The Wonderful Thing About Tiggers

There’s a freedom to being single that I’m really enjoying, and that’s not just me making the best of sour grapes. I chose this path myself, you will recall, it was not chosen for me.  I’ve spent too long letting people choose for me, waiting to be chosen, waiting to be kept or discarded, loved or lost.  When you’re not conventionally beautiful, that’s your lot in life, unless you’ve got a lot more balls than I ever had.  Every relationship I’ve had in my life I have sought out, pursued.  I don’t think I’ve ever been asked out on a date in my life.  On the other hand, I’ve very rarely been turned down, either.  It’s not sad, it’s just my reality.

It’s mentally liberating, this singleness.  My body is – my own.  No one who matters to me is judging my shape.  Only a lover can do that, or people who don’t matter. As a result, I am looking after it, because it is mine and for me alone.  There’s a luxurious selfishness about this new state.  I have a confidence that I have never had, because the only one allowed to judge right now, the only one who matters, is me.  And I am infinitely fair and patient with myself.  I’m my favourite.

I don’t have to tailor my conversation to anyone else’s interests.  I don’t have to dumb anything down.  I don’t have to be demure and prudish.  I can be witty and sharp and insightful.  I can seek out and talk with whosoever I please about anything I care to discuss.  I can flirt shamelessly, without guilt or consequences.  I feel magnetic and attractive, because I have no agenda to which to conform.  Impunity, I have in spades.

I dance to no one’s piper, play by no one else’s rules.  I don’t have to worry about offending or hurting inlaws or outlaws (and I assume you know the difference, there’s a joke hidden in there). I’m not concerned with being hurt, being shoved aside, not being a priority – being pushed into convenient corners of someone else’s life.

It’s my life now, my own, and I’m a freakin’ superstar.  I love life today like I never have.  And in loving myself, I have more compassion for the rest of humanity as well.

Namaste.

The Hammer and Why I Love It

I’m in Hamilton at my brother’s, and have had a damn near perfect day after last night’s very fun, clever and energetic Stitchapalooza night.

Slept in till about 8:30.  Came downstairs, made coffee.  Drank coffee, watched cartoons with the kids and knit.  Got dressed.  Petra and I went around the corner to Zarky’s and got a dozen chocolate croissants.  They were right out of the oven, we got to watch the baker drizzle them with chocolate and sprinkle them with icing sugar.  12 beautiful sexy croissants we got, and change from a ten dollar bill.

Went home.  Ate croissants, watched more cartoons, drank more coffee.  Phillip and I wrote and illustrated books.  Mine is called “Mister Story”, and Phillip’s is “Captain Spippel 3” (although I’m not sure what happened to Captain Spippel 1 and 2).  They are brilliant and sure to be on the New York Times bestseller list quite soon.  Then we wrassled a bit until Phillip nearly put an eye out on my underwire.  I conquered him with my adamantium belt buckle, though.

I drank coffee and knit with my sister-in-law, the very lovely Cathy, then we had lunch of mac ‘n cheese, hot dogs, and a veggie tray with veggies from their own gardens. 

When Tim got home from his meetings, Cathy and I went to the yarn store in Ancaster and fondled and purchased yarn.  Then we came home, and I taught the kids that game where you draw a head, fold your paper and pass it along, draw a body, fold your paper and pass it along, and then draw legs.  When the paper is unfolded, you get a silly crazy creature.  Simon seemed to particularly enjoy it.

I had a glass of wine, and then the kids had some quiet time watching Scooby Doo Laff-A-Lympics while I had a little nap.

My bro made beautiful schnitzel for dinner, and then we all played Blockus until it was time for the littluns to go to bed.  Cathy’s up there now, tucking people in.  Tim’s watching a movie.  I’m blogging.  Tomorrow I’m going to church.

Life is pretty good, really.

Doormat

I play by (most) of the rules.  I try to see both sides of an argument.  I try to realize that sometimes, s**t just happens, “due to circumstances beyond our control”.  I try to be kind and treat people in the manner in which I’d like to be treated.

I would just like to say, though, that I am really tired of being crapped on just because people know I won’t make a fuss.  It make SENSE to reschedule the person who won’t make a fuss, rather than the person who will go all apes**t on your head.  It makes your life easier.

But it doesn’t make MY life easier, see?  I’m the one who’s being nice, being rational, being understanding.  And I get shuffled around, tucked into corners where it’s convenient for you.  The person who’s loud, obnoxious and demanding gets what they need, right away, yes sir, yes ma’am.

I’m talking about an incident with my trainer at the gym, but this applies to so many other areas of my life.  I’ve become a doormat.  It destroyed my love life, it affected my academic life, it keeps me back in my career, and I’m really tired of it.  So, how can I learn to be more assertive without being an aggressive, raging monster?  That is today’s question.  How do you get what you need without being a bitch about it?

Stuff

Welcome to Blogging As An Excuse Not to Get Out of Bed.  I’m your host.

Today, I’m going to the Peterborough Pride Parade with friends Linda and Patti.  I bought awesome orange shoes for the occasion.  Also, I am making guacamole for the post-parade BBQ, cuz I’m awesome like that, and the avocados are at their peak.

Tomorrow, I really have to clean up this joint.  Strip the beds, wash sheets, vacuum, clean the bathroom.  Once Thing Two moves out of here next year, I’m paring down, sorting out, discarding.  I have too much stuff.  I’m tired of stuff.  Stuff gets in my way.  I have stuff in boxes that I haven’t even seen in years.  I have other people’s stuff.  I have tired old dusty dirty stuff.

