I’m pissy today, so pizza boy, look out.

Why is it that when one finds a pizza place where the pizza is worth eating, and not excessively priced, the order taker is a complete, blithering idiot?

Twice now she’s fucked shit up in three orders. The first time I ordered there, she misheard the address, then accused me of giving her the wrong one. (Because I get confused about my address all the freaking time) This then went on to the delivery guy not being told it was debit, going back for it, coming back, having no paper in the machine, and coming back again, all the while blathering on and on about how he was quitting and SCREW THEM! and how he’d worked 90 hours that week, not including his other job.

I on the other hand, only walked to work uphill both ways.

Last night, I got home craving some pizza. I hadn’t had anytime to each lunch I was so busy (which will likely be repeated today) so I asked my father if we could order some. Easy enough I thought. Since we hadn’t had a chance to dig out the driveway, I clearly stated “Have him come up to the FRONT door since the driveway is NOT plowed.”

That’s clarity, right? I mean, I’m no speaking in tongues or in Arabic or some other language, like possibly english that people don’t always understand around here?

Lo and behold, he appears at the back door, looking rightfully pissed off. I state my shock at him being there, and he gets all accusatory and says I’m lucky that he delivered, since they aren’t supposed to when the driveway isn’t plowed.

Uh, dude? That’s why I told the chick the FRONT DOOR, you know, the place without any snow in front of it.

What really pisses me off is that the guy copped an attitude with me-this attitude seems to be systemic for this company, and at this point, the quality of the pizza isn’t enough for me to deal with their fucking idiocies. I mean honestly-take the order, make the food, deliver it according to the instructions. This is not rocket science. Even someone with a Grade 8 education should be able to figure this out.

I seriously don’t get what is up with some businesses around here, acting like I should consider myself lucky for gracing them with my money. Generally speaking, it’s the other way around.

Ticket to Ride

 We decided to go check out all the old cars at the car show yesterday (Atlantic Nationals). AWESOME. As someone who sorta has always dreamed of rebuilding a car, it’s cool to see some of these. And odd to think that my father remembers when all of them were new cars. So much more character than today’s sedans. And there was a very very sweet looking Shelby just sitting there…le sigh…

 

At least Vivian is inheriting my love for flames. The best was the car painted black with SPARKLES in the paint. I want that car. Vivian really liked the one that was completely hot pink. It was a bit much for me.

 

 While walking, we met Chico. I feel very very sorry for Chico, I really do.

 Then came the waiting for the bus. As much as I love to not have a car, the transit system in this city would make even a diehard dirty hippie wish for a car. They are never on time. If they would just change the schedules to match…

 It ended up that we had missed the one we needed, so we went for an extra long ride. Both little ladies nodded off. Rosalyn did so in a slightly more ladylike manner.

And Mommy got a sunburn. Good times. But hey! The sun is out!

 

 

I love the Bookstore.

Is it worse…

to BE a pompous, annoying university students blathering on and on about “omg I so couldn’t translate poetry-can you imagine!”

OR

to stand NEXT to pompous, annoying university students (PAUS) blathering on and on about “omg I so couln’t translate poetry-can you imagine!” who cannot seem to get it into their heads that since I’ve been standing in front of the section next to them for a good ten minutes, that they should move on. It’s two shelves. You aren’t buying anything. I’m sure you’ve scanned all the books. And most instore additions of classic novels are around 10.00 you twits. It’s not exciting.

And just admit that you don’t like James Joyce PAUS. Many of us don’t. It’s not impressive to fake enjoyment of something so inherently painful. (D.H. Lawrence on the other hand, is something you should read you little whiny PAUS.)

Oh, and eye rolling 16 year old muffin topped girl ignoring her whiny emo boyfriend while flipping through and blocking the cultural studies section. Just break up with him and MOVE you little twit! You aren’t even reading the books! Stop touching them! You might break the spines!

Whiny emo boy, she isn’t going to put out. Move along.

sigh….

If anything will depress you, this should.

From Wednesday afternoon to Thursday afternoon we expect : close to 10 cm of snow and 20-30 mm of rain.

I shit you not. It’s May 16, and they are forecasting SNOW.

I hate this place more and more every single day.

Memo to Winter: FUCK OFF

Le Sigh….

