HATE

Sometimes you just can't do right. Don't get me wrong, this is not a "poor me" saga. It's just an observation that if you get the wrong person at the wrong time, you can't do right by them. If you try to do some thoughtful deed, they question your motives... if you forget something or accidentally do something stupid, it was a "malicious deed". I see this happen in work environments. If the wrong person has pissed off an immature manager, nothing that employee does ever again will not be taken in the context of the manager's ire. I have seen it in toxic relationships. If the man does something thoughtful, the woman questions his motives... if he forgets something or breaks something he just doesn't stand a chance. The reverse can of course also be true.

Now my question... why is that? Is there so much hate in the world or between two personalities, that every thought, every action, is weighed against the animosity held for that individual?

To a larger extent, is this what is happening in the the Israeli - Palestinian conflict? When there are "peace talks" the motives of those involved are questions. When there is inaction it is a festering wound waiting to explode... it is the calm before the storm. When Yitzhak Rabin was trying to instigate a newly negotiated peace, his motives were questioned... when Arafat was trying to instigate peace talks, his motives were questioned. Ariel Sharon is considered a warmonger. Few believe his overtures toward peace because it is believed that he has a long standing vendetta against Arafat. How naive am I to just wish that we could all get along? I do not live in a land where I am not welcome... I do not live in a newly expatriated country that is rife with animosity. I am neither arab nor jew. I have absolutely no concept of the amount of hate, fear, distrust, self-conviction, religious fervour that is a daily part of life. The knowledge that I could be hit by a bus tomorrow is nothing like the knowledge that I could be in a market place sitting next to a suicide bomber. My fears are very different from someone living in a land torn by conflict.

What if there were no nationalism? Is that possible? Could any given country survive without nationalism? Would the United States exist without the patriotic pride that upholds there nationalism? The middle east is not simply based on country related nationalism... there also exists the arab nation and the jewish nation... the arab state... the jewish state.

What if there were neither... would that be better or worse? It is an utter impossibility. Just like the impossible dream of everyone just loving each other because we are all worthy of being loved, not because of colour, creed, religion or race.

Hate is such a powerful thing.

...AND A ZEBRA FARTS

The Guy came back from Chicago with a new outlook on travel - this bodes well
for convincing him to come with to S.A.

Hope he decides to come it would be fantastic to have him see first hand all
the things that I have tried over the years to describe... after all, as one
dear friend said, "There is nothing like the smell of  a zebra fart
first thing in the morning, when you are downwind."

 

Folks, I don't make up the news, I just report it.

 

this was supposed to be a picture of a ZEBRA - so tell me where did it go?!?!?! this posting pictures with no knowledge thing is for the birds.

SELF ABSORPTION

I am four-ply toilet paper mopping up my own sponge of insecurities.

I am too self absorbed to return phone calls. (Sorry Gideon and Methuselah)

I am too self absorbed to acknowledge when people are working hard to provide me with comfort and ease. (Sorry Mammers)

I am too self absorbed to let the guy have a life that does not include me in every miniscule thought and deed. (Sorry Guy that I love)

I am soooooo self absorbed, that I am anticipating you reading about my self-absorption.

SOME T& A

My favourite co-worker’s name is Medium Tits (MT for short). Hey, don’t look at me like that – she chose that name for herself. She once sent me an e-greeting card addressed to: Big Tits (me) from: Medium Tits (her).

MT has been coming up with some amazing punny zingers lately.

Example 1:

The background: We were standing together quite cosily in the elevator… another female co-worker takes a step into the elevator and jokingly she professes jealousy. We tease about the potential for a threesome.

The Zinger: As we walk away from the elevator MT gives me a big grin and whispers, “a ménage a twat”

I died laughing. Couth we are not, but funny? Yeah babeeeeeeee.

Example 2:

The background: We were in a training course, discussing acceptable abbreviations for outgoing call display.
i.e.
Ltd not lmtd for limited
Co. not Cmpny for Company
Assoc. or Assc not Ass for Associate(s)
I laughed and made a comment about a legal firm named Bouncegrrrl and Ass.

The Zinger: MT leans over and under her breath whispers, “Big Tits and Ass”.

She’s going on holiday for two weeks. I’m going to miss her. Who’s going to keep me laughing while she’s gone?

DEAR FRIEND

One of mammer’s friends, Dee the Poet, has just discovered that her ex-husband has been abusing her daughter for years. Mammers wanted to know if I wanted to write to her and share my perspective as a “survivor”.

I want to write to her, but I can’t yet. I don’t know what to say.

“God that’s really shitty,” sounds a little callous and insensitive. Some of my emotions are a little stunted and I react inappropriately at times. Sure, sometimes I feel the appropriate rage, denial, acceptance, self-pity or desire for revenge…

… Sometimes I just feel numb.

