The one-finger-typing, to be exact.
It's baaaaack.
Last March I had a terrible outbreak of human Parvo, and couldn't do shit with my hands or feet. It seems to be back with a vengeance and getting worse. I don't think I'll be blogging for a few days at least, but in the meantime, let me give you a link to a great article I stumbled across this morning. Some of the comments were hilarious too, if you have a ton of time to kill because you can't really do anything else. Like me.
Maybe they weren't that funny, it just struck me funny how random some people can be.
http://www.xojane.com/clothes/i-know-the-line-between-straight-and-plus-size-is-fictional-but-crossing-it-feels-super-real
This is a good one for all us ladies who are on the cusp between "normal" sizes and "plus" sizes. Her third last paragraph opened my eyes to something, and I think instead of fighting against men for women's equality, we should be fighting against fashion designers for size equality.
It's called fashionism, and it's a thing now. I just started it.
And we're all fashionistas.
Welcome to the movement.
Cheers! Hope I'm back with you all soon!!
Friday, March 15, 2013
Monday, March 11, 2013
Finally! They wrote a song about it...
Any compliment that anyone has ever given me on my clothing has been followed by a comment from me on how much it cost and where I bought it.
Finally my mom and my best friend intervened, and said, "Why do you do that?"
I guess I'm just proud of my findings.
We were recently at a show, my best friend Lori, and I. And we ran into some of her work friends. One of the girl was only 22, and she had on a pair of killer heels. When we complimented her, she said "Thanks! They were only "60!" Then she went on to say that she only tells people the price when they are cheap.
*gulp* $60 on a pair of shoes is a deal?? Well, I don't know, I think I would only wear them around my house so they wouldn't get dirty.
So here's the thing, although her comment and my history of those remarks are very similar, there is one big difference.
She was excited to let us know that she got a good deal on a new pair of shoes in a retail store, that were on sale. Normal, right?
I, on the other hand, am quick to let people know that I got a good deal on used clothing at a thrift shop or yard sale. I've been known to say things like, when Lori complimented me on a pair of earrings, "Thanks! I got them at a yard sale for 50 cents!" Score, right?!
The phrase "the tags were still on it!" is maybe not something that I need to brag about.
Especially when it comes in this sentence: "It was a bit more than I planned on spending, but since the tags were still on it, I didn't mind spending the $12 bucks."
Now, don't get me wrong, I am not ashamed of my thrift shopping habits. I live and breathe the lyrics to Maclamore's song, Thrift Shop. (Except that I usually don't wear your granddad's clothes...they were my own grandad's clothes, and I don't have them anymore).
I think it all started for me, back in junior high. We owned a grocery store, which, before my time, had been a store with a little bit of everything.
I used to spend hours in the basement of that store going through old boxes, finding vintage treasures before I knew vintage was even a thing. In the 90's, the bellbottoms came back with a vengance, and I was able to pull out the real thing when it came to platform shoes. So who the hell cared if they smelled a little moth-bally. I was loving my shoes.
Then it happened. I found a box of my pops old bell bottom pants. Blue bell bottom dress pants, light brown courdroy bell bottoms, I mean, holy crap. Talk about your gold mine of vintage clothing! I loved that stuff, and I felt like it made a statement.
Then again, my florescent yellow jeans also made a statement, but we don't need to go there today.
That's when I discovered thrift shopping, and I think that is when I became hooked. Then, as if that wasn't enough, my nan opened a full-time flea market when I was in grade 9, and I worked there in the spare time, furthering my love for second hand items.
Now, my thrift shopping has totally spoiled me. At one time it was about saving money, getting a little bit of new clothing when I couldn't really afford to go out shopping.
Now, it's about bang for my buck. If I go to a regular store shopping, I am still a huge bargain shopper, and try to never pay full price. That really limits the things available to me, because of course, all the nice stuff in the good sizes are gone long before they hit the sale rack.
If I spend $100 at a regular store, I might get a couple of tops and a pair of pants.
At the thrift shop, I walk out with 7 shirts, a dress, a pair of jeans for myself, two dresses and a top for my daughter, a couple of hoodies and a pair of PJ's for my son, a polo for my husband, a couple of scarves for myself, and a pair of rubber boots for the boy, all for $97.38.
And that's a bit of a slow day.
So I suppose I'm a little spoiled.
So Lori and my mom have told me, and they are right, to stop telling people the price of the things I buy, and instead be sercretly proud of my finds. Good call.
So now, if you compliment me on an outfit, and I smile and look like I'm bursting to tell you something, change the subject, comment on the weather, and make a mental note to go shopping with me some day.
Finally my mom and my best friend intervened, and said, "Why do you do that?"
I guess I'm just proud of my findings.
We were recently at a show, my best friend Lori, and I. And we ran into some of her work friends. One of the girl was only 22, and she had on a pair of killer heels. When we complimented her, she said "Thanks! They were only "60!" Then she went on to say that she only tells people the price when they are cheap.
*gulp* $60 on a pair of shoes is a deal?? Well, I don't know, I think I would only wear them around my house so they wouldn't get dirty.
So here's the thing, although her comment and my history of those remarks are very similar, there is one big difference.
She was excited to let us know that she got a good deal on a new pair of shoes in a retail store, that were on sale. Normal, right?
I, on the other hand, am quick to let people know that I got a good deal on used clothing at a thrift shop or yard sale. I've been known to say things like, when Lori complimented me on a pair of earrings, "Thanks! I got them at a yard sale for 50 cents!" Score, right?!
The phrase "the tags were still on it!" is maybe not something that I need to brag about.
Especially when it comes in this sentence: "It was a bit more than I planned on spending, but since the tags were still on it, I didn't mind spending the $12 bucks."
Now, don't get me wrong, I am not ashamed of my thrift shopping habits. I live and breathe the lyrics to Maclamore's song, Thrift Shop. (Except that I usually don't wear your granddad's clothes...they were my own grandad's clothes, and I don't have them anymore).
I think it all started for me, back in junior high. We owned a grocery store, which, before my time, had been a store with a little bit of everything.
I used to spend hours in the basement of that store going through old boxes, finding vintage treasures before I knew vintage was even a thing. In the 90's, the bellbottoms came back with a vengance, and I was able to pull out the real thing when it came to platform shoes. So who the hell cared if they smelled a little moth-bally. I was loving my shoes.
Then it happened. I found a box of my pops old bell bottom pants. Blue bell bottom dress pants, light brown courdroy bell bottoms, I mean, holy crap. Talk about your gold mine of vintage clothing! I loved that stuff, and I felt like it made a statement.
Then again, my florescent yellow jeans also made a statement, but we don't need to go there today.
That's when I discovered thrift shopping, and I think that is when I became hooked. Then, as if that wasn't enough, my nan opened a full-time flea market when I was in grade 9, and I worked there in the spare time, furthering my love for second hand items.
