plate. It had an identity and could be tracked down if need be. And I remember Teresa stuck an OPP sticker on it. The sticker had a picture of a weird little yellow monster with blue spots (does anyone else out there remember those stickers?) and it had the phone number for the OPP on it. I liked that little bit of security; knowing that someone could call the number on my bike if they found it abandoned by a rotten thief. Yeah, I thought that way when I was a kid. Justice would have to be served if someone took my bike.

There were just so many memories connected to the bike....I remember the first time I rode it on my own. Well, kinda on my own. I was probably around 5 or 6 and the seat was big enough to hold my sister and I. I sat in the front, and she sat in the back, keeping her feet well out of the way, helping to hang on to the handle bars and telling me to pedal. Pedal! Pedal! Pedal! I zoomed down the hill towards Pickle Lake's only main street absorbing my first biking experience with the feeling of pure exhiliration. My sister taught me how to ride my bike and soon we were regularly wrestling over who was going to have a chance to ride it next. We doubled a lot.

It was also on the purple Harley, with my sister, that I had my first serious bike injury. This is back in the day when helmets weren't mandatory. Heck, seatbelts weren't even mandatory in those days. Well, in my little world, shoes weren't mandatory either. My sister was doubling me around the neighbourhood when we lived in Thompson. I was probably around 4 years old and as you can imagine, I didn't really listen too well when my sister told me to make sure to stick my feet out. I did what every person fears they are going to do. I stuck my foot in the spoke and darn near sliced off my whole heel of my foot. I do remember screaming really loud. I remember seeing my neighbour stick her head out her door, and I remember seeing my dad come out of the house, and I don't remember anymore from that experience, thankfully. Harley war wounds.

We made plywood ramps and spent hours biking down Spruce Crescent for the quick thrill of air time. I would pick up Melanie or Shannon and we'd stuff our basket with a towel and head to the beach or Mel's cabin for the day, biking home only when the sun was settling in for the night. I can still smell the sun in my skin, and feel the air blowing my hair into impossible knots that my mother would curse to comb out. I would wear my flip flops out skidding the bottoms along the road. I would stand up and sway my whole body back and forth, weaving down the road until I could hear a vehicle sneak up behind me. I'd race my dad home at lunch time, begging him to clock how many miles per hour I was making on the Harley.

And then one day it was just gone. I don't remember how that happened, and I don't remember being traumatized by it either. I was on to the next hand-me-down bike; my sister's three speed. ( I continued to get hand me down bikes until I saved up my own money in high school and bought myself a red speed bike from Sears which came unassembled. My boyfriend put it together for me and it was always a little big crooked, but it got me out to Harry's Corner every day at lunch during the summer so that I could visit him at the gas station.) And I don't necessarily yearn for the bike per se, even though it would certainly be a classic collector's item now, for sure, but I yearn for the sense of innocence and the simplicity of life that those bike rides afforded me.

My students occasionally tease me. They say they saw me whizzing by on my bike down Howey Street. I pawn my coffee off on teachers that I meet at the coffee shop in the morning, begging them to take it to school for me since I'm on my bike. But I've also just burned my legs on the hot coffee that I've stuffed into the water holder as I cruise up the hill to school. I've salvaged a couple of old bicycles that have been either given to me or yanked from the dump and strapped them to my deck of my house like beautiful ornaments, perhaps to my neighbour's dismay. My friend Deanna bought me a shirt for Christmas that says "biker chick" on it which includes an image of a bicycle and I wear it with honour. Call it an addiction, or obsession, but it's not in your typical "I want to be fit and bike for the sake of exercise" kind of addiction....it's all about the connection that bike gives me to my past and to remind me that life doesn't have to be so complex. I can just hop on my bike and erase my worries and just pedal myself into giddy oblivion. It's that easy.

"Get your bike out of the lanes marked 'yesterday' or 'tomorrow' and pop your wheelies in today."

Breakfast at the Lakeview

2010-02-07T10:43:00.009-06:00

My tummy is full after a Sunday morning excursion to the Lakeview with my buddy Fingers and my son Alexander. You can't go wrong with the fare at the Lakeview....everything from fruit filled pancakes that cover the whole plate to their token breakfast specials. If you've been there long enough, you know that if you ask nicely, they'll swap the pan fries with tomatoes, but who goes to a restaurant to eat healthy?! (The great part is that Grace and Pearl, owners of the Lakeview, are very compromising when it comes to their menu, and highly respect their customers.)

I explained my perspective just recently to my dear friend Harriet, who shares in my love for the ambiance of the Lakeview. I said that when I go and have a meal at the Lakeview I don't go there to have a private conversation. I go there to have a meal with the community. It's very common for conversations to be overheard, and for locals to partake in what may be considered a private discussion. Don't go to the Lakeview with a secret, because it won't remain that way for long. We're all in close quarters in those red vinyl booths. Sometimes I can smell my neighbour's breath, which isn't always necessarily good if they ordered the perogies with onions. But you can easily forgive these shortcomings because your breath probably smells like cabbage. Oh, and never, ever go to the Lakeview with a new date, because the regulars will all razz you and tell your potential partner every single embarrassing thing about you....no mercy.

It would be a weird day at the Lakeview if it wasn't being inhabited by Steve or Stan, Hugh, Martin, Rudy, Bob, Jack, John, Kurt, Larry, JB; you know, "the guys" that are still living and breathing because the Lakeview coffee pulses through their blood. That coffee is a damn good reason to wake up every morning.
The Lakeview coffee is completely the reason for my incessant obsession with coffee; plain ol' Lakeview coffee without any special flavouring or dashes of cinnamon. It's just good. Period. And I waitressed at the Lakeview for four summers, so the smell of java permeated into my clothes (along with the odor of grease and cigarette smoke....it was back in the day when everyone had a cigarette with their coffee, including me) leaving a permanent desire for that joe. It's also what kept me going if I made the mistake of partying my tips away the night before and had to stagger to work for a Saturday morning shift a few hours later. There was many a weekend that I got home at 2:30am, showered and turned around and went back to work for 3:30am. I didn't really like serving corn beef hash on those mornings, and my patience spread thin when the tourists asked for "American" cheese and grits. But the coffee kept me going. I was usually close to being completely sober by the time half my shift was over. Those were some pretty wild days....I can't believe I wasn't fired.

And that coffee has created a bit of controversy lately since the owners of the Lakeview decided to change the coffee cups that have been the same style for probably the last 50 years. The plain white coffee cups with the plain white saucers have been replaced with newer, larger, colourful mugs that don't need a saucer. This is efficient for a number of reasons; less space in the dishwasher due to the missing saucer, less time wasted on refills, and more coffee to drink for a reasonable price. But that's about it. I am of the old school mentality that the old way was the good way. Actually, I think just me and Hugh are probably the only ones that think this.....there's something to be said for tradition. And really, the old cup and saucer were just more aesthetically pleasing. And I could carry six cups of coffee at once because of those saucers. Now they use trays. Phhhst.....trays. And there was a nice place to hold the spoon. And the little bit of spilled coffee was caught in the saucer. Fortunately, I have one of those cups in my home so I can reminisce about them. I never use it.

I guess that it plays with the whole idea of evolution. If they change the mugs, what next? Will they get rid of the mirrored wall? What about the wooden paneling or the big "L" that screens the coffee shop side as you walk in? The horse shoe table is missing it's stools.....is that going the way of the dodo as well? I posted a photo of the Lakeview in a section on my Facebook sight, and a former resident said that nothing had changed. That's exactly right, and as it should be. Some things are just good the way they are.

And another reason I probably am not really into the whole idea of change is because going to the Lakeview constantly reminds me of when I was a kid, especially when I bring my son with me. When my dad is already there at the restaurant, and we walk in, he has such a great smile on his face. Alexander shyly goes over to him and gives him a great big hug, before he joins me again. (Today when Alexander looked at the menu my dad said, "Why are you even bothering looking at the menu when you know you're going to have the blueberry pancakes?" Everyone knows that Alexander always has the blueberry pancakes.) When I was a kid, living in Ignace, my dad would drag me along to the Husky, where he would drink his coffee with the Italian clan and play rounds and rounds of cribbage. I would snuggle in to his side with my apple juice and count his cards for him, 15-2, 15-4....and I was the one that always moved the crib peg for him. I was asked for my opinion on what cards he should keep. I was made to feel important, like I was needed in order for my dad to have a successful crib game. Who would have thought all of that love could happen over a game of crib at a grungy old gas station with a cup of coffee? Well it did. And I can assure you that it happens time and time again, at old restaurants that are just left the way they've always been.

And that's just breakfast. Wait until you have Mrs. Siemaszko's borscht on Fridays. Yet another reason to love the Lakeview, but you'll just have to go there yourself to find out.

I'll leave you with "One More Cup of Coffee" originally done by Bob Dylan, remade by The White Stripes.

Conscious Precycling (Yes... I Spelled it Right)

2010-01-27T22:42:00.014-06:00

Ok, I try to keep up with the times, but really, in all honestly, I'm just going through the motions, pretending, because I don't actually keep up with the times at all. I don't watch the news. Heck, I don't watch television. And when I read the local paper, I just end up writing letters to the editor so I try to minimize my exposure there too. So when the term "precycle" whizzed past my ears, they perked up. Precycle. What an ingenious word and concept. So, I went and Googled it, because isn't that what today's modern thinker does? We are Googlers with a capital G. And lo and behold, the concept of "precycling" has been around for years.

Well, not in our town. We're just talking about getting a RECYCLING program back in the community. Oh wait, let me rephrase that....the municipality is talking about getting a recycling program back in the community. There in lies a huge difference because we have a dedicated, albeit small group of people that are responsible for ensuring that there are at least some recycling options available in our communities. I am absolutely thankful for that and for their efforts and I totally take advantage of those options.

When I designed my home, I wanted to install recycle bins into my kitchen cabinetry. I felt that it would put me in a position of ensuring that I dedicated myself to recycling, and I have. I recycled before I built my house; it was just an uglier process that included exposed cardboard boxes in my garage. This new system has three big bins that spin on a caddy behind a corner cabinet; beautiful if I do say so myself. I had to special order those bins and it was worth it. I'm sure my builders thought I was coo-coo (Well, more coo-coo then they already thought...haha). Why on Earth would you waste kitchen cupboard space like that when each floor is only 650 square feet?! I was pretty adamant.

But in the back of my mind, I think to myself, if I'm recycling, and my neighbour is recycling, and people that live in communities that actually have a functioning municipal program are recycling, haven't we brought back enough tin and glass, and aluminum that we should never ever have to extract resources to make a new glass jar or aluminum can again? Why does more continue to be made, instead of just reusing what we've already used? People are obviously throwing away more than is being recycled, (still), so more resources continue to be extracted from our earth to make a convenient container for the non-recycler to drink out of and throw away again. Great. These people are definitely not precycling.

So then I started thinking about how much precycling actually goes on in my world, and I have to say that I've valiantly made a good start. Is it bragging to say that I may be ahead of the times? Precycling is based on the concept of making the decision before purchase and/or consumption as to whether that object really needs to be bought and/or consumed at all in the first place. It's conscious consumerism of weighing the pros and cons based on the environment and also based on actual need.

I'd like to brag and say that my choices are based on a conscious choice to save the world, but really it initially began because I was a starving artist/university student and had ingenuity. I wanted to make my measly income stretch as far as I could. And I was usually thinking about beer and how to get beer cheap. If I spent my money foolishly on gadgets and stuff, then I can't get a beer. Wait. I'll wash my clothes in my bathtub, cut my own hair and borrow my friend's jeans and live in them all year. Yup. I wore basically one pair of jeans all year, and then those quarters that would have gone down the wash, ended up going down the drain a different way instead. Beer consumption. It created a mind set. I realized early on that I could live a pretty decent life with a minimal amount and be just as happy, if not more happy, then I would be with money. And I was not surrounded by stuff. It was clarifying (and I was precycling).

Yet imagine that you didn't need to consider factors such as time or money in your life. Heck, while you're at it, imagine that you're a really buff movie star with all of the conveniences of the world laid out before you, including a personal chef, a nanny, a house keeper, an accountant...the whole bamboozle (no thanks, not for me, but let's play this game anyway). Ok, so we're some famous person who decides to go shopping. If that person doesn't need to consider the concept of making a quick, filling, and relatively cheap meal for their family before they head off to their night shift at work, they may consider buying healthier foods because they don't have to worry about having to find the time to chop vegetables. Who has the time to chop vegetables when you have to run out the door? People that have the option of hiring others don't have that concern. That's why they're all skinny and beautiful. *sigh* (Well, that and they're made out of plastic, but that's another blog.) But in reality, sometimes we compromise our health and our money and our time for quick, convenient choices. It seems that today, most choices are made this way. A lot of people don't have the time to even consider precycling.

