Monthly Archives: February 2012

I Gotta Go Home and Be Weird for a While…


I keep trying to convince myself that I’m not crazy. I’m frequently depressed, often manic, and I talk to myself. I try stuff just to see if I can, even if it’s sometimes stupid. I’m reckless with my affections. I’m claustrophobic. I’m insecure. I’m impulsive. I’m paper-thin vulnerable. I’m closed-off. I’m fiercely affectionate. I’m confused when good doesn’t prevail. I don’t understand injustice. I’m intelligent, and yet frequently very, very stupid. I embarrass easily, but mostly I do it to myself. I’m allergic to bananas. I’m shy. I’m a loudmouth.

I have no middle ground. I see-saw between pollyanna optimism and the gaping black maw of despair. I’m always hopeful, but frequently just fucking hopeless.

I have fiercely close friends, who see the weird bits of me and aren’t scared. Sometimes I crawl away, and poke them off with sticks, but the good ones stay, or come back after years of neglect. I offer support to my friends, and my family, but I’m too proud to ask for it myself. The good ones know, even when I haven’t seen them for years. I claim to hate deceit, but I lie to myself all the time. Oddly enough, I don’t lie to other people, just to me. I hope; I fantasize; I live and sometimes I can’t tell the difference between it all.

I’ve never had a “normal” life. I wasn’t raised “normal”, I’ve never looked normal, and never felt normal. My dryer has a setting that says “normal”, and that’s probably as close as I’m going to get.

When I left work tonight, I said to my boss, “goodnight, I have to go home and be weird for a while”. She laughed, but it’s true. It’s like I’m some kind of backward superhero, Normal Civil Servant by day, Tortured Weirdo Freak by night. Sometimes it even leaks out around the edges a bit at work. The name of the blog is “she just ain’t right”, you know, which is how I feel I’m categorized at work. Beloved old hand, yes. Respected, yes. A good source of information and compassion, for sure. But…about a half a bubble off plumb.

People say “oh, you’ll like him, he’s weird/funny/odd”. And maybe he is, but usually he’s more garrotte-you-in-your-sleep weird, than delightfully whimsical. I don’t need someone else who’s weird. I need someone who’s stable and calm, or we’ll explode. Or implode. Or something.

But I don’t need a Robot Man, either. I need someone with some depth and imagination, some adventure.

Damn, I’ve done this twice now. I’ve fucking tried to make shit work, long-term, first with a weird guy, then with a straight-john dude. Neither worked. So, I’ve come to the conclusion that it actually is just me.



I like words. I like them a LOT. I like the way they sound, and the way they feel in my mouth. I like the way they convey subtle nuances of feeling, meaning and description.

I DISlike aggression, confrontation and deceit. I’m not crazy about ass-covering, or trying to throw other people under the bus, either. I’m pretty big on taking responsibility for your own fuckups. I’m huge on negotiation and dialogue as tools to get to the roots of problems.

Say what you mean, mean what you say, and cowboy up when you make a mistake. Everybody makes them. But don’t try to turn around and pin your own incompetence on someone else.

Because they just



Conversely, dear colleague, you could always bite me instead.

My own team in my home office is the best group of people with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of working. Truly, and not typed in “sarcasm font”. They are fantastic. We collaborate beautifully, and rely on each other’s strengths. We’ve been known to have each other review e-mails before sending them to ensure that the tone is respectful and appropriate. Today, a colleague counselled me not to respond to an e-mail today, while I was still in a pre-apopleptic state.

And that was very good advice indeed, because “read my goddamn note, you fuckwit” is just not very professional.

Thanks Joanne. I owe you one.

Random Update


Hi blog people. ‘sme. Remember me? Sure you do. I’m She Who Can’t Just Shut Up.

I’ve had a few things going on right now in my real nonblogging life. Just to summarize, I feel great. That is all.

The only other news is really good news about our Grace. The vet suspected she had either hyperthyroidism (which would require daily medication and monitoring) or diabetes (which would require daily insulin injections). Either way, it was tolerable, treatable, non-fatal news. However, I got the results from the bloodwork back, and what she REALLY has is – a food allergy. I’ve been feeding her the same food for ages, but apparently it can just happen, according to the vet.

So, all she needs is a course of prednisone (I’m not sure what that’s about, must ask) and a diet of hypo-allergenic food.

Really, it’s a best-case scenario. I’m pretty happy about it. So all you Grace-lovers out there, breath a sigh, she will be fine.


Amazing Grace


I think I have to do something very hard tonight, and I’m not looking forward to it.

Grace hasn’t been well for a long time. She’s lost a lot of weight over the last six months, and lately, she just doesn’t seem to be able to keep food down at all. She has just as much personality as ever, she’s vocal and purry, but she mostly just wants to cuddle up somewhere warm.