Now, my thrift shopping has totally spoiled me. At one time it was about saving money, getting a little bit of new clothing when I couldn't really afford to go out shopping.
Now, it's about bang for my buck. If I go to a regular store shopping, I am still a huge bargain shopper, and try to never pay full price. That really limits the things available to me, because of course, all the nice stuff in the good sizes are gone long before they hit the sale rack.
If I spend $100 at a regular store, I might get a couple of tops and a pair of pants.
At the thrift shop, I walk out with 7 shirts, a dress, a pair of jeans for myself, two dresses and a top for my daughter, a couple of hoodies and a pair of PJ's for my son, a polo for my husband, a couple of scarves for myself, and a pair of rubber boots for the boy, all for $97.38.
And that's a bit of a slow day.
So I suppose I'm a little spoiled.
So Lori and my mom have told me, and they are right, to stop telling people the price of the things I buy, and instead be sercretly proud of my finds. Good call.
So now, if you compliment me on an outfit, and I smile and look like I'm bursting to tell you something, change the subject, comment on the weather, and make a mental note to go shopping with me some day.
Saturday, March 9, 2013
You're just a 8 dressed up as a 9....
My husband manages a business where he spends a lot of time by himself, serving customers.
As a result, he spends a lot of time either on the internet, finding more interesting, but mostly useless information, to store in his brain-bank. When we first started dating, one thing that I distinctly remember, is how much random information he knew. He knows a little bit about everything. No matter where we were, or what we were doing, he could pull facts out of no where relating to whatever we were looking at.
My brain, on the other hand, retains next to nothing. I only ever remember useless shit. And then, at times when some of that useless shit might actually be relevant, even helpful, to a conversation, you can bet your ass that I'm going to get the facts backwards.
I read MacLeans magazine every week (a week after they publish, because my father-in-law gets them and then gives them to me when he's done with them). So I learn about a lot of relevant Canadian events, science discoveries, big news-makers, and celeb information from the magazines. But if I don't manage to somehow work that information into a conversation before the next publication comes out, it's just as well to forget about it. Because even if I do tell a story of something I read, I will get it wrong. Every fucking time.
So much so, that it's laughable. Or I'll do something like this:
Darren: I read online this morning that they discovered a bunch of new planets.
Me: Yeah, I saw that in MacLeans. Pretty cool.
Darren: Aparently, they are only about 500 light years away [or something like that, because again, I remember jackshit, so that number is probably wrong.]
Me: (not to be outdone) Yeah, I also read that there's a guy who is trying to get a bunch of people together to fly them all to one of the planets to start a colony.
Darren: Well actually, that guy wants to start a colony on Mars. And it was me that told you that, yesterday.
Me: Hmph. Yeah, well, I do know that they found a planet that is made entirely of diamond.
Darren: You would remember that.
Smartass.
His newest thing is sizing up coins, looking for ones that might be worth something.
He recently acquired a Zimbabwe bill that is worth $5 billion dollars, or some ridiculous amount like that.
Or worth nothing, actually, since there was an international warning issued that says that Zimbabwe dollars will not be honoured for anything, anywhere, even in Zimbabwe, making the bill absolutely worthless, but pretty damn cool, nonetheless.
He has also found lots of coins that are full or half silver content, which he as been keeping, since the price of silver is ever rising, the value of the coins also rises. Again, it's just kinda cool to know these things. Well, ok, cool might be a slight exaggeration, but it is definitely interesting.
So yesterday he starts to tell me about this really awesome coin. Well, in coin terms, it's as awesome as coins can be, really. Apparently back in 1969, they changed the font of the date on the Canadian Dime to be smaller. But, for the first 30 or so coins that they made, they forgot to actually change it. So there are about 30 (estimated) large date dimes out there from 1969. Only 20 of them have known whereabouts. Mint, they sell for upwards of $25,000, decent condition, $10,000.
And he had one.
It was rough, but it was clearly a large date dime. You compare it to the 1968, and the font is the same size. Compare it to the 1969, and there is a definite, unmistakable difference. So here we were thinking that even though it's rough, it may still be worth a couple grand, right? Apparently there was one found that the front, with the date, was almost worn off, and the guy was getting crazy offers on this coin that was hardly readable. Turns out it wasn't the real coin, but it still shows what people are willing to pay for this coin.
So Darren was on forums, trying to get as much info on this as possible, and we were looking for someone to be able to verify it's authenticity for us.
That's when he took a picture of his large font 1969 coin.
And the coin that, to the human eye is 1969, suddenly turned out to be 1968.
Estimated value:
Approximately ten cents.
As a result, he spends a lot of time either on the internet, finding more interesting, but mostly useless information, to store in his brain-bank. When we first started dating, one thing that I distinctly remember, is how much random information he knew. He knows a little bit about everything. No matter where we were, or what we were doing, he could pull facts out of no where relating to whatever we were looking at.
My brain, on the other hand, retains next to nothing. I only ever remember useless shit. And then, at times when some of that useless shit might actually be relevant, even helpful, to a conversation, you can bet your ass that I'm going to get the facts backwards.
I read MacLeans magazine every week (a week after they publish, because my father-in-law gets them and then gives them to me when he's done with them). So I learn about a lot of relevant Canadian events, science discoveries, big news-makers, and celeb information from the magazines. But if I don't manage to somehow work that information into a conversation before the next publication comes out, it's just as well to forget about it. Because even if I do tell a story of something I read, I will get it wrong. Every fucking time.
So much so, that it's laughable. Or I'll do something like this:
Darren: I read online this morning that they discovered a bunch of new planets.
Me: Yeah, I saw that in MacLeans. Pretty cool.
Darren: Aparently, they are only about 500 light years away [or something like that, because again, I remember jackshit, so that number is probably wrong.]
Me: (not to be outdone) Yeah, I also read that there's a guy who is trying to get a bunch of people together to fly them all to one of the planets to start a colony.
Darren: Well actually, that guy wants to start a colony on Mars. And it was me that told you that, yesterday.
Me: Hmph. Yeah, well, I do know that they found a planet that is made entirely of diamond.
Darren: You would remember that.
Smartass.
His newest thing is sizing up coins, looking for ones that might be worth something.
He recently acquired a Zimbabwe bill that is worth $5 billion dollars, or some ridiculous amount like that.
Or worth nothing, actually, since there was an international warning issued that says that Zimbabwe dollars will not be honoured for anything, anywhere, even in Zimbabwe, making the bill absolutely worthless, but pretty damn cool, nonetheless.
He has also found lots of coins that are full or half silver content, which he as been keeping, since the price of silver is ever rising, the value of the coins also rises. Again, it's just kinda cool to know these things. Well, ok, cool might be a slight exaggeration, but it is definitely interesting.