SNOWFALL AMOUNTS RANGING FROM 15 TO 25 CENTIMETRES IS EXPECTED TODAY AND TONIGHT. THIS IS A WARNING THAT SIGNIFICANT SNOWFALL IS EXPECTED IN THESE REGIONS. MONITOR WEATHER CONDITIONS..LISTEN FOR UPDATED STATEMENTS.

Saturday Morning, The Armpit

Rosalyn is stealing all the blueberries from my granola and yogurt. Which is fine, since it’s my least favorite part. She won’t part from her winter coat-yet again, she’s slept in it, and there’s now an assortment of maple syrup, yogurt and I don’t know what covering it. I’ve already washed this coat twice this week. I hate nothing more than a dirty coat on a kid. Call it a peeve, or some sort of snobbish class thing, I don’t know, but I hate the look of it.

Rosalyn finds the wizard hat, and picks through her pant drawer wearing it. Odds are, she won’t wear pants today.

Vivian takes her pull up off, examines it, exclaims “I farted in my pull up!” and needs  reminding that pull ups aren’t science projects. She runs on her tip toes into the kitchen, tosses it in the wet garbage, thumps her way back to put on her jeans. She won’t change her shirt. Last week she hated this particular shirt. Today, she won’t be parted from it. Her hands are dirty, so like a big kid, she pulls a chair up to the sink to wash them.

Rosalyn pulls a chair up as well. I’m sure a mess will start any moment. So long as it doesn’t involve toothpaste, I’m fine with it.

Someone’s plowing their driveway in the spring like sunshine. It’s almost here, and you can taste it-the warm air coming, shorts, beer on the deck. One last winter blast, one last reminder of how crappy and cold and wet winter can be. It’s all uphill from here.

The paper boy will need to trudge through the snow. I won’t be out before him to shovel. I watch the sun through the windows as Vivian plays a symphony on spoons.

Never Again

The farmer’s market is a fun place, right? Yummy food, cool homemade stuff, paintings, juices, all those things that people want in life.

However, farmers markets are zero fun when you have a preschooler and a toddler in tow, both who only got around 8 hours sleep instead of 12 last night. The day degenerated into two screaming kids waiting for a bus in the wind, and their mother joining in until it sounded something like

“WAH!”

“wahsnufflfewah!”

“BLARGH!”

It didn’t stop either one of them from crying, but it made me feel better.

What kind of city scheduales all the buses to arrive at the same time? I mean really-what good is there in having no bus for 30 mins, and then three at once? I just don’t really get that, especially while holding 30 points of snivelling snotty Rosalyn.

On a good note, someone at the market is finally selling yummy spicy samosas AND pakorahs, so my belly is happy, and I got both Vivian and Rosalyn a nice necklace each. We stopped at McDicks for a treat, since they both needed food. Then got suckered into yet another Nemo toy and book, while Poppi got Vivian “Land Before Time”

Incidentally I had forgotten all about how Little Foot’s mother dies, and so now I sit watching Vivian, hoping she won’t start crying like she sometimes does at sad parts. She’s too tired to care though it seems. I haven’t started crying yet either, not even at the part where the older dinosaur talks about the chain of life, and how Little Foot’s mother will never leave him so long as he remembers what she taught him.

I got a little moist at that. But as a tribute to my drugs, I don’t cry at this stuff. Gives me an opening to try and explain death to Vivian, who, as usual, didn’t really care.

My father grabbed a giant bag of smelts. Barf. Vivian kept playing with them, and trying to move their little mouths. BARF.

So now I’m sitting here, watching a dinosaur movie I haven’t seen since I was 16 and my friend’s baby sister who is now 19! was obsessed with it.

Little foot is so sad.

Trying, failing

I’m not feeling very well this week. It’s like I have mono or something-I can’t sleep enough, my brain doesn’t work, attempts at sounding intelligent and knowledgable at work tend to fail (in my eyes at least). I’m tired tired tired, worn out it seems. I don’t quite know why.

So that ends up filtering down to here. I want to talk about “stuff”, like the Dakota Fanning controversy, or Canada in Afghanistan, or the giant burn on my hand ala the stove, but I just can’t make myself do it. I don’t care enough this week. I’m just blaghpttp. sucky really.

