Sharing is caring

I found this in his room. I blacked out his name so it doesn’t become null and void.

I have so much to do this coming week that’s it almost become farcical. I’m not even stressed or worried about it, because it’s an amount of stuff so large that it’s now become soft around the edges. If the stuff I had to do was a pile, it’s be so big that it would fill my peripheral vision. When something is so big that it’s all you can see – when it’s the only thing in your sight line - it no longer feels big because it’s all you know.

So of course almost none of it is going to get done.

If you have stuff like that this week ahead and you too are looking for quality procrastination materials, look no further. For while I should be calling the Student Loan office and arranging my tuition for January, maybe you’re supposed to be having a dental filling replaced or ordering a new cheque book.

That reminds me. I need a filling replaced, and I have no cheques. Great. My list just got longer, thankssomuch.

Some things to procrastinate with/for/on:

My friend posted this on Facebook, and I loved it. I’ve participated in many of these “Canadian” activities, except I didn’t see the snippet of teenagers in lumberjack jackets drinking beer in a farmer’s field, or teenagers in lumberjack jackets drinking beer under a railroad trestle, or teenagers in lumberjack jackets drinking beer at a Provincial Park campground.

Canada Shared by Canadians

I want to share what Chantal wrote on her blog, and I related very closely to the sentiment. You can see my comment on her post on peeing the bed if you’re looking for my nocturnal “issue.” (Hint: it’s also possibly why I have had so many short-term relationships.)

Like me, Susan also has an eight-year-old son, and so we are both headed to the same corner of heaven or wherever mothers who once had eight-year-old sons go. I’m less sure about where it is and more sure that it is quiet and comfy and decidedly free of Lego and unexplained urine on the floor. Here’s her beautiful letter to him on his 8th birthday. These lines in particular have stuck with me since I read it:

Although recently your teacher told me that you and one of your besties got into a disagreement — a misunderstanding, really — and that you both cried. “And when she cried,” you told me, your chin wobbling, “I felt like I was responsible for every bad thing that ever happened to her ever.” And I thought, Honey, it’s not like you two have been married for 17 years.

And now, I’m back to bed. I had a bit of a fluey thing going on this last week. I pushed it aside to go out Saturday night with some lovely ladies, and while I had a great time, the truth is my achy bones are reminding me that I was up way past my bedtime. (I haven’t even seen the sun fully set in months which puts my average bedtime at approximately 5:30 pm. AND I LIKE IT THAT WAY.

And here I am at MamaPop.com, where I warn the boys in One Direction about the Yoko Ono powers of Taylor Swift.

Have a great week, everyone!

Some Things

I swear this was yesterday

But THIS was yesterday…

I’ve been thinking about how quickly time goes. I found out this week that my daughter will likely need braces, and while I wonder how I’m going to cover that, I also thought about how lucky she is that she will get them. I needed them also, but it didn’t happen for me.

My teeth aren’t horrible; I can smile without being self-concious, but I could use them and my dentist has recommended it on a few occasions. But do I want braces at 39? Is there enough time left to make it worth it? When does the time come that you just say “Screw it. I’m not paying for anything with an expiry date that could possibly exceed the time I have left.”

But then I take my Gramma shopping and she buys yogourt, so maybe this never happens?

Today is November 11, which is Remembrance Day in Canada. Last year I wrote about my Grandpa who was a tailgunner in WWII. When I call my Gramma today we will talk about him and we both might cry a little a bit. (We totally will.)

I miss him more the older I get. It makes me sad for my children, who don’t have a relationship with their own grandfather. But, so it goes.