I think it came home for me a few weeks ago when I caught Muffy grooming her. Muffy and Grace are sisters (or half-sisters and first cousins, we’re not sure, they’re from Marmora), and they are sworn, mortal enemies. Most peculiar behaviour on Muffy’s part. I think she knows something’s up.

She’s sixteen years old. That’s a pretty good run for a cat.

Grace, or The Amazing Grace, is the best cat I’ve ever had. She is a friend to the friendless, a comforter, and a confidant. I love that cat.

I’ve talked to both the boys about it. We’re all pretty sad.

I don’t want her to suffer. She has moments of activity, where you can see sassy old Grace coming out, but mostly – she’s just not well at all.

We’re going to see what the vet says tonight, but I’m not getting my hopes up.

Were You Talkin’ to ME? No, I Was Talking to ME.


Along with all my other charming (and not-so-charming) eccentricities, I have always gotten great comfort and pleasure from talking to myself.

Sometimes I don’t even know I’m doing it. I’ll be driving one of my sons somewhere in the car, having a long conversation with someone else in my mind, not talking out loud, but making facial expressions and moving my lips and son will say “what the heck are you thinking?”. If I’m alone in the car, it’s absolutely out loud. Only Roy, my faithful elbow penguin, listens.

I find it helps me sort out difficult conversations, to try to imagine responses to awkward questions and to respond in kind. Sometimes it’s retrospective, and I’m saying all the things I wish I had said in a conversation I’ve already had.

When I was little, as I’ve mentioned before, I was the radio. I remember the first car we got with a radio, a Pontiac Acadian, and I was somebitch pissed about it. “WE don’t need a RADIO. I’M the radio!!!”

At a former workplace, I had quite a bit of conflict with a supervisor. I couldn’t really understand what the issue was, as I tried to speak respectfully to her. A co-worker (you know who you are, SS) told me it was because I didn’t have to tell her I thought she was daft, because it was written all over my face. Much as I tried to modify my speech and behaviour, you can’t hide your facial expressions. Or at least I can’t.

So, I talk to myself, often aloud, sometimes not. I talk to the cat constantly, poor thing. I talk to friends and family members, some alive, some not. If I’m really on a roll, I can make myself laugh. I have a tendency to call myself names, though. Note: Be nicer to self.

I can never anticipate all the responses in my imaginary conversations, but often I can suss out most of them, and I find it a useful tool.

So – slightly crazy broad who talks to herself, or Conversational Ninja? You decide.

Love in the 21st Century


I had a friend once (well, still do, I just don’t see her much), who was divorced, with two kids. She started seeing a guy who was also divorced, with two kids, one of whom had very special, high needs. That kid needed her dad. She didn’t need to share her dad with my friend’s kids, in fact, couldn’t. At the time, my friend and her guy needed each other. Neither was rich.

They came up with a very elegant solution. They bought a duplex together. Now, in the long run, it didn’t work out between them, but at the time, it suited everyone very well.

I’ve started thinking about different kinds of relationships. I was married once, a long time ago. We lived together, raised kids and had the proverbial “two cats in the yard”. Now, I’m not on this blog to slam anyone, so I’m not going to get into details of why it didn’t work out, but it didn’t. He was a lot older than me, and our energy levels were quite different. But I had that very domestic, nuclear family experience at one time, for over ten years. At the time, it was what I wanted, and it suited me.

After that ended, I ran into an old flame from my highschool days. We had a fantastic, sensual fairy-tale romance, that also lasted over ten years. But, cozy domesticity was not in the picture. It was a long-distance relationship, and it required a lot of time and travel. I thought he was the great romantic love-of-my-life, and for a time, he really was. I loved that man absolutely to distraction. Again, I’m not here to slam anyone. Needless to say, that also came to end. We had different needs, and different interests.

Both relationships were ended by me, but they were also mutual partings, and I think everyone was vastly relieved by the end.

Now, on the shy side of fifty, I consider myself to have a very rich life. My boys have grown into very fine men, I still have those same two cats, both quite elderly but in relatively good health. I don’t own a home anymore, but I live in a lovely townhouse, on the edge of a beautiful park. I have a challenging, fulfilling career. I don’t make bad money, either. I have my spinning, and knitting and my blog. I have many loyal, intelligent, interesting friends.

I’m a bit of an eccentric, to say the least. I hear my own drummer. I’ve taken charge of my health and I’m starting to feel really good about myself physically. I have more energy, and the arthritis in my knees has vastly improved. I’ve taken up singing again, just for myself, with the same guitar I had when I was thirteen. It’s wonderful.

