Figuring out what I wanna be when I grow up.
Oop..I AM grown up...

Friday, March 10, 2017

Dear Dad

Dear Dad,

It is three years today since you died.  I honestly can't believe it's been three years.  It's like at least one of those years just got lost--completely lost.  That first year after you died it literally took nearly the whole year to "deal" with you..and Mom too.  We had to clean out that big, beloved house we lived in.  That took six months.  I always thought of that house like a sixth member of the family.  Every time I watch "It's A Wonderful Life," and how every time George Baillie (Jimmy Stewart) runs down the stairs, and his hand trailing along the banister knocks that decorative knob off the end, it makes me think of our home.  Remember how we had that crazy long pull-string hanging off the light bulb at the top of the stairs, and how dingy it became over time from our hands pulling the light off and on?  Remember how the knob on the back door was getting worse and worse and sometimes you'd turn it and turn it and turn it but it wouldn't catch, and we'd start to panic that we were locked out of the house?

Anyway, it took ages to clean everything out because that house, and especially that basement was like a time capsule, and you and Mom had saved so much stuff.  Not to mention cleaning out our lives was one of the most painful fucking experiences I've ever been through.

Then this horrible young couple came along and I'll spare you the details Dad, but those assholes own our house now.  Ah well, that's life I guess.  Everything changes.  And all that happened the first year after you died.  I got the taxes all straightened out too, Dad.  Thanks for always (appointing, ha ha) believing in me to take care of those details.

Then I think I dropped off for a while there.  I stopped going out anywhere and it became really difficult to keep in touch with people.  I tried to get a job at the end of the summer of 2015.  They really liked me at the interview, and then I lost my shit.  I couldn't do it.  The nice lady called me on the phone and the worst thing ever happened:  I cried on the phone to a stranger as I told her I just couldn't do it, and how sorry I was for wasting her time.  Nothing like hearing how nutty you sound, but not being able to reel it in.  But, I tucked that one away.

Things really got groovy in the fall when a little, insignificant health concern happened and I lost my shit.  I was waking up every day crying.  I can't do this, I'd say to the mirror.  Nervous all the time. Impossible to function. So I broke down and for the first time ever, I went to see a therapist.  She was nice, I guess.  She was really busy.  I spent a portion of my session hearing about how busy she was, and the stress she was going through with her own daughter.  She gave me some tips on how to practice "mindfulness," how to do deep breathing, how to deal with anxiety before it escalates.  I was supposed to go back but one of my kids was sick so I had to cancel.  My therapist never called me again.

And that health concern?  It turned out to be nothing.

So anyway dad, I decided enough was enough and really started working on myself.  Better nutrition, more water, more fitness because that all makes me feel better. And maybe a magic number of days had passed too, but I just started to feel a little better.

The past couple of weeks have been amazing Dad.  You'd be so happy.  I got a little job.  It's not much. I have a little joke I made to myself actually:  it's one small step for normal people, and one giant leap for KAREN KIND.  I'm a Wednesday lunch supervisor at an elementary school.  Money?  Pppft, what money. It's just less than 2 hours a week, unless they need me more.  But I made it happen.  I battled the nerves and left the house and got the two criminal background checks needed.  I got the info straightened out for direct deposit.  Filled out all the necessary paperwork.  You know; all the things I USED to do once upon a time without question.

On the day I was supposed to start, I woke up at 6:30, and I'm not gonna lie--I felt mildly ill.  My adrenals start pumping real easy ever since we first heard you had ALS.  They've never really returned to how they used to be. Fight or flight?  YOU KNOW IT.  I headed off to the school.

For the morning I'd be supervising the grade 2's, and for the afternoon it would be the grade 1's.  I put on a fluorescent vest with waaaaaay too much velcro, and then it was like a door was opened and I was tossed into a tornado.  Leaping between 4 classrooms I had to make sure everyone was sitting and eating, answer tons of requests to use the washroom, make sure they got tidied up before the bell rang then fly out the door with them to the playground.  So many rules!  No climbing the monkey bars!  Grade 1's can only go to the little playground, Grade 2's can only go to the bigger kids' playground.  This boy claims so-and-so was cheating during soccer.  This little girl tripped and scraped the tiniest, skinniest knee I've ever seen.  THAT KID PICKED UP A STICK!  NO STICKS ALLOWED!