So yesterday he starts to tell me about this really awesome coin. Well, in coin terms, it's as awesome as coins can be, really. Apparently back in 1969, they changed the font of the date on the Canadian Dime to be smaller. But, for the first 30 or so coins that they made, they forgot to actually change it. So there are about 30 (estimated) large date dimes out there from 1969. Only 20 of them have known whereabouts. Mint, they sell for upwards of $25,000, decent condition, $10,000.
And he had one.
It was rough, but it was clearly a large date dime. You compare it to the 1968, and the font is the same size. Compare it to the 1969, and there is a definite, unmistakable difference. So here we were thinking that even though it's rough, it may still be worth a couple grand, right? Apparently there was one found that the front, with the date, was almost worn off, and the guy was getting crazy offers on this coin that was hardly readable. Turns out it wasn't the real coin, but it still shows what people are willing to pay for this coin.
So Darren was on forums, trying to get as much info on this as possible, and we were looking for someone to be able to verify it's authenticity for us.
That's when he took a picture of his large font 1969 coin.
And the coin that, to the human eye is 1969, suddenly turned out to be 1968.
Estimated value:
Approximately ten cents.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Pillow for you...pillow for me...
I can feel myself getting a cold, but I think I might be giving it the good fight. I am at home, getting up to clean for five minutes, sitting down for ten.
So I'm trying to make my house look like grown ups live here, instead of a bunch of college kids living here having keggers on the weekend.
Ok, maybe the kegger thing isn't too far from the truth at times, but it doesn't have to look that way.
It needs to look like it's a family house, with nice things. I'm so tired of mismatched furniture, some left over from when we bought our first house and we were flat out broke. For example, I just got a beautiful new coffee table set. A nice wooden set, three pieces that ACTUALLY MATCH! I was finally able to throw out the old end table we had, (the only one left from a set we bought some 8 or 9 years ago at Walmart) that had loose screws, and that bad plastic-fake wooden covering.
In the past, even when we have bought new furniture, we haven't always had much luck in getting nice things that stand the test of time. We bought a new couch, loveseat and sofa chair about 4 years ago. It's a tan coloured microfiber. We went with microfiber, because the salesman told us that our sweet, lovely little cat, Silver, would not scratch it. Told us that she would not scratch it because it heats up and feels sort of like carpet burn on their paws, so they won't do it again.
Man, he was full of shit.
Even as I am writing this, she is doing her crazy sideways exorcist crawl moves across the bottom of that chair.
Idiot.
Not only has our demon cat shredded the bottom of my sofa chair, (The same sofa chair that boasts my children's artwork all over the back of it from when my kids were small), but the damn thing is so hard to keep clean. Maybe it was never scotch-guarded Maybe it wasn't meant for people with kids. Maybe it wasn't made for grown ups like us who eat most of our meals sitting on it. (Ok, edit: The last three nights that we have eaten a meal together in this house, it has been at the table. We're not [always] savages.)
Even a big black-hole powered super wet vac with the strongest upholstery cleaner can't take out some of these stains.
And to top it all off, the cushions are not actually attached to the couch, so every time you stand up, it gets sucked into your butt cheeks, pulling them out. Every time.
So tonight I was fluffing the new throw pillows I have, and putting them on my couch. They are nice and big, so as to cover as much of this shit couch as possible. And I have a thought.
It is amazing what some nice throw pillows can do.
So that sounds so, uninspiring. That is, until you really stop and think about it.
The house itself is like my family. Everything that you really need. The walls for support. The roof to keep us safe from the storms that may rage outside. The heat to keep us cozy. All you ever really need in life.
It's not about the throw pillows, it's never about that stuff. That is just that - stuff. It's not the throw pillows that are important, it's all about the structure of the house.
But it's when you add the throw pillows and the pictures on the walls, and the nice new wooden matching coffee table sets, that life gets interesting. That's when life gets a little prettier.
The throw pillows are the picnics in the back of our SUV with the kids. They are the marshmallow roasts in the backyard. They are the ice cream dates at Dairy Queen.
Ok, wait. That all included food.
Let me try that again.
The throw pillows are umm...ok, wait, I got this.
They are the tickle fights on our bed. They are movie dates on the couch. They are reading Harry Potter together. They are tossing a football in our cul-de-sac. And they are cuddling, four people deep, on the loveseat before bed.
Have I mentioned that I just love the new throw pillows?
So I'm trying to make my house look like grown ups live here, instead of a bunch of college kids living here having keggers on the weekend.
Ok, maybe the kegger thing isn't too far from the truth at times, but it doesn't have to look that way.
It needs to look like it's a family house, with nice things. I'm so tired of mismatched furniture, some left over from when we bought our first house and we were flat out broke. For example, I just got a beautiful new coffee table set. A nice wooden set, three pieces that ACTUALLY MATCH! I was finally able to throw out the old end table we had, (the only one left from a set we bought some 8 or 9 years ago at Walmart) that had loose screws, and that bad plastic-fake wooden covering.
In the past, even when we have bought new furniture, we haven't always had much luck in getting nice things that stand the test of time. We bought a new couch, loveseat and sofa chair about 4 years ago. It's a tan coloured microfiber. We went with microfiber, because the salesman told us that our sweet, lovely little cat, Silver, would not scratch it. Told us that she would not scratch it because it heats up and feels sort of like carpet burn on their paws, so they won't do it again.
Man, he was full of shit.
Even as I am writing this, she is doing her crazy sideways exorcist crawl moves across the bottom of that chair.
Idiot.
Not only has our demon cat shredded the bottom of my sofa chair, (The same sofa chair that boasts my children's artwork all over the back of it from when my kids were small), but the damn thing is so hard to keep clean. Maybe it was never scotch-guarded Maybe it wasn't meant for people with kids. Maybe it wasn't made for grown ups like us who eat most of our meals sitting on it. (Ok, edit: The last three nights that we have eaten a meal together in this house, it has been at the table. We're not [always] savages.)
Even a big black-hole powered super wet vac with the strongest upholstery cleaner can't take out some of these stains.
And to top it all off, the cushions are not actually attached to the couch, so every time you stand up, it gets sucked into your butt cheeks, pulling them out. Every time.
So tonight I was fluffing the new throw pillows I have, and putting them on my couch. They are nice and big, so as to cover as much of this shit couch as possible. And I have a thought.
It is amazing what some nice throw pillows can do.
So that sounds so, uninspiring. That is, until you really stop and think about it.
The house itself is like my family. Everything that you really need. The walls for support. The roof to keep us safe from the storms that may rage outside. The heat to keep us cozy. All you ever really need in life.
It's not about the throw pillows, it's never about that stuff. That is just that - stuff. It's not the throw pillows that are important, it's all about the structure of the house.
But it's when you add the throw pillows and the pictures on the walls, and the nice new wooden matching coffee table sets, that life gets interesting. That's when life gets a little prettier.
