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Oft expectation fails, and most oft where most it promises; and oft it hits where hope is coldest; and despair most sits.

11 Feb

In an attempt to soothe my aching head over my impending unemployment, I did some shopping on the weekend. (Most was needed stuff, and not for me. Sigh)

I picked up some cheap books-the bookstore having a 4 for 10$ sale, which makes it a “who cares if it sucks” sale.

One book in particular caught my eye, “A Year and a Day“, by Leslie Pietrzyk. It’s the story of a 15 year old girl whose mother kills herself, parking her car in the path of an oncoming train.

And oh, it makes me cry on the bus almost every morning so far.

I’ve searched for books on motherloss that would really hit the right tone, and for the most part, they don’t. They try to hard, they don’t understand the little missing pieces, or the fact that the larger hurt is underscored by the silences death brings. This book…it brings us to them. Tearing the house apart searching for recipes-I’ve done that myself, searching high and low for that crumbling Five Roses cookbook my mother had when first married, marked by flour and grease and her fingers. I never found it.

The anger. The lashing out in strange ways, at friends, at those who profess to care but have problems (seemingly) less than your own. The repentance. The confusion. The utter inability to process something as simple as Christmas. Having to be the adult. Having to not say what you want to say, wanting to scream at the top of your lungs,

“She’s DEAD! Not lost, not passed away. GONE.”

The vestiges of my former self, my younger, more fragile doppelganger, they live in this book. My memories came alive reading this, tears spring unbidden at the repeated “I’m fine.” through the book, the mirror of my adolescence, the constant refrain of “I’m ok, I’m fine” when all I wanted to do was fall into the arms of the speaker.

Alice, the girl in this book, she can’t fall either, the hurt in her heart far stronger than the need for comfort. The dry distance between her needs and wants, and the crippling prison grief becomes, especially at so young an age. Her need to comfort, and almost protect the pregnant 16 year old Paula, her helplessness. Her scorn for the one person she lets in, the one person who allows her to mimic her mother, Joe Fry. Her sweet pleasure in his gift of an acorn for her pocket, as she fiddles.

I could have been Alice. Well, except for the part where her dead mother speaks to her.

There’s a part where her brother has ran to Boston, and returned, and he’s talking about how he thought he saw her in a crowd, but realized it wasn’t her, and that this, THIS was when he knew she really wasn’t coming home.

I’ve seen my mother, in faces, side profiles, coats. And realized that despite not remembering her, not much at all, her face was imprinted on me, her movements. She’s never coming back either.

Seeing this written, truly seeing it as I have, it’s a blessing. It’s recognition.

It’s like home.


Yes, I am losing my job.

Some of it’s performance. Some of it’s having a poor manager, some is the needs of the business are outstripping my abilities. There’s a lot to it, most of which I don’t wish to get into publicly. I will say that as someone who has been with a company for over 8 years, it hurts. It hurts how this company treats tenured employees, and seems to consider tenure and accomplishment meaningless unless you’re an ass kisser.

I was once passionate about my job-loved it, loved that I helped action change for millions of customers. But in the last few years, that was smothered, as my job became more about making things “look good” than about actual change for Joe customer on the street. Things changed, my manager changed, and I no longer felt part of any team. Just another sucker doing shit work for a paycheck.

It hurts. I’ve been so proud keeping a job for this long, many years of it unmedicated, and succeeding that way. It’s almost like things only went south once I started achieving some measure of stability. Go figure. But I’ll never be uber organized, I’ll never be perfect, especially under pressure. I recognize these things in me, and realize that now, this isn’t the place for me, and at least for the time being, I need a job where I can just enjoy helping someone, a job which doesn’t find me working on the weekend and after “work” on a regular basis.

I don’t want that, and I never really did.

So I’m kinda scared, but kinda excited as well. I’m getting a reasonable severance, so I can’t complain, and they’re keeping me on till the bonus payout so I can get whatever payout is owed. So they aren’t completely inhuman. Having to sit through conversations about helping report automation learn the reports I was producing-that sucks. Hard. It’s like everything you worked for is taken away so easily.

I never truly felt like I was my job, and I’m glad of that. I’m happy, sated almost, to be done with this job, the constant panic and rush, never feeling like I had time or opportunity to truly do what I felt my job was. Excuses maybe, perceptions. But only hearing the bad stuff from a boss for months does this to you. Wears you down until you ARE that bad employee.

