Stop pretending that the sky is red.

That was a quote from "The Gay Athlete" (term coined in his coming-out article in Sports Illustrated this week), Jason Collins, the first American professional sports player to announce that he is gay.

Collins has finally come out and made a life changing announcement that takes a lot of courage for anyone, and maybe even more so for someone in the public eye, especially when no one before him has done it.

There was an outpouring for support for this man since his announcement.  Support, respect, and love has come from many on twitter, blogs, facebook.  But with that also comes rejection and fear.

Watching this all unfold, I feel a lot of respect and pride for someone who would respect themselves enough to finally show the world who they are and stop hiding their natural beauty.  It's wonderful that so many people have shown such support for him.

On the other hand, it also makes me absolutely sick to my stomach.

Wait, wait.  Let me finish.

Why should we all feel this pride, for someone we don't know and will never meet, because he is finally taking the step to live his life as he chooses?  Why should he feel blessed to have so many people stand behind him as if he did something wrong?  Why are we treating him different, or like some kind of athletic anomaly, as if he isn't "normal", but we are showing support that he was able to come out and tell us that he is somehow different than the rest of us?

Why, in this day and age, is it still such a big deal for someone to tell us he's gay?  Why does he still have to feel such anxiety leading up to telling us that he is gay, as if he has something to apologize for?  Why does he feel he even has to share it, much less in a front page article in Sports Illustrated?  Don't get me wrong, I admire that he did that, but what I'm saying is, isn't it sad that he has to go that route for something that should not be a big deal at all.

After all, straight people, at the age of realizing their sexuality, do not feel the need to announce, "Oh, mom and dad, I wanted to tell you that I think I am straight."

*gasp*

Now, don't get me wrong here.  I have nothing but love for what Jason Collins has done here.  He has opened the gates and paved the way, allowing more people, in professional sports or not, to come out and live their lives how they want without having to hide for fear of social and professional persecution.

But tell me this.  Why the hell should he have to feel as if he has a secret that he has to finally confess?

Things have definitely gotten better over the past few years.  This just being another step in reaching a place where there is no "different" because there is no "normal".

There has been an inherent fear for many athletes, in that by coming out openly about their sexuality, they are going to be alienated by sponsors, teammates, coaches.  It has been surmised that such a leap of faith as telling someone who you really are, in this most private aspect of ones life, can be career ending in professional sports.

Then there's the fear that other straight men feel about having the gays in the locker room with them.

Everyone walks around stark naked in a locker room with no shame, right? After all, it's just us just heterosexual men in here, right?  As long as no one looks at anyone else's junk, it's all good, right?

Who wants to smack someones bare ass in the locker room if they might perceive it to be more than a friendly, sportsman-like, platonic gesture.  Obvs it's ok if both parties are straight.  It's a completely heterosexual gesture.

Right?  I mean, everyone does that, right?

Larry Johnson, fellow athlete, tweeted " Ppl ! this is nothing against Jason or homosexual's,all I'm saying is this don't belong in a man's locker room.", " here's a man that say he's attracted to other men. Now he's walking around a locker room with naked man.", "I don't judge anyone!! I have fallen short of the grace of Allah myself, but stop trying to make this acceptable."

Let's just get something straight here.  (Bad pun?  Too soon?)

Jason Collins was in the locker room with you all last week.  Jason Collins was attracted to men last week.  Perhaps not all of you chest pounding, hairy ass, pompus meatballs, but men nonetheless.

So...what changed?  What's different now, compared to last week?  You are, Larry Johnson.  You are different now. You have changed, in your attitude towards him. Jason Collins is exactly the same person.  Liberated now, feeling free but still cautious, but still the same person as last week.

Stop trying to make this acceptable??  Seriously?  Actually, you need to stop trying to make this unacceptable.

When I am in a women's locker room, and there is a naked woman there, it makes me uncomfortable.  I don't like to change in front of anyone.  So do you know what I do?  I take my clothing and I change behind a curtain.  Because I have enough sense to realize that the lady who is naked is not the issue, I am.  She has every right to change that way in a change room if she wishes.  If I don't like it, then I need to take strides to remove myself from the situation and find a comfortable way for me to do my thing.  I'm not talking about someone being inappropriate or harassing, I am simply talking about normal change room behaviour.