The throw pillows are the picnics in the back of our SUV with the kids. They are the marshmallow roasts in the backyard. They are the ice cream dates at Dairy Queen.
Ok, wait. That all included food.
Let me try that again.
The throw pillows are umm...ok, wait, I got this.
They are the tickle fights on our bed. They are movie dates on the couch. They are reading Harry Potter together. They are tossing a football in our cul-de-sac. And they are cuddling, four people deep, on the loveseat before bed.
Have I mentioned that I just love the new throw pillows?
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Till death do us part....
That translates into, until we kill each other, right? That's the modern day take on our wedding vows?
As I mentioned in an earlier post, we had two of our apartments become vacant in the house we used to live in. So as a result, we have been spending quite a bit of time in that house over the past month.
We're in the home stretch, almost done, thanks to an awful lot of help from my husbands parents.
The thing is, even though I couldn't be more thankful to have them, I can't help but feel guilty every time they are working on the house. They watch our daughter all day, and then pick our son up from school, feed them, and bring them to their various activities (ballet, tae kwon do, etc), and I know if it were me, I'd have cracked by now.
But as I said, we're in the home stretch. And not a minute too soon. Cause I'm about to crack.
But being in our old house, where we started our family and lived for 6 years, makes me think about where we came from. And not just the memories from that house, but from when we met, and what we've gone through together.
I was 16 when we met, he was 20 (almost 21, but I'm pretty sure I probably rounded it down when I told my mom about him). He was such a nice, genuine guy, and I couldn't help but fall for him right away.
He had this cute little mustache (ok, it was cute then, but God help me if he decided to wear it that way now.), and his hair was longer and his cowlick over his forehead more prominent. He lived 4 hours away from me at the time, so ours started as a long distance relationship, which when you are 16, is not easy. Maybe that's why mom didn't mind me dating him, because I only saw him twice a month, at best.
One weekend when he came out, he surprised me with a coolerbag, full of ice, and packed inside of it was my favourite chocolate frozen yogurt, that you could only get in his hometown. It was mostly melted from the drive, but it was, barr none, the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. To be honest, I think that was really made me realize that I would marry this man.
We had a couple of rough patches, but then, who the hell doesn't? We persevered, we struggled, but we fought for it, and we won. We have a wonderful life together. Where I am weak, he is strong. And we have fun, and we are each others biggest supporters.
I drive him nuts sometimes. Sometimes because we're so different. Other times, just for the fun of it. He has been known to be a little anal when it comes to things like, well, lets say painting a wall, for example. Where as I, could not be less anal. When rolling on a dark paint, someone like me may get a little paint on the blinds, on the wires, on the floor, in my hair, in my eyes. I'm not saying that this has happened, or anything, of course. Just a rhetorical scenario. Someone like him might make some teasing, sarcastic remarks to the affect of "I can't believe that you got paint all over the blinds. Way to go." To which, someone, not me obviously, may respond, "Shaddap or I'll stab you." See how fast this stuff escalates?
My point is that, you knew this when you married me. You knew that I can't paint a patio without trying to schoo away a wasp, leaving a huge paint stroke up my leg, and falling off the ladder and knocking a gallon of paint into the driveway. (True story). You knew it's impossible to fold every load of laundry as it comes out of the dryer. You knew I would never win awards for housewife of the year (Hence why I work outside the home for a living). And you still put up with me. Imagine that.
So, thanks for that. ;)
As I mentioned in an earlier post, we had two of our apartments become vacant in the house we used to live in. So as a result, we have been spending quite a bit of time in that house over the past month.
We're in the home stretch, almost done, thanks to an awful lot of help from my husbands parents.
The thing is, even though I couldn't be more thankful to have them, I can't help but feel guilty every time they are working on the house. They watch our daughter all day, and then pick our son up from school, feed them, and bring them to their various activities (ballet, tae kwon do, etc), and I know if it were me, I'd have cracked by now.
But as I said, we're in the home stretch. And not a minute too soon. Cause I'm about to crack.
But being in our old house, where we started our family and lived for 6 years, makes me think about where we came from. And not just the memories from that house, but from when we met, and what we've gone through together.
I was 16 when we met, he was 20 (almost 21, but I'm pretty sure I probably rounded it down when I told my mom about him). He was such a nice, genuine guy, and I couldn't help but fall for him right away.
He had this cute little mustache (ok, it was cute then, but God help me if he decided to wear it that way now.), and his hair was longer and his cowlick over his forehead more prominent. He lived 4 hours away from me at the time, so ours started as a long distance relationship, which when you are 16, is not easy. Maybe that's why mom didn't mind me dating him, because I only saw him twice a month, at best.
One weekend when he came out, he surprised me with a coolerbag, full of ice, and packed inside of it was my favourite chocolate frozen yogurt, that you could only get in his hometown. It was mostly melted from the drive, but it was, barr none, the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. To be honest, I think that was really made me realize that I would marry this man.
We had a couple of rough patches, but then, who the hell doesn't? We persevered, we struggled, but we fought for it, and we won. We have a wonderful life together. Where I am weak, he is strong. And we have fun, and we are each others biggest supporters.
I drive him nuts sometimes. Sometimes because we're so different. Other times, just for the fun of it. He has been known to be a little anal when it comes to things like, well, lets say painting a wall, for example. Where as I, could not be less anal. When rolling on a dark paint, someone like me may get a little paint on the blinds, on the wires, on the floor, in my hair, in my eyes. I'm not saying that this has happened, or anything, of course. Just a rhetorical scenario. Someone like him might make some teasing, sarcastic remarks to the affect of "I can't believe that you got paint all over the blinds. Way to go." To which, someone, not me obviously, may respond, "Shaddap or I'll stab you." See how fast this stuff escalates?
My point is that, you knew this when you married me. You knew that I can't paint a patio without trying to schoo away a wasp, leaving a huge paint stroke up my leg, and falling off the ladder and knocking a gallon of paint into the driveway. (True story). You knew it's impossible to fold every load of laundry as it comes out of the dryer. You knew I would never win awards for housewife of the year (Hence why I work outside the home for a living). And you still put up with me. Imagine that.
So, thanks for that. ;)
Wednesday, March 6, 2013
Que the shark attack music...
So...I have 24 days left of my 20's.
Dum, dum duuuum.
I'm not gonna lie, man, that stings.
That stings worse than hitting the bars with your girlfriends and having the same bouncer who ID's ALL of your friends, wave you through without a second glance, and mutter, "you're fine". And try as I might, and believe me, I tried, I know deep down that he didn't really mean, "Girl, you so fiiine".
That stings worse than shopping in a clothing store in town, and overhearing two girls, who are roughly 15 years younger than me, looking at the same boots that I'm currently wearing, and saying, "No, I don't want to get those boots, I think I'm too old for them. I don't want it to look like I'm trying too hard."