Look at grocery store products. If you go to the produce section, not only can you buy an apple, but you can pick your choice of at least 5 different types of apples. But that apple does not have to be in its original form. If it's more convenient, you can buy that apple as apple leather, wrapped up in a little aluminum plasticy thingy. Or you can get the dehydrated apple rings that come in a convenient plastic resealable container. Or you can buy the individual, portion sized apple sauces that fit nicely into lunch bags. Or you can buy canned apple slices that already are coated in seasoning (and preservatives) so that you can make a "homemade" pie. And after consumption of that apple "product", you are left with a container that may or may not be recycled. You can get apple bits mixed with other fruit bits or dairy or crunchy things and this is put into plastic tubes with fun pop up lids, or that roll out or even ooze or spray. All of those products could have been made with that very same fresh apple that doesn't come in a package if someone just took the time and effort to chop it, or mash it, or dehydrate it. Heck, I wish I had that option. I've got a jar of apple sauce sitting in my cupboard. I'm not a saint. But at least it's a glass jar and I will recycle that jar. But if I was that movie star with more time on my hands, I'd be mashing those apples myself (or hiring some cute naked cowboy with an apron) and throwing the core in my composter. (Right now my dog is my composter. She eats apple cores like nobody's business! And she drools over brocolli stems and orange slices. My dog is a vegetarian.)

So obviously now I'm not washing my clothes in my bathtub (but I still cut my own hair most of the time). I can afford to live a bit more luxuriously and I can afford a beer here and there without having to wait for quarter draft night. So what do I do now as a conscious precycler?

Both Alexander and I pack our lunches in glass containers as much as possible. And my sister bought my son this really cool sandwich wrapper thingy that is washable, so I don't have to worry about wax paper or plastic wrap. If I knew how to sew well enough, I would make one for everyone I know, because they're just smart. Plastic wrap is the devil. We don't even own the stuff and really, it is not needed. It really isn't. When my dad wraps something in plastic wrap for me, I have to dedicate about a half an hour just to get the mummified food out of it. I buy a roll of it once a year for my art class when we do a watercolour unit because you can create a really cool effect with the plastic wrap. And I wash baggies and use them over and over again. But I try to avoid using them at all. I try to buy big ticket items second hand, such as my winter coats. They can cost anywhere from two to three hundred dollars if bought brand new!!! But my philosophy is that old men die and leave good coats, so I shop in the men's section at Value Village and other second hand stores for coats, and I've never been disappointed. This year I got a beautiful full length coat made out of llama and alpaca wool for $15.00! I affectionately call the coat "Tina" (after the Napolean Dynamite movie....if you've seen it you'll know what I mean.)

When I want to be frivolous and buy something for my house, I first see if it's available at a second hand store; especially picture frames. I'm in the process of painting a bunch of second hand picture frames white so that I can line my hallways with a variety of different art pieces and photographs I've created or collected. I buy furniture at garage sales and clean it and paint it. I have a funky purple vinyl chair that I got at a garage sale for $5 bucks! I've seen the exact same chair in modern furniture stores for hundreds of dollars.

And I know I keep on talking about money when I talk about precycling, but it is a huge factor in this concept. Look at it this way.....if I buy this product brand new, it will have to be transported to my little boonie town at the end of a two hour drive highway. That's gas consumption, pollution, shipping costs, and extra packaging. Did I really need that product that badly? Is my life going to be over if I don't have exact matching picture frames from IKEA? No, probably not.

And you know, I'm just as gullible as the next person. I like pretty packaging, and fancy looking labels. I'm an artist for crying out loud. I totally love that kind of stuff. But more and more I find myself looking at the product and wondering whether I need it that much just because its container looks all fancy schmancy. Artists are persuasive geniuses and know all of the tricks of the trade for visually manipulating you into buying crap you don't need. Standing in the hair product aisle is mesmerizing and overwhelming. My eyes go all freaky if I stand there for too long.

Hey, remember the day when occasionally mom would come home from the grocery store with a bag of cookies? Did you ever have "Dad's" cookies growing up? Remember how you would open up the bag that was made out of waxy paper, and there would be an accordion style piece of corrugated cardboard inside that separated the rows of cookies, and one of the most fun parts of getting the cookies was pulling that cardboard out? And then all of the cookies got put into the cookie jar and we carefully plotted our conquering of those said cookies, slowly, methodically. In the meantime, I snuck away with the zig zagged cardboard and turned it into some kind of craft. Have you opened up a box of cookies lately? It's plastic upon plastic upon plastic. Holy paranoid. Who complained enough about freshness for us to get to this point? If you want something to be fresh, go and get the ingredients and make those cookies yourself! That'll be fresh! And that'll be precycling.

And I love that people are really starting to get inventive with re-using packaging in creative ways. Susan at Junk n' Java makes really cool bags out of used coffee bags and vegetable bags. They're durable and easy to clean and hold a lot of stuff. My colleague at school made me a change purse out of ironed plastic bags that she cut, painted and sewed. I use reclaimed papers in my artwork all of the time. I have hired a woman to crochet a shopping bag for me out of all of the plastic bags I gave her. I make really cool camera bag/sunglass cases for my friends out of neck ties. I've seen purses made out of old jeans. It's nice to see, but in all reality, I think all of these crafts are made out of desperation. Many of us just can't possibly bare to put another piece of plastic in the landfill so we're making choices and changes and crafts.

Ask yourself these questions in all consciousness before you buy anything; absolutely anything:

1. If I buy this product, is there a "purer" form of it that is not over-processed?
2. If I buy this product, how long do I expect it to last in my home? Is it durable enough to last even a year?
3. If I decide I don't want this product anymore, where will it end up?
4. If I buy this product, and it won't end up in the recycle bin, how can I ensure that it doesn't end up in the landfill? Can I transform it into anything else?
5. What can I buy in bulk so that I'm not buying individually wrapped items?
6. Is it possible to buy this product second hand instead of buying it brand new?

Precycling is a big word. It entails preservation, preconceiving, and preparing. Those are words that take effort and conscious thought and I think we are getting well past the point of just considering those options, in all reality. How long can we deny truth and live in oblivion where if we don't precycle and recycle, someone else will. It doesn't work that way. It's not balancing out. And we can't all have naked cowboys chopping vegetables in our kitchen, but at least we can imagine that we do when we buy unpackaged, pure products that haven't been mummified in plastic. There's a reality that is manageable and available to everyone.

(Hey, are you thinking about that naked cowboy right now too?*grin*)

Love is in the Air...

2010-01-26T21:33:00.009-06:00

....or so it would seem when I walked in to the pharmacy yesterday and was bombarded with Valentine-commercialism this and lovey-dovey that. Oh yeah, I thought....Valentine's day is coming up. It's easy to forget when you're single and just trudging through winter. Ironically, Valentine's day always reminds me of being sick, because when I was a little girl, I was always drastically ill on Valentine's day and usually didn't make it to school for the great card exchange. Instead, I was at home hacking up a lung (I was always allowed to be in my parent's bed when I was sick, surrounded by Archie comic books), visualizing that moment when the guy I had the brutal crush on went and put the card into my envelope, delicately decorated with paper lace hearts, wishing that I was there so that he could tell me how deeply his love for me travels. *sigh* And that of course is never how it went when I got back to school a few days later. Usually my Valentines were either stuffed in my desk or my older sister was ordered to bring them home, much to her chagrin. And the guy that I had a crush on usually gave me a good sock on the shoulder and called me a name like "fruit cake" and asked if I wanted to play soccer. That was as good as it got in the romantic department when I was a kid, but I didn't mind. I was a tomboy and brutally shy....yes, I was brutally shy (I still am) and a sock on the shoulder was better than nothing. And there in lay the beginnings of my introspective analysis of the male breed and this interesting mating game that continues to confuse and mesmerize and down right baffle me at times.
I have learned to laugh at my experiences with love and have yet to give up on the prospects of what love holds for me. But in the mean time, I'll leave you with some interesting things (some may consider them rules?) I have learned about love and dating and the mating game and all that stuff we like to reflect on, every year, smack dab in the dead of winter when we're freezing our asses off. (Who decided on February 14th anyway? It's got to be one of the most depressing times of year! Everyone's feeling all fat and lazy and hairy, and far from sexy and romantic. I vote that Valentine's day should be in July, when everyone's basking in the glow of the sun.) Until that day happens, here's my advice:

1. Don't date the guy that smells like bologna and still lives with his parents.

2. Don't date the guy that agrees with absolutely everything you say and do. You will eventually tire of the flattery and wonder if he has a single thought of his own in his pretty little head.

3. Date the guy that likes going to folk festivals. He's open minded and probably cute too.

4. Don't date the guy that says his body is just a "sack of skin" carrying his energy and it's almost ridiculous that he needs to carry it around when really that energy can just transport anywhere it wants to. You will spend time wondering and worrying whether he will chose to leave his sack of skin behind at any given time.

5. Have sex in a horse shoe pit at least once in your life just so you can say you did.

6. You might want to reconsider dating the guy that says, "How are you about nose picking?" Don't take it as a sign that he's comfortable with you. He's going to pick his nose in front of you whether you're comfortable with it or not, and the crappy part is that he'll probably do so while driving YOUR vehicle and now you'll have to worry where the product of his nose picking ended up.

7. Don't go out with the guy that is afraid to tell his parents who you are, regardless of your age.

8. If you have children, don't introduce your boyfriend to them for a long amount of time. They could become more attached to him than you are. The boyfriend should not be a replacement for their father. Their father is their father.

9. If a man insults your home decor, kick him out immediately. Your home is a reflection of your personality and it won't be long before he's insulting you.

10. Date the guy that likes his dad, and has a healthy relationship with his dad.

11. Don't date the guy that prides himself on going 19 days without cleaning himself. You'll eventually be subjected to that and it won't look or smell nice.

12. Have sex on the golf course at least once in your life just to say you have.

13. Do not sleep with a man that is engaged or married. He will not leave you for his fiance or wife. If anything, he'll go back to his fiance/wife more determined that he picked the right one. He loves her, not you.

14. It's not cool if a guy hitchhikes for 5 hours to visit you, especially if you had no idea he'd show up at your door. It's creepy.

15. It is even creepier if same said hitchhiker guy pulls out a black balaclava and asks if you want to see him wear that later. Try to avoid dating guys like that, unless you're in to balaclavas.

16. Guys that like to taxidermy birds may make you feel like you're in a perpetual Hitchcock movie.

17. Date the guy that compliments you verbally. Don't be happy with "just knowing he does...". You deserve to hear it, just as you would say it to him.

18. Wait until he's through his "religious phase" because ultimately you'll be competing with God, and that's hard to do.

19. Guys with ham radios are hard to understand so brush up on your knowledge of Morse code and antennas if you're going to date a ham radio guy. Pick up a book on sound waves too.

20. Date the guy that tells his mom openly that he loves her without embarrassment.

21. If he's non-communicative at the beginning of your relationship, he'll be rendered a mute by the end of your relationship. You won't be able to get him to speak or open up to you. Go find someone that will speak instead.

22. Men that cry at the sight of rainbows may be just a little bit too sensitive.

23. Date the guy that doesn't care if you ate garlic the day before and it's permeating out of every single pore in your body.

24. Date the guy that likes to read in bed.

25. It's ok to be picky. Don't pick the guy you "kinda like" or "will grow to like"...date the guy you really, really like. Be true to yourself and trust your instinct.

Well, it seems to me that I could probably continue with this one, but now I'll put it into your hands. What's the best advice you've ever given yourself regarding that big old intense word we call love? And by the way, Happy Valentine's Day, eh?

Meat Matters

2010-01-17T18:12:00.012-06:00

I am embarrassed by my naivety. What I’m about to discuss may be obvious to you, but I’ve been ridiculously blindsided by the wealth of information that I’ve recently been reading and researching. To be honest, I don’t even really know completely what to do with this knowledge because I’m so overwhelmed by it all, and feel that my perspective on practically everything in the world has been altered, and not in such a good way. So bare with me as I bumble along here, trying to make sense of what I have learned. Also note that what I’m about to share is completely my perspective and in no way is a judgment of you and what you choose to do in your life. I’m simply in a stage of self-enlightenment.

This started late last year, when my friend called me up and said, “You should see the guy that is on Ellen. He’s talking about meat. He wrote some kind of book about meat.” That piqued my interest. People that know me know that I’ve been sitting on the vegetarian fence for some time now. God damn it, I love vegetables and I’m not going to be ashamed to show it! (Even though I actually get teased about eating vegetables, especially if it’s tofu, which I’ll always think is kind of weird. It’s like teasing someone for wearing glasses. I’ve never understood that one either.) So, I got the book. And I waited until after Christmas to read it because I knew that I would be eating meat at Christmas and I wanted to continue to be ignorant of the truth one last time.

Then I read the book. It’s called, “Eating Animals” by Jonathan Safran Foer.