My husband was reading this site the other night, and became upset with my entry talking about wanting to run away. Do men never feel that way? or are they less likely to verbalize it? I told him that writing it out made it less likely to happen, made it so I can relate to others who sometimes feel the same. I love my kids, but for a little while, remembering what life was like free in such a kick ass city as Toronto, it was rather depressing to come back here. (More because I hate this place than my kids)

But I thought alot about my friend too. How she’s alone a lot of the time. How I’m never alone. And how I don’t know if I could hack going back to that constant alone ever again. I wasn’t that envious of her. I enjoyed the break, but wanted to go home. Neither is better-they’re just different. I’ve accepted my life for what it is. I can’t do anything but that.

It’s taken me quite a long time to become accepting of my life. But part of that is being able to talk about the parts that aren’t so shiny happy, the parts that suck. I guess he doesn’t realize that this site functions as the place for the parts that suck.

Maybe he doesn’t know me as well as he should. I’ve been closed off for years and only now, as I become a little closer to normal do I feel the urge to share with him. How have I lived all these years blocked off and closed off, cold within myself? How could I feel nothing but numbness for this long? How could I be so scared?

He worries that some day I’ll just run off, never come home. And I’d be lying if I said I’d never thought about it, never stood at a highway off ramp and thought about hitchhiking away, far away, to somewhere warm and cheap.

But I’d keep walking, towards work, and the rest of my life. Because I like it here.

I’m home.

And exhausted. And sad, because I really did not want to leave Toronto. I miss that place in my bones, I miss good food, I miss being surrounded by people I don’t understand, walking in neighbourhoods where I can’t read the language, seeing new things, stumbling upon interesting stores and scenes, old houses.

Life, and culture. I miss it dearly.

But alas, I am back in the armpit, and up to my ass in work. I didn’t get much done last week, and apparently, having the addition of a lackey just created MORE work for me. Don’t ask me how that happens.

Oh, and apparently, Air Canada now overbooks and only guarantees your seat if you pay extra. So here’s a big FUCK YOU to Air Canada for that hour or two of annoyance while I waited to see if I’d get to spend an extra 5 hours  at Pearson. Fuckwits.

More later. Must work. I will eventually be around. I promise.

Changing Bipolar

Can someone explain to me why nothing, save the bookstore, is open in this place on Boxing Day? I wanted to go out and get some stuff done, but it was not to be.

So I picked up a few books instead, since the bookstore is always open. So Merry Christmas to me, I got:

Darkly Dreaming Dexter (we LOVE Dexter!!!)

Fledgling (Octavia Butler’s last book-I’ve waited for the trade, but hey, the hardcover was 30% off-too bad she died in such a stupid way)

Bipolar II–

And a small journal.

One of the suggestions in the Bipolar book, and one which I was thinking of last night, was to track your moods on a daily basis. Last night before falling to sleep, I started planning this elaborate data tracking system in excel for my moods, correlating food intake, sleep, and activites through the day, in order to try and determine any triggers for said moods. But, I also need to keep a notebook with me in order to write down any rapid cycling moments, which can then be moved into excel.

(Have we talked about how big of a geek I am yet? Because we should. Because I am. And I’m not even that good with excel)

What triggered all this? I cycled up to manic yesterday-I felt it building up and out, but thankfully, not to a crazy point. Just to a nice “normal” moods, but with an elevated sense of being able to get things done. So while burning through my Chapters gift cards, I picked up a nice red leather notebook. I can date each page myself, and it’s small enough to carry with me. I figure I’ll limit myself to one page a day, since in my manic periods, I can get very verbose.

I want to control the Bipolar. I don’t want it controlling me. I don’t want to be on any additional medications if I can help it. Hell, I don’t want to be on any if I can help it. Determining if there are certain external factors that are triggering further moods swings is one way to find a solution that does not involve medication. I’m not at the extreme end of either pole, I don’t laspe into extreme mania, or depression requiring hospitalization (although the last swing was rather scary). So I’m thinking it’s worth a try to “fix” me myself.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to stop the Trileptal. I don’t think this is something I can “recover” from. I will always be bipolar. But I can make it better. I can make myself better. My life can be better.