But if I am in a locker room, I have literally no indication of who is gay or straight.  Unless someone is winking inappropriately at me across the room, how would I know?  And what does it matter if there is a gay person there?  If the thought makes me uncomfortable, then the problem is me, and I need to rectify it myself.

If those men don't like having a gay teammate in the locker room with them, then my suggestion is to wrap a towel around yourself, have some curtains installed, and change in privacy.

And just a heads up to all the small minded assholes like Larry Johnson, do you really think for one second that Jason Collins in the only gay person in your league, even possibly on your team?  They might not be out yet, they might not be farting rainbows for all to see, but that doesn't mean that they don't find men attractive.  So if you have a fear of a man checking you out, then you need to buy yourself a robe or stay in your house.

Jason Collins is a free agent right now, at 34 years old. He has had sponsorship offers already since his announcement, and he finally decided to "stop pretending the sky is red".

Good on you, Jason.

with a capital V

I am on Vacation now.  I capitalize the V because Vacation deserves a capital letter.

Actually, you know what?  It should be VACATION.

Much better.

So, I'm on VACATION now, as of 5:30 yesterday.  Should have been 5:00, or even 5 minutes to, but being the dedicated procrastinator that I am, I had forgotten to print my month-end reports, that were supposed to be printed at...well....month end.

Luckily, I have an amazing boss with a great sense of humor who I could talk into generously offered to finish processing the reports for me once I had printed them.  (She could read this, you know.)  After all, printing them is the hard part.  *cough*

I think that once your VACATION begins, and I mean the minute you are off the clock, there should be security there to escort you out, not to be let back in until the morning of your return.  Then, while being hauled away, I could shout out over my shoulder, "Jeeeze Donna, I'm sorry, I really wanted to finish that report but they are forcing me to leave!  Oh, and by the way, I left some things in my desk drawer, and there's a weeks' worth of unopened mail in there too that I had just started, but....sorry, but these durn security guards won't let me go..."

Ok, I'm not that bad.  I actually had everything ready to go at 4:30 and had mentally checked into the house in Florida and was suntanning on the deck, and when my boss came into my office, and said those dreaded words..."What about....(insert dreaded work task here)"

Uggggh.

Fiiiiine.

But now I'm on VACATION and so far all we have done is clean and pack and drink and clean and pack.

There are ten of us going to Florida.  My sweet little fam, my husbands parents, and his brother's sweet little fam.  Ten (10) of us.  In one house.  For ten days.  With four kids under 8.

Aren't we brave?  Crazy?  Hopefully it'll be like an awesome weekend at the cabin, wherein even if we drive each other absolutely, ridiculously bananas, at least we'll be able to put the kids to bed at an ungodly hour, and sit back and drink and work out our aggression by desperately trying to keep each other in the Asshole seat in a good old game of cards.

And of course there are a TON of things to do in Florida, both to amuse and distract.  My little fam will be visiting the Magic Kingdom, Animal Kingdom, Busch, Aquatica, Seaworld, and Legoland.  Just to name a few.  VACATION for us is always GOGOGOGOGOGOGO, relax for an hour and then GO again.  And I can't freaking wait.  When we get home, we have a nice looong 5 days off to wind down and relax before back to work, so relaxing in Florida, while on my agenda, is definitely not at the top of the list.  I have never been outside of Canada, and there is so much to do!  I want to hit the ground running!

So CHEERS to VACATION!  I wish I could take you all with me.  Well, maybe not all of you, not at once anyways, but I'll do my best to post some pics along the way, and then get back to my normal observational blogs, since that seems to be what everyone tuned in for, and I have been really lax in that department lately. I have another one brewing, maybe even later today.  We'll see how far I get with the cleaning and the packing.

So....see you in 20 minutes?!

If your entire cell system renews itself every 7 years....

Is that why some marriages suffer the seven year itch?  Does that mean that we should renew our vows every seven years just to make sure we're still on board, agreeing to the same things we agreed to at the first marriage?  

Wait, what?  When did I agree to that?  Oh, no you don't...take that out, and then we'll renew this contract...I mean vows.  Yes...our vows.

Does that mean that I have to wait another 5 years before my body hits another multiple of seven, and therein I might receive the hourglass figure I want, without having to work for it?  I don't care about my weight, I'll keep that, whatever.  Just move my spare tire to my hips and my chin to my boobs and I'll be all set.  Nothing else should move though.  I don't want cankles.