That stings worse than going to a hipster coffee shop and being called ma'am, loud enough for everyone to hear through their beanies. And not knowing if it's pronounced "Grand" or "Grande". And accidently almost tipping him $20 on my debit, before trying to quietly fix it, only to have the big red "CANCELLED" slip print, with the amount on it, tip included, that I cancelled out of.
Yep. Damn, that stings.
So when I turned 27, I clearly remember telling my co-workers that I was going to lose weight, because there was no way I was going to turn 30 like this, overweight and mad at myself. Life is too short, I said.
Then 28 hit, and I gained back a little bit of the weight I had lost, but vowed it would be gone before 30. I still had two years, afterall.
29 came along pretty damn quick. I mean, what the hell happened there, anyways? I blame it on cell phones. They make spare time pass so quickly, that the next thing we know a whole year has passed while we're playing Angry Birds. Those friggin' pigs.
So now it's crunch time. I should be eating raw celery and drinking a ton of water. Because my deadline is almost here, and I still have about 20lbs to lose.
Yet here I am, eating a jumbo sized peanut butter cookie, and drinking coffee at 10pm. And I say screw it. Because damnit, this cookie is Ah-mazing.
Last year, we had a friend of ours pass away, and she was only 42. She was like a barbie doll. Beautiful, slim, everything I have always wished I could be, physically speaking. I thought she was beautiful. She could eat anything she wanted, and never gain an ounce. And I was immensely jealous of that. But then she died of stomach cancer, with three week's warning. How's that for a wake up call. This woman, who I would have given my right leg to look like, was not going to see her 43rd birthday. And buddy, I tell ya, that really shook me up.
I had a very hard time dealing with that. It wasn't even that we were particularly close. We were friends, through my husband's work, and we had spent some time together. But I didn't even have her on facebook. I never really thought about it, until I found out that she was dying, and then, for some stupid reason I can't explain, it didn't feel right adding her.
So in light of her passing, I decided to change some things about myself.
Instead of wasting my time being miserable that I have a bit of a double chin, and a body that will never showcase a bikini, at least not well, I say fuck it.
Of course, I want to be healthy. And of course it would be nice to lose a little weight so my jeans fit a little better, and I can shop anywhere I please, with ease. But isn't part of being healthy, also being happy? Can I make myself happy with myself, as I am, and let go of the rest? Enjoy a jumbo peanut butter cookie every now and then, in moderation of course, without making myself feel guilty over my choices later? I think I can. But maybe it's the feel-good endorphines from this fantastically, almost raw in the middle cookie that is telling me that it's all good and I won't hate myself tomorrow for eating this.
Most of all, I want to set an example for my children that says that you can be happy and healthy and enjoy life 100%, no matter what. And of course, every day I don't necessarily showcase that to the best of my ability, but I will try harder. Afterall, they can find skinny role models anywhere.
So have a cookie. Or a bowlful of chips.
I usually only snack on weekends, but tonight I say fuck it.
Life is too short, afterall.
Dum, dum duuuum.
I'm not gonna lie, man, that stings.
That stings worse than hitting the bars with your girlfriends and having the same bouncer who ID's ALL of your friends, wave you through without a second glance, and mutter, "you're fine". And try as I might, and believe me, I tried, I know deep down that he didn't really mean, "Girl, you so fiiine".
That stings worse than shopping in a clothing store in town, and overhearing two girls, who are roughly 15 years younger than me, looking at the same boots that I'm currently wearing, and saying, "No, I don't want to get those boots, I think I'm too old for them. I don't want it to look like I'm trying too hard."
That stings worse than going to a hipster coffee shop and being called ma'am, loud enough for everyone to hear through their beanies. And not knowing if it's pronounced "Grand" or "Grande". And accidently almost tipping him $20 on my debit, before trying to quietly fix it, only to have the big red "CANCELLED" slip print, with the amount on it, tip included, that I cancelled out of.
Yep. Damn, that stings.
So when I turned 27, I clearly remember telling my co-workers that I was going to lose weight, because there was no way I was going to turn 30 like this, overweight and mad at myself. Life is too short, I said.
Then 28 hit, and I gained back a little bit of the weight I had lost, but vowed it would be gone before 30. I still had two years, afterall.
29 came along pretty damn quick. I mean, what the hell happened there, anyways? I blame it on cell phones. They make spare time pass so quickly, that the next thing we know a whole year has passed while we're playing Angry Birds. Those friggin' pigs.
So now it's crunch time. I should be eating raw celery and drinking a ton of water. Because my deadline is almost here, and I still have about 20lbs to lose.
Yet here I am, eating a jumbo sized peanut butter cookie, and drinking coffee at 10pm. And I say screw it. Because damnit, this cookie is Ah-mazing.
Last year, we had a friend of ours pass away, and she was only 42. She was like a barbie doll. Beautiful, slim, everything I have always wished I could be, physically speaking. I thought she was beautiful. She could eat anything she wanted, and never gain an ounce. And I was immensely jealous of that. But then she died of stomach cancer, with three week's warning. How's that for a wake up call. This woman, who I would have given my right leg to look like, was not going to see her 43rd birthday. And buddy, I tell ya, that really shook me up.
I had a very hard time dealing with that. It wasn't even that we were particularly close. We were friends, through my husband's work, and we had spent some time together. But I didn't even have her on facebook. I never really thought about it, until I found out that she was dying, and then, for some stupid reason I can't explain, it didn't feel right adding her.
So in light of her passing, I decided to change some things about myself.
Instead of wasting my time being miserable that I have a bit of a double chin, and a body that will never showcase a bikini, at least not well, I say fuck it.
Of course, I want to be healthy. And of course it would be nice to lose a little weight so my jeans fit a little better, and I can shop anywhere I please, with ease. But isn't part of being healthy, also being happy? Can I make myself happy with myself, as I am, and let go of the rest? Enjoy a jumbo peanut butter cookie every now and then, in moderation of course, without making myself feel guilty over my choices later? I think I can. But maybe it's the feel-good endorphines from this fantastically, almost raw in the middle cookie that is telling me that it's all good and I won't hate myself tomorrow for eating this.
Most of all, I want to set an example for my children that says that you can be happy and healthy and enjoy life 100%, no matter what. And of course, every day I don't necessarily showcase that to the best of my ability, but I will try harder. Afterall, they can find skinny role models anywhere.
So have a cookie. Or a bowlful of chips.
I usually only snack on weekends, but tonight I say fuck it.
Life is too short, afterall.
Tuesday, March 5, 2013
Hear me roar...
So, today on my way to work, driving along, trying to get around the little electric car in front of me that governs out at 50km/hr, I notice that on the back bumper, there is a ribbon magnet. You know the type, first they were Breast Cancer Awareness, then Support our Troops, then everything down to, get this, I Love My Blood Hounds (Really? Come on, man.)
