Healing the scars

It’s been almost a year since I got out.

Interestingly enough, I haven’t thought much of that job in the last eleven months. In passing, here and there maybe. Usually accompanied by cold shutter and a scorching pain while my mind works overtime to push out the memories. I haven’t even been able to write about it until now.

It was this time last year that I accepted my current job and knew that I would eventually be free. Free!

I totally relate to those two journalists that were held captive in a North Korean work camp until Bill Clinton saved them. I was probably happier to escape than they were. I should email them to see if they would be into starting a support group or something.

I only have six more months to figure out how to get on Oprah after all.

Looking back now I realize my behavior during that last month when I had given my notice, but still technically worked there, was maybe a wee bit inappropriate.

I regularly left at 3:00 in the afternoon to go drinking. And told them I was leaving to go drinking.

For the obligatory $10 staff mystery gift exchange I wrapped up a photo of myself in a $10 picture frame and signed it “Merry Fucking Christmas”

Seriously – I’m not even making that up.

My coworkers were cool though. I consider them more ‘war buddies’ than ex-coworkers. No one who hasn’t experienced what we went through it could ever really get it.

The admin assistant was a scrappy chain smoker who is a dead ringer for Flo from the old TV show Alice. I totally regret not getting her to say, “Kiss my grits!” even once while I was there.

The Director was probably the most abused, and I’m pretty sure she has PTSD now. She stopped working there about six months ago and now just stays home, bakes bread and drinks.

The Community Investment Coordinator swore more than anyone I have ever met in my entire life. She could work the word ‘fuck’ into every sentence she uttered. Hearing her speak was a masterful arrangement of vulgarity at its finest.

I’ve been thinking about that brief period in my life a lot lately. I believe it is because I am far enough away from it now to appreciate the lessons I learned from my nine months at the worst job ever.

Only really glamorous skinny people can pull off dressing like they are in an episode of Sex and the City. When I do it, I look like an asshole. And I have to change into regular shoes after about an hour. Tops.

When one person is the world’s most colossal bitch complete with a massive inferiority complex, a drinking problem and a grudge to settle…. it makes it impossible to foster positive working relationships.

Yoga pants are not a good wardrobe choice for a professional meeting. Nobody with camel toe is ever taken seriously.

And I will never, ever, ever, EVER work there again.

EVER.

I hear it's big in the UK

Don't you just hate it when you log-on all excited to read your favorite bloggers most recent post but then it turns out to be some bullshit 'guest' blogger? Yeah, me too.

Maybe I could just wall paper it with giant Post-its?

Post-it notes are pretty much the best invention ever. Romy and Michelle were totally right to try and rip those off, because they rule. Do you know they have super big flip chart size ones now? That you can write on and they just stick to the wall? So you don’t have to fuck around with all that tape or sticky blue shit that ruins the wall you are trying to stick it on? They are awesome. And really helpful because I’m getting too old to throw down with hotel managers when my tape damages the ugly wallpaper in rented boardrooms.

Politica and her little ones come for a visit on Thursday and will be here for the whole weekend! Her hubby is taking a pass though. Something about me having an uncomfortable pull-out and him not wanting to be drunk all weekend. I blame the poor PR he has obviously experienced about my fair province's hospitality on the Saskatchewan pavilion at the Olympics. The entire pavilion consisted of a mural of a wheat field you could pose in front of for a picture……. and a huge bar. You’d think “have some toast and get your drink on” was our provincial slogan.

I am really concerned about how invested I am in Lindsay Lohan. I really want her to go to jail and stay there. It ruins my whole day when they let her out, and I honestly can’t figure out why I give a shit.

I think I have finally made the decision to redo my bedroom. The current décor is so heinous the word heinous doesn’t even come close to describing it. It's a cross between a six year-old girl's playroom and the tent that whack job kept Jaycee Dugard in for 18 years. The bed frame was so old and broken I finally just threw it out and now my bed just sits directly on the floor. We are still using the same dressers goodwill donated to us when we first got married and were so broke we made our kids take turns eating cereal using the same milk.

And the walls….oh god. I am having a hard time admitting this to the internet.

Okay…the walls are sponge painted baby blue and baby pink. As in, take a sponge, dunk it in pink paint and blop blop blop over EVERY wall. Take blue paint, repeat.