So we’re moving on. I hope to find something simple for now, easy, no stress. I’d love to take a month or two off, but I’d rather have a laptop. If I have an easy job again, I might start writing again. Reading Piertrzyk’s book has made me realize that I really do want to write that memoir of my childhood, even if I never do a damn thing with it.

Losing my job is making me realize all the things I want to do, things that are so much bigger than pulling data for someone.


This morning, walking to school, Vivian tried in vain to climb a snow-hill I promised her she could climb the day before. She tried and tried, and I grew irritated, knowing I was missing my bus. Finally I had to drag her off the snow hill and push her forward.

“You NEVER keep your promises to me!” she screamed. “You promised!”

Promises are funny things. They change when you least expect it.

Some days are worth nothing more than another hour snoring.

24 Sep

Ever have a year where you completely understand that the universe is out to assrape you as many times as possible to teach you various lessons about your life?

I think I’m having that year. And while I encourage change, as painful as it may be, since it always turns out for the best, I’m not really pleased with the universe at large.

Today was the first time, ever, I’ve gotten written up at work, and folks, that’s a HUGE thing for me. I knew it was coming. All things considered, I have NOT been present at work the last few months. I’ve shown up, did the bare minimum. But I haven’t been the me they hired. I haven’t been able to focus, or see through all the black shit swirling in my brain enough to really do my job.

I basically got called on all my shit today. I wish I could be surprised, or even indignant, but I’m not. It was all true. What killed me was being perceived as someone who couldn’t do her job, someone less than able.

Someone worth getting rid of.

I’m on a 30 day “plan”. It terrifies me. I’m so woefully under confident in myself when it comes to work skills, mostly because I fell into what I’m doing and any true “skills” analyzing data have been self taught over the last few years, along with an inherent ability to see the forest for the trees. I’m also scared because I don’t know how to condense 8 years with one company doing a large variety of things, from UAT to reporting to ISO reviews, into a coherent resume. I’m scared because I think I might NEED that resume sooner than later.

I’m scared because I had already started looking around at other things anyway.

I’m burned out where I am. My boss is being supportive-she understands what’s been going on, but she can’t make excuses any longer. I just feel….worn down. I have this huge craving to go work at fucking Walmart as a cashier just to have no real stress anymore, to just sit and smile and talk all day long.

As if right?

I’m over the shock. I know myself-I know I can pull shit together and make it happen. But what if at the root of all this is not wanting to anyway?

Anyone need a virtual assistant? I give good excel…..

(and Happy Birthday to me right? This just HAD to happen the day before my birthday, while suffering through labour worthy cramps. Go ME!)

Saturday Randoms

24 May

-We’re walking out of a grocery store towards the garden center, and as usual, Rosalyn is doing the 3rd old funny walk, and manages to land flat on her face. Mogo helps her up through the crying, tells her she’s fine and says “Don’t worry, you’re a tough cookie.

She screams “I am NOT.A.TOUGH.COOKEH!”

-I hate Twitter. I’ve decided. I sat on the fence for awhile, but I’ve know really convinced myself it’s an utter waste of a normal person’s day. I don’t care what you’re watching/eating/doing/not doing/touching. Why would you care about what I’m doing?!? And who has TIME?

-I will pay money to see the sun. I will also pay money to have my lawn mowed since ours hates me and apparently have mower pneumonia.

-My father is gone for the summer. I love my Dad but sweet FUCK he can drive a person nuts. My kitchen is mine again. Now I just need to clean out the fridge. Ick.

-Value Village rules. I got a Little People Garage playset for 2.99. I almost bought it for 39.99 a few weeks back. So BOOYAH Toys R’Us. In your face.

-Falafel heartburn is fucking awful.

If you were wondering

14 May

Walking 3 miles or so in 17 mile a hour winds SUCKS ASS.

I say it almost every day, but the weather here is horrible. It’s either freezing or windy as shit. Just no wind-that’s really all I ask…

However, watching some moron trying to drive around the barricades blocking off a road, despite the giant “Construction Zone-NO ENTRY” sign and the person yelling frantically at them nearly made the whole thing worthwhile….