Well this one is actually from our friendly local provincial government, and it says www.respectwomen.ca. It is the purple ribbon event, in support of Violence Against Women in our province.
So....ok.... here's the thing. I'm just going to come right out and say this, and I'm sure that some people would eat me for it. Obviously, I have no problem with trying to prevent violence against women. I think that goes without saying. And I am sure that there is a lot of evidence to support the fact that the percentage of women battered by men far outweighs the opposite. But this really gives off the wrong message.
First of all, it's like the Principal coming out into the schoolyard to point a finger at the bully and tell him to play nice. It makes women appear weak and helpless, and men appear like big old meanies. No one wants to be that kid that the Principal is trying to protect, even if the right intentions are there.
The campaign says "Show him how to respect women".
How about, "Show him how to respect others".
In a world that is very focused lately on mental health awareness and bullying, wouldn't it be more productive to give the message that we are all on equal ground? That violence is not acceptable, no matter who the target is?
Instead, how about equality for all? I believe that we should be able to see past gender, see past race, see past religion, and recognize that the person sitting next to us is absolutely no better and no worst than we ourselves.
I feel that feminism segregates women further, by saying "I am different, therefore you must treat me the same". The idea is to be included, but the message is saying that I should be included simply because I am different.
Our government is stepping in with really good intentions, but getting it all wrong. For an example, which is off the topic of violence against women, but still not too far off the message sent, If I apply for a job that I am not qualified for, and there are people there who deserve it more than me, then they had damn well better get that job over me. I don't care if they are male, female or bovine, makes no difference. The best qualified person gets the job. I certainly don't want the government to step in and tell that employer, "Hang on now. You had a woman apply for this job, so she must get it because she is female." For one thing, it brings about inequality, which is exactly what is being fought against, giving us an unfair advantage to compensate for the wrongdoings in the past. For another, it can create hostility and lack of respect in the workplace, when others feel that one employee has the road paved in gold for them.
It is no longer about feminism. We have reached a point were we don't need to fight for women's rights any more, we need to continue to fight for equal rights for all. That means gender, race, age, sexual preference, religion, and the list goes on. We're all in this together, afterall. But I don't think I'll be burning my bra any time soon.
Well this one is actually from our friendly local provincial government, and it says www.respectwomen.ca. It is the purple ribbon event, in support of Violence Against Women in our province.
So....ok.... here's the thing. I'm just going to come right out and say this, and I'm sure that some people would eat me for it. Obviously, I have no problem with trying to prevent violence against women. I think that goes without saying. And I am sure that there is a lot of evidence to support the fact that the percentage of women battered by men far outweighs the opposite. But this really gives off the wrong message.
First of all, it's like the Principal coming out into the schoolyard to point a finger at the bully and tell him to play nice. It makes women appear weak and helpless, and men appear like big old meanies. No one wants to be that kid that the Principal is trying to protect, even if the right intentions are there.
The campaign says "Show him how to respect women".
How about, "Show him how to respect others".
In a world that is very focused lately on mental health awareness and bullying, wouldn't it be more productive to give the message that we are all on equal ground? That violence is not acceptable, no matter who the target is?
Instead, how about equality for all? I believe that we should be able to see past gender, see past race, see past religion, and recognize that the person sitting next to us is absolutely no better and no worst than we ourselves.
I feel that feminism segregates women further, by saying "I am different, therefore you must treat me the same". The idea is to be included, but the message is saying that I should be included simply because I am different.
Our government is stepping in with really good intentions, but getting it all wrong. For an example, which is off the topic of violence against women, but still not too far off the message sent, If I apply for a job that I am not qualified for, and there are people there who deserve it more than me, then they had damn well better get that job over me. I don't care if they are male, female or bovine, makes no difference. The best qualified person gets the job. I certainly don't want the government to step in and tell that employer, "Hang on now. You had a woman apply for this job, so she must get it because she is female." For one thing, it brings about inequality, which is exactly what is being fought against, giving us an unfair advantage to compensate for the wrongdoings in the past. For another, it can create hostility and lack of respect in the workplace, when others feel that one employee has the road paved in gold for them.
It is no longer about feminism. We have reached a point were we don't need to fight for women's rights any more, we need to continue to fight for equal rights for all. That means gender, race, age, sexual preference, religion, and the list goes on. We're all in this together, afterall. But I don't think I'll be burning my bra any time soon.
The Princess and the lifeguard
So, my daughter wants to be a lifeguard when she grows up.
Actually, she is quite ambitious. She has decided that she will be a lifeguard during the day, and a princess otherwise. I mean, as a mother, of course I want her to be successful. I just think that working two jobs like this might wear her out. But she's only young, so she has the energy for it, I suppose.
I read an article that someone had posted a while ago on facebook that said that you should not tell your little girl that she's pretty. You should focus on things like her brain and tell her how smart and clever she is instead, as this will give her more value in her life.
Well, I have since deleted this person from facebook. You see, I have a small habit of not being able to shut the hell up whenever I feel strongly about something, (hence, the blog). One thing lead to another, I gave my opinion, she showed her ignorance, which by the way, was enough to make me want to go through the computer at her. So, to put it nicely....
I call bullshit on that. Almost every little girl loves to hear that she is beautiful. I really don't think that this makes her feel any less smart. I doubt that at the ripe old age of four, she assumes that if she's pretty than she needs nothing else. That she's set for life. I also don't think that by telling her that she is beautiful I'm setting her up for a lifetime of Chanel lipglosses and lap dogs in an oversized purse.
How about the little girl that no one ever told that she is pretty? No matter how you try to avoid it, physicality plays a large role in the lives oflittle girls everyone these days. If my husband never, ever complimented me, eventually it would really start to bother me. It is irrelevant than I have a personality flaw that ensures that I cannot accept a compliment to save my damn life. (Those conversations usually go, "You look nice today", to which I respond, "Shut up, I do not.") Ok, so I usually don't believe him, and sometimes take his comments to mean that he wants something, but nevertheless, it is nice to hear. Even though I know it doesn't matter what I look like, I know he will love me, it still makes me feel good to know that he can admire me. Sometimes it's all I need to hear.
But if he never, ever said anything like that to me, except to comment on how smart and clever I am, after a while I think my self esteem would start to take a beating.
My little girl knows that she's beautiful. She also knows that she is smart, clever, and that she can be anything she wants in the world, even a lifeguard by day and a princess by night. (I think it's safe to keep that dream alive for a few more years). She also knows what makes you beautiful. Go ahead, ask her. She'll tell you every single time, "My heart".
Actually, she is quite ambitious. She has decided that she will be a lifeguard during the day, and a princess otherwise. I mean, as a mother, of course I want her to be successful. I just think that working two jobs like this might wear her out. But she's only young, so she has the energy for it, I suppose.
I read an article that someone had posted a while ago on facebook that said that you should not tell your little girl that she's pretty. You should focus on things like her brain and tell her how smart and clever she is instead, as this will give her more value in her life.