Honestly, I’d just like to get laid once in a while. Relationships are complicated. I don’t know that I’m ready for one again, or if I’ll ever be ready. I’m pretty set in my ways, and particular about my surroundings. I’ve looked at online dating services and they are absolutely not for me. I feel like I’m trying to sell myself as some kind of meat product, maybe spam. There’s a lot of bitter, odd people out there, and they all seem very concerned with appearance. I’m not a bad looking broad for someone my age, but I’m just not into trying to pique someone’s interest on my appearance alone. It seems shallow, and I think it’s a little dangerous. I understand that “that’s how people meet nowadays”, but…no.

People make all kinds of arrangements, and there are all kinds of relationships. I need to start thinking outside the box.

Bra Stuff – Part II – REALLY TMI


So, I went for a professional bra fitting this afternoon.

If that makes you uncomfortable, read no further, because it’s about to get worse…

I found out that the reason my straps are always falling down is because I’ve been wearing bras that are a bigger band size with a C cup, which I thought I was.

Well, I’m quite amazed to find out that what I needed was not a bigger band, but a bigger cup size. Good lord, I’m an E! Excellent. Exceptional. Extremely bodacious.

The price of the hand-embroidered, French, gorgeous bra I chose – well, that’s a secret. It was a lot. It was my congratulations-to-me on losing fifty pounds. This is without a doubt the most expensive item of lingerie I have ever owned, and believe me, in my day, I have had some pretty swanky underoos.

Too bad I’m the only one who will see the damn thing. Ah, but I will know, I have top-notch underpinnings on, and I will feel fabulous!

Caution: May Contain TMI for BOYS – Bra Stuff


Okay, so I was chitchatting with Linda online this morning, and the topic of bra fittings came up.

I booked one for this afternoon.

Cue “Up Where We Belong”.

It’s kind of exciting. I’ve never had a fitting done. All I know is, I’ve lost so much weight lately that things are just not fitting right, and I’m tired of pulling my straps up.

I don’t know how I really feel about bras. It’s definitely a feminist issue (unless you count Kramer’s “Bro” and the “Man-Zeer”). I don’t really *like* wearing them, but gravity dictates that I really should. I’ve never actually burnt one. I’ve been poked by underwires, and my usual battle-cry when I get home after work is “Free the Peterborough Two”. I’ve had some really nice, pretty bras, and some utilitarian workhorses; I’ve had sports bras, and pushup bras.

Never really needed a padded bra, though… 😉

The Catharsis Rag


I used to sing a lot.

I used sing with the guitar club in highschool, with the United Church choir, with the Cellar Singers chamber choir, at coffee houses at the Garden Cafe. I sang with Frieda in university, mostly at shitty bars. We played Larry’s Hideaway once, before it burnt down. She’s a kickass blues singer (insert plug for her new band Fried Angels here, catch her in Toronto, she’s absolutely fantastic). I was her Garfunkle, briefly.

I’m not a terribly good singer. I’m a bit shy about it. I sing best when I’m alone, really. I rock the shower. And I’m a lousy guitarist.

When I ended my marriage in 1999, I went and got new strings for my guitar. I found a little sticky note I had put in my case, indicating that I last bought new strings in 1987. See, my ex-husband was an excellent musician, had played semi-professionally for many years.

My last partner – same. Also, an excellent musician.

So, I didn’t play. I was embarrassed to play in front of them, because I truly do suck. And no one ever knew any songs I liked to sing.

So I stopped. I’m not dating any more musicians. Period.

Then, for a few years, I smoked really heavily, and I physically COULDN’T sing without coughing. I sounded raspy and horrible. Not sexy, bluesy raspy, just shitty.

I’ve had songs running through my head. I’ve been going to church, and singing there.

And you know what?

I love to sing. I don’t really care if I suck. Growing up, through highschool, singing my heart out in my room got me through a lot of really bad shit.

And now, I’m single again, and I want to just sing everything that’s bottled up inside me out, to wail out all the pain and all the joy I ever felt.

It’s incredibly cathartic. Ask any five year old “can you sing?” They will invariably say “sure”. But ask an adult, and most people will say “no”.

Fuck it! Of course you can sing. You can walk, you can talk, you can sing.

If for no other reason that because Amanda Palmer says so, that’s why.

Thank You, Captain Obvious


Today was a great day.

I am so fortunate to have the colleagues I have now. Instead of throwing each other under moving buses, we support each other and collaborate.

I had a crap day yesterday. I lost sight of the goodness of life for a minute. Today, I feel like there’s still hope and that for all the jerks who have come and gone, there’s many more people who have been steadfast and kind.

I still don’t forgive or forget, and it’s probably not something I’ll learn anytime soon. But, maybe I can just bleep out the bad bits and concentrate on the good.

Yeah. That’s it. It’s better that way,