This room is SO bad that most people when they first see it offer to come over to help me paint it. Like, that weekend. And no, I have no idea why I haven’t addressed this earlier. It was like this when we bought the house FIVE years ago. But, a new day is dawning and I am going to redecorate the SHIT out of that room. Please forward any design inspirations. I need them. I’m actually not that creative.

But I can link up to a website like nobody’s business, so go on and visit Keely.

Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, Blossom.

I have stumbled across quite a few birth stories around these parts of late. Not to mention hearing about totally and completely insane things like this:

"There are those among us who believe that if the baby can't survive a home labor, it is OK for it to pass peacefully," she writes. "I do not subscribe to this, but I know that some feel that … if a baby cannot make it through birth, it is not favored evolutionarily."

That quote is from the woman who played Blossom on that sitcom......Blossom. Myiam Blachic. Okay, I'm pretty sure that is not how you say or spell her name, but I already looked up the quote and I'm too lazy to go back and look up her name. You know who I'm talking about - that chick who wore all the hats and had that brother who would randomly appear in scenes to say, "Whoa!"

She fancies herself a 'holistic mom' now. And clearly needs a new group of friends.

Are you shitting me with that quote? Those people shouldn’t be allowed to be parents. Period.

“Hi baby! I’m your mom. Nice to finally meet you. I hope you’re feeling okay, because if it looks like you might need some medical intervention I’m not going to give you any. I’m just going to stand by and watch you die.

Yeah, I know it’s a drag, but my massive inferiority complex has made me wrap my entire identity up in this insane doctrine that states in order to be a real woman I need to have a successful home birth. And unfortunately for you, logic and reason haven’t knocked on my door in an extremely long time.”

I think those people are from the radical fundamentalist sect that sprung from all the moms who gave me those looks of utter contempt when they would see me bottle feeding one of my babies.

But here is the thing. I desperately wanted to have a midwife instead of a doctor, but that option wasn’t available to me. I live in a province that only has one option for birthing children, and that’s the hospital and a doctor.

I desperately wanted to breastfeed, but try as I might, no matter how many tips I tried, classes I went to, lactation consultants I hired or herbs I took, I just simply did not produce enough breast milk to feed my babies. Even though I had three healthy pregnancies that produced three healthy children, I felt like a complete failure as a mother because I was physiologically unable to feed them.

My feeling of utter failure was fueled by people who would say ridiculous things to me like, “All women produce enough milk to breastfeed twins or triplets” (read: you are not trying very hard) or “You aren’t eating enough healthy food or drinking enough water and milk” (read: you don’t care about yourself or your baby).

My feeling of utter failure got so bad that each time I had to reach for that bottle I launched into why I am bottle-feeding, including my entire family history (I later discovered that my grandmother couldn’t breastfeed either), all the different diets I have tried, the herbs I’ve taken, the lactation consultants I have hired…..the whole nine yards.

In reality, I was just SO worried about people judging me for not breastfeeding because I didn’t want them to think I was uneducated or unconcerned about the health of my baby.

I have been accused of being….uh…outspoken from time to time, so I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who think I’m a crazy bitch. And mostly, I’m okay with that. In fact, I don’t really mind having a crazy bitch alter ego I can trot out whenever I cross paths with someone who is just begging for a verbal smack-down.

But when a certain tribe of people, the ones who believe in home births, and midwives and breastfeeding and parenting their kids without all the trappings of technology and intervention, look at me with scorn when they see me walking by with that bottle sticking out of my diaper bag, it really hurts my feelings. And it hurts my feelings because in reality, I just wanted to be one of them.

Which brings me back to my original point. Those dipshits who sit back and watch their babies die because they couldn’t bring themselves to cross the imaginary picket line full of women who don’t want to have a doctor intervene when it’s NOT necessary, are really just scared of feeling like they won’t belong to the real-moms club so they refuse their babies medical intervention when it IS necessary.

Which is really just making it harder on the rest of us women. THOSE are the people doctors point to and say,

See? Women can’t possibly be trusted to have their babies without us! They are deluded, irrational creatures that serve no purpose during the birth process other than to shut-up and spread ‘em. WE know better. Not women, and certainly not midwives.

And now we don’t have the best of any world. Women have been told repeatedly that home births are dangerous, midwives are unqualified, and trust me, Dear, you really want a doctor and access to emergency equipment at the hospital. You shouldn't listen to your own insticts. They are wrong.