I lived with someone who had a stuff obsession.  Every square inch of wall space, every bit of floor – stuff.  It was overwhelming, depressing, a great weight.  Later, I watched someone I loved drowning in stuff.  I don’t want to be one of those guys.  And when I die, all that stuff?  It just becomes junk that someone else has to sift sadly though, and discard.

The stuff I want is the beautiful stuff, the useful stuff, the meaningful stuff.  All that other stuff needs to get out of my life.

I’ll Let You Fold the Folding Chair

I had a rough night.  I had a phone conversation last night with a family member who was distraught and in despair.  They were overwhelmed by the problems in their life.  I just want to make it better, but there’s some stuff I just can’t fix, and it hurts that I can’t stop their suffering.  I turned it over and over in my mind all night.  I’m going to do everything I can, but it’s not enough.

Someone commented on my facebook last night that was having a bit of a JC moment, wanting to save everyone, and despairing because I can’t.  Was I?  Maybe I was, small scale.  I don’t take myself too seriously, but I’m a worrier.  I don’t think any normal person likes to see suffering, a rational reaction is to try to stop it, isn’t it?  That’s why charities show us the suffering of those they support, so we’re moved by their plight, hopefully enough to try to help.

I wouldn’t want to be someone who isn’t moved by suffering.  Actually, I think they’re called “sociopaths”.  I do think, though, that it would be easier if I were a little more thick-skinned.  In observing the suffering of others, we take a little of it into our minds.  I find it overwhelming sometimes.  I never want to say “I don’t care”, because I do care, but sometimes I wish I cared a little less.

Does that make sense?  I’m depressed.

First Grade

While I wait for my gym clothes to dry, so I can go to BED, so I can get up tomorrow and start my wonderful frickin’ life All Over AGAIN ( I have some colleagues to whom I need to apologize for my tone during a phone conference today – I was overcome by righteous indignation at a potential violation of civil liberties – so sue me…) – well, I’m going to tell you about my very first day in Grade One.

When I was a little bitty Lynne, back in 1968, I started kindergarten.  I was a Morning Kid.  We had three classes, morning, mid-day and afternoon.  Mrs. Lidstone taught all three, with her superhero sidekick, Miss Dinner.  We went every day, for a few hours each day.  It suited me just fine, I loved kindergarten a lot. 

And then came Grade One.

We only had one car back in the day, poppets, and my dad used to take it to get to work out at Milford Bay Senior Public School, so my mum walked me to school the first day.  Later on, my older brother walked me, because mum stayed home with Tim (he was such a baby back in ’69…).  But that first day, mum took me.

I did not like Mrs. Ballantine in grade one.  I had her again in grade five, and she remains to this day one of my very favourite teachers of all time, but in grade one – uh uh. 

Recall that in kindergarten, back in the day, we were only there a couple of hours.  We didn’t have recess. 

So, after a stern, rigid, confusing morning, Mrs. Ballantine lined us up at the door, short to tall (so yay, I always got to leave LAST, unless it was alphabetically by surname, and then there was usually some kid with a W behind me) and told us we could go.

It would have been REALLY HELPFUL if she had told us we had to come BACK.  Yup.  When recess came, I went home.  I walked.  A mile.  By myself.  Maybe she did tell us, and I wasn’t listening.  I don’t know.  My parents had my hearing tested when I was little, but it turns out I had perfect hearing, but not such great listening.

Boy was mum surprised!

Fortunately, our neighbour, Mr. McFarlane, came home from his work at Fowler’s Construction for lunch every day, and my mum got him to drive me back to school.  The Drive of SHAME.  I was so goddamned embarrassed, I’m still squirming just thinking about it.

Fuck grade one.

At the Movies

I just lost a whole post about why I liked “Maverick” with Mel Gibson and Jodie Foster.  I’m pissed.  It was a good piece.  I’m going to try to recreate, but it won’t be the same.

While at the cottage recently, we watched “Maverick”, with Mel Gibson, Jodie Foster and James Garner.  It’s not a gritty, realistic western.  I get enough gritty realism in real life.  It’s a fluffy western comedy. 

Remember Cat Ballou, with Nat King Cole wandering around as a Greek chorus, and Lee Marvin drunk and upside down on a horse?  That’s my kind of western.  Maverick is from a time when Mel Gibson was handsome and charming, and hadn’t yet come out as a mysogenistic racist.  James Garner, although much older than Gibson, remains much more handsome and charming in my estimation.  And Jodie Foster?  Well, she is one of about five women in the world for whom I’d happily change teams.  All three played beautifully off each other.  They all have a natural comedic bent, and were just delightful.

One thing I loved about this movie is that my Dad would like it.  I’m going to pass the DVD on to him next time I see him.  Dad likes Gunsmoke, Bonanza and Zane Grey novels.  I thought about him all the way through this, which was a nice comfortable feeling.

But the main attraction for me was the costumes.  OMG, the costumes.  That’s the theatre student in me coming out.  Maverick’s dandified white shirts and brocade vests, Ms. Foster’s fantastical decolletage and lace parasols, riverboat gamblers and Russian counts;  the costumes were sublime.  Perhaps it isn’t a good sign for a movie when the costumes outshine all other elements. 

You know, this is why I’m not a movie reviewer.  The movies I like, I tend to like for  odd reasons, and they’re certainly not everyone’s cup of tea.  If I don’t like a movie, I’m not interested in talking about it, so every movie review I wrote would be a good review.