Reading through that book, I noticed that pregnancy and the aftermath can trigger Post Partum Depression and even psychosis. Knowing that it wasn’t my fault took a load off my shoulders. I always knew, but on some level, I felt like a failure, a fuck up, for not being able to handle it, to control it, for wanting to murder my child. Seeing it said that I couldn’t help what happened, reinforcing that women with bipolar tend to swing violently after birth, which is then made worse by sleep deprivation, quieted the revolt in my heart. It told me I am not a bad mother. I am just sick in my head, and always will be.

If only I had known before. But average onset for bipolar is 25, and most people go through many diagnoses before reaching this one. No one thought my prior diagnosis of ADD would cause many problems. But i didn’t know, and now, I’m slowly coming to grips with what happens, and with telling myself I couldn’t fix it, and I couldn’t stop it.

So now, I try to fix it. For me, for my husband, for my girls. I’m scared that one of them will be bipolar as well, especially with the mental illness in my husbands family, and my knowledge that bipolar is genetic (my aunt, it turns out, is bipolar as well). I want to have a life I enjoy all the time, not just a few days a month.

Shit, I want a life.

Where do you live so I can throw crap on YOUR lawn….

One of the joys of living here inThe Armpit is the seeming inability for anyone to throw their garbage in the garbage.

I had started having the girls pick stuff up when we’d go for walks, but I’m at the point now that I don’t even give two shits. I mean, we take a walk one day, pick all the freaking coffee cups, McDick’s wrappers, flyers and papers up, leaving behind the broken beer bottles, and the very next day, it’s all back. It’s like Groundhog Day or something.(Except not so boring and annoying I suppose)

It got me wondering if maybe this is why I so fervently believe in a fat tax-because the idiot monkeys who can’t be bothered to eat well are the same people who can’t be bothered to clean up after themselves. The flyers I sorta understand-most likely, they’ve blown off someone’s porch. But 50 coffee cups in 5 blocks? An entire meal for four from Burger King? That shit just doesn’t appear.

I’ve heard of cities who have begun to charge certain establishments extra for their waste, and I think it’s a fantastic idea. Since obviously, too many people find the thought of acting like a real live big person to intimidating or something.

And of course, someone will start shreiking “but what about my freedoms! What about personal responsibility? Why should I pay for someone ELSE!”

Fuck that shit. I was raised to find dropping garbage on the ground repulsive, rude and a sign of bad breeding. But I’m tired of my neighbourhood looking like a dump, of finding empty beer cases and cigarette packs on my lawn. I’m tired of people not knowing any better. I’m tired of adults acting like toddlers, or worse than toddlers, since Vivian even knows better.

I guess mostly I don’t get it, and I know that of anything, money makes people cooperate.

Corporations need to be held accountable as well. I remember when you could get your coffee at Tim Hortons in a ceramic mug in store. Now, only paper, even if I never leave the store. Business needs to be “helped” to make caring about our world something they just do. Since obviously, their customers are little more than pigs in a sty.

Are manners that expensive?

You would think after almost 5 years in this “place” (I refuse to call it a city) I would be used to the utter lack of and disregard for common courtesy and manners. But I’m not.

ANd I don’t think I’ll ever be used to people standing there staring at my head, waiting for me to move instead of them politely saying “excuse me.” I’ll never get used to the same people getting all pissed off when you state the obvious.

I’ll never get used to living somewhere that has drivers who think cyclists belong on the sidewalk, or who get mad and CHASE said cyclist down after they have been given the finger for nearly running over said cyclist because they were NOT PAYING ANY ATTENTION.

I’ll never get used to living somewhere that contains people who, despite being faced with FOUR, count them FOUR DOORS, need to go through the one I’m struggling to get the kids and a stroller through. I love how they stand and sigh, and do nothing to use the other door, let alone help.

I’ll never get used to living somewhere which has people who rarely say please or thank you, or who block aisles and get mad at the people trying, politely, to get through. I’ll never get used to living in a place that is treated like a garbage can. I’ve never lived anywhere, including Toronto, that has so much garbage strewn about. I guess people here just don’t care.

I’ll never get used to living somewhere that will never admit that it’s not some pinnacle of maritme friendliness. Because since ther first day we moved here, we’ve had more people be ignorant or blatantly rude than we ever had anywhere we’ve ever been. Of course there are good people here. I just never see them in public. But everyone seems to act like it’s ok here, because “it’s the city”

NEWSFLASH-most cities are GREAT places to live with occasional encounters with jerks. NOT the other way around like here.