Some other things that made me think this week:

• On Friday I wrote about how my week hadn’t been a particularly good week. But no sooner than I hit “publish” I got some good news, and things turned around, at least halfway. They turned around enough that I could breathe again. So hey, if anyone needs a wish granted, let me know and I will take it to the WordPress gods. MAI BLOG IS A MAGICAL 8-BALL.
• School is in full swing for the kids and I have to say, we’re lucky here in regards to homework. My daughter in grade eight has a manageable amount, and less than an hour or two a few times a week. It’s appropriately challenging, so far no one has cried yet. She is normally finishes her math and French at school and this is a good thing because I doesn’t do the math or Francias, cuz I ams a English majer. I read a funny blog post about homework this week by Alice Bradley (Finslippy.) It was excellent because – like the best humour – it is true. I had my kids read it and they agreed wholeheartedly. Thank you, Alice.
• We’re in week two of Movember, and some twitter friends and I created emoticons to celebrate:

Are you participating, or supporting someone who is? It’s not too late. When it comes to facial hair, it’s NEVER TOO LATE.

• This coming week I am having lunch with some new friends, who I met despite that fact that adults don’t make friends as easily as 5 year-olds do. Ann at Ann’s Rants had me smiling all week thinking about what it would be like if we did. She is totally getting invited to my birthday party at Chuck E. Cheese.
• If this post seems disjointed, blame these:

Seven of them in a sitting will give you the shakes, heybutchaknowhat? I don’t care.

This week I also wrote at MamaPop.com about the crazy-but-lovable-wait-no-they’re-horrible Jackson family, and I also have an article at iVillage.ca about one of the worst parts of being a divorced parent.

Have a great week. Or at least one that doesn’t suck.

Fit to be dried

Like a large percentage of recent University graduates, I am underemployed, over-educated, and reasonably poor.I would like to climb out of this hole of student debt before I dig another one for my daughter, so I’m hoping the Canadian government can just direct my future pension straight towards the student loans office during my retirement.

To continue providing the necessities of life for my children like food, shelter and Aeropostale t-shirts, I’ve been strictly enforcing cost-cutting measures. I’ve informed the kids that reading in the dark is good for hand-eye co-ordination, but that lesson seemed lost on my son who at the time had a fork lodged in his ear.  Also, I believe that cold showers aid in the development of a strong character, and it’s true because after her allotted 2 minutes in the shower my daughter told me to…well, she used some really powerful prose.

The kids are getting on-board, albeit slowly. My son enjoys staying up until 10pm to have a bath in order to take advantage of the cheaper electricity rates, but my daughter is not so keen on doing her homework by candlelight.  As for me, I’ve made a conscious effort to do less laundry, and only in cold water after peak hours.  I’ve also been hanging it to dry.

This started as a course of necessity when the dryer died. I was tired of hauling a pile of wet laundry to the Laundromat to dry it, and the cost was adding up. It doesn’t help that one of our local Laundromats is the saddest place on earth; a grey concrete, forlorn place reserved for those missing joy, happiness, teeth, or an eye.  

Besides, if I use all my quarters for the dryer, what’s left for casino slot machines?

Luckily we don’t live in a neighbourhood with a clothesline bylaw. Actually, it wouldn’t matter for me anyway, as I am not technically using a clothesline, because we don’t have one.

What I do have is an old gazebo frame. It’s only rusted and broken in a few places, so there is a still plenty of useable space for hanging our underwear.

Line drying our laundry has also helped cut costs in other, unforeseen ways. In fact, I think we may soon stop bathing entirely, because the crispy line-dried towels can be used to just sand the dirt off.

Party’s Over

I graduated from University a few months ago. It’s summer now (or rather it was as I wrote this; in the past few days leaves have started turning colour and falling, so it appears that party is over.)  

With the long break from school and having kids at home there was little opportunity for me to work full-time without it being a huge clusterfuck of daycare arrangements, complicated play date co-ordination, and begging strangers to offer my kids candy to keep them occupied. So I ended up taking the summer “off” to re-group my post-graduation plans and decided to work part-time and write only on the side.