As a small child, a teenager sexually abused me. One of my councillors has since told me that this may have just been an experiment with his burgeoning sexuality. This was not necessarily a sign of inherent paedophilia, simply a troubling “phase” in his life. All evidence of his adult behaviour appears to support this theory.

Was he a destructive monster, or just a troubled teen?

A few years ago, I learnt that another man I know had molested some children whilst in his teenage years. I’ve known this person for years. I love this person. Like my abuser, all evidence of his adult behaviour supports the theory that this was an isolated stage of his life.

Was he a destructive monster, or just a troubled teen?

My foster sister Babushka is a product of sexual abuse. She has led a troubled life thanks to destructive monster, a habitual and chronic paedophile.

So many women I know have been sexually abused, molested or assaulted. Often times, as sick or sad as this sounds, it becomes our bonding commonality.

“Oh, so like you were abused?”
“Heyyyy, me toooooo!”

Okay, it is not quite like that. The conversation is usually more sombre. Nevertheless, it has been a bonding point for women with no other or very few other commonalities.

Compared to Dee the Poet’s daughter, I have lived a life of relative privilege and comfort. We have very little in common. However, we do have a bond. I may not know what to say to her mother, but I do know what to say to her. My letter to her will start:

Dear Friend,

You are not alone. I want you to know that I love you and feel for you…

ABSENCE MAKES THE FRONDS GROW LONGER

I swear that the plants are dying without THE GUY. He is Mister Green Thumb. Priscilla (my birthday plant) has been re-incarnated about five times in the last three years. Every time that she has died, we have been ready to throw her away, then we get sidetracked or too lazy to throw her out and about a month later the stub of a dead stalk is suddenly flowering again.

The day that THE GUY left, we both took cabs at 1pm – he, too the airport, and I, to the opera. We left the window open with the fan blasting … the fig tree and the “other plant” (I am so good with botany), now have withered dead leaves. The result of their subjection to blasts of -20˚ weather.

I have come up with the perfect welcome home plant for him. A big cactus. We have always wanted one, so I want to get him one that is at least two feet tall. A wonderful, marvelously huge phallus to sit right on the coffee table, so that it is the first thing that he says when he comes home – hmmmm maybe it will give him some ideas (hahahhahahahahahahah). I have missed him desperately – as have the rest of the plants.

Two years ago, we were going to become urban sunflower terrorists (terrorist has a much uglier connotation now then it did two years ago when we made up that name). We started growing sunflowers by the dozen, and we were going to plant them all around the city. We wanted to plant them in the ruins of the imploded general hospital – in front of courthouses, everywhere that we could. Instead, by the time, they were about 8 inches tall, the little growing pots we had for them were too small, we weren’t watering them frequently enough… and well, basically they died, much like our dreams of becoming urban sunflower terrorists.

We had so much enthusiasm back then...

LA BOHEME

WIB’s parents invited me to go watch La Boheme yesterday – rather fortuitous really, as it was the last show and I desperately wanted to watch the Blonde Baritone in action again. He played Benoît, padrone di casa (their landlord) and Alcindoro, consigliere di stato(state counsellor). He was as always, fantastic – I love his facial expressions. Very dramatic sputtering and posturing as Benoît and marvelous cuckolded reactions to Musetta. I love La Boheme, almost as much as I love Carmen. The Blonde Baritone was in both.

It was a great performance. In previous productions, Mimi has not elicited much sympathy from me. Some sopranos portray her as such a pitiful pathetic creature, that I am exasperated and quite disdainful of the character. Yesterday’s production however was not like that at all. Instead it was quite beautiful – and what an amazing set. I really give full kudos to the set designer. It was a better set than that of a television production I saw a few years ago.

While I was sitting in the theatre, transported away by Musetta’s Waltz, the guy was in an airplane transported to Chicago.
He has gone to Chicago until the end of the week – I was looking forward to his departure until the cab came to pick him up from our place in the early afternoon. I was in tears saying goodbye. I will miss him dearly.

TAKE THE TEST

TAKE THE SPARK PERSONALITY TEST AND THEN DROP ME A NOTE IN THE GUEST BOOK TELLING ME WHAT YOU HAVE BEEN LABELED BY THE GREAT SCIENTIFIC MINDS WHO ADMINISTER THESE TESTS (SEE SIDE BAR - THERE - WHERE IT SAYS GUEST BOOK - THANKS MOM FOR SIGNING) ... PLEASE NOTE THIS IS A SCIENTIFIC, HIGHLY SPECIFIC, TEST - ALL FACTORS ARE CAREFULLY WEIGHED... AFTER ALL I AM DEAF AND LIKE TO BE NAKED

PERFORMER
(Dominant Extrovert Abstract Feeler )
bouncegrrrl Like just 6% of the population you are a PERFORMER (DEAF)--personable, self-assured, and excellent under pressure. You are extroverted and strong-willed, which, in combination means you are good with people and aren't willing to let opportunity pass you by. Congratulations. I'm sure all the peons you've stepped on never saw it coming and didn't feel a thing.