I have this habit of folding the bottom corner of pages in books when there’s something poignant that has piqued my interest, and then I go back to it and re-read that information and absorb it again. Well, about twenty pages in, I noticed that I had folded every bottom corner and I was in a conundrum because if I fold the corner on page 21 then I won’t know that there was something stimulating to go back to on page 22. So, I started highlighting information instead. Then after I read the whole book (which actually kept me up at night a couple of times) I started writing down those highlighted points in a word document. Wouldn’t you know it, I ended up extracting information from practically every page about things I didn’t know; I had no idea what was occurring in our world. (Refer to my blog called “Happy Facebook Bubble World” written in October of 2009.)

Ok, so then I sorted through the information I documented and decided to make topic headings so that I could begin to put this information into organized sections. These were the topics that I ended up coming up with: pollution, “designer” foods, cruelty/suffering, sanctuaries, cognitive abilities, “Big Daddy” companies, kosher?, human rights, efficiency, change/growth, health, employment, disease, pharmacy, memories, vegetarians, vegans, pasture farming, ecosystems, reality, evolution, manipulation. Holy shit. How am I going to turn this into a nice little bloggy something or another for everyone to sink their teeth into and get my thoughts across to not only myself but my readers? I’m at a total loss so I’ll just babble and highly recommend that you read the book for yourself.

Ok so, first of all, I just keep on thinking, “Geeze, I don’t want people to think that I’m trying to convert them to being a vegetarian,” because ultimately, I’M not a vegetarian and I hate being preached to about anything, even if it’s something I believe in. It’s definitely the anarchist in me that just likes to rebel from everything. I think that we as humans just hate being told that we’re doing something wrong, even if we know it’s wrong. I can connect this to my years as a smoker. There was a lot of fear connected to the prospect of quitting because I really liked smoking. I liked feeling like I was a part of a club in a way that had great conversations while we stood outside together, and when we walked back in to the non-smoking space, it was like we knew something more than everyone else. Kinda ironic, isn’t it? And there was a lot of fear with the idea of quitting smoking, and ultimately it’s easy to make every excuse in the book. The brain is powerfully manipulative, especially to oneself. I played some crazy tricks on my own mind to convince myself that it was ok to have just one or two cigarettes here and there. I met someone not too long ago that justified his smoking by saying it was his way of screwing over the government. Wow. His mind certainly went through a labyrinth to get to that point.
But this is about eating meat, not smoking. So the next thing I started thinking about was my memories with meat. (Get your mind out of the gutter, where I know it is right now. Oh, maybe that’s just me. Haha) I started thinking about how growing up in my home, we always had some kind of dead animal hanging in our garage with its tongue hanging out and blood dripping into a bucket. I thought about the humongous, delicious hamburgers that my dad makes every year on the barbecue for Mother’s day, stating that they’re “better than McDonalds by a long shot” (and they are). I think about sitting at the dinner table as a kid, passing my pork chop bone to my dad so he can suck the marrow out of it. I think of the summer sausage that used to hang over the kitchen sink so that it would dry and the fats would slowly drain out of it, and we’d have to ask to cut a slab off. It was a genuine treat. We’re Polish/Ukrainian, so meat was always a BIG DEAL in our home. But the farm meat that my dad and mom grew up with versus the farm meat I’ve grown up with are two completely different things. Absolutely 100% different and that’s petrifying.

Go ahead and find a kid that you know, or even one that you don't know, and ask them to draw a picture of a farm. Ask them specifically to draw a picture of where chickens, pigs and cows live and I bet you they’ll draw a picture of a barn and a silo and pigs rolling in mud, and cows in a pasture, when in reality these animals are just extensions of machinery and do not have access to the outdoor world at all. We live in a world of factory farming and until a couple of months ago, I was pretty damn oblivious to what the hell that actually really meant and what that means to me as a consumer.

This is what that means:

*99% of all meat is “created” in a factory farm.

*More than 250 million male “layer” chicks are killed each year, live, wood-chipper style. What do you think happens to that “meat” once it’s ground up? What is chicken meal?

*Many cows die slow painful deaths on factory floors simply because they haven’t been given water. They’re called “downers”. They’re tossed, live, into dumpsters.

*After a layer chicken has been forced to lay eggs over the course of one year, (they are unnaturally pushed to produce 300 eggs which is 2/3 more than their normal amount) they are killed because it’s more economically efficient to kill them and start again then it is to have chickens producing less eggs the second year. Chickens can normally live around 20 years.

*“Free range” chickens are 30 000 chickens on a factory floor with a small door at one end that opens to a 5x5 foot dirt patch. Do you think the chickens have come up with a rotational system so that all 30 000 of them have an opportunity to get some “fresh air”? (Also, the similar terminology of “cage free” or “free run” that you will find on egg cartons also applies to this concept.)

*KFC should never be consumed under any circumstances.

*A kosher slaughterhouse is as rare as a virginal bride.

*Chickens, turkeys and pigs are genetically designed to grow fast. They cannot bear their own weight and end up disabled by their own body.

*Many chickens are smarter than people but their sense of pain is not considered by most.

*If you cut a dog or cats throat open and ripped their trachea and esophagi out while they’re alive, you’d go to jail for a long, long time. But not if it’s a cow.

*Grab a ruler and measure out a rectangle that is 7 x 8.5 inches. That is the size of the cage a chicken lives its life in. Cage free birds also have about that much space because there are so many of them on the factory floor, so “cage free” is just as cruel.

*Most factory farmers calculate how close they can keep their animals to death without actually killing them to save on water and food.

*Upward of 95% of chickens become infected with E coli.

*Chlorine baths are commonly used to remove slime, odor and bacteria from meat.

*Chicken meat is soaked in a big bath, along with their feces, pus, and harmful bacteria. This makes the chicken you eat “plumper” looking. Sounds tasty, doesn’t it? They can call this “brine” to give you the impression that they were nice enough to marinate the meat for you. Mmmmm.

*While Americans ingest approximately 3 million pounds of antibiotics each year, factory farmed animals ingest approximately 17 million pounds of antibiotics. The factory farm industry is in alliance with the pharmaceutical industry which doesn’t give the public health professionals a lot of support. Go figure.

*Scientists at Columbia and Princeton Universities have actually been able to trace six of the eight genetic segments of the most feared viruses in the world directly to US factory farms.

*Vegetarians and vegans meet and exceed requirements for protein.

*Animal protein intake is linked to osteoporosis, kidney disease, calcium stones and cancers.

*Nearly one third of the land surface of the planet is dedicated to livestock, mainly in the form of factory farms.

*Real farmers do not work on factory farms. Use of the term "farm" is hypocritical.

*In the states, animal manure is not put through treatment plants, and large lagoons are created to hold acrid animal manure. People have actually died in them. Pigs have been inhumanely forced to run in to them and die.

*Alexander and I did some math based on a pig plant in Brandon, Manitoba. They get 75 000 pigs going through their plant in one week. In our community of 5000 people, that would mean getting 15 pigs each per week, resulting in 780 pigs per person per year. That is one plant, and one town. Who is eating all this meat? A family of four can live off the meat of a moose for a whole winter.

*Factory farm animals (cows, pigs, turkeys, chickens, even if babies or pregnant) are repeatedly abused the following ways: bludgeoned with wrenches and rakes, poles rammed into rectums and vaginas, slammed onto concrete floors until their eyes pop out, cigarette butts put out on their bodies, strangled, thrown into manure piles to drown, electrically prodded in the eyes, ears, anus, mouth, beaks ripped off, stomped on, spit on, body parts such as the ears and nose sliced off while alive, urinated on…..does that help in making the food tastier, I wonder?

I know what you’re probably thinking right now. Stop already! Stop giving me the gory details!!!! Yet again, our mind does not want us to know this information because it’s easier to eat McDonalds or canned meat or a reuban sandwich if we have no idea what actually happened in the process of creating that meat. We are so separated from the food that we consume that we don’t even think about the prospects of whether it was an animal or not, let alone how it was treated or raised (and I use the term “raised” loosely). We just don’t see “whole foods” anymore in the grocery store. A friend of mine said, “You’ll know if you’ve got a good chicken because it will be packaged with its feet still attached.” I can’t say that I’ve EVER seen a chicken in a grocery store with its feet attached, but I bet there would be an outcry in our community if that happened. They would be grossed out. People buy food in fancy boxes with bold labels that tell them how much fat and protein they’re ingesting. I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but the freezer section in grocery stores seems to be getting bigger and bigger, expanding on the amount of processed foods there are so that we forget that there is a chunk of animal in that box. Meat is being mulched and pressed into cute shapes and covered with sauces and breading and given exotic names. Would you buy something called “Pig Meat in a Box”? People get grossed out when I ask if they've ever accidentally "crunched" on something in a chicken burger or chicken fingers, and then tell them that the bones and feet of the chicken are also ground up with the chicken meat when those "burgers" are created. They should be grossed out. They wouldn't eat it if it was called "Breaded Ground up Chicken Feet and Bones and Rotten Meat Patties".

I remember when I was in New York last summer with my friend we were hard pressed to find a decent grocery store and when we did, we found that the prices of everything were astronomical. Nobody in New York cooks at home. Everyone eats in amazing restaurants and not so amazing street vendors. It’s actually more economical to do so and the factory farm owner thinks that‘s awesome. As long as people are not handling meat, and seeing blood, and touching real flesh, they won’t have to concern themselves with what actually happens in the process of getting that meat to the table.

And then I was reminded of my time in Luxembourg, in 1999. We had stopped in a quaint little town, and I remember being shocked by a display in the butcher shop’s window. It was a display of a Mamma pig and her piglets, taxidermied, of course. I remember commenting on how disgusting that was, to actually see what you’re going to eat before you buy it! That’s about as ridiculous as thinking it’s gross to see a cantaloupe or a bag of potatoes. My, how my perspective has changed. The Europeans don’t have any secret diet. They simply know what they’re eating.
And still after all this contemplation; I STILL played mind games with myself. I said to myself, “Well, this is just happening in America! This isn’t happening in Canada.” So again, I did my research, and it is ultimately the same, and most meat factories and food processing plants in Canada are run by “Big Daddy” companies outside of our country. The lines get blurred between what happens in Canada and what happens in the states. There’s even a Canadian form of the PETA (People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals) called CETFA which stands for Canadians for the Ethical Treatment of Food Animals. And when you start reading on their site, you see that it’s all the same everywhere, which is not good. That research took me to other sites and other sites, and I became more and more skeptical and ultimately had to make some choices and that is why I have chosen to not eat any factory farmed meat again.

Now, this really limits my choices in some ways if I want to eat something out of a can, because meat is thrown into a lot of things, like Habitant split pea soup and Libby’s pork and beans. I borrowed a can of Chef Boyardee from a friend because I was curious to see what they say about the meat products on their labeling. It says that it is “prepared for ConAgra Foods” This company is responsible for a high percentage of all canned foods. The company touts itself as “foods you’ll love”. Check out their website, and then do a google search with their name and add the word “fine” to it, and you’ll get a different story about their “food” (Yes, I am purposely putting the word “food” in quotations.) I’m more than willing to give that up for wholesome, fresh foods that come as close to the original source as possible.

And that can still include eating meat because on a positive note, it has made me realize in my research that there seems to be a revolution going on as well. As people are seeing the truth of meat, they too are making changes. Canada has a lot of “grass roots” farmers that are interested in the humane treatment and slaughter of animals, and the care of our land. These are the people I want to talk to and learn more from, and buy products from. And they’re not far away from where I live either, so I can actually make that trip down the road and make that choice instead of having a big company that hides their (half dead) animals behind big locked steel doors make that choice for me.

It also made me really proud of the people in my community that hunt. That may sound like a paradox to you, but I have never heard a story of a hunter in the area beating a moose to death with a shovel, or slicing off its nose alive or urinating on it as it slowly takes its last breath. Animals that are killed in our community are given the respect they deserve and completely appreciated. I know one woman that uses absolutely every single part of that moose that she kills, including the bones, which she turns into beautiful jewelery. These hunters have my respect. They are given a lot of flack by “city slickers” who think our practices are cruel. The irony is that they’ll go to a restaurant and order veal or foie gras while having the discussion about their barbaric neighbours to the north. Hmmmm…….

It’s kind of amazing actually how far we’ve come. We don’t allow PCB’s to be used anymore. We refuse to use CFC’s because of what they’ve done to the environment. Most of us recycle what we can. Composting is becoming a common household practice in many homes (What? You’re not composting yet?). Many of us refuse to buy products that have first been injected into the eyes of lab bunnies. And the only way this has come about is by someone that has been bold enough to expose the truth. A lot of the information that Mr. Foer received for his book was shared by people from the factory farm industry itself that couldn’t keep their mouths closed about what occurs on factory farms. Exposure is what creates truth, and I’m feeling enlightened.