The job I have for the summer and early fall sucks all sorts of horrible things available for sucking. It’s not my bosses (they’re great,) or the schedule (I pretty much set my own.) It’s not even the amount of work, as it is relatively easy work and not many hours each week.  It’s the kind of work. I’m not “above” it – no, that’s not it at all. It’s the mind-numbing boredom and the fact that it’s the same work you’d do if you’d served 2/3 of your manslaughter sentence and weren’t considered a “runner.”

Why they gave this job to me in the first place is a mystery, because I am most definitely a runner. Unfortunately, my bosses have learned this, and have developed strategies to trick me into working, including saying really mean and manipulative things like, “You we’re only paying you if you show up and do the work, right?”

I am grateful to have employment, this particular job is one which involves many things I hate, including:

• nature
• condom wrappers
• bending over
• small dead animals
• being on my knees
• dog shit
• dirt
• worms and slugs
• talking to people

It’s HORRIBLE.

And worse, it is not what I want to do with my life.

So while it’s not a job I particularly like doing, my family does enjoy things such as food and shelter, so I do it. The job run ends in sometimes in late September, right around the time the kids are back in school full swing and the regularity of our lives is restored. So what do I do then?

I will write. I plan to write. I need to write. I want to write. I am going to write?

I will write.

Asleep in the lung of a giant

This post was written on the eve of our trip. I have set it to auto-publish in my absence. I tell you this for authorial transparency and to follow the rules of professionalism, but also so that you know while you are reading this, wrapped in your Snuggies (I’m not judging; I own two) raccoons are likely gnawing the last of the gristly meat from my carcass.

Enjoy!*

*Addendum to above: I am actually home now, but this post did not auto-publish, so I am now – in real time - publishing a pre-written, supposed-to-have-been-already-published post.

I think this is how worm holes are created.

Well, it looks like we’re camping. I decided not to cancel for several reasons, but mostly because I am a strong, brave, capable woman who wishes her children to grow to be the same. Well, my daughter, anyway. Or my son. Whatever. I’m a liberal.

And also because I already bought a cooler full of blueberry vodka.

This also has something to do with spite. Spite is under-rated. Sometimes spite is the best motivator, and often it’s the only thing that gets me through the day.

But mostly I decided to go because I am not a quitter. Well, unless it’s something hard, like physical labour, or a really boring job. I quit that shit all the time.

I think we’ll do okay, even if it does rain. People lived outside for millions of years before the three level back-split was invented, right? I’m sure we can survive (thrive, even!) in a tent for a few nights. But I’m not going into this blindly; I’ve armed myself with the proper tools and supplies to keep potentially wet and bored children from staging a mutiny: I’m bringing lots and lots of candy. And a new whittlin’ jackknife.

Besides, nothing bonds a family as much as sleeping in a gooey, damp tent and catching pneumonia.

Right now we’re either having a blast, or you’ll hear about us on the national news come 11pm this evening.

Get ready, world! I’m gonna take you by storm! Well, “storm” seems a bit harsh. And probably requires energy. Shower sounds better. Sprinkle? Sprinkle. I’m gonna take you by sprinkle!

I hope this is a map to a secret treasure chest so I can pay off my student loans

I have deleted “student” from my Twitter bio, because on Friday, June 15th, 2012 (tomorrow night from current posting,) I officially graduate from the University of Guelph with my English B.A. Hons. (For science-y and mathematical types, that means “did a shit load of reading and perfected looking pensive.”)

Some of my family members who still speak to me read my blog, so for them – and others, if you’re interested and/or want a warning to show your children about dropping out of high school when they’re 16, smart, bored, and think working at a gas station is the ticket out of a small town high school, feel free to click here. The University streams convocation live and my ceremony starts at 7pm EST. My last name falls in the second half of the alphabet, so you should probably be able to finish a half bottle of wine by the time I come on stage.

Here are some of my favourite posts since 2009 about my experiences at University.

The one where I start to panic

The one where I complain about the workload

The one where my daughter makes us all love her

Another one where I complain about the workload

The one where I start making end plans

* Also, if my partner is reading this and still looking for graduation gift ideas,  he should know that whole honey glazed hams are a nice sentiment.