You like being naked.

Anyhow, you have formidable creative talents, and you often following what your heart tells you instead of your logical mind. Your exuberance can earn you many friends and admirers, despite your ambition, or it can intimidate the less confident into keeping their distance. It's also possible you're Madonna.

THE HAIRY HOVEL

Sure, our place is cluttered, just ask the guy, he will more than elucidate. The lack of order and overabundance of shtuff, is symptomatic of some heretofore undisclosed shopping addiction I am sure. Well, no, I lie. The truth is we just have too much shtuff… and junk… and no place for anything. The clean clothes on the couch in the living room and the dirty clothes on the floor in the bedroom simply become a rotational system of laundry that never makes it to hangers.

Our space however, is nothing, I repeat nothing like the Hairy Hovel. When I was 18 I moved back to Calgary. I spent a month with WIB’s family, while I looked for an abode to call my own. I found one in the newspaper. House to share, two roommates one dog. It sounded perfect. I dragged a male friend along as protection/ a second set of eyes when I went to discuss my potential new living arrangements. The things we noticed together (because after all four eyes are better than two) were, a flute, a microphone, a washing machine and a dryer… He noticed the artistic; I noticed the practical. Neither of us noticed the dog hair.

I am sure that the owner vacuumed right before we arrived, because I will swear to this day that he never vacuumed again. He owned a collie/mutt cross. The poor dog shed like … like… “Like a big thing that sheds a lot” (thanks ED for the funky simile)

bouncegrrrl: gimme a funky analogy for a nasty dog shedding hair everywhere - I'll give you bragging rights ....
edyuban: Shedding like a big thing that sheds a lot
bouncegrrrl: perfect - it's going in the blog with recognition headed your way

The hair acquired an affinity for any food that was being prepared – I stopped eating at home. It gelled itself into a soapy scum ridden dog hair carpet in the shower drainpipe. Living there was my own personal version of hell… I grew to resent that dog.

The dog owner used to wrestle with the dog… a little too passionately. WIB used to call, just so that she could hear the intimate sounds of hovel guy wrestling hairy mutt. It was awful. I would come home to the crotch-seeking missile otherwise known as Hairy Mutt’s nose. I only ever took him for a run once – he was so excited that he leaped up at me and nipped at my face. I was so scared that I never took him for a run again. Only slow sedate morning walks once in a while.

A few months ago I saw Hovel guy for the first time in years. He told me that Hairy Mutt died last year. I was sad.

THIS IS YOUR BABY ON DRUGS

Ed makes me want to have kids. No wait let me rephrase that – his wife may not appreciate a comment like that. Reading Ed’s web page, makes me want to have kids. You see I always believed that it was impossible to be both cool and a parent. However, watching WIB successfully navigate the cool vs. parent balance, and reading Ed’s pages (he’s definitely got it going on)… well, it makes me believe that it is possible.

Mr. Boo (WIB’s son, my godson) is cool by virtue of the fact that his mama is so cool with him, she speaks to him like he is an adult, reasons with him logically and lets him make his own decisions (all within reason of course – he is only seven). Eventually I want to have my own Mr. Boo or Ms Boo (or is that Ms Boobette… hmmm nah, it’s Ms Booette – thank the heavens above)…

Today I am feeling maternal – this from a woman who cannot make her own bed – what a great role model. Today I want a white picket fence, 2.7 children, a puppy – and for a note of discord, I want my puppy to be a big-assed rottweiler. Today I even want a white wedding (even though the guy would rather swallow his tongue than marry me this week). But, today, I even want a beautiful church wedding instead of a quickie marriage – followed by a rave… or at least a dance party. What is the likelihood of ecstasy being served at the average wedding?

Only bouncegrrrl could discuss having children and ecstasy laden weddings in one paragraph. My “E” experience is very VERY limited. I think that I had half of one once – however, I was stuck in the bathroom of a dance club with 2 drag queens admiring their makeup and commiserating over the fact that neither had been crowned queen for the night. Although I did get awfully touchy feely over the silk sashes they were wearing, so it probably hit me after all…but that was YEARS ago and I digress.

What is the likelihood that I am established enough to be a great parent… hmmmm? I want to be, but I do not believe that desire is a decent enough reason to become a parent – all the responsibility – all the perverts out there – poor Mr. Boo, has to change at the swimming pool in public with a towel around his little booty, because I am too scared to send him into the change rooms alone. He is too old to be in the women’s with me, but too young to be in the men’s alone. My fear of pedophiles outweighs my instant gratification (me, me,me) desire to have a child.