Well, I have since deleted this person from facebook. You see, I have a small habit of not being able to shut the hell up whenever I feel strongly about something, (hence, the blog). One thing lead to another, I gave my opinion, she showed her ignorance, which by the way, was enough to make me want to go through the computer at her. So, to put it nicely....
I call bullshit on that. Almost every little girl loves to hear that she is beautiful. I really don't think that this makes her feel any less smart. I doubt that at the ripe old age of four, she assumes that if she's pretty than she needs nothing else. That she's set for life. I also don't think that by telling her that she is beautiful I'm setting her up for a lifetime of Chanel lipglosses and lap dogs in an oversized purse.
How about the little girl that no one ever told that she is pretty? No matter how you try to avoid it, physicality plays a large role in the lives of
But if he never, ever said anything like that to me, except to comment on how smart and clever I am, after a while I think my self esteem would start to take a beating.
My little girl knows that she's beautiful. She also knows that she is smart, clever, and that she can be anything she wants in the world, even a lifeguard by day and a princess by night. (I think it's safe to keep that dream alive for a few more years). She also knows what makes you beautiful. Go ahead, ask her. She'll tell you every single time, "My heart".
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Holy smokes
So, we had a few tenants move out of the house that we rent, over the years. We've owned the house since 2004, we lived there until 2010, and only rented the basement apartment.
Let me tell you, living in a basement apartment is one thing. It's unpleasant. Yes, it's a sometimes damp, sometimes cold, sometimes dark basement where you get very little daylight and nothing grows except mildew in the tub because of poor ventilation. Yes, you have to put up with the landlord being there, stomping around upstairs, acting like they own the place. No, the place is not your own, and you have to treat it that way. Yes, the landlords 9 year old daughter may knock on your door at 12 am, when you may or may not be sleeping, and in a very horror-movie creepy kind of way, offer you a large jug of strawberry milk that she had made for you after her mom went to sleep. You may or may not have to pour strawberry milk down your drain at 12:02am, just as a precaution.
Seriously, you can't make this shit up.
But living in your own house, above a rented basement apartment is quite another thing.
You will have to put up with hard-of-hearing old men who rant on the phone in their kitchen, at 7am, which of course is below your master bedroom, and is not at all soundproofed, because the house is 35 years old.
You will have hoarders that move out and leave you with a living room of neatly folded stacks of newspapers, four cupboards of empty Cheerio boxes, a leaning pile of empty, washed, chip bags on the counter, and two drawers of empty prescription pill containers.
You will have tenants calling and asking you to come down and put eyedrops in their eyes because they just keep missing their eye.
And that was just the first tenant.
You will have people who swear they are not smoking in the basement, even though you can smell something somewhat questionable through the vents, and all of a sudden you are craving Zesty Doritos and Pineapple Crush. (sidenote: if you are not from Newfoundland, Canada, yes, we have Pineapple Crush here. It's like Orange Crush, or Grape Crush. That's right.)
You'll have the yellers. You'll have the barking dogs. You'll have Frank, the guy that breaks his brothers nose across his kitchen table while you are upstairs on the phone with 911, and the 911 operator says "Is that Frank Donn and his brother fighting?"
Wait. What?
You'll have the serial-movers who move every 6 months because their funds run out, and in order to keep themselves in ciggarettes, and a step ahead of welfare, they will continue to move out every 6 months and stiff you with a month's rent.
Or even worse than that, you'll have the serial movers who wait two years, until the place is just so damn dirty that they can't stand it any longer, and they will move out in the middle of the night, leaving you with a $500 damage deposit to cover 18 hours of manual cleaning labour, the cost of replacing all the carpets in the bedrooms, a fridge that is so clogged it won't cool, 27 bags of garbage, and a toilet seat that is so much easier to just rip off and replace.
We have had two groups that go down in my books of the dirtiest, smelliest, downright Dis.Gust.Ing. More on that later, perhaps, because I can't get into that today.
Because this blog post is actually about something much sadder than a little boy living in a house with floors you have to wash three times to remove the layer of grime, more disturbing that finding a black banana on the floor in the laundry room, and harder to deal with for me than cat-piss stained walls where we actually have to change the gyproc.
This shit is about to get real. Because this blog post is about the fighters. The punchers. The abusers.
Today we went into the apartment in my basement that is recently vacant. Coming off of cleaning an apartment that was so dirty I didn't want to even hang my coat in the hallway, it was a relief to walk into the apartment, and see that the place wasn't in too bad of shape. There was no smell. The tub needed to be re-caulked, which always makes for lots of good jokes, funny and sometimes awkward remarks throughout the process. The oven needed to be sprayed, and the baseboards touched up with some white paint. But none of that is anything beyond the normal process when a tenant moves out of an apartment.
What was beyond the norm, and beyond anything I can understand, were the holes in the walls. Upon entering the apartment, we could immediately see 3 holes in the walls around the entryway. Fist sized holes. Further down the hall was another, next to one of the bedroom walls. When you turn the corner into the bedroom, you realize that the hallway hole was met with yet another hole in the bedroom wall, so that you can see straight though. Then there were two others nearby. The spare bedroom greeted us with 3 more, one of which was in the ceiling.
And the bathroom door has a small indentation in it. The apartment has been painted multiple times, so it's really no surprise to see imperfections and dents, but this particular dent in the door, was at the level of a persons head. It was also cracked, as if it was a force that hit it. And there were a couple of strands of head hair in it.
So the guy that was living there was a big, tattooed (not that that means anything, because I love a guy with tattoos normally), mean looking brute of a guy with a temper to match. He had been seen at various times, by neighbors, screaming at his male roommate and at his girlfriend.
And she is the sweetest, most level headed, kind person to speak to. She even moved across the country to be with this winner.
I don't know much about this couple. And I sure don't know much about abusive relationships. I know that is can be very easy to stand back and judge someone else when you are not in a particular situation, whether it be an abusive relationship with a partner, an addiction, a weight problem (be it large or small), or whatever the case may be. It is easy enough to stand back and make decisions about what someone else should be doing with their life. When you are not in that type of a situation, it can be so plainly obvious what the outcome should be. Unfortunately, sometimes it seems obvious what the outcome will be as well.
This girl is a smart girl. She seems like she has her shit together. But in her words, her boyfriend is a 'hot head' and has a 'quick temper'. In my words, her boyfriend is an asshole.
But you never really know. They have now moved back to his hometown. And while I am left, patching up the walls of the apartment, I wonder how much time in her life she will spend covering black eyes with concealer, and patching up the holes in her life. And I feel bad for her, although I know she would probably not want pity. And I feel like if I ever saw that son-of-a-bitch, why I'd....