Or is a slow process that happens over the seven years?  Does that mean that my spare tire might be slowly migrating south as we speak to join my hips and butt?  What about my chin?  Does that mean that as it's moving, I'm going to have one of those floppy turkey gobbler neck thingys for a little while?  I don't mind a double chin, on second thought.  Have you ever looked at a turkey?  I mean really looked at one.  Those poor birds have got to be the most disturbing piece of work I've ever seen.  You think zombies are freaky?  Pah!  Whatever.  I'd take flesh eating zombies any day over a herd (herd?) of giant, non-flying, pecking, squawking, bat-shit crazy ugly birds chasing me around.

Any day.

So yesterday, the kids and I were sitting at our bar, drinking hot chocolate with whipped cream, and I asked them if they knew what zombies were.  It's always fun to hear their answers to this stuff, because you know they are hearing about this stuff in school.

Shaelin wasn't sure, but Chase said that he sort of knew.  He knew that they were green, and they walk around trying to eat brains.  Braaaaainz.

Shaelin interjected to say that she had seen something like that, on tv, except he was wrapped in toilet paper.

Chase said that that was a Mommy, but they were only from the pyramids, because when people died, their friends would wrap them in toilet paper, and stick them in the pyramids and that's where they would live, trying to find brains to eat.

Sounds legit.

The conversations I have with the kids are usually hilarious and insightful at the same time, and I often wonder what they take away from them.  I always try to be as honest as I can, and answer them in anything they ask me.  But only give them just enough information to answer it, and not offer any extra.  Especially with Shaelin, because that child will ask you questions, on top of questions, on top of questions.  Until eventually I hear myself saying, "Ok, mommy is done talking now.  Why don't you go play now.  Please.  Now."

She asked me a few weeks ago where babies come from.  

Da Da daaaaa.

We were sitting to the table, and Darren was sitting on the couch trying to activate all his super powers to make himself disappear into the sofa, or at least be invisible, and I had to field it myself.

So, being as honest as I could, I explained how babies grow inside their mother's belly.  Then she interjects, impatiently, and says, "Yes, but how to they get out of there?"

Which is thankfully the lesser of the two evil questions.   Much better than, how they got in there.

So I explained how when the baby is ready, they start trying to push their way out, and the mommy has to push them out of her vagina.  And it hurts.  A lot.  But it's worth it when the mommy sees the sweet little baby and she knows she loves her very much.

But, that's not how my kids were born.  So I have to explain about c-sections as well, and explain that the Doctor actually cut me open and hauled them out by their feet, into the cold, sterile room, and smacks them on the bum to make sure they are ok, and then staples mommy back up, and she has a lovely red scar to live with for the rest of her life.  And then maybe a second one, that's a little bit squish, causing the little belly overhanging the scar to hang a little lower on one side that the other, giving her a lopsided, goofy looking belly.

Oh, ok, I didn't say it quite like that.

But then I showed them my scars.  And the look on their faces was priceless when Shaelin, a little bit awe struck and a little bit horrified, said, "Umm, wait....we came out of there?"  

Priceless.

I'm back!

And damn, it feels good to be back and currently mostly pain free!

Still don't know what caused it all.  It may have been Parvo.  May have been viral.  May have been an allergy.  It may come back.  It may not.

Two weeks of short term disability, a pill bottle of Tordol, and a stomach flu thrown in there for good measure later, and I'm 100% again!

Ready to come back to blogging.  I missed it actually, but perhaps a little rusty!

So they caught the Boston Bomber last night.  We were watching CNN when they got him, and it felt good to be part of that.  We watched the crowd cheer as the police confirmed that it was the guy.  We watched as Anderson Cooper tried to talk over the rising sound of a mob of happy, relieved, proud Americans walked down the street toward him, cheering and chanting "USA".  We watched the President come out and talk about it, saying how as one Nation, under God, we must now pray for the families who have lost, the ones who were injured, everyone who helped, as well as the people of Texas who had the explosion this week as well with many deaths and injuries.  He named each of the Boston victims one by one, and emotion seemed to catch in his throat when he named little Martin Richard.  Then he sighed, and said, "Overall, it's been a tough week."  It's been tough to watch, too.  The world seemed to be holding it's breath, waiting for this 19 year old to be found.