Jesus--I don't know if you know but I'm not a super big stickler for rules, so to have to be so rules-y all of the sudden?  Ooof...

Bell rang.  Everyone was back in safe and sound.  I went home for an hour and bit before I had to return for the next shift.

Then, Dad, it was once more into the fray!  And this time it was the grade 1's.  The grade 1's are still so like babies. They're so small, and cute and a LOT of them can't open their thermoses, or their little apple sauce containers or their shitty processed lunchable all-in-one junk lunches they have.

I had to mop up a gross packet of "pizza sauce" out of one little girl's lunch bag.  While I was pulling the foil off an apple snack container later for this same tiny person, a little boy snuck out of one classroom and was playing peek-a-boo with a little girl from his class whom I had allowed to go to the washroom.  A horrible teacher saw this and reamed that little girl out.  I kept trying to interject and explain that I had let her go to the washroom, but that teacher insisted she was playing a GAME, and yelled at her to GET BACK TO HER SEAT RIGHT NOW and SIT DOWN.  Then that teacher tried to put the friendly tone on to me and tell me THAT girl does that ALL THE TIME.  Well, I went back to her classroom and that poor little kid was crushed.  Six years old.  Honestly.  I patted her little back and told her don't worry.  She's alright.  Sometimes school is hard and you just have to do the best you can to follow the rules. I told her that she is still a good girl.  God I was mad, Dad.

Then it was time to go outside and I was running to get my coat from the staff room because those kids were GO-GO-GO and they were NOT going to wait!  As I was jogging through the hall, a boy from an older grade sternly told me; "No running in the hall."

Yes, yes, kid.  Got it.

Several kids lined up dutifully for their "wall" time.  One little girl supposedly was to spend 15 minutes on the wall because a power hungry student from the older grades, who helps watch then during lunch,  said she was "talking" when she was supposed to be eating.  Seriously--WHAT THE FUCK?!  When that little girl made it outside, the on-duty teacher asked her how long she was supposed to be on the wall.  Her eyes darted to me quickly. I said; "I think she's supposed to be there for five minutes."  Her whole little body relaxed.

So I ran around like a headless chicken for those 15 minutes they were outside.  Made sure they all safely returned, and I went home, head nearly spinning.  As I set up my dvd to workout, and changed into my workout clothes, I cried for 10 minutes straight.  I couldn't stop thinking about that little girl who got hollered at, and that little girl who was supposed to be punished the whole damn recess instead of just letting her run around like a kid should. I had an endless movie reel of shitty lunches running through my head;  thermoses crammed with alpha-ghetti.  Processed all-in-one lunches marketed to appeal to kids with horrible, horrible ingredients.  That one kid who had a thermos PACKED with bowtie noodles that she didn't get to eat because she'd dilly-dallied to and from the washroom.  I cried because of all that, and I cried because it was new and I was basically shell-shocked.

But dad--I liked it.  They actually called me the next morning from the school, because the regular lunch supervisor couldn't come in that day, and could I possibly come that afternoon?  For the first time in my life I didn't feel ill from that phone call, or like hiding from the phone, or making an excuse.  I was back in there and it felt wonderful.  The little people are so sunny, and charming, and ridiculous and cute.  They're so uplifting--not all jaded and rude and hideous like adults.  I patted a little crying girl's shoulder because another kid said she was annoying and told her obviously they were wrong because she seemed just fine to me. I rubbed the tiniest little hand ever of a little boy whose friend accidentally pricked it with a little needly piece from a pine tree.  A little girl drew me a picture and now it's on my fridge.  And when I walked out of that school, I felt like the king of the world.

Normal people go to work.  They just do it.  They leave their houses and run errands.  They go out for drinks or for dinner. They go to appointments.  I used to do all that too.  I don't want to be the person I used to be.  Karen 2.0 is much better, to tell you the truth.  Yes, I was scared, but I made this happen, and I was outside, which I love, surrounded by all these crazy kids and it was great, Dad.  It was really great.