I now sit in a “visible” area at work, so if I’m not around during the day, it’s not personal. I just figure that using the internet at work inappropriately isn’t something to do near members of the HR department.

Today’s lottery of crap.

3 Mar

Either I’m a hypochondriac, or I have cancer. Cause every freaking day something else is wrong!

I’ve had the migraine from hell since Saturday night, which is now accompanied by a light headed, gonna faint feeling. My breathing and I have met in the spirit of truce-I have agreed to make minimal my ingestion of crap, and it has agreed to let me eat sushi and hummus while drinking litres of water.

I’m so freaking tired.

Vivian puked last night, and man, let me just say that there’s nothing nicer than a warm pile of puke underneath paper towels. Really makes you happy to be there. Then my brave little girl puked dutifully in the chocolate bucket later, without even waking us up.

She’s so much better at this sick shit than I am.

I feel like hell, and this is SOOOO not the week for it as we’re prepping for meetings in the US next week. Which means I have to fly.

Despite my love for Target, I have no desire to go. I feel bad enough that the thought of getting on a plane, and having a hotel room by myself for a week isn’t attractive.

I quit smoking for this?

Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

15 Feb

I have a head cold.

I have the stomach flu.

I fell down my front steps last night, causing my back to scream at me today.

I slipped on some ice this morning, putting a hole in the knee of my favorite pants.

Can someone take February out back for me so I can kick his ass? Please?

I think I’ll move to Australia.

Well today sucked.

13 Feb
  • Stats were low on this site, which as we know makes me all hinky and weird. It always coincides with a post that I’m fond of, which then makes me want to shut the damn thing down for a split second. Not that I would. I’m far too full of myself for that.
  • Trudged through the snow to the shrink for a “all is well” appointment. Learned she’s going on a cruise in March on her vacation. HATE HATE HATE
  • It’s snowing again. Then raining. Then I’m sure it will snow again.
  • Rosalyn is now sick.
  • I now seem to also have the flu.
  • I’m exhausted-I should be working, but I don’t have the energy.
  • The only thing preventing bum pukes is drugs. I’m hungry, but afraid to eat.
  • My father made me dinner…it was…….interesting. I appreciate it, but there are some colors food just isn’t meant to be.
  • Did I mention I’m exhausted?

Monday Afternoon Randomness

4 Feb

*In the grocery store parking lot, I hear screeches and screams. Likely just a car seat inspired tantrum. Yet for some reason, the fear that it wasn’t haunts me on my way back to work. Should I have called?

*They finally posted for another me at work. Squee-bliss! I keep thinking of how I can take the day off soon and not be called. While part of me loves being needed, the other half of me is lazy and hates the work.

*Despite being in the National Post, this story is incredibly moving.

*I have to go to Tennessee again in March. Which means terror because I am gaining weight off this fucking drug, and those seats are small enough. Nothing makes you feel like a piece of shit like struggling with a seat belt, and having people stare. I feel like getting a sign that says “I’m not lazy-I have a desk job and I’m crazy.” I like flying. It’s all the other people, and the utter unreasonableness of the seat size that drives me nuts. I know I’m fat-but the recent bloating isn’t me.

&The breathing thing is still an issue. But everything I can find talks about it being in my head, so I doubt there’s any point in going to the doctor. Or they’ll tell me it’s because I’m fat. Since EVERYTHING always is when I go to the doctor.

*I want to stop whining about my life. I spent the weekend getting irritated by so much middle to upper class whining that I nearly puked. What the fuck do we have to complain about? Shit-I’m barely in the middle class, and I feel ungrateful. It just really ate at me-people with everything, still whining. Or maybe I should stop reading the Africa section of BBC News.

*The cat hates every single brand of wet food we give him, cheap or expensive.

*I hate turkey.

*I’m bloated from potatoes.

*And yes Virginia, I AM whining.


26 Dec

I’m depressed. This is a strange feeling, not being accompanied by suicidal thoughts. But I am low, I am down, and I am whiny and moany in my head, irritated at myself and just plain annoyed.

Getting a vacuum has triggered something it seems.

I’ve been moping around because it reminds me of all the other years, every year that was filled with disappointment, with let down. It reminded me why I should never get my hopes up, why I should stop thinking that other people know me, really know me. Because no one does it seems.