And as a result many women (including myself) are left with horrific birth stories about doctors jamming unwanted IV’s into our arms, pumping us full of drugs we didn’t ask for, slicing up our lady parts when it’s just taking way too long for the baby to come out, or using machines to pull or suction our babies out of our bodies. And when all that doesn’t work? They slice our abdomens open and drag our babies out while we lay with gapping intestines on an operating table.

But guess what? There is a LOT of room between all that and letting your baby die on your living room floor because you are too proud to go to the hospital. Which, by the way, makes you a total fucking idiot who should be in prison.

The best thing anyone said to me when I was having so much trouble breastfeeding came from Politica, who happens to be a championship level breastfeeder. After talking to her endlessly about all the different ways I’ve tried to get my milk to produce she said, “Huh. Well, I guess it’s just not part of your biology”.

It was the ‘He’s just not that into you’ equivalent revelation to breastfeeding. Freeing, in fact. I wasn’t a total failure as a woman; my body just doesn’t produce breast milk!

So, to all of you expectant mothers….here is my gift to you.

Have your baby in whatever way feels right to you. Use a doctor, use a midwife, go to the hospital, stay at home.
Use drugs, stay unmediated, lie down or squat. Totally your call.

If some fuckhead doctor is doing something you don’t want or like, you are allowed to tell him to FUCK OFF.

If some patchouli smelling hippy chick in desperate need of an eyebrow wax starts giving you shit about giving birth in a hospital or using a doctor, you are allowed to tell her to FUCK OFF.

If you choose to bottlefeed, either by desire or necessity, you feel free to go right ahead and make that choice. It is yours alone to make.

I am officially leading the charge to stop judging one another. It’s not a contest, no one is right or wrong. Each individual woman knows best about what is right for her and her baby. Period.

Other than Blossom’s friends. They are still total fucking retards.

I think Naomi Campbell and Mia Farrow have somehting to do with that whole thing now too, right?

I have a nine year old son named Jake. A few of you may know that already, but...hey. I'm not exactly Dooce so I figured a bit of a backgrounder might be in order.

Jake loves science, long bike rides around the block and hasn't hugged or kissed anyone voluntarily in almost seven years. I have to bribe him, usually with candy, if I want some affection out of this kid.

100% of the time.

Me: Hey Jake – you know my birthday is coming up next month, right?

No, I didn’t know that.

Me: Well, it is. Have you thought about what you’re going to get me?

No.

Me: It’s a good thing I told you it’s coming up then, right?

Yeah. I guess.

Me: I have some ideas about what you could get me!

Okay. What?

Me: I’d like some love please. Say….three kisses and five hugs.

NO WAY!

Me: Okay, fine. Then I want a puppy. Or diamonds. Yeah, I think that’s it. Love, puppy or diamonds. Your call.

Dad won’t let me get you a puppy in a million years.

Me: So, diamonds then?

Okay. I’ll go to Dollarama.

Me: I don’t think they sell diamonds at Dollarama. And even if they did, they probably wouldn’t be conflict free diamonds, and that is really important to me.

What is conflict free diamonds?

Me: I’m not sure, exactly, but I know they have something to do with war and bad people. And Leonardo Dicaprio.

Who is Leonardo Dicaprio?

Me: That guy from the Titanic movie who dates super models.

If he is in movies he can buy all the diamonds and it doesn’t even matter.

Me: That’s true. He is in a position to be picky about his diamond purchases. You, not so much.

I think you are too old for birthdays now anyway.

Me: I know! That’s why I asked for love. Only old ladies ask for hugs and kisses for their birthday.

I’m still going to Dollarama.

I can hardly wait until they grow up and I can go crazy old lady on their ass

This week’s RTT is dedicated to my children and all the random shit they have destroyed in my house.

Here's the thing...they look really sweet and innocent – like kittens or those Mormon girls in the jean skirts. But in reality, I’m pretty sure my kids are minions of satan. Or this Not Me person whose singular focus is destruction. He probably has all three of them on retainer.