And Dad, I discovered I'm still fierce as fuck.  Just like you always knew.  Oh, and I know that right now Mom's completely amazed too because I actually LIKED something.  Ha ha, she always hoped my bad attitude would change one day, so there you go, Mom!

I'm excited to be doing this.  So Dad, I'm doing much, much better.  I got this.  You just keep taking care of Mom, and I'll handle everything down here.



P.S. Dear nasty teacher who is non-stop angry at students:

Wednesday, November 23, 2016


If I ever run away from home, it will be 100% because my cat is a total idiot.

Ha ha ha, that's hyperbole, right?  Isn't it?  ISN'T IT?


Incidentally, do all moms at some point say they're going to "run away?"  I remember my Mom saying it.  It was probably during some bullshit situation whereby she had just finished vacuuming the whole house, AGAIN, had some long-cook, good square meal THAT NEEDED TO BE FLIPPED EVERY HALF HOUR going in the oven, was in the midst of running up and down doing laundry, making our slovenly beds with her smoldering ashtray and an all-day-long cup of coffee for sipping parked firmly on one of our dressers, bent over at the waist (not the knees, people) picking lint off the carpet and then we rolled in from school, peeled our smelly socks off and dropped them INSIDE OUT on the tv room floor, left every juice and milk cup we ever used in some room far away from the kitchen, chowed some cakey, cookie, crumbly snack all over the couch, tossed our skid-marked underpants on the bathroom floor when we got our jammies on, and had the KID BALLS to roll our eyes when we were asked to not leave our school bags right in the middle of the room. It was probably RIGHT ABOUT THEN, that Mom would say;



Oh wait--was that my MOM'S life, or is that MY LIFE?  Oh my--blurred lines indeed.

Anyhoo, as I was saying, my cat drives me to a dark, dangerous mental place, and I'm going to make you go there for a few minutes too.

First of all, isn't the WHOLE PURPOSE of having pets to REDUCE STRESS, and be lavished upon with so much damn unconditional pet love that you won't even care when you ask your pre-teen for a hug, but they're "too busy" looking up some really inane vine on youtube, that all you have to do is turn to that pet to fill in all the holes in your life?  Isn't THAT THE IDEA???

Okay, well not here.  I'm trapped day in, day out with a completely mental, nearly 17 year old cat.  This is making you unhappy.  You're thinking I'm obviously a jerk.  Well, herewith I shall make my case.

don't be fooled. She's only sleeping because
she's finally worn herself out from being mental.

If I'm sitting down having my coffee, and reading entertaining and thought-provoking things with my laptop on my lap, she is the most loving, snuggy, ridiculous LADY LOVE BEAST ever.  Problem is, I can't sit there all day.  If I'm not sitting with her, she's following me around the house, yowling at me all day.  She won't sleep otherwise.  If I ignore the yowling, she runs into the living room to howl.  Then if that doesn't work, she comes over and starts drinking her water.  For freaking ages.  Then she puts her paw in her water.  Then she splashy splashes water onto the floor near her water bowl.  Then we humans who will NEVER LEARN, walk by and get the soak sock.  In the meantime, she's putting little wet footprints everywhere.

She's obsessed with water.  In the cold months condensation forms on the living room window; the window being behind the love seat.  With a metal vertical blind over it.  Picture yourself sitting there peacefully and suddenly CLANGCLANGCLANG!!!!! JESUS CHRIST, WHAT'S HAPPENING?!  Oh, silly me, it's the cat, clattering around behind the couch so she can get under the blind and LICK THE WINDOW.  Then she comes back out.  Then you relax.  Then five minutes later SHE'S BACK DOING IT AGAIN.  Then she comes out.  Then you relax.  CLANGCLANGCLANG SHE'S DOING IT AGAIN.  Licking that window all winter.  You can't put your water glass on the little side tables beside the couch.  She'll stick her head right in there.

Big deal, the cat likes water.  Yeah.