If after reading this, your mind continues to play tricks on you about the reality of these facts, perhaps you’ll have the ability to watch “Meet Your Meet”. I’ll provide that link along with some other interesting cites at the end of this article.

Now, where’s that tofu recipe……..

The Canadian Ethical Treatment of Food Animals

Jonathan Safran Foer's link to his book "Eating Animals"

Canadian Vegan online shopping

"Meet Your Meat"

Niman Ranch

Polyfarming

*Most of the information extracted for this blog is from "Eating Animals" by Jonathan Safran Foer.

**I am including a map of the Dryden area that a friend just passed on to me. These are local organic farmers that have humane and healthy practices. Something to think about at least, if you happen to be in the neighbourhood. There are choices out there. Hooray!

Spring Wind

2010-01-11T19:09:00.000-06:00

A seed catalog came in the mail today, reminding me to put my order in so that I can start my veggie seedlings in my kitchen this March. The air was incredibly warm outside this afternoon, which is typical because I've been living without heat in my classroom for a month in -40 weather. I've been more-than-normally attracted to green recently (I can be seen longingly hovering around the broccoli and spinach in the produce section) and have been desperately yearning to see a patch of fresh new grass. I shoveled down to some for myself the other day just as a reminder that yes, this white coat will eventually melt away. Then this song randomly popped up on my computer, and it solidified that I definitely have Spring fever, three months too soon.

Spring Wind by Greg Brown

I lived awhile without you,
darn near half my life.
I no longer see our unborn children,
born to you my unwed wife.
But yesterday I had a vision,
beneath the tree where we once talked,
of an old couple burning
their love letters so their children
won't be shocked.

Love calls like the wild birds--
it's another day.
A Spring wind blew my list of
things to do...away.

My friends are gettin older,
so I guess I must be too.
Without their loving kindness,
I don't know what I'd do.
Oh the wine bottle's half empty--
the money's all spent.
And we're a cross between our parents
and hippies in a tent.

In a mucked up lovely river,
I cast my little fly.
I look at that river and smell it
and it makes me wanna cry.
Oh to clean our dirty planet,
now there's a noble wish,
and I'm puttin my shoulder to the wheel
'cause I wanna catch some fish.

Children go to sleep now--
you know it's gettin' late.
I know you don't like to miss nothin'
and school ain't that great.
Oh, I'll dance with you when you're happy,
and hold you when you're sad,
and hope you know how glad I am,
just to be you're Dad.

Darlin' it's been a hard go
but I think we'll be okay.
I know I say that all the time
like everything else I say.
Oh, I've been gone so often,
but every time I miss you,
and I don't really know nothin',
Except I like to kiss you.

See you in the Spring, Spring.

Click here to hear Greg Brown's Spring Wind

Scat scoot Skeedum Doo

2010-01-02T23:43:00.000-06:00

I did an interesting experiment the other day as I was sitting in my studio creating some art. (It's so nice to be back in the studio after a good two month hiatus as I dealt with some drastic carpal tunnel issues). Well, as you may have seen in previous blogs, I am keeping an on-going documentation of right brained flub-ups that occur when I blurt out the words to songs while deep in a creative zen. I find it fascinating how the words are floating in my mind, getting mixed up with the imagery that is being trancended through my finger tips and erupts ludicrously from my mouth. As in the past, I once again apologize to any musicians that I may have offended. (You can see that blog, by the way, if you go to my archives...I wrote it last September.)

But on this day, CBC had a radio documentary on about jazz, and you can't talk about jazz without talking about scat singing. Now, I highly recommend that if you are in the least interested in doing a google search of scatting, that you ensure that your filters are set at the highest restrictions and I beg that you include the word "singing" in the phrase or you will be as disgusted as I was. The world is an incredibly deplorable disturbing place....but I digress.

According to Wikipedia, (thank goodness for Wikipedia) scat singing is vocal improvization with nonsense syllables with random vocables. I don't know about you, but when I think about jazz, just off the top of my head, I think of scat singing; bopdee-boops and the like. So, I decided to do a bit of a reverse of my usual song documentation experiment and instead, consciously tried to write down everything that the woman that happened to be scat singing at the time said. This is what I was able to get before I gave up:

Skitty-yo-ee-yo-yo-yo
Sumba-yah-yoy-oy
I-yooooo-pow-bow
Yeah-idi-oooooooo
A-yoy!

I shook my head, giggled and turned back to my art work, listening to the radio documentary and not giving it another thought.

Then today, I was driving down the road with my dog by my side. I just bought a new jacket at Value Village about a month ago and the fur is made out of llama and alpaca wool. My dog likes to sniff one specific spot on the sleeve of the jacket and I like to joke that she is sniffing the llama. Then I just started chanting to her and no one in particular:

Sniffin' the llama, sniffin' the llama, llama jacket, sandy's sniffinthellama, sniffinllama, lllllaaaaammmma, llama, llama, llllaaaaama.........

I was off on a monestary like tantric chant. I was scat singing about my llama jacket and it was fun. I then realized just how often I actually do scat sing, and I bet you do too. It's fun to just play around with words in our mouth and let them slip around in there and come out with unintended meaning, or absolutely no meaning at all. And it's very entertaining to do this "game" with kids, entertaining the idea of rhyming words and coming up with nonsensical, rhythmic gibberish. Hey, I'm no Ella Fitzgerald, and I certainly don't mean to deteriorate the fine art that is associated with scat singing. I'm the first to get offended when someone looks at an Abstract or Minimalist painting and say, "I could have done that" because ultimately, it comes down to appreciation.

I guess I just appreciate words. Wordery, birdery, doo bee, woo bee, woo bah, boo. Words.

Hoots the Owl on Sesame Street Teaches Scat Singing

Holiday Antics

2009-12-24T14:09:00.000-06:00

I am purposely titling this specific blog "Holiday Antics" because of an unkind (yet poignant and thought provoking) gesture that was posted on my Facebook account a couple of days ago. Let me explain....I am a document-er. I like to record my world visually and the holiday season is a delightful reason to pull out the well-worn camera. So, slowly, through the days of the holiday I have been posting the different events that have been occurring in my and my son's little world on Facebook. The title of the album is "Christmas 2009" with a sub-title that reads, "and so it begins.....another holiday season". One of my so-called (but no longer) friends added the following small, yet profound, statement. He said, "It's called Christmas."

It's called Christmas.

First of all, this person obviously can't read, because if he had checked the bold title of the album, it does make a strong reference to Christmas, hence the title "Christmas 2009". But that three word statement is uncomfortably scary for me because if I swayed with that philosophy I would be excluding a whole hell of a lot of people from joining in on celebrating the holiday season with me. And I would be excluding a whole hell of a lot of celebration and joy during the holiday season as well. How can three words be so close minded? How can three words be so biased and exclusive? To me, that statement is full of assumptions that I should only be enjoying that specific day, Christmas day, with only like-minded individuals that believe in the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ. Hey, all the power to him for having such a strong faith in his religion. I grew up in a religious home believing in that same ideal, but that doesn't mean that it's just about mangers, and sheep, and shepherds, and Mary and stars and frankincense. Because I'm not a religious person now, and Christmas still is a special day steeped in tradition and culture and family and friends and magic and beauty. The whole holiday is, with Christmas day being just one of those days and I want to enjoy that day with everyone, even with like minded Pagans like myself. (haha)

And talk about putting all of your eggs in one basket. If I had just focused solely on Christmas day, then I would have to dismiss all of the fun that Alexander and I had the other day, sliding down the Kinsmen beach hill with our buddies (even though there's not enough snow and we're picking pebbles off our butt from the experience). I would have to dismiss the concert that was put on at the school, where my son got on stage and sang a really cool song in the local Ojibway language. I would have to dismiss the late night gift wrapping and beer drinking fiascoes which made for some very creative wrapping designs. I would have to dismiss the funny jiggling Wal-mart Santa hats. I would have to dismiss snuggling in bed with my son and singing Christmas songs, both traditional and contemporary. I would have to dismiss the magic of Santa bringing a stocking on Christmas eve instead of Christmas day "just because he happened to be in the neighbourhood". I would have to dismiss my son singing carols to the senior citizens at Northwood's Lodge. I would have to dismiss eggnog. No, that's just not right. You simply cannot dismiss eggnog just because Mary didn't happen to lactate eggnog on December 25th how many thousands of years ago.

So I figure this guy needs to stop worrying that his Jesus is being taken out of his Christmas because of statements such as "the holiday season". As long as he believes that to be his Christmas, nobody can take that away from him because it's a truth and a thought and a belief in his own mind. It becomes scary when he thinks that he has the power to control my truth, and thoughts and beliefs. If I believe that Santa and Jesus are kickin' it old school back in a hay-filled room at the North Pole, that is my prerogative and in no way should alter his beliefs of Christmas day. I simply believe in enjoying every day, and encompassing all of the small, simply, joyful pleasures of life and putting them in an album on Facebook referring to the holiday season. Life's too short to get caught up in semantics.

And I hope that all of you are given enough rest and tranquility to have that in your world too. Merry Christmas to you, regardless of your personal interpretation of that. I wish you peace.

Christmas Tradition

2009-12-14T20:05:00.001-06:00

Ah, Christmas is coming so quickly, and I am seeing a lot of haggard people desperately, frantically pulling out their wallets in the hopes that this year will be "the perfect Christmas". It certainly isn't my favourite season as everyone, including myself, gets swept up in the commercialism, and expectations, and expenses. Now I'm sure that you're probably thinking to yourself, "Oh, here comes righteous Rhonda to tell us that Christmas is about spirit, and giving, and loving and blah, blah, blah", so I don't have to bother you with drivel. I can cut right to the chase. Christmas equates to indulgence. Christmas sorts out the haves and the have nots, in the most horrible of ways. I would hate to be that "have not" kid that has to go back to school after the holidays and listen to one of the "have" kids talk about allllll of the stuff they got for Christmas. You know, growing up, we certainly weren't rich by any stretch of the imagination, but we still got gifts. Some are even very memorable....(Grade 4, my "satin steel" drum kit; I would put my Joan Jett "I Love Rock n' Roll" album on with my head phones plugged in, and whack away at those drums like a real rock star.) And at the time, I probably didn't think to NOT brag about getting that drum kit, and I don't recall my teacher saying anything to us about just keeping our newly acquired treats to ourselves, but in retrospect, we definitely should have had that discussion. Almost 30 years later, I am ashamed of my blatant disrespect for others with my innocent chatter of Christmas cheer.

Christmas time also makes me think about the child who lives in a separated home, as my child does. Some children actually have to make the decision on their own, as to whether they are going to have Christmas with their mom or their dad. Some times they have to actually leave their primary home and leave their friends for the holidays to go and see the other parent in a different town or province. I don't know about you, but I think if I was that kid, there might be a little bit of resentment that my parents couldn't get their shit together and help with that decision making. My own child is lucky in the sense that he has two separated parents that don't hate each other, and have an amicable set up for the holidays. It doesn't make it easy though. It really sucks that I don't get to wake my son up every Christmas morning and share that experience with him immediately. I have to wait my turn every second year. But I'm not pouting about it, because I think the alternative would be worse. It just makes me upset to think that parents can be excruciatingly selfish during the Christmas season instead of thinking about how much stress they could be putting onto their own child.

And then there is the gift stress.....are they going to like the gifts? (Yes, I purposely pluralized gifts, because we live in a one-isn't-enough-anymore society). Is this gift educational? Is this gift functional? Is this gift expressive of my feelings for this person, rendering it special and personal? Is this gift going to collect dust in their closet after I spent "x" amount of hours working on it, or "x" amount of dollars on it? It becomes a judgment call in the end, and that is excruciatingly painful and frustrating to have to do sometimes. Sometimes I think that I'm just going to stop buying gifts for everyone and instead, start buying sheep and chickens and cows for families around the world in my friend's and family's' name, but (I'll admit it) I'm still buying in to the pressure of tradition. As I type this, there is a decorated Christmas tree to my left, and blinky lights flashing to my right, mistletoe hanging in my dining area and glittery goop, et al adorning every nook and cranny of my house. I like the schmulk yet I'm torn between reveling in it and feeling guilty that not all can.

*Sigh* I guess that I have made some small changes though. I have started to tell friends that I'm just not doing the Christmas gift thing anymore and for the most part, they're OK with that. I don't send out Christmas cards anymore; instead I send out a Christmas email which I think is the same thing, it's just electronic. As a family, we have decided that next year we will draw names for gifts, which will alleviate a lot of stress as well. So perhaps with that extra money, next year, I can buy a couple herds of cows for a family somewhere. That would make me happy.