In no particular order -

1. The desktop computer – I do hold another minion of satan, the Disney Corporation, partially responsible for this one too. Every website they peddle has some kind of downloadable bullshit attached to it, and they use their mind-control techniques to force my children to download EVERYTHING they offer. And now every time I boot up, some cartoon princess pops up and tells me I need to be a good friend. Fuck you, Ariel. Like I want advice from some human-fish hybrid with daddy issues whose best friend is a lobster.

2. The keyboard – Not Me left the desk lamp on all night. This wouldn’t be a huge problem if it wasn’t also pulled down so close to the keyboard it melted all the keys left of 2WSX. My oldest explains it away by saying not having access to certain keys is just making her more creative and expanding her vocabulary.

3. The mouse and mouse pad – GUM . That’s all I have to say about that.

4. All of the lids to my pots – They have proved to be a solid stand-in when Not Me can’t find his Millennium Falcon. Or when more than one kid wants to be the drummer while playing ‘Rock Band’.

5. My COUCH. Yeah, you read that right. My oldest decided to straighten her hair in the living room while watching TV and left the straightener resting on the arm of the couch until it caught on FIRE. Good thing she’s pretty.

6. The light fixture above the kitchen table – Ohhhh….that one really hurt. It was a beautiful glass shade that was really big and fit the look of the kitchen perfectly. J was standing on the table waiting to pounce on one of the other minions and smashed it to bits with her head on the way down. And no, she wasn’t even hurt. I loved that shade. She didn’t even end up with a stitch or two.

I'm pretty sure when people first come to my house they feel like they just stepped into the ‘say hallo to my little friend’ scene from Scarface.

But without the giant mounds of cocaine and the awesome soundtrack.

Although sometimes I do like to wear my hair feathered like Michelle Pfieffer and call people ‘Mang’.

I think this post is over now.

Go see Keely.

I love that liquor is so cheap in America

This July marked my in-law’s 50th wedding anniversary. The fact they have managed to hang in there for that long together without ever once having yellow police tape surrounding their house is impressive to me.

They decided to celebrate by having the whole family join them on their dream holiday.

To the Mall of America.

I’ve only been married for sixteen years, but if by some miracle we manage to make it to the 50 year mark, Minnesota is probably not going to be our celebratory destination of choice.

Nothing against Minnesotaians; they are our American doppelgangers who know exactly why we have a plug dangling out of the front of our cars and have transitioned ‘eh’ into the popular lexicon in the way god intended.

But the Mall of America? For the golden annivesary? After 50 years of marriage you’d think my in-laws would want to up their game a little.

However, I figure an anniversary of that magnitude buys the right to boss everyone around so I just rolled with the punches.

The punches being a 14-hour drive with three children.

Here is the problem - my husband has five siblings and NONE of them have small children. They either have teenagers, young adults or no children at all. So when they plan group events they don’t take into consideration stuff like asking our kids to sit next to each other quietly for the entire waking day is kinda like asking Hamas to lead the campfire sing-a-long at Hebrew camp.

I addressed this situation by buying enough candy to lull them into a diabetic coma and purchasing so much liquor at the duty-free store I was able to build a booze tower between the kids so impressive they couldn’t see or touch each other for the majority of the trip.

And all that liquor came in handy as a week with the extended family was a pretty tall order. Some of the highlights:

- My brother-in-law telling racist and homophobic jokes in public places to the horror of servers and patrons alike. I started writing little notes on slips of paper I could pass to random strangers that read, “I have nothing to do with this guy – I just married into this family and am being held hostage by tradition and obligation to my mother-in-law. She’s actually pretty nice. She makes cabbage rolls and plays the pan flute”

- Staying in a hotel that served gravy for breakfast and smelled like chlorine and old lady.

- My father-in-law barking at my 70 year-old MIL after she fell on the steps coming into the hotel - “If you think you need to go to the hospital, get in the car and drive straight to Canada”. Which, by the way, is a six hour drive from Minneapolis. NICE. You’d think someone THAT cheap would have sprung for travel insurance.

- Paying $9.00 for a slurpee at Valley Fair

Alright, it wasn’t all bad. We did get to meet up with my BFF from Winnipeg who just so happened to be passing through. We had lunch at a Burger King attached to gas station in some small town I can't remember the name of now. I had a Whopper Jr. with cheese.

And I discovered I'm not too fat to ride a roller coaster. That was good news.

But not even ONE time did we run into Prince. I spent all that time practicing my interpretive dance version of 'Raspberry Beret' for nothing.