She's also food obsessed.  That's a thing.  I looked it up:  cats who are food obsessed.  For years she happily ate the healthy dry food we gave her. And then she turned 15 and said "fuck that."  So, silly moi, I thought; "what the hell--she's an old lady now.  She deserves to be SPOILED."

She get a little can of fancy feast at breakfast--but not the whole can.  If you give her the whole can, she'll get disgusted, reject it altogether and meow at you either until the Earth explodes, or you give up, scoop that rejected food out and get her something new.  So, you give her a good heaping tablespoon.  Then in an hour you give her the rest.  She gets a snack at 2 PM.  She TECHNICALLY starts to become idiotic and relentless at 1 PM, but you're TRYING TO KEEP HER TO A SCHEDULE BECAUSE SHE'S FOOD OBSESSED.  Her snack is 1/3 of a can of the cheapest water-packed tuna you can buy.  You TRIED to be nice one time and buy her a nice can of quality tuna, but she rejected it, and bugged you until your eyes bled, so you just stick to the cheap stuff.  At 5 PM, she's back again for her dinner.  I have learned that it does NOT matter if she still has some tuna left for snacking.  Dinner is more fancy feast and it goes in her CAT DISH.  Tuna goes on her SNACK PLATE.  You know--the plate that she'll come to several times in those 5 hours or so prior to snack time to LICK, even though there's nothing on it.  Finally she gets a full can of  fancy feast again at bed time.  In the meantime, there is always a very nutritious, high-quality dry food in the other side of her two-sided cat food dish.  But she won't touch it.

In the meantime, if I'm making dinner, she'll come into the kitchen and move around to sniff EVERY SPECK on the kitchen floor to see if it's something good for eating.  And she'll meow at me.  And stare at me with those ROUND, UNBLINKING EYES.  It's hella annoying.

Every day after I take the kids to school she yells at me to take her out for an eye-wateringly boring session of her walking around the back yard chewing on grass.

If I leave clean clothes in a laundry basket on the floor for too long without putting them away, she will decide occasionally that that is a delightful place to take a piss.  Once a plastic bag of vacuum cleaner parts was on the basement floor beside the dryer and she decided that was a fantastic place to take a piss.  A pile of towels that needs to be washed?  FABULOUS PLACE TO EMPTY YOUR CAT BLADDER.

She follows me every where I go.  And stares at me. And howls outside the bathroom door if I try to take a wizz.  With all due respect to my dog-loving friends, if I truly wanted that kind of attention, I'd have gotten a DOG.

We put her down the basement at 10 PM every night.  I can't tell you what a relief it is.  I give her psychotic little cat head a kiss goodnight, give her a hug, and wish her a good night.  She has a warm, cozy little cat bed on a pink fluffy blanky down there on a futon (is that where all futons go to die--the basement?).  Every day at 5 AM, she CLANGS up onto the dryer to HOWL AND YOWL in this most disgusting cat voice toward the one basement window. It's a nice, startling way to be awoken every day.


So yeah, I actually have fantasies of running away from my pet.  A KITTY CAT FOR FUCK'S SAKE.  Judge that as you will.

Monday, November 14, 2016

Working On It

Pee Wee:  There's a lotta things about me you don't know anything about, Dottie. Things you wouldn't understand. Things you couldn't understand. Things you shouldn't understand.

Dottie:  I don't understand.

Pee Wee:  You don't wanna get mixed up with a guy like me. I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

It's peaceful here and the only sounds are a lightly snoring old lady cat sleeping beside me, the ceaseless, quiet click and whirr of the cable tv box (reminding us that we're ALWAYS plugged into the system now--phew, this could totally go all creepy sci-fi couldn't it, she says as all those internet waves bounce around the house and try to disrupt her ENDOCRINE SYSTEM AAAAAHHHH...meh, who can be bothered), and a ticking clock.  Occasionally a car passes by.  Less frequently the house makes some mysterious clunk sound somewhere.  Have you ever noticed that?  I should say, does YOUR house DO that?  You're just sitting there, and there's some offhand kind of "crack" noise, like the house got tired of standing still with your lazy, ever-present, never-leaving-ass in it, and it stretched and its spine popped?  Or some clunk that ALWAYS comes from the basement?