I feel selfish writing this. I have people who love me, people who provided gifts for me with the best of intentions, with the hope that I would like them. But as I spent some of Christmas cleaning, and a lot of today doing laundry, I was reminded that me, the person who lives where no one can hear me cry, is rarely ever seen anymore, that she’s lost behind being an adult and a parent and being responsible. People know me so little that I should be pleased with such personless gifts.

The feeling that so little is thought of me is disturbing at best. Is this what I’ve become?

I’m not starving. We aren’t destitute. So why does all of this make me feel so fucking bad? It’s just Christmas!

But since I was a little girl, I always had a dream that my one surprise would be there, or that maybe everything in my life would work out and be ok. I pin too much on one day, and end up feeling alone, even in the midst of people and children who

I just feel like I can’t grow up out of this, and it’s pissing me off even more.

Thank you for choosing Hoover!

25 Dec

Now, this will likely sound ungrateful.

No, actually it WILL sound ungrateful.

Mogo had been hiding my present from his parents in the garage for a few weeks. I was excitedly hoping it was a sewing machine or a waffle maker.


Apparently, my bitching about our broken vacuum a few months back was remembered by my inlaws. Cause that’s what I got. Mogo got an 80GB iPod, I got a vacuum, frying pans and skin cream.


This is compounded by the fact that a friend received a SLR for Xmas from her husband. While I am under no illusions about the fact that we can’t afford that, and I’m likely buying one with my bonus in March, it still inspired a desire to stamp my feet and whine. Loudly. Which I had to restrain from doing since I’m 30 and all.

Still. It kinda sucked. Recieving gifts for the house, and not me makes me feel ripped off. At least the baking related item last year was a cool bundt pan I wanted. A vacuum just feels like the ultimate of domestication.

I do appreciate it. We do need it, and it DOES kick ass. (OMFG the crap that came out of the carpet in our bedroom) But it’s depressing all the same.

Granted, the rest of the family did good. My brother brought me 25 hanks of Louet yarn since his friend runs the company (and believe me-it looks amazing on the website-it’s DIVINE in person) which would have ran me a good $$ buying. I got a bunch of books I wanted, like this and this and these. A couple of CD’s I wanted. Some shortbread (yum!).

But when you’re expecting something else….jebbus it makes you feel like that 8 year old who didn’t get Fashion Plates….


The girls cleaned up, but awesomely enough, they LOVED everything we got them. The dollhouse was a HUGE hit. Rosalyn loved her top (we left the batteries out) and the pogo stick was fun for both. We’re happy that they’re happy.

Bits of paper are strewn all over the basement, I’ve eaten too much candy, and I think I’ll go finish off the wine.

Despite my own whining, it’s been an awesome day.

oh, and the test tube alien? Is actually pretty damn cool and she loved it. 🙂

What did YOU get?

Can I help you SIR?

18 Dec

I need a new winter coat, a real one, not some piece of crap from Frenchy’s.

If I get called “Sir” one more time, I’m going to freak the fuck out. This was bad enough when I was 17 and wore men’s trenchcoats. I mean come ON! Even under a jacket, BOOBS man BOOBS!


in breaking news…

28 Nov

I still feel like hell. The cold has decided to hover between my sinus cavities and my chest. When I cough sometimes I can taste blood. However, it seems like the fever has broken, which is a good sign, so I think I’ll hold off on the doctor for now. Hopefully the relative peace my nose in having will last so I don’t feel like I’m drowning all night again.


Stupid cold.

Next time, can someone warn me?

22 Nov

I just spent some time using the NaBloPoMo Randomizer, and I think my brain might explode.

Bad poetry, details on what one is eating for dinner, monotonous rants about what someone’s child got at the mall, pompous “mission statements”, blinding layouts and blinking flashy things, along with creepy religious babbling.

And that was just the first 15 sites.

And for something that’s supposed to be random, why did I keep seeing the same sites over and over again?

I feel dirty. I’m not using that anymore. The spelling errors alone….

Because I am sick and annoyed

20 Nov

This morning’s post will be an exercise in bulletpoint love.