Maybe, I should start with planning the wedding instead– that sound you hear, is the guy choking on his own tongue.

Don't forget to sign the guest book

GO GO DANCERS

In some amazing throwback to a decidedly pre-feminist era, I have discovered a local nightspot (dance bar) that features go-go dancers. I watched men ogling three dancing divas. Their tongues hanging out, swigging pint after pint to quench their panting thirst, these men made no secret of the fact that their entire focal point was the booty gyrating on the speakers… I was disgusted… I was also (oh horror oh shock) desperate to be up there gyrating with a perfect booty and perky breasts.

Morals shmorals feminism shmeminism… I want someone to ogle me for a few minutes. I want to be objectified, I want to be the personification of sensual erotic thrill…BUT, only for a few minutes… and then I want to be recognized as a self fulfilled quasi-genius – one part Marie Curie, the other part Joan of Arc - all in a kick ass body.

I do not see it happening this week – and if I don’t get back into a gym routine, I don’t see it happening this year. I have lost only 10% of my extra weight. Just another 90% to go. We are already into the third month of the year – by now I was hoping to be at approximately 15% of my expected and exigent weight loss– hmmmm no dice. No worries, if I start going out every weekend - literally dancing my ass off– sans drinking money – I could dance this extra poundage away… all I need are a pair of go-go boots and some daisy duke shorts.

THREE CINDERELLAS, ONE JACK THE BEANSTALK, AND ONE WICKED STEPMONSTER

Gideon, Methuselah, Ginky and Myself – the four of us, all at one time or another have been the hapless recipients of the wicked stepmonster’s wrath. I hesitate to write about her for the sake of Gideon and Methuselah, my twin sisters and little Ginky, my not so little – taller than me brother. Gideon is filled with a lot of hurt and anger – and nowhere to direct it. We were talking about it a few nights ago.

The stepmonster has engineered the demise of my relationship with their father (Gideon, Methuselah and Ginky all have the same father – my stepfather – he married the stepmonster about 12 years ago). Since their marriage, all four of us, at some point, have been kicked out of the “not-so-family” home. Whilst I fully believe in “tough love”, I know that none of us was in need of it… we were all in need of a little TLC.

Do I resent her? You bet your sweet ass I do. Not, ironically, because of anything she ever did to me directly; but indirectly, she sucked some serious ass. She hurt my babies. My three younger siblings, three blonde haired blue eyed angels that I helped raise for the first 8 years of their lives have had their emotions pushed and pulled in myriad directions.

A women who was so insecure that she did not see why her new husband had to look after his ex-wife’s “bastard daughter” (yours truly here)… a woman who threw out two sixteen year old girls when their father was out of the country on business… a woman who told my baby brother not to move back in because she had waited a long time to “get rid of the three kids”… yes, this is the woman I call the Wicked Stepmonster.

Do I feel sorry for her? Absolutely. The wicked stepmonster who read books like “His, Hers, and Theirs : Facing the Challenge of Blended Families” could not ever get her family to blend. My mother who has no interest in merely reading about something when she can actually DO it, has not only blended my real father’s family into hers, but even better, they are all good friends.

The wicked stepmonster has missed the joy of a stepdaughter’s undying love and affection… something I willingly give to my real father’s wife. Something that the twins and ginky would willingly give to her – if only… if only… she were not chemically imbalanced, chronically insecure, maliciously vindictive and verbally, mentally, and physically abusive.

The wicked step monster will never ever experience the unadulterated joyful fun that happens with being a respected, admired and well-loved stepparent… not like Silly Milly – my dad’s wife… but that’s another story.

And so when these three Cinderellas go to the Ball in May, we will do so with the full knowledge that we are going to have a marvelous time – and she can sweep up her own venom that month... none of the Cinderellas will have time to do it for her… we’ll be far too busy having a ball.

DEATH AND DUST

Will has discovered his mortality. I believe that we are collective energies (maybe the equivalent of souls), which exist be it in a corporeal state or a less tangible mode. We were energies before we were born, our spirit or energy has always existed, only now it inhabits this body... in the future it won't inhabit another body, it will simply remain an energy. No reincarnation for this grrrl. When I feel my grandmother's spirit comforting me, or when I am led to do something by the "still small voice" it is actually an energy - perhaps of someone who loves me or the collective energy of all that is good, guiding me through this "mortal coil". Is my perception of god correct? I don't know. All I do know is, I am not so egocentric as to believe that I was made in "His" image. My perception is that the collective energy, is in essence our understanding of god.

Besides, if I am made in a god's image, this god could stand to lose a bit of weight.