If John Prine wrote a song about the current state of my house, it would be called “Craphole.” (And he’d probably add something else in there about a wounded veteran hooked on heroin or a sad girl working at a laundromat.)

Nothing in my life is operating at 100% efficiency right now.

My car CD player doesn’t work; my BlackBerry ball is stuck; both toilets run constantly; the kitchen tap, basement and bladder leak (and my roof is next;) my computer has more viruses than a sailor on shore leave; my home phone crackles; the hot tub has a partial dead squirrel in it; my nose is STILL broken; my favourite purple shiny flats blew a seam; the screen door is ripped; there’s a broken fridge AND stove in my driveway; and the hedges need trimming but I sliced through the extension cord last time I cut them and C says I will electrocute myself if I attempt my alternate plan which was to string together all 16 of my interior extension cords. He’s very unadventurous, and frankly, not much of a problem solver.

Last week I forgot garbage day so I have compost rotting in my laundry room; ants have taken over the patio; most of my picture frames are propped up with tomato paste cans; the back is falling off my bedroom armoire; the bathroom sink plug is gone (I don’t know where it went but it likely ran away and I don’t blame it one single bit;) and the refrigerator runs as smoothly as a 1985 Hyundai Pony.

If it weren’t for the duct tape and cable ties holding this house together, I’d be typing this from a low-budget campground using stolen internet. AND MAYBE I AM.

Last week I received an email from the University I graduated from in April informing me the gown for my convocation ceremony will be $25 to rent.

That is exactly what I have earned since I graduated.

I am trying to remain optimistic. Things will get better. Meanwhile, wine helps. And bitching. Lots and lots of bitching. C bears the brunt of this. I like his feedback for the most part, and he’s fairly astute in his summations:

Me; putting the gazebo covering on for the first time this year, and discovering that it is ripped: “WHY? WHY IS EVERYTHING BROKEN, DENTED, GOT HALF A DEAD THING IN IT, MISSING TWO PIECES, RUSTED, SHIT ON BY BIRDS, INFESTED WITH ANTS, CRACKED, DIRTY OR JUST PLAIN GONE TO SHIT?”
“Simple, Jeni. It’s because God hates us.”
“What? Why would God hate us? “
“BECAUSE WE ARE HORRIBLE PEOPLE. “

See? ASTUTE.

How an Institution of Higher Learning would ever allow me to graduate is beyond me

I graduate from University in a few weeks.

A real one.

I’m technically done with my studies this coming week, when all my final assignments will be handed in, but until then I’m milking it with the “alllllmmmmmmost there” shit.  I hope that’s okay with you because I worked my ass off and I AM GOING TO MILK THIS.

But it is becoming apparent that while I  have learned a lot about English literature, social philosophy and Undergraduate sexual prowess (Overheard conversations people, overheard) it appears as though I have learned little common sense or future planning. (Or math, but who needs that hassle anyway?)

Case in point:

I received an email from the University bookstore stating the hours and times for their annual textbook buy-back period. They’ll buy all new and gently used textbooks for a portion of their original cost and then pass on that saving to students next year. I have never taken my books in before, since I felt the previous year’s textbooks could be useful in the following year’s studies. And they were – for stacking up high enough to prop my tired feet on while I wrote another essay about some facet of Victorian women’s literature showcasing elements of blah blah blah.

I loaded up two old-lady trolleys (Which, as a matter of pride, were NOT borrowed, but from my personal collection) and set off to the re-sale counter. I sold every single book I had ever bought from the school. I sold Anthropology, Sociology, History, Physics, Philosophy and Geography. I sold poetry anthologies, I sold novels, I sold atlases. I even sold my 15 pound, hardcover copy of Chaucer’s entire works.

I needed the money – I’m a University graduate now.