Yeesh. I sound pretty bitter. Really, Christmas isn't complete drudgery for me. I get to raid my mom's cold storage room and eat her yummy homemade perogies and cabbage rolls. My son and I sing Christmas carols together every night for a couple weeks before the big day, and now that Alexander can play the guitar it's an even more exciting adventure. We're rocking that Rudolph song. (Singing Christmas carols will always remind me of my childhood with my sister, sitting in our big flannel pajamas, singing together, for what seemed like hours some times.) And we always have a craft day, where we make something laden with glue and glitter. This year my adorable nephew joined in on the tradition. Cookies are always baked...(this year I'm going to try to make something with tofu). We check out the parade and get pretty excited when we see Santa (except if Alexander's friends are around because that would be "TOTALLY EMBARRASSING, MOM!!!!") We hang out with our dear friends and have sliding parties and eat goodies. Like I said, it's indulgent. But I hope it's indulgent in love, and sharing, family and friendship.

I hope that you too are privileged to enjoy that bit of indulgence, and remember those that aren't as fortunate to have those opportunities.

Merry Christmas to you and yours.

The Gift of the Magi (as sung by the Squirrel Nut Zippers)

My heart is sad, my soul is weary

Though Christmas day is fast appear'n.

I have no silver, I have no gold
To buy my wife a gift this year.
To see her sad on Christmas morning
Is a thing I cannot bear
I'll pawn the watch my father gave me
To buy a comb for her hair

Oh mother, mother what shall I do?
Though Christmas day is fast appear'n.
I have no silver, I have no gold
To buy my love a gift this year.
For I am poor and I'm a beggar
Not a cent have I, no dime I claim
I'll trade the golden hair that is our pleasure
'Buy for your watch a golden chain

Darling, darling today is christmas
What has become of your golden hair?
For I've traded our only treasure
These silver combs for you to wear.

Darling, darling we've lost our treasure
My gift to you is a golden chain.
Though we've pawned away our only pleasures,
These gifts we give are not in vain.

The wise men came on Christmas morning
Their gifts of love they came to bear
From that day on always remembered
Our own true love forever share"

Spider Babies

2009-12-07T19:52:00.000-06:00

I have made an online, blogger friend through this site, and like to check out Chad's photos taken way over in Japan. He has a tendency to look up a lot (even though I have seen photos of his feet as well) and has taken incredible photos of the sky in different forms and trees in a plethora of hues. Today when I was looking at his sight, I let out a shudder that immediately sent me back to nine years ago, when I came upon his photo of a spider silhouette.

The story I am about to tell you is completely true and one of my favourite stories to tell my students to totally gross them out. This story has absolutely nothing to do with Christmas and won't drive you to the Kleenex box.

It was the early summer of 2000 and I was well into my second trimester of pregnancy. Thanks to my Polish and Ukrainian genetics, I was not one of those cute little basketball belly pregnancies that I see so many ladies fashionably and luckily carry. (Maternity clothes was made for these ladies....not me.)I was the full, spread hips, big ol' Mama-boobs pregnant lady and probably started retaining water hours after conception. Needless to say, I spent a lot of time in summer dresses and soaking my feet in a kiddie pool.

As you may know, I am also a gardener, and really prided myself on the lima bean shaped rock garden that I had created a couple of summers before. It was full of fresh green veggies that would soon create prolific amounts of yumminess. Because of my cumbersome belly, I had a tendency to walk through the aisles of my garden on my hands and knees, weeding along the way. I found out soon after that this was a big mistake. I was close to the rocks, and rocks (along with other dark, cool, moist places) are wonderful places for brown recluse spiders to hide. By the time I noticed I was bit by one, I had the typical round, red ring around the back of my calf. It is interesting to note, I did not feel the bite. It was not until probably that evening or the next day that it was noticed. So, I monitored it for a couple of days, and then the bite started to get a bit bigger and a little itchy. I figured I might want to go to the doctor.

You may be reading this right now saying, Jesus! I'd have been in that hospital immediately!!! But please note that I live in a small remote community that is pretty low on doctors, and so we tend to take our health into our own hands a lot. The doctors we do have are absolutely spent from working the incredible hours that they do, dealing with every facet of medicine and health. The overall mentality around here is, if it's not that bad, then let it be. Take an ibuprofen. Rest for a day. Check it out on the internet (or not). We have a bit of a survivalist mentality in this neck of the woods. But I was pregnant and a bit worried. I started thinking, what if there is spider poison in my leg? What if I'm poisoning my little baby? So, up I went to the doctor and he confirmed that I definitely had a spider bite. Now what? Well, because I was pregnant he really couldn't give me any heavy duty antibiotic (the bite had a weird bacteria on it called acinetobacter which is usually connected to hospital environments!!!) As if that wasn't creepy enough. When the doctor told me that, I demanded that he just cut the whole chunk out of my leg and be done with it. I was willing to do that, but he didn't feel the need to be so extreme. Sometimes I have been known to be a little extreme. Ahem.....

So I went back home and noticed that my bite was starting to protrude with a bump, and continued to do so for about a week. Things were getting freaky. I went back to the doctor demanding to get this bite cut out of my leg again, and he continued to tell me to just "monitor" the bite. Monitor my ass, buddy. (Well, I never said that, but I sure wanted to.) So, I sat down in my bathroom, and did what any pregnant, slightly insane woman would do. I squeezed it. Yep, just like a big ol' pimple. I squeezed the bite, and out popped a small white pearl sized ball. Holy shit. What the hell is that? I took a pin to it and inside this ball/pod was what looked like thousands of tiny little white eggs. My freakin' leg was full of spider eggs.

I was not just pregnant with one; at this point in my life, I was pregnant with thousands.

After I had a complete wiggy and did the freaky coo-coo dance all over my bathroom and screamed bloody murder, I flushed the egg(s) and it's creepy little pod down the toilet and got on with my life. To this day, I still have a little divot in the back of my leg, and it's still sensitive to the touch. Every time I see a spider walking around carrying their sack of eggs on their back, I have a mixture of feelings. In a strange way, it takes me back to my days of being pregnant and regardless of how bulbous I was, it was still beautiful to have my little baby growing inside of me. And I feel for the poor spider mama who unknowingly lost her thousands of babies. How the hell those eggs got in there in the first place, I'll never know. It seems like a science fiction story. So, I don't squash spiders, even if I really despise them. And I feel nervous when I put on a pair of boots that have been in storage all winter (one of their favourite places to "sleep") and shake the crap out of them before I put them on. Oh, and don't bother buying me a pair of work or garden gloves. I won't wear them because they're practically spider houses.

As a side story, a few summers ago, my mother and son and I were driving down the 105 very early in the morning; around 6am. There had been a low fog in the area, and it was just starting to clear up. Along the side of the highway, I kept on seeing these strange white blobs in the bush. By the time we got to Ear Falls, I just had to get out of the truck and see what the heck all of these blobs were. They were everywhere. Know what they were? Spider webs. Thousands of spider webs. It made me realize how many I walk through when I'm tromping through the bushes. The webs were only visible because the moisture had attached to the delicate silky threads. So, take note. You can't escape spiders; you have to accept them. (Keep in mind that they are actually very good to have in your yard) and just try your best not to get bit.

To this day, I wonder if that spider bite had an effect on my son. When he had colic, I secretly thought perhaps it might have been because of the spider bite. And when he demands flies for supper, I get a bit weirded out, but comply so I don't get bit again..................haha

PS: Thank you Chad, for the inspiration!
Chad's blog
.

Bad Eggs, Sick Beds and New Songs

2009-12-04T15:07:00.000-06:00

I am seriously starting to think that there is a psychosomatic connection in my house between eating omelets for supper and getting sick in the middle of the night. This is the second time in the last two months that this has happened. Perhaps it's coincidental. Perhaps I have actually bought two batches of bad eggs. Perhaps we just caught the flu and I have a tendency to want to cook eggs when I am feeling under the weather. Perhaps it's all in my head, but regardless of those coincidences, Alexander and I are at home today, feeling very below the weather.

If you recall a blog I wrote in September called "Hallucinogenic Artistry" I discussed the connection between illness and creativity. Here I am writing, and my son is creating some kind of duct tape wizardry magic in his studio. We should be in bed, but we're compelled to do other things. (I think we're just both very defiant people and refuse to succumb to the illness wholeheartedly. We just take "breaks" and spontaneously nap or barf, then get back to as we were......)

But it made me think about the quintessential "sick bed". Do you remember where you used to be when you were sick as a child? I remember one woman telling me that she had chronic asthma as a young girl, and her mother used to keep her in bed for exorbitant amounts of time. Her mom would give her a shot of whiskey to keep her in a bit of a mind muddle, so that she remained idle and didn't want to be too active, triggering an asthmatic attack. She also said that she borrowed a whole set of encyclopedias from somebody, and read them all in her mildly drunken stupor. Amazing. To this day, the woman is an avid reader, and has managed to outgrow her asthma and drinking habits.

I was always allowed to crawl in to my parent's bed when I was sick. My dad would be gone to work, and my mom would be doing something or another around the house, and would pop in on me to see how I was doing. This made me feel exceptionally special. I always got sick around Valentine's Day, practically every year. Annually, my sister had to take my hand written Valentines to school to give to the teacher to give to my classmates, and at the end of the day, my sister would come home with my carefully, creatively decorated envelope (that was usually made in art class the week before Valentine's day....we have really come leaps and bounds with the art curriculum in school) stuffed full of Valentines. I missed out on the excitement of seeing the guy I had a crush on putting a Valentine in the envelope that was taped to my desk. One year I even missed out on being the lead character of a Valentine's Day play that my Grade 3 teacher had arranged. We were going to invite parents in to watch the play and share snacks with us afterward. Instead, I was at home coughing and barfing and someone else got the limelight. But I will always remember that my Dad would come home for lunch, and sneak into the room with a Valentine's card and a treat of some kind for me....chocolates or a cute little trinket. Being in the sick bed on Valentine's Day wasn't so bad after all.

And my son is in on a "sick bed tradition" now too. Usually I bring all of the blankets from the house to my bedroom and lay them out on the floor like a big mattress and we all sleep on the floor together; including Sandy the Wonder Dog, a ton of books and a bucket. I do this for a couple of reasons; 1) Alexander is closer to the bathroom in case he has to get up quickly and he won't fall out of a bed because he's at ground level, 2) I am right beside him so I can hear him if he does happen to get sick and 3) there's nothing better than knowing that you're surrounded by family and that someone is there to take genuine care of you when you're not feeling well. I truly think the extra TLC is what helps a person heal.

And I can't help but yet again think of artists, cooped up in their homes, fighting their own health demons, like Frida Kahlo, trapped in a broken body in bed. She asked her father for some art supplies which triggered a life long creative connection between art and health. She may have gone in a completely different direction had she not been "stuck" with her own thoughts for weeks and weeks and weeks at a time. She taped a mirror to the ceiling of her bed's canopy and painted portraits of herself. She too defied her health and in between illness, created beauty.

So maybe that's why today, my son and I sat down and finally wrote a song that we've been talking about for some time now. It's a song about being lucky, and I guess that's how I am feeling regardless of the nausea. I am grateful that I have a job that compensates for sick children in its sick day plan and allows me to stay at home and coddle my son. I am grateful that I don't have to pretend I'm feeling well in front of a group of teenagers that are sometimes not as understanding as I wish they could be (even though most times, they really are) and I'm lucky that my son was well enough to strum on his guitar while we came up with this little ditty. Enjoy.

Feelin' Lucky

Feelin' lucky
All around
Go back in the bush
Blueberries on the ground

Can't wait to get home
Eat 'em fresh with cream
So delicious
Is this all a dream?

Feelin' lucky
Goin' down the 105
Long windin' road
So glad to be alive

Runs past Ear Falls
To Vermilion Bay
Dodgin' moose and skunks
A-long the way

Bears at the dump
Fish that jump
Lakeview pancakes
Ice roads on lakes
Soccer at the park
Fires at dark
Lucky to live here
Any time of year

Feelin' lucky
On my bike
Headin' down the hill
Get a treat I like

Lemon lime slushie
Sour, icy treat
So cool and tasty
It can't be beat

Feelin' lucky
Shooting star went by
Almost missed it
Flashed right through the sky

So full of stars
Miles and miles up high
Twinklin' in the deep blue
I'm such a lucky guy

Bears at the dump
Fish that jump
Lakeview pancakes
Ice roads on lakes
Soccer at the park
Fires at dark
Lucky to live here
Any time of year

Feelin' lucky
Slidin' down the slope
At Kinsmen Beach
No wipe outs I hope

'Cause that hill is huge
Slippery and steep
Children at the bottom
Piled in a heap

Feelin' lucky
Livin' where we do
Surrounded by trees
And furry critters too

We know our neighbours
Know 'em all by name
Lucky to live here
I hope you feel the same

Bears at the dump
Fish that jump
Lakeview pancakes
Ice roads on lakes
Soccer at the park
Fires at dark
Lucky to live here
Any time of year

By Alexander Laevens and Rhonda Bobinski

Me and My Girls

2009-11-30T00:00:00.000-06:00

Whoever decided that burning the bra was a good idea, obviously never had to lug around double D's. Perhaps you're thinking that there can absolutely be no reason to not be happy with "puffy pillows" (ever read Stephen King's novel "Carrie" where the coo-coo mother refers to her daughter's breasts as "dirty pillows"...YEESH!), but with age, sometimes I feel like these girls are ticking time bombs. And they get in the way when I'm trying to run, or dance, or pull weeds in my garden, or lay on my tummy. Nowadays they even get in the way when I lay on my back. haha

But I have to admit, being well endowed in that department certainly came in handy last week. I had to go for a mammogram and ultrasound because my doctor felt a little bit concerned, which of course in turn, made me feel a little bit concerned. Ok, I'll readily admit that I was whole heartedly freaked right out. But we're supposed to walk around like "everything will be ok", that it's just routine and that it's probably nothing at all....we're just being safe instead of sorry. So I spent a month convincing myself that it was nothing, and then when they cancelled my appointment because their machine was on the fritz, I had another whole month to think about what nothing it was. But when my hoo-haws are flopping around incessantly, it's really hard to pretend they're not there and that they might be holding more than they should be.