  • Cuteness here.
  • Fussbuckets all here
  • A glimpse into my head here. I relate more than you know friend.
  • Men! Grrrr..
  • Up for Secret Santa? Go sign up and support a great cause! (Plus-all the fun with me doing none of the work!)
  • Jen has weird boobs. Don’t we all. (I was lopsided when I first got my “friends” so don’t feel bad)
  • And everything is relative.

ETA: I forgot this piece of PLAIN OLE AWESOMENESS. This totally made my day yesterday, and continues to do so today.

Where I whine like a baby

19 Nov

It’s Monday and I’m sick with a head cold congested and blinded and I bare my soul asking for your words, your thoughts, at the very least your eyes and…

nothing. An almost gaping silence echoes across this space.

Why do I crave your acceptance and fond words, comfortable cooing, reassuring arms so much? Why do I thrust all of my psyche out into the ether, only to be rejected, ignored, left prone.

Oh it’s not that bad. But I’m sitting here licking my wounds today, feeling hellish, or slightly on this side of hellish, limbo like, wondering where everyone is, why no one is here, with me, for me.

What it would take to have people here for me, all the time, great gobs of peeps revolving around me. Hell, I’ve alienated most of the people I would once have had as readers, disenchanted, disillusioned by my struggles and whining.

I’m just not funny enough, am I.

I’ve seen darker, more obtuse sites, badly written, collecting readers. Why is that? do I not pet people enough in their own comments? So I do posts full of links? Dance on the head of a pin?

Don’t mind me. I’m sick, and rambling, and jealous that Eden hit the NaNo winning number, while I sit here lost in memory, and less than half way there.


16 Nov

Lordy do I have writers block.

I’m stuck on my NaNo. Well, maybe not stuck, but conflicted. I’m not sure where to take the story. It’s taking me for a walk, and I’m fighting it. Maybe that’s the problem-I should just keep writing and go where it tells me, for now. The main character’s feeling of loss and being lost is rubbing off. I don’t know where to take her!

This writers block is rubbing off onto posts. I have started three this morning, only to hit save and walk away. I don’t know what is wrong with my head today. I just can’t get anything straight.

And it’s pouring rain. POURING. I didn’t bring a coat. Let’s hope that in 7 hours, it will no longer BE raining.

Unblock me people.

Fat? You can’t possibly have a hot guy then.

15 Nov

Anyone else watch Criminal Minds last night? Right to the end?

In among the usual torture porn (of which this show gets more and more full of-it’s getting a little graphic for me. I’m beginning to understand why Mandy Patinkin left the show) wove a unsurprising story line, which I saw coming from a mile away.

Garcia, the resident kooky chubby smart girl, had a hot guy hit on her.

Ladies, you know where this is going, right?

So her little buddy, Morgan, tells her he must be a creep, and not to go out with him. At first she listens, but then she gets mad and does go out with him. Lo and behold, he’s a freak who shoots her.

I was spitting fire once I saw that the plot played it self out so predictably. Why is it that fat girls are never allowed to just have a normal relationship with a hot guy on TV? Why is that so hard to believe? Why are we always left thinking that a fat girl, a chubby girl will only get the “good” guy because he wants something of her. Why is fat always a fucking plot device?

What bothers me is that this was so transparent. You could see it coming from the first mention of this guy. Just once I’d like to see someone larger than the stick figures on the show get something good and normal, instead of nothing but a one dimensional character with no real life behind it.

I can’t wait to cut the cable off.

I turn 30 this month coming.

31 Aug

And I want things. LOTS of things. (Mogo, are you paying attention?)

First, I want my new tattoo. The big heart and birds on the back of my neck. I may have to suck up to my father for that one, since it’s likely a few hundred dollars I don’t have.

I want a PRO flickr acct. I want new books. I want to dye my hair bluer than I had it before. I want new windows. I want a manicure. I want a pretty green Dell laptop. I want music by Laura Veirs.

Why do I want so much stuff? Is it really stuff? It’s not like I want shoes or makeup or anything really really frivolous. But I still feel like I’m lusting after things I shouldn’t lust for. (Except the tattoo. I feel no guilt over that)

I want to have less, but I didn’t grow up is with much, and sometimes, I WANT to be spoiled on certain days. Mogo did good with that for Christmas last year-my black chucks, my Wonder Woman book and other stuff, as well as on our anniversary. I LOVE it.

But it feels so WRONG.