I try very hard to set an example for my children on how to act in public towards others, saying excuse me, thank you, saying hello, being NICE. It’s difficult to do when I spend my time in public wanting to scream obscenities at people. But I still try. I hold doors, I say thanks, excuse me, all that good stuff, I’m nice, in the vain attempt to get people to replicate my behaviour.

Not that it seems to help.

It’s so bloody frustrating, and ultimately sad, to live in a place where it is blatantly obvious that people don’t seem to care about others. AND don’t seem to have a grasp of how to drive.

Dear Asshat Smoker

Let me just say that hey, I used to smoke. 12 years of blissful nicotine addiction. I LOVED to smoke. Hell, I was tempted today to get me some, but no, I resisted.

I just wanted to say, Mr. Asshat, that I thought it was especially polite of you to stand in the bus shelter for 15 minutes smoking as I stood in the rain. I was incredibly impressed with the way in which you could be bothered to leave the shelter to throw out your coffee cup, but not bother to smoke your goddammed sin stick in the rain like a normal, rational, polite person would. Like I used to do as a smoker. I would have never stood there like the skid that you obviously are, letting someone stand in the miserable mist. I would have moved my ass outside because you aren’t SUPPOSED to smoke in the goddamed shelter. Even when I smoked, that was gross.

Yeah, I could have said something, and gotten into a huge fight about it. I could have stood in the shelter anyway. But you know what? I’ve spent the last almost 2 years NOT smoking, and I’ve gained 50 pounds and my lungs still hurt so I’ll be dammed if I’m going to stand there and inhale the very thing I stopped because it was bad for me.

You Mr. Asshat, are a twat. Plain and simple. And when bad things happen to you, and you don’t quite know why, remember today. Remember me standing in the mist and the mud pointedly ignoring you. Remember that what goes around comes around.

Asshat.

I loves me some city bus action

Ah, I love the bus. I take it on Monday’s since I work a late day (11-7) and my car pool doesn’t on Mondays. Now, taking any city bus in any city is usually amusing, and today, here in ye old armpit, it was no different. Observed:

• Slightly….off lady spends 15 minutes figuring out when the bus will return at her stop, despite the bus schedule she holds in her hands. Drives myself and bus driver nuts. Evidence of small drool line at mouth.
• Man sits blocking small main street downtown, wanting to turn left, in spite of the LARGE NO LEFT TURN sign. Driver nicely reminds him he can’t turn left. “Why?” he asks. (please note the VAST effort the driver expended in NOT saying “How the FUCK should I know dumbass?”) Driver nicely points out sign. He turns left anyway, after he has held up traffic for 5 minutes.
• Lady waiting for bus with a trucker hat, orange day glo tank top, fanny pack, spandex shorts and sandals with WHITE SOCKS. The fashion crimes this woman committed are too numerous to get into. It was just WRONG. (of course, not QUITE as wrong as the lovely piece of man-meat I saw the other day-kickboxing pants and half gloves as he walked down the street with the “I so fucking rock” strut. The mullet topped it all off…)

Just another icky day in the armpit.

I loves me some city bus action

Ah, I love the bus. I take it on Monday’s since I work a late day (11-7) and my car pool doesn’t on Mondays. Now, taking any city bus in any city is usually amusing, and today, here in ye old armpit, it was no different. Observed:

• Slightly….off lady spends 15 minutes figuring out when the bus will return at her stop, despite the bus schedule she holds in her hands. Drives myself and bus driver nuts. Evidence of small drool line at mouth.
• Man sits blocking small main street downtown, wanting to turn left, in spite of the LARGE NO LEFT TURN sign. Driver nicely reminds him he can’t turn left. “Why?” he asks. (please note the VAST effort the driver expended in NOT saying “How the FUCK should I know dumbass?”) Driver nicely points out sign. He turns left anyway, after he has held up traffic for 5 minutes.
• Lady waiting for bus with a trucker hat, orange day glo tank top, fanny pack, spandex shorts and sandals with WHITE SOCKS. The fashion crimes this woman committed are too numerous to get into. It was just WRONG. (of course, not QUITE as wrong as the lovely piece of man-meat I saw the other day-kickboxing pants and half gloves as he walked down the street with the “I so fucking rock” strut. The mullet topped it all off…)

Just another icky day in the armpit.