And you've all heard the mammogram horror stories, of how your boobs gets squished so much in the machine that afterwards you have to roll them up like those leather fruit roll-ups that kids eat, and tuck them back into your bra. And I don't know about you, but I had this image of an old battle axe, telling me to toughen up, while she slapped my breasts around like Silly Putty being bounced off the walls. What am I... a squash ball? And I figured her hands would be really cold and dry and scratchy, and she'd grunt a lot, which would lead me to trying to interpret her Neanderthal language as "lump or no lump"? But it wasn't like that at all.

Obviously, these professionals know that women are walking in to this joint highly sensitized. I think I shed my first tear when I was putting on my gown in the change room, and they just kind of continued to roll spontaneously, quietly, throughout the course of each test. And as time passed, I felt more and more assured that not only had it been a good idea that I had these tests done, but that I would probably not be coming back for hopefully a good long time, if ever. Whew.

And I actually laughed. I laughed when I glanced down at my poor squished ta-ta and exclaimed that it looked like a boobie pancake. The technician said she sees about 20 boobie pancakes a day. That's ten women per day that go through the same process I went through, and we all know that ten women don't get the same results that I did, but I really wished that it was that way.

Because really, our breasts are such an incredibly important (and sometimes even powerful) part of our body. I found myself having boobie flashbacks...checking them out as a child in the bathtub and wondering what the heck they're for, or the first snap of the bra strap by the loser that sat behind me in grade seven...And what about those God awful training bras that we had to wear, which was basically a cropped off undershirt with an elastic band around it?! Talk about humiliating, especially when others noticed it underneath your clothing and teased you for actually growing. How weird is that to be teased about growth? I thought about those awkward moments as a teenager with my boyfriend. I thought about the power that breasts could hold over another person. I thought about the importance of nurturing and nourishing my beautiful new baby boy. I thought about the horrifically painful mastitis,and I thought about that stupid breast pump and those ridiculous breast pads. I thought about how my boobs exploded when I was getting my hair done and it took longer than usual and I needed to get home to feed my son....KA-POW! Man, breasts are loaded milk guns during lactation time. I thought about bathing suits; some better than others. I thought about the hilarious fitting experience with my best friend at a Victoria Secrets store in New York...it's amazing how many memories can actually be attached to mammaries.

So don't be afraid to have the tests done. Have the tests done, no matter how scared you are. It really didn't hurt at all, and I'm not just saying that to convince you to get it done. It felt the same way that it feels when you get your blood pressure tested on your arm. The technician says that most people think that it hurts simply because their prior knowledge from other women tells them so. She says that the women are just so freaked out by foreign machinery and by the prospects of what they might have, that they just can't stand anything touching them, and that causes a lot of stress. I think my "girth" (ahem) came in handy as well, because squished fat just doesn't feel the same as squished muscle. You should also keep in mind that pain goes away, as does the memory of it. Think of all the women out there that have had many, many children. And delivery hurt like a bitch, hands down...but we keep on doing it because it's important.

And you're important. Take care of yourself. If you're feeling unsure of what you're body is doing, go and get your girls checked out 'cause you still have jobs to do, Sista! (And they probably do to!)

Life is Like a Box of Chocolates….

2009-11-25T19:34:00.003-06:00

As a teacher, I have learned some very important things about children. The biggest lesson I have learned is that children do not come with a manual, and they are practically impossible to figure out at the best of times. You never know what you’re going to get. Just when you thought you’ve developed a rapport with a student, they’ll turn around and egg your house. Just when you thought a student couldn’t possibly hate you more than they already do, they give you a box of chocolates at Christmas time and thank you for “putting up with them”. So, I’m certainly not an expert, and have yet to figure out “the teenage beast” as I’ve heard them being referred to in the past. I’m sure I never will. But I know one thing….I know that there are some kids out there that are raising themselves. And there are kids out there that feel they have absolutely nobody to talk to about their life. There are kids out there that would have been someone completely different than they are if they had been given a different path in life and didn’t have to meet so many daily struggles. From my personal perspective, from the experiences I have had with children, this is what I feel children need in their life:

1. Parents that don’t assume that their children know they are loved. Children need to be told they are loved…daily. “I love you” never gets old to a child.

2. Parents that do not choose their child’s religion for them. Just because a person has a specific faith doesn’t mean that their children should. Religion shouldn’t be a tradition; it should be an intrinsic, personal belief. If they feel their child should have a religious upbringing, perhaps they should share the religions of the world with them, and let them make their own choices with that breadth of knowledge when they’re good and ready. This will not only tap into their understanding of the world historically and geographically, but may even help to create a sense of empathy and tolerance for other perspectives and beliefs. Isn’t it incredible how much hatred is created in the name of religion?

3. Parents that read books with their children, starting when they’re in the womb. I just heard a great documentary on CBC radio about how fetuses hear sounds/voices while in the womb and this actually influences the tonation of their cries. Babies cry differently in different areas of the world. So, they can hear you. Start reading to your belly button and your little bambino may come out reciting Chaucer. There is absolutely no reason why a child should go through life struggling with text. Reading opens the world to endless possibility and that opportunity is available to all children.

4. Parents that let the dog kiss their face even though they lick their bum (er…the pet, that is!). This shows children that pets are an integral part of the family and deserve the same amount of love as everyone else.

5. Parents that realize that just because they want it, doesn’t mean that their child should get it. Yearning and working for something isn’t such a bad thing. Sometimes that creates motivation.

6. Parents that realize their child deserve breakfast every single day. Better yet, that their child deserves three healthy square meals a day that do not ooze out of plastic packaging. Better yet, these children deserve to eat this meal with at least one family member that wants to know how their day was and what they learned in school and if everything is alright in their world.

7. Parents that don’t call their children derogatory names, even if they think they’re teasing. Children don’t have the same capabilities as adults to understand the nuances of ribbing someone. Those jokes are usually taken very seriously and lead to low self esteem. I don’t know anybody that thought being called “stupid” was funny and didn’t impact their life in some way.

8. Parents that aren’t afraid to act goofy and stick cooked spaghetti up their nose and pretend they’re a swamp monster, or get their butt kicked in a wicked game of “Go Fish”.

9. Parents that don't tell their child to choose a career path because “they’ll make good money”. They should let them choose a career path that is linked to their interests and passions. Happiness will follow, as will money, or something else of equal value.

10. Parents that make their children lose some times. That’s life, and the sooner children figure that out, the easier it will be to accept that life is full of pockets of loss here and there. How we deal with loss can be life changing.

11. Parents that nurture their children’s changing interests. One day they may want to be a hockey player, one day they may want to be a rock star. It doesn’t have to cost money to see if they are truly interested, especially when there are libraries around. Or imagination. It’s amazing what can happen when children are just given the liberty to use their imagination without feeling embarrassed or ashamed or humiliated.

12. Parents that don’t judge their child’s appearance or anyone elses appearance for that matter.

13. Parents that take their children on trips with them, even when it means packing extra food, extra supplies, extra everything. These parents also don’t mention the effort that they have gone to for this trip to happen so that their children don’t feel like a burden or forced to enjoy every modicum of this journey. Sometimes those trips end up just sucking, and it has nothing to do with the child.

14. Parents that expose their children to variety; different settings, different music, different books, different people, different perspectives, without judgment. Can you imagine how unsettling it would feel to have an opinion about something, but you don’t feel comfortable saying your perspective because you’ve been bombarded with what you have been told to believe?

15. Parents that laugh at their mistakes and make their children realize that they are human beings, and human beings make mistakes. What a wonderful lesson for children to realize that mistakes create growth and development if you look at it from a positive perspective.

So, those are just some of the things I think of when I think about my own experiences with children of varying age levels. Believe me; I am far from perfect…far, far, far. I have made mistakes with my own child and have regrets about some of my actions as a parent, a teacher and a human being in general. Being a parent/teacher/human being is an ever changing event, but it is through the seemingly innocent actions and words of my students that I have learned the importance of truth and compassion. Those kids are awesome, even with their manic moodiness and extravagant idiosyncrasies and if it can help me to be a better parent and teacher, I’ll take it. I’m thankful for every one of them.

www.kidshelpphone.ca

RAH! RAH! SIS-BOOM-BAH!

2009-11-19T16:32:00.001-06:00

Have you ever had one of those days where suddenly you are transported back in time, like you're having an incredibly durable, time warping deja vu? That happened to me today at good ol' Red Lake District High School, as I was, along with about 300 other students, swept away on a wave of school spirit that hasn't been felt at that school for an incredibly long amount of time. *Flashback to grade 10, catching up to the opponent who is dribbling the ball down the court. I've almost got her as I go in for the pick, and I step on the back of her foot, twisting my ankle, and fall down swearing abominations in front of the whole school. I broke my leg. Nice.* But it was a different story today fortunately, as our school headed down to the gym to watch the senior girl RLDHS Rams basketball team take on the Nipigon Red Rock Lakers. As if a synapse exploded in a part of my brain, instantly I was painting warrior stripes on my face, adorning myself with any red and gold clothing I could find (I changed twice this morning....you should have seen what I originally had on...yikes!), hammering a wooden spoon on the side of a soup can, and blurting out HUSTLE, HUSTLE, USE YOUR MUSCLE, GO RAMS GO! Where the hell did all of this come from? I'm the art teacher for crying out loud! I'm stereotypically supposed to HATE sports, aren't I?

I'll admit, there is a part of me that definitely begrudges all of the extra attention that the sports community gets, especially as I'm in the process, along with a group of dedicated ladies, of getting an artists council up and running in our district. We had to cancel a workshop that we're offering this weekend because we only had 6 people in the whole community sign up. Six. All we were asking for was 10. When my art students did a drumming workshop last year and we hollered down the hallway for everyone in their classroom to come to the cafeteria to see our routine, only two classes out of the whole school came to see what was going on. And it was a really cool drumming routine. I was super proud of those kids. Artistically, our community is definitely lacking support where we need it the most; from our regular, every day community members.

Ironically, from the "talk on the streets", it's also what our community members say they crave the most. They want more music, more art workshops, more displays, more creative opportunities. Supposedly, some of our community members (and I use that term loosely) crave artistic culture so badly, that they have been given package deals from their employer to fly out to Winnipeg for only $99 (return fare) so that they can take in some of the creativity that Winnipeg has to offer. Well, how does that help our community? How does that bring us all together? Why isn't that money being used to bring artists and musicians into the community instead, and these lucky fellows that work for this establishment perhaps can get a discount ticket price from their employer? It's all being flown away instead.

So when I'm sitting in the middle of a wacky, frenetic basketball game with a herd of 300 cheering teenagers, I am amazed; not so much by the game and the players themselves (eventhough they were phenomenal and came back from a 3 or 4 basket loss to win the game by 2 points!) but by the incredible support and sense of community that is there in that room. What a sense of camaraderie! What a feeling that we can conquer anything if we all work together for a common cause! And perhaps you shudder, thinking, Right! Like a bunch of rah-rah-sis-boom-bah teenagers are going to make a difference in our community. Like anyone is going to make a difference in our community. But if you had been there, you would have seen the potential that was there. You would have seen the positive energy that radiated in that gym, and you would have seen the opportunity that our district has if we can capture the excitement of these youth and apply those sentiments to the actions of our community. It's there, rumbling, just below the surface.....

Thunder, thunder, thunderation
We're the Red Lake delegation
When we fight with determination
We create a sensation!

Couldn't that easily become a community mantra? This district isn't just a place to work; it's a place to live, and share, and support. Those kids get it; and I hope to hell that they stick around and bring that energy back into the district, where it belongs.

GO RAMS!