I left there with $149.95 in my pocket, happy that not only could I buy groceries this week, I was passing on savings and knowledge to another freshly Oil of Olayed, enthusiastic 37-year-old single-mother freshman.  I returned home, satisfied and eager to complete the full circle of my education and was sure that while experiencing this high I could knock out those final essays within hours.  I sat down at my computer and reached for the required reading ….

….that I had just sold for $7.

This one’s for the Procrasto-Masters

I love SpongeBob Squarepants and think he is highly under-rated by academia. Contemporary literary theorists have posited that postmodern movements blur the border separating “high” and “low” culture, resulting in a conflated and subversive “new” culture. (It’s okay; I want to punch myself in the face for writing that, too.)

But me? To these critics I say, GIMME THE BOB!

I saw this particular SpongeBob episode last week with my son, and couldn’t believe how well it captured the essence of what is it to be a “procrastomaster.” If you change “What not to do at a stoplight” to “Socialist Views in Britain Regarding the Coal Mining Industry as Portrayed in Victorian Era Feminist Supernatural Literature” and “800 words” to “6000 words or enough to make you cry from boredom” then that’s my life right there.

I think I’ll watch it again. And then maybe straighten all the pictures in my house. And it may be time for the annual alphabetization of my cookbooks. Oh! It appears the furnace filter needs to be changed, and I’ve only got 10 lbs of sugar in the cupboard, and the car is due for a new air filter, and….

Some people think that those who procrastinate are just lazy and unfocused. I disagree. While I may procrastinate, I’m also a bit of a perfectionist, and - like SpongeBob – committed to meeting deadlines. This usually results in a flurry of caffeine-fuelled productive activity and obsessive editing, commonly late at night.

It’s exhausting.

I asked a friend with similar tendencies why we do this to ourselves. Her answer was something many of my friends would agree with:

“Because we’re writers.”

The one where you tell me everything will be fine

This had better be my youth

Yesterday was my birthday, and I turned an age that ended in a “9.”

To celebrate carrying me this far, my body launched all sorts of surprises: my fingers are stiff, there’s a new wrinkle on my forehead, and my neck is starting to look like a party streamer.

My birthday included a bowl of soup and an afternoon nap on the couch, and I was totally cool with that.

One morning, not so long ago, I was getting my breakfast in the kitchen wearing only my nightgown. We were running late and I hadn’t done anything to myself other than get out of bed. My son looked at me and commented, “Your boobs hang pretty low. It’s like they’re really sad.”

This is the beginning of the end of my youth, isn’t it?

I have high blood pressure, and my last visit with the doctor (a doctor who is 6 years YOUNGER than me) included talk of support stockings and cholesterol testing. My hearing isn’t the greatest due to Nirvana, the 1990′s and something called a “Walkman.” I’ve even worn – completely by coincidence - the same outfit as my 88-year-old grandmother at least twice this year.

I understand that I am still “young” relatively speaking, but it’s not about the number, it’s about the feeling. I realized the other day that no clerks have called me “Hun” in quite some time. I’m now at the age my dad was when I no longer thought of him as “young.” Maybe I need to start hanging out at the senior’s centre, so I can be the youthful one again.

The other day a professor called me “Ma’am.”

I feel sad because both my kids can tie their own shoes, read, tell time, buckle their seatbelts, and wipe their own asses. It’s like all of those fun parenting duties are behind me.

I’m now officially a part of the pre-menopausal generation but I can’t stay up to watch the “Nightline” special about it because it’s on after 10pm. I’ve cut my hair to a “respectable” length and sometimes I have to ask people to speak s-l-o-w-e-r and more loudly.

The other day a professor called me “Ma’am.” Did I say that already?

I’m begging you, please- tell me this is a just a plateau and I’m really still just climbing the mountain. I can’t be at the halfway point because I still haven’t seen a Led Zeppelin reunion concert.

To put thing is perspective, I will close with this:

Recently I lingered at a clothing rack displaying polyester pull-on pants and considered.

Seriously considered.