Ooop...hold that thought...I have to freaking pee again.  Drink 8 glasses of water per day--pppffft.  Terrible idea....


So much for deep, meandering thoughts!  The point is this:  it's extremely peaceful and quiet here and I like it.  I like it far too much.  So, I decided I'd better kick my own butt and do some writing and connect with the outside world a bit.  I have always liked writing.

Back when I started this blog, the kids were a lot younger, a lot more tiring, and much shorter than me.  Now instead of being darling little people (who wiped their own poopy bum-bums on the bathroom towels, shoved legos in their ears and put glitter glue on like eyeshadow), they're big, delightfully wonderful people who plug the damn toilet, but whom  I can actually have really good conversations with.  God I love my kids.  They drain me, they give me white hairs, they turn me into a screaming idiot at times, but I found perfect friends and I grew them myself!

Yeah, that's kind of sci-fi creepy sounding once again.

Anyway, as I was saying, when I started blogging it was because I was a stay-at-home-mom (I think I hate that title--the feeling just occurred to me) with a young son somewhere vaguely on the Autism Spectrum, who liked to scream at me all the time for my shitty abilities to read his mind and always know 100 percent what he wanted from minute to minute, and a little toddler daughter who was and is the joy of my heart, but absolutely had her trying moments as well.  I was an exhausted karen with a thyroid blown out by years of rabid snack cake and cookie abuse, stress, and loneliness that was almost palpable.

I liked connecting.  I liked the fact that there were other stay-at-home-moms, and working moms, and dads of course, out there who related to the frustration of a seemingly thankless job wherein sometimes you have to scrape vomited hard-boiled eggs out of a sink drain with a plastic fork.  I knew my life was more fucking ridiculous than a lot of other peoples', and I liked putting that out there for a laugh.  I like making people laugh.  And I could do this all from the comfort of my own couch.  I like this because I'm a massive introvert and a recluse, and now I'm quite certain I have PTSD.  I thank my Dad for that.  I literally do.  If you've had really bad things happen in your life, and you can't find a way to laugh at them, well--things are hard enough, aren't they.

I have to admit though--and please, I don't want to sound like an ungrateful bitch, or a miserable, unfriendly jerk, and this is not a judgement on anyone or the world of blogging, but it did become a bit hard.  I didn't know if it was better to try to just write the hilarious stuff, or to try to only write the heavy stuff.  I stressed when I'd see followers disappearing.  I'd try to keep up with the "tags" and the conga-line "we're all doing a post on THIS this week," and I don't know.  I'm not good at always joining in.  Nothing but respect for all the amazing writers out there who have been so diligent and prolific with their blogging that they have amassed a great following and are able to make a living from their blog.

That's not me.

I've been not busy, and busy at the same time the past couple of years since my Dad died.  He was a full stop for a while after my Mom died.  And by the way, I know that when a  grown-ass woman writes lamentfully (that's not a word.  Fuck you, dictionary. If 'addicting' can become a thing, it's open season) about her parents dying, it's not going to typically move people much.  That's cool.  I get it.  We only truly appreciate what we ourselves have already gone through.  So in the past several years, I've been busy.  The old version of karen wasn't working so hot.  She was tired all the time, and really struggled through the days.  Karen 2.0 gets so excited from her fucking lunch salad she takes pictures of it and posts it on instagram.  I know.  Contrived as hell.  Except I'm absolutely and completely excited about healthy food.  I work out all the time.  And now, I won't bore you, but I'm hell bent on balancing my hormones.  Ha haaaa, I know right?!  But the point is, I've been working on it, and I've decided this is my "house", so fuck me, Imma do what I want in it.   This is not a declaration to anyone but myself. I'll be miserable when I want to, and I'll be ridiculous when I want to.  And, I'll swear it up because I love swears, and I ain't got no parents to disapprove. I have an older brother, and I don't think there's any risk of him reading my stuff, lolz.

My own path. Cuz I'm a loner, Dottie.
A rebel.


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