Pickled Religion

2009-11-07T12:16:00.000-06:00

Imagine that you and I are are strangers. Perhaps I've opened the door for you at the post office once. Perhaps I saw you dancing at a social with a mutual friend. Perhaps we both reached for the same kind of apples at the grocery store, but that's about all we know about each other; we both like juicy, crunchy apples. Now, with that thought in mind, imagine that I unexpectedly knock on your door while you're still in your pajamas. I push past you and run to your bedroom, and snuggle under your sheets. Or I walk into your kitchen, open the fridge and take a pickle out of the pickle jar with my fingers. Or I go to the bathroom with the door open and ask if you can come and turn on the fan. Pretty intrusive, intimate and unexplainable, wouldn't you say?

Well, that's how I see it when people from specific religious sects come knocking on my door reading scriptures from the bible to me. A couple just came to my door. She first asked if she woke me up, but didn't really mind if she had. Her God obviously had a mission. Then she said, "Well, you know why I'm here and I'd like to read from the bible for you." My look of disdain must have triggered the next question; do you have a bible? When I said that I didn't, (It's on my to-do list...one day I'd like to read it) I was asked the next personal, intimate question through her shocked gasps, "DON'T YOU BELIEVE IN GOD? ARE YOU ATHIEST?!" *sigh* Would it have been a sin if I had said, "None of your "beep'n" business?" Or perhaps I could have said, "Would you like to hop into my bed and we can talk about this there since we're getting up close and personal? How about having a pickle first..."

I don't have issue with the fact that this woman has found a religion that keeps her comfortable, and gives her solice and reason. I think that is fantastic. My issue lies in the fact that I am judged and deemed unworthy because my philosophy in that regard does not coincide with hers, and therefore, I am of lower status, a heathen, a sinner, and doomed for all eternity. And I didn't bother to share my perspective with her or give her an argument. I simply said, "I prefer not to share my beliefs with others. It's my own perspective." She walked away with her partner shaking her head, most likely thinking, there's another one going nowhere but down into the firey pit of debauchery.

Little does this woman know how intimately I have been connected to organized religion. Little does this woman know how I was raised. Little does this woman know that I have taken a phenomenal amount of art history courses as well, which always delves into the world of religion. Little does this woman know where my studies took me when I was questioning my faith as a young adult. Little does this woman know what my opinion is today. Little does this woman know me.....

And that's the thing, I don't spend my time throwing my opinion in that regard at others. Who am I to tell others what they should or shouldn't believe in? A person's relationship with their concept of God is so individualized that absolutely nobody can possibly be "right". I once had a priest tell me that if I lived in Poland, and crossed myself with my left hand, (I'm left handed) they would have cut it off. I once had a woman tell me that I am a sinner because I have tattoos. My body is not pure. I didn't tell her that I think she's a sinner because she eats highly processed food or that she uses Saran Wrap. And yes, I can see the hypocrisy in the fact that I am writing a biased, opinionated blog that pushes my opinion on you, the reader. BUT I am not telling you that you are wrong, or bad, or unjust, et al if you do not agree with my opinion here. You simply pick apples from a different barrel, and that's your prerogative. I won't walk away from you shaking my head in disgust of your choices. That would be judgemental.

Isn't it ironic that the universal concept behind religion is to create a sense of peace and unity and acceptance in the world?

You Don't Know What You've Got ('Til) It's Gone

2009-11-03T17:43:00.001-06:00

You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

We've all heard the adage before, and we've all said a resounding "Yup" to our own experiences with loss, but it still goes without say that for some mysterious reason, that simple yet extremely complex concept gets completely vanquished and decimated from our grey matter at times of importance (or when there is a full moon...or both...). And it's usually in those exhilirating yet tumultuous moments that there seems to be lack of consequences, or remorse. Think of your virginity. That should put this concept into perspective. I don't think I've met too many people (wait, let me rephrase that) I don't think I've met anybody that had mind blowing, highly orgasmic, sensual sex on "the big V" day. It's something that is reflected upon in adulthood and we say "Yeesh! What was I thinking?" You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

So let's get our mind out of the gutter now, and apply this concept to other areas of our life. I go through random acts of feng shui (which I am highly aware is an oxymoron) where I decide to cleanse my home of clutter and try to create a sense of balance and openness so that energy can positively flow through. That's a nice way of saying I get rid of shit that's cluttering up my house so I don't go bonkers. I am very conscious of what I get rid of and definitely consider where this "stuff" is going to go. I have stuff that needs to be returned to friends and family, stuff that needs to be sent away, stuff that needs to go to the second hand store, etc. If you know me by now, you know that I don't like throwing anything away that can still be of good use to somebody. But it never fails, ever, that as soon as I throw that little something or another away, I end up looking for it the next week. It is usually something that has been in an art supply pile in my studio since I was twelve. It's usually something completely ridiculous like purple feathers, or a deck of cards from Mount Rushmore, but suddenly my son is coming home saying, "Hey Mom! Do you happen to have a cool souvenir from the seventies that is somehow connected to famous, man-made, mountain sized, sculptures? 'Cause I need something like that for my Social Studies class. Oh yeah, and I thought I'd make you a craft out of purple feathers because I love you soooo much, Mom." Murphy's Law. As soon as you lose ten pounds, you wish you didn't give your friends all of the clothes that didn't fit you. As soon as you get rid of something, you wish you had it back.

You don't know what you've got 'til it's gone.

As humans, we easily dispose of other people as well, (emotionally that is!). Some by choice, and sometimes we are not given a choice. We go through cycles with friends and family members, and at times feel that we are making the right choice to "rid" ourselves of that person for our own good. But that too can come back to bite you in the ass. I didn't realize that I had so many questions to ask my grandmother until she was already gone and it was too late to learn about our family history from her perspective. I didn't realize how long I had gone without talking to one of my closest friends until she ended up in the hospital with debilitating health issues. I didn't realize how much I would miss seeing my son every day until I had to look at his empty little snuggly bed in his star clustered little bedroom. I have been playing a big game of trial and error for the last 37 years, and it has definitely been difficult to deal with loss at times.

And then sometimes, when you realize what you've got, now that it's gone, all you can do is get down and funky and celebrate that loss. Those "Whew, that was close!" situations are also considerably important to reflect upon; those situations where you don't realize how dangerous or abusive or embarrassing a situation may have been until you removed yourself from it....a mundane job, a needy, one sided friendship, an unfulfilling relationship, a room full of crap, a horrible politician....haha Sometimes loss is good.

I guess it all comes down to appreciation and looking at different perspectives and taking the time to reflect before taking action in life situations. My goal is to get to the point where I don't have regrets; that I am solid in the choice(s) that I make and can reflect on them in years ahead and feel confident that my decisions were rational and thoroughly considered. I know that is highly unlikely because of factors such as the full moon, and my artistic temperment, and the wind, and the weather, but at least I can try.

I think I'm going to go and give my dog a good pet behind the ears and sneak a kiss to my son while he sleeps.

Ramona, The Housewife From Hell

2009-10-30T22:43:00.002-05:00

Halloween has got to be one of the best days around for a person with an alter ego. So when I went to school today dressed as Ramona, and the junior students asked who I was, I was almost offended. Who is Ramona?! Are you kidding me?! Ramona has been such an integral part of my life for the last fifteen years that it seemed ridiculous to have to explain myself...er...herself. Ok, so I smiled and thought to myself, they're young and it's time they learned about alter egos. I said, "Do you want to hear the story of who Ramona is?" and they listened with looks of confusion and fascination as the woman in front of them, dressed in a purple polyester dress, with a white floral apron, and a feathered hat (with a birdie on top), slowly released what they most likely considered an insane story of a woman that went over the edge. Well, you can't say they didn't have anything to discuss with their family at the dinner table tonight. This is not exactly what I shared with them (because I do want to stay employed as a teacher for a while); I give you the extenda-version....

Ramona is a married, stay-at-home mom with a teenage son. For the longest time, she was extremely proud of her position as a "domestic engineer". Not a curtain was ruffled, not a dust ball could be found, not a crumb could be found on the counter. She had created a utopian kitchen and a fantastically obsessive compulsive domesticated routine. Ramona figured that if she was going to stay at home, she was going to do her job to the best of her abilities. But as is the case with most people when left to their own devices for too long without company (because 9 to 5 is actually a pretty substantial amount of time to be left alone on a daily basis) Ramona became a bit "quirky"...yeah, that's what we'll call it, because this was just the beginning.

She went out and bought herself a pair of silver slippers. You know, the ones with the heel and the fuzzy top that looks like a dead rodent just went through the dryer on a high temperature for 50 minutes? She bought them after her son muttered something under his breath about her being so "bleep"ing anal all the time, just before he slammed his bedroom door in her face. She didn't exactly know what he meant by that, but it didn't sound good and she figured it meant she needed to loosen up a bit. Perhaps her husband would notice her a little more if she wore those silver heels and painted her toe nails a hot, hot red. Who can resist hot red toe nails?

Then she started to fantasize. What if Julio Iglesias came to the house for shake-and-bake pork chops one night? And he sat right beside me and commented on my hot, red toe nails. And my husband became excruciatingly jealous and they arm wrestled right there at the table, pushing the jellied cranberry sauce and green bean casserole to the side? So any time the phone rang, Ramona made sure to answer the phone in less than three rings, because you never know. You just never know who it could be. And people always hang up after three rings. And if Tom Cruise can call people on the Oprah show, then who's to say that Julio wouldn't call Ramona? And these thoughts weren't hurting anyone, until that fateful day when there was a combination of spray starch, silver slippers and a ringing phone.

Have you ever used spray starch before? For those of you that haven't, it's actually an interesting scientific experiment on how to make a skating rink on linoleum or laminate flooring. Just a fine dusting of spray starch is all you need to turn your floor into a potential killer. Ramona was in her kitchen ironing her husband's underwear. They don't call them "tighty whiteys" for nothing....That's when it happened. The phone rang. This is it, she thought. This time it's Julio. Perhaps she was just having a passionate moment, holding that underwear, thinking of Julio, the steamy heat of the iron....it was all too much for Ramona's silver slippers to handle as she tried to run over the spray starched floor. KONK! She's lucky there aren't any scars from the iron hitting her on the side of the head as she went down. She lay on the floor, completely dazed, listening to the phone ring and ring, and ring, unable to move.

Things changed after that day. They were subtle changes that the rest of the family didn't notice for some time but Ramona noticed them within herself. They just started with altered thoughts; what would happen if I washed my feet half way through washing these dishes? Nobody would know. Absolutely nobody would know. I've always wanted to go downtown to that little lounge and sing, "Killing Me Softly" in that karaoke machine. Who gives a shit if I sit down for a couple minutes this afternoon and watch a little bit of wrestling on TV in my underwear? She was at the mercy of her mind, and allowed these new thoughts to consume her. But then her husband noticed that their room smelled funny…different…Ramona had stuffed her pillowcase full of marshmallows. She explained that they helped get rid of her migraines and that she was forever cured by the science of marshmallows. Her son found the red toe nail clippings all epoxied together into an odd, dome like sculpture under the bathroom cupboard. Dust bunnies floated by the dinner table while Ramona served up a mean batch of macaroni and cheese put into fried bologna bowls. Just like Dorothy once said, “We’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto!”

And that’s the Ramona that I like. The Ramona that is a bit rebellious to the monotony of domestication. She’ll still do it, but only if she wants to. She knows that there are jobs to do, but she’s going to make them a bit juicier, a bit spicier than they were before. That iron-laden konk to the pumpkin was exactly what Ramona needed to feel free and show a bit more of her true self. Ramona does things her own way.

And so today, Ramona decided to free herself of the stress and worries of life, and chose to dance to a “How to Disco” K-tel record for a half an hour in the art room. Some of the students got up and joined, “weird Ms. Bobinski” for a while before they sat down. Some just sat in their seats in awe, practically dying of embarrassment for me. But Ramona didn’t care. She just wanted to dance for a while before getting back to doing what she has to do.

Gotta love Ramona.

Passionate Path?

2009-10-24T16:06:00.001-05:00

The topic of passionate employment has been on my mind for a couple of years now (yes...years). As I quickly zoom my way towards forty, I contemplate whether I am truly following my life's path as a high school Visual Arts teacher. There are so many derogatory comments that go along with being a Visual Arts teacher; something about if you can't make it in the art world, you become a teacher, or something like that. Comments like that make me consider my life path and how I got to be where I am today. If I had really tried to get my Masters degree instead of dragging my heels into the Education Faculty, what would I be doing today? If I had dropped out of the Education Faculty when I wanted to (oh so desperately wanted to....) what would I be doing instead? Would I be waitressing at the Lakeview? Would I be living in Paris and taking sketching classes at the Louvre? Would I be living on the West coast and harassing Nick Bantock on a daily basis? Would I be running my own art shop or studio? Would I be a city girl or a small town girl? Or would I still be exactly where I am today?