And I wonder if it were my little girl, what would I do? And if it were me in that situation? I say now that if my husband punched a hole in the wall, even one damn time, I'd take my kids and I would be out of there so fucking fast that he couldn't even mutter the first apology. I'd like to think that if any man ever tried to hurt me, I would be able to defend myself. I would even trade a few punches with him, if that's what it took. But that is just what I think I would do. No one ever says to themselves when they are growing up, "I think I'll fall in love with a womanizer and marry a man that'll ring my bell now and then to keep me in line." I'd like to think that if it ever came down to it, that I would have the strength to stand up for myself, and to walk away.
But when it comes right down to it, I don't judge her. But I hope that son-of-a-bitch wakes up some day, when she is long gone, and realizes that she was better than he could have ever hoped for, and he blew it. And I hope he can find some help.
Let me tell you, living in a basement apartment is one thing. It's unpleasant. Yes, it's a sometimes damp, sometimes cold, sometimes dark basement where you get very little daylight and nothing grows except mildew in the tub because of poor ventilation. Yes, you have to put up with the landlord being there, stomping around upstairs, acting like they own the place. No, the place is not your own, and you have to treat it that way. Yes, the landlords 9 year old daughter may knock on your door at 12 am, when you may or may not be sleeping, and in a very horror-movie creepy kind of way, offer you a large jug of strawberry milk that she had made for you after her mom went to sleep. You may or may not have to pour strawberry milk down your drain at 12:02am, just as a precaution.
Seriously, you can't make this shit up.
But living in your own house, above a rented basement apartment is quite another thing.
You will have to put up with hard-of-hearing old men who rant on the phone in their kitchen, at 7am, which of course is below your master bedroom, and is not at all soundproofed, because the house is 35 years old.
You will have hoarders that move out and leave you with a living room of neatly folded stacks of newspapers, four cupboards of empty Cheerio boxes, a leaning pile of empty, washed, chip bags on the counter, and two drawers of empty prescription pill containers.
You will have tenants calling and asking you to come down and put eyedrops in their eyes because they just keep missing their eye.
And that was just the first tenant.
You will have people who swear they are not smoking in the basement, even though you can smell something somewhat questionable through the vents, and all of a sudden you are craving Zesty Doritos and Pineapple Crush. (sidenote: if you are not from Newfoundland, Canada, yes, we have Pineapple Crush here. It's like Orange Crush, or Grape Crush. That's right.)
You'll have the yellers. You'll have the barking dogs. You'll have Frank, the guy that breaks his brothers nose across his kitchen table while you are upstairs on the phone with 911, and the 911 operator says "Is that Frank Donn and his brother fighting?"
Wait. What?
You'll have the serial-movers who move every 6 months because their funds run out, and in order to keep themselves in ciggarettes, and a step ahead of welfare, they will continue to move out every 6 months and stiff you with a month's rent.
Or even worse than that, you'll have the serial movers who wait two years, until the place is just so damn dirty that they can't stand it any longer, and they will move out in the middle of the night, leaving you with a $500 damage deposit to cover 18 hours of manual cleaning labour, the cost of replacing all the carpets in the bedrooms, a fridge that is so clogged it won't cool, 27 bags of garbage, and a toilet seat that is so much easier to just rip off and replace.
We have had two groups that go down in my books of the dirtiest, smelliest, downright Dis.Gust.Ing. More on that later, perhaps, because I can't get into that today.
Because this blog post is actually about something much sadder than a little boy living in a house with floors you have to wash three times to remove the layer of grime, more disturbing that finding a black banana on the floor in the laundry room, and harder to deal with for me than cat-piss stained walls where we actually have to change the gyproc.
This shit is about to get real. Because this blog post is about the fighters. The punchers. The abusers.
Today we went into the apartment in my basement that is recently vacant. Coming off of cleaning an apartment that was so dirty I didn't want to even hang my coat in the hallway, it was a relief to walk into the apartment, and see that the place wasn't in too bad of shape. There was no smell. The tub needed to be re-caulked, which always makes for lots of good jokes, funny and sometimes awkward remarks throughout the process. The oven needed to be sprayed, and the baseboards touched up with some white paint. But none of that is anything beyond the normal process when a tenant moves out of an apartment.
What was beyond the norm, and beyond anything I can understand, were the holes in the walls. Upon entering the apartment, we could immediately see 3 holes in the walls around the entryway. Fist sized holes. Further down the hall was another, next to one of the bedroom walls. When you turn the corner into the bedroom, you realize that the hallway hole was met with yet another hole in the bedroom wall, so that you can see straight though. Then there were two others nearby. The spare bedroom greeted us with 3 more, one of which was in the ceiling.
And the bathroom door has a small indentation in it. The apartment has been painted multiple times, so it's really no surprise to see imperfections and dents, but this particular dent in the door, was at the level of a persons head. It was also cracked, as if it was a force that hit it. And there were a couple of strands of head hair in it.
So the guy that was living there was a big, tattooed (not that that means anything, because I love a guy with tattoos normally), mean looking brute of a guy with a temper to match. He had been seen at various times, by neighbors, screaming at his male roommate and at his girlfriend.
And she is the sweetest, most level headed, kind person to speak to. She even moved across the country to be with this winner.
I don't know much about this couple. And I sure don't know much about abusive relationships. I know that is can be very easy to stand back and judge someone else when you are not in a particular situation, whether it be an abusive relationship with a partner, an addiction, a weight problem (be it large or small), or whatever the case may be. It is easy enough to stand back and make decisions about what someone else should be doing with their life. When you are not in that type of a situation, it can be so plainly obvious what the outcome should be. Unfortunately, sometimes it seems obvious what the outcome will be as well.
This girl is a smart girl. She seems like she has her shit together. But in her words, her boyfriend is a 'hot head' and has a 'quick temper'. In my words, her boyfriend is an asshole.
But you never really know. They have now moved back to his hometown. And while I am left, patching up the walls of the apartment, I wonder how much time in her life she will spend covering black eyes with concealer, and patching up the holes in her life. And I feel bad for her, although I know she would probably not want pity. And I feel like if I ever saw that son-of-a-bitch, why I'd....
And I wonder if it were my little girl, what would I do? And if it were me in that situation? I say now that if my husband punched a hole in the wall, even one damn time, I'd take my kids and I would be out of there so fucking fast that he couldn't even mutter the first apology. I'd like to think that if any man ever tried to hurt me, I would be able to defend myself. I would even trade a few punches with him, if that's what it took. But that is just what I think I would do. No one ever says to themselves when they are growing up, "I think I'll fall in love with a womanizer and marry a man that'll ring my bell now and then to keep me in line." I'd like to think that if it ever came down to it, that I would have the strength to stand up for myself, and to walk away.
But when it comes right down to it, I don't judge her. But I hope that son-of-a-bitch wakes up some day, when she is long gone, and realizes that she was better than he could have ever hoped for, and he blew it. And I hope he can find some help.
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