This was a sickening event, to think that someone would do this.  While I will never, ever condone or offer any justification or even sympathy for this guy who did this, it makes me stop and think, that wow, he was only 19 years old, and he could show such hatred and inflict so much pain.  And they were even discussing capital punishment last night, if the guy survives.  We are not talking about an imbecile, here, this is a 19 year old who didn't make a mistake, he took a cold calculated risk, knowing the chances of getting caught, to injure people and injure a Nation.  He knew what he was doing, no doubt.  But damn, he was only 19 years old.

It was all in vain though, really, because as we have seen time and time again, these attacks on the USA do not injure the Nation, it makes them stronger.  It bonds them as one.

But it got me thinking about was the stupid shit I did at 19.  Things that now I look back on and cringe because I clearly didn't have a lick of sense.  Well, I had some.  But not a lot.  And of course, it all pales in comparison to this guy.  There really is no comparison, except that at 19, you think you are indestructible, and that the world owes you something. 

At 19, you have enough sense to know right from wrong, even if you think you can bend each side a little bit.

At 19, you think the world is your oyster, and everything revolves around you.  It is full of promise and opportunity, and you think you can't be touched.

At 19, you think that your friendships will never end, relationships will never die, and that you can always be forgiven, and given another chance.

At 19, you still think that your family are jerks. The whole lot of them.  Although they are getting better than they were three years ago, so you can keep quiet and put up with it.  What you don't realize at 19, is that your family members are not the jerks, you are, but you aren't as bad as you were at 16, so they put up with the eye rolling and attitude.  Frankly, you're a bit of an ass, at 19.

At 19, you are right on the brink of adulthood, where people expect you to start getting serious, fortheloveofGod get yourself a job, take a shower, and give up with the pot already.  (not me, just some 19 year olds in general).  And you resist that every step of the way.

Because at 19, you want to be considered an adult sometimes, but only at your convenience.  Here in Canada, you can buy beer and cigarettes and lottery Tickets at 19, and anyone who ID's you is a dumbass because CLEARLY you are of age.  So you are an adult when you are out drinking until 4 am, stumbling around and making a complete ass of yourself.  But you are still a child when someone tries to take advantage of your drunken, idiotic state, whether it be to fight, for sex, or for money. It's obviously not your fault that those things happen, you are just a child, afterall.  And you're also just a silly child when they try to wake you up in the morning, with your bloodshot eyes, and vodka morning breath, spins to knock you on your ass, and a jackhammer in your ears, to go to a family brunch at Gramma's house.  A poor pity-me child.

You're still a child when you do something wrong, and people are blaming you for something, and some of your best friends are done with putting up with your shit, (refer back to reason two, the world revolves around you), because of course, at 19, you are likely not going to take responsibility for anything that you did wrong.  You will find some lame-ass see-through escape plan, that will shift the blame off of you, and make you the innocent victim.  Or so you think.

But at 19, even with no friends, and no sense, and a boat load of ego, you are entering into adulthood, and you - only you -  are responsible for the things you do.  Some of those things will not affect you for the rest of your life.  Some of it will.  Some of those things, you will be able to forget, move past, and create a new identity for yourself.  You might have a little baggage, because as you get into your 20's, the bigger mistakes will stay with you and you won't let yourself forget them.  But you will eventually forgive yourself for some of the stupid shit you did.  You'll eventually come to terms with the fact that if you lost some friends over these idiotic 19-year-old mistakes you made, well, they may not come back.  Eventually, you can put any embarrassment behind you.

But at least you are only doing stupid shit that you can come back from, not like this Boston Bomber.  If he survives, he will (hopefully) never walk free to make the same mistakes that your average 19 year old will make.  Because at 19, he knew the consequences, and he is most definitely not a child.  He is most definitely adult enough to may the price for what he has done.

So yes, 19 means you are an adult.  Wake up and get a job.  But you are also still a child.  You are selfish, and arrogant, and self-righteous.  You're still learning life, and making mistakes.  Those are mistakes that you need to make, sometimes, in order to get the rest of your life on track.  Hopefully the mistakes that you make at 19 are ones that you won't repeat as you get over.  And, of course, at 19, you are still an ass of the finest kind, at times.

But you'll get over it.

I did.

I give Parvo the finger....

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!!

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.

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.