This made me reflect on my first job. I was twelve years old, and my best friend Tina and I decided we needed some extra cash. (What the heck we needed money for, God only knows... New jelly shoes? New lipgloss? It wasn't until much later that we had to support our smoking and coffee drinking habit.)
So we started asking all of the businesses around town if they were hiring. We were a team, and as such, we had to work together. This was mandatory. Well, The Red Dog Motel and Restaurant didn't discriminate, and we were both given employment. Our job? Picking garbage in the parking lot for $2.00 a garbage bag and a free meal in the restaurant. (It's pretty hard to pick a full bag of garbage when you're basically picking up cigarette butts, so we would resort to taking garbage from in and around the dumpster out back. Brilliant!) I remember once walking home with $7.00 in my pocket and a hamburger in my belly. I learned a lot from that experience. The first one was that both Tina and I had to grow our hair long, because our boss thought that we were boys, and I think even referred to us as brothers once. Yeesh, talk about a blow to a flat chested, straight hipped Grade 6 girl's ego. But the main lesson I learned was that this job sucked really bad, and I didn't want to spend the rest of my life picking up other people's cigarette butts for a living.

I also had a job at a sporting goods store that consisted of dusting trophies. I don't know why the magical transformation of a dull, fuzzy figurine of a lady in a frozen bowling stance into a gleam of gold didn't whet my willie. But it didn't, so again, I moved on to another job. I remember the boss saying, "That's too bad. I was about to show you how to etch names on plaques for trophies." Whoopie. (As a side note, I think everyone should experience at least one crappy job in their life. I like to say to my students, "Do you want to be the one taking a crap on the toilet, or do you want to be the one cleaning the crap off the toilet?" I know it's a gross analogy, but it hits home. Then I tell them to get to work. It helps to put their education in perspective.)

It wasn't until I started working at a local framing shop in town in my high school years that I really felt that I was working somewhere that interested me. I was being immersed in the visual art of the area, constantly looking at the collection of original Woodland art that was in our small gallery. I remember we had an oversized Norval Morrisseau painting up on the wall for a while and I was in shock that it was painted on meat wrapping paper. It made me realize that art could be created on anything if you need to create. You didn't have to wait for a canvas. If the urge was there, you use what you have, and that's what he had. I learned about how to use a camera every time the boss was out of town by taking photos with the cameras we had in stock. Many photographers came in to the store and talked about their art, their process, and their inspiration. To this day, I still talk to some of these people about photography. I was forced to listen to CBC radio (which at the time made me secretly curse my boss's name, but am so thankful for now). I learned how to frame art work and became a really good matt cutter, making v-lined matts, keystone corners, triple matts, inlayed matts, the works. I was a matting fanatic and filled the walls of the store with my creations. It was great. I was given carte blanche to frame whatever I wanted. I even made a matt with bevelled edges that looked like the edges of a stamp. It took me all day. But that's the thing....you know you're in your niche, that you've found something that you're passionate about if you're willing to spend all day doing it.

When I went off to university, my boss hooked me up with a framing store in the city. It was a disaster. I went from being a creative framer in my own right to an assembly line worker. I was cleaning sheet after sheet of glass. I would spend six hours straight just cutting foam core. Nobody would talk to me. They didn't listen to CBC radio. The boss's son would sometimes just stand there and stare at me in a really uncomfortable creepy way. They would make me throw the garbage in the dumpster, but they wouldn't put anything in garbage bags so I had to get really close to the dumpster just in ensure that the garbage wouldn't scatter all over the alley. The business next door was a bakery and they used to dump their grease straight into the dumpster, so I always walked back in to the framing shop coated in old bakery grease. I remember the boss telling me that they were going to "put me on the floor" and have me start selling framing to customers, but I didn't "dress appropriately" to be up front. I had resorted to wearing my shabbiest clothes to work because they were all coated in oil by the time I went home. I quit that job and moved on.

Then I started waitressing in the summers instead of going back to the framing shop. The pay was much better and I was able to pay my tuition on tip money alone! I did that for four summers and loved it. I thoroughly enjoyed the social aspects of it. I loved having to be on my toes, thinking about six things at once. Waitressing is an amazingly choreographed dance. I smirk at city waitresses that are alloted 4 or 5 tables for their shift. They have no idea. Some times I was the only waitress on the coffee shop side of the restaurant and another waitress worked the dining room side, and it would be FULL of demanding tourists wondering if we used "American style cheese" and what the hell did you put gravy on my french fries for? And we weren't just taking orders and serving meals. We also cleaned the tables, set the tables, moved the dishes to the kitchen, ran the till...the whole nine yards. I learned about tolerance and stamina as a waitress.

But nothing prepared me for my job as a teacher; convincing students of the importance of the Visual Arts, convincing other teachers of the importance of the Visual Arts, trying to persuade students to come to school, trying to get students to stop swearing like banshees, dealing with tumultuous emotions, calling parents that don't really care to be called, marking for hours and hours and hours, perpetual meetings, assessment coming out of the ying yang, stacks of papers that don't really fit into any labelled file folder. WHY AM I DOING THIS AGAIN?

It comes down to this. When you push all of that crap to the side, what you're left with is people that are given a different perspective that they perhaps may not have thought of before. I revel in hearing statements like, "I can't believe I just created that! I didn't think I could do it." I really cherish seeing a student drag their friends in to the art room to show off what they created. And on top of it, they take the time to tell their friends how they the created their art. And I love the conversations that I get to have with students about art, and music and creation. Teenagers are much more knowledgeable then we sometimes give them credit for, and I am inspired on a daily basis by my students. (I think the trick is to listen to them instead of telling them what they should be saying and/or thinking all the time. Then they start to tell you what they are truly about.)

And with my job, I am still given opportunity and freedom to be my own artist and be involved with art in the community. I get harassed on a regular basis for getting "summer's off". MUST BE NICE, is one of the comments I hear on a regular basis, but I know a lot of people that get 10 weeks off on holidays per year. My holidays just happen to be condensed into one well needed long duration of time. After 10 months of teaching teenagers, you don't start gaining your sanity back until about three weeks into your holiday time.

But am I passionate about being a teacher? That's a question I still mull over. I think I'm finding balance as I get older and perhaps a bit wiser? Hmmmmm. I am learning that being a teacher is my job, not my life, yet, I am fortunate to be teaching a subject that I am truly passionate about. There is a good mixture of give and take where I am able to share my artistic experiences with my students and also learn from their perspective of the artistic world. I am thankful for a lot of them, for sure. One of my favourite experiences as a teacher was when I had students create musical instruments out of found objects. One student, Adam, created a stand up bass out of a wash tub and painted folk fest pictures around the base of it, (including a painting of my son as a baby at one of many festivals). Adam had a spare during my prep time, and used to do extra work on his art in the art department during that time. One day I was listening to Norah Jones and marking, and Adam just decided to play his washtub base to the tempo of her music. He's a phenomenal musician and I just felt completely lucky to have that opportunity unfold in front of me. It was a perfect balance between being an artist, being a teacher, and being appreciative of what a student has to offer me.

It feels good to not wake up in the morning groaning, wishing that I didn't have to leave my bed. I'm glad that after 12 years, my job is not that much of a cumbersome chore. Kudos to the person that is willing to dust trophies because there is something else in that job that they find fulfilling. Kudos to the person that can enthusiastically pick up cigarette butts without feeling resentment or animosity. That's what it's about....following that passion in whatever form it may be. Ask yourself whether you've found that balance, and if you haven't, maybe it's time to weigh your options and start looking for your passionate path.

Rhonda Bobinski's Visual Arts Page on Facebook

Unintended Purposes

2009-10-19T21:44:00.001-05:00

Last night Alexander and I had a conversation that focused on the concept of objects not being used for their intended purpose. This is a somewhat normal behavior in our home, considering that I have used suitcases as canvases, like to paint with coffee, and clean my teeth with steak knives. I don't eat steak so I might as well use them for something, I figure.

But the conversation actually started as I reflected on my experiences as a child, and told Alexander about my first school detention. I was in Grade 2 and Miss Lindell gave me a detention for talking too much during class time (*sigh*...the story of my life....). My detention consisted of sitting at my desk with my head resting in my folded arms, face down. I don't know why we always had to do this in school, but I remember having to have my face close to the surface of the desk throughout my school years on quite a regular basis. The aroma of eraser shavings and glue still lingers in my olfactory memory bank. So there I was, head down, pouting, when a cleaning lady came in to start cleaning the surface of the desks. I sat at a desk with three other students, in a cluster of two on two desks, symmetrically facing each other. A kid named David sat right across from me, and boy, would I love to say his whole name right now, because it always sounds more venomous and distinct and laden with disgust when you say a person's complete name. (Such as, "Ooooh. That Rhonda Bobinski is a nasty little vermin!" Doesn't that sound so much more venomous and distinct and disgust laden?) Well, David was a pretty gross kid by my standards, and the cleaning lady's following actions solidified that thought. It is a moment in time that I will never forget. She pulled out a window ice scraper from her apron, and commenced to scraping the dried snot that had glazed the surface of David's desk. One shocked, agape eye creeped over the edge of my frozen arms in horror. Am I truly seeing what I think I'm seeing!? Flakes of snot lightly, oh so gingerly speckled my arms. I still shudder when I think about it, and get a rancid taste in the back of my throat.

Yet, in retrospect, the use of a window ice scraping tool to take the snot off of David's desk is actually ingenious. Brilliant. Definitely not what it was intended for, but did a phenomenal job in dealing with something that was of similar consistency to a thin sheet of slippery ice. Kudos to that cleaning lady.

That's what made Alexander and I think about other objects that aren't used for their intended purposes. We really reflected on the quick and efficient beauty of using a sock as a mop. You just can't go wrong using a sock as a mop. And as an inventor, Alexander is constantly coming up with new and mind boggling ways to use a dishsoap container, barbecue skewers and a roll of duct tape. I even painted the quote, "To invent, you need a good imagination and a pile of junk" (Thomas Edison) on the wall of his studio. The kid gets it...objects can definitely be used for other purposes beyond their intended purposes. He knows how to think outside of the box, and that may help him to get out of many a tricky situation somewhere down the line. And if not, at least he'll be a phenomenal recycler (or a hoarder, but I'm working on that with him.)

So the day that we decided to use Mentos and diet cola for purposes beyond their intention, things went a bit askew. Alexander was quite satisfied for a long time just making little vinegar and baking soda bombs....small little "pops" that made us giddy and the dog run away in sheer dread. But then one of my friends (we'll call him "Frank" for the sake of saving his identity) suggested that we try a different container; a film canister works well. You just have to wrap the baking soda in paper towel and then put it in the film canister with a bit of vinegar, close the lid and it will pop right off. So then our yard was filled with soggy, powdery paper towel blobs. Oh, and Alexander decided to try this experiment out at his buddy's house too, so their yard was also filled with soggy blobs. Then this concept started escalading, and Alexander wanted to try the diet coke and Mentos trick. It looked intriguing, I'll admit. We checked out some of the extreme measures that were taken with these rockets on good ol' youtube, and I definitely got the rocket fever. I announced a rocket launching at Laverty Park, and even invited "Frank" to take part on the action. We bought 5 two litre containers of diet cola and 5 packages of Mentos. We were ready for some action.

In theory, you are supposed to drop the Mentos, still wrapped in the aluminum foil, but not the paper, in the two litre bottle, quickly put on the lid, let the pressure build, release a bit of the pressure, then slam the container against a hard surface and watch it rocket hundreds of meters into the air. But I was unsuccessful. I guess I wasn't strong enough, because the bottle just kind of spiraled off the surface and quickly fizzled into nothing spectacular at all. This is where young, strapping "Frank" would be handy because he could use his strength to really smash that bottle against the surface.

Who knew that the rocket would not reach its potential destination as it was rudely interrupted by the presence of Frank's crotch? Who but his dear friends and their children and some passer-by spectators would witness a massive cola explosion on Frank's pants? I guess Mentos are just meant to be mints and diet cola is meant to just be a crappy excuse for thirst satisfaction. On a plus side, my friend's heroic actions have saved my son from going down the seedy, dangerous road of becoming a mad, bomb creator. Alexander became painfully aware of the consequences of a botched science experiment and has not mentioned rocket launching since. Thank you, "Frank", for being such a great sport.

And you know, there are shows made on television that focus solely on the idea of objects being used for unintended purposes. Ever hear of "America's Funniest Home Videos"? Supposedly they are in their 20th season of taking advantage of peoples' ludicrous uses of objects. I don't think pogo sticks were meant to be used for getting a cat off of a roof and I don't think trampolines are meant to be coated in butter. And I don't think that Frank intended on smashing two litres of a ricocheted soda bottle at full throttle towards his jewels, but we got it on video anyway.

Mentos and Diet Cola Youtube Inspiration