Gloomy Friday

24 Aug

rain rain go away come on back some other day

it’s someone’s sick idea of amusement to have me stuck in a house trying to work, with two children who won’t nap who I’m trying to keep quiet as their father works on the phone upstairs.

sick I tell you sick, and more than once I’ve found myself muttering ‘and people wonder why I get suicidal”

I’m not suicidal, don’t worry. I’m annoyed and cranky and misplaced and feeling left of center, but not at all in the mood to off myself, don’t worry. Somedays are just-they’re like the hindenburg of parenting days-I don’t know what to cook, how to make the kids happy, how to get my work done, I want a soy latte and a cookie, I want a week or a month of silence in the woods.

It’s pretty bad when I crave camping. I HATE camping. I’ve tried being that person. I’m not.

I get tired out from the constant splitting of attention-my brain shrinks and shrieks, running in circles trying to find some sort of baseline it can rest on. It can’t. There’s always something that needs doing-someone needs their ass wiped or wants juice or fills the air with something awful and grating. And I sit, trying to be at peace with it.

I know that even if I was healthy, this would still be irritating, the incessant rain falling, drops so big I can watch them through my windows. I would still have the beginnings of a tension headache in my brow, and I would still know that no matter what I made for dinner, someone would bitch about it.

Flux-Bipolar Jump Start

28 Jul


I’m in flux-continual, bleeding flux. I’m here, I’m over there, I’m somewhere else, someone else. BOO! I’m new now.

I’m frustrating as all get out. Imagine waking up next to this everyday.


initial periods of cycling may begin with an environmental stressor, but if the cycles continue or occur unchecked, the brain becomes kindled or sensitized – pathways inside the central nervous system are reinforced so to speak – and future episodes of depression, hypomania, or mania will occur by themselves (independently of an outside stimulus), with greater and greater frequency.

Once, long ago, someone liked to touch me. And take pictures. Have his friend help out.  Somewhere in there, I do believe my brain split into a million sprinkled, but real, pieces, and reassembled. A little off, like it was put through a broken transporter. Then my mother was sick. And sick and sick and sick then dead and all that was left was a fake boob and a wig, pieces of someone I called mom.

Even a heart stops working after too many shocks I assume?


My rage can burn intense-forests crumble within me, towers fall to the ground as I sit swept through a maelstrom. I see red. Blood. Death. Hell. Life moves on.


Fickle? Meet my present listing. What’s good for now I won’t understand later. My passion for anything is usually underwhelmed by my apathy and ability to change minute to minute to minute. Or perhaps I am Mercury-a charming, raffish thief, poison, sweet pretty poison.


When I started writing this about 15 minutes ago, I was drawn by a desire to help you understand, to explain, to be another place for a new bipolar to land. Now-I’m tired, Josh Homme is on my TV watching some chick eat raw meat, and I’m tired. I have no interest in trying to teach you anymore. My desire is vapid, mean and fleeting. (Aside for the desire to own Hot Fuzz-I love those boys)


I might not be fixable. The damage may already be done. They don’t know what works, why it works, why some people get better more than others. THEY don’t know. I may spend the rest of my life getting fatter and fatter in a quest for the holy grail of psychiatric drugs. And they still won’t find it.


Is it desirable to be 300 pounds and “better”? 300 pounds and sick? What if nothing gets better-what if I’m a waste of air forever? taking up too much space with an ass that’s too big, with feet that fit nothing I can find, with lips that can’t seem to wrap themselves around the things that really need to be said? I wouldn’t desire any of this-I would run as fast and as far away from me as I possible could.

But I’m a coward after all anyway.


I still spend my days convinced in my quiet hidden paranoia that I will be fired, that they’re counting up the offences and lying in wait for me. I am nothing. I am useless-I contribute nothing. I stare at my screen at work and listen to the conversations flow around me, the worlds I am not included in.

I don’t mourn it. why would I? I have this world of my own, as much as I cannot incorporate it into the rest of my life. But it’s mine at the very least.

ultimately, a killer

Not only is my chance of succeeding in killing myself 10-20% higher than gen pop, but there’s also expanding evidence connecting physical ailments that kill to bipolar. So I’m screwed from the outset aren’t I.

It doesn’t matter much what I do. The future in some ways, is laid in stone-salt and acid in from of my feet.