So long and thanks for all the bloggies.

January 13th, 2010

This is a hard post to write. Saying that, I guess it’s been driving towards inevitable for a while now, too.

The reality is this: I came onto the Internet in 2001 looking for a community. I have always felt a bit like the odd duck in most rooms, and I was wondering/hoping that there would be other odd ducks out there in the world, who, when teamed with other ducks, would form a happy community of odd ducks, celebrating and marveling at each others quirks.

At the time, the Internet as a community was still very much in it’s early stages, and there was still a great deal of fear that anyone you met virtually stood an equal chance of being a pervert or a liver-stealer as a normal human being.

Times change. The Internet is now a place of commerce, community, research and common usage. In richer countries, like mine, it’s highly unusual for anyone (including our parents’ generation) to be computer-less.

As with anything, the proliferation of voices has had both positive and negative impacts. The positive? It’s been recognized as a marketable, legitimate media and is even changing the face of the odious 24-hour a day disaster broadcasting, which pays no attention to whether or not there is actually a disaster taking place.

The negative? The dilution of community, of course. In the blogosphere, it appears as though there’s so much fear about keeping or owning your own market share, that it becomes impossible for a true community to maintain itself.

Do you know where I find that sense of community? Oddly, the answer is the same as it was in 2001 - I find it on livejournal. Oh, I know - it’s the bastard stepchild of the blogging industry. It started out as a member’s only site, and then became this crazy open source, closed conversation kind of joint that you either belonged to or openly mocked.

Livejournal isn’t set up the same way as other venues. It’s not intended for standalone use. You’re meant to read about people and be read by the same people. In short: it’s designed to be a fully functioning community, where people know about and care for each other. This has certainly been my experience. When life slaps me upside the head, it’s those folks who see all of the angst and support me as I work through it.

And you know what? That’s what I want out of my blogging experience. I want the sense of community. It’s just not the same experience without it.

So I’m going to return to livejournal. Truth is, I never left. However, I was putting my best energies into this place, and it’s time to redirect them to my roots - to the place where I am most comfortable. To where (yes, I’m going to do it) everyone knows my name.

For those of you who’ve read me and supported me here - I can’t thank you enough. I wish that this platform was set up the way livejournal was, so that we could talk back and forth more easily. I suspect I’ve missed out on some fairly awesome friendships here. Still and all, I appreciate your readership, and hope that you find this experience to be what you wanted it to be.

If you want to keep in touch with me, you can still find me on livejournal. I am, as I always was - Wyliekat.

Heck, if you’re disenchanted with what you’re doing now, I’d encourage you to do more than just read me over there - join up yourself!

Ear worms

January 6th, 2010

I cannot get rid of two Kasabian ear worms - they’ve burrowed deep into my brain and I can’t shut them off. When I say can’t, I mean I’ve woken up in the middle of the night with one or t’other running around in my head, and these songs have KEPT ME AWAKE. It’s twelve kinds of wrong.

I keep going back and forth between Where has all the love gone and Fast Fuse . . . if you want an ear worm, feel free to take one.

Staycation hangover.

January 5th, 2010

I don’t know if it’s post-vacation (staycation!) hangover, or the beginning or middle or end of a flu bug, but man alive – last night was not a good sleep night. At all. In any sense.

On one hand, you had Buddy – all securely ensconced in our big bed, complete with feather duvet, microfleece sheets and a mountain of pillows. In this mountain of plushy joy, he spent the majority of the night tossing and turning and shivering. Poor lamb. He gets sick the least often of the lot of us, but when he does, it’s generally a lulu.

I, on the other hand, spent the night on the couch, with one pillow, one blanket and one annoyed kitty. There, I spent the bulk of the night tossing and turning and sweating. I have no real idea why. I suspect my temperature regulation skills are not at their peak right now, either. Here’s hoping I make it through the week without also getting sick. Really, it can only be one of us at a time. Isn’t that the rule?

Upshot and short summation: I’m ridiculously fucking tired. I’m also sad that my next day off of work isn’t until mid-February.

I’m also having some really unpleasant family drama. Given the incredibly confusing nature of my family tree*, you’d think this would be very normal for me. It’s not.

In four sentences: Mother moves back to town. Eldest daughter’s husband (of 20 years or so) feels threatened by their closeness. Drama of epic proportions ensues, including tug of war, emotional blackmail and massive controlling behaviour. For no appreciable reason I can fathom, this drama also keeps having my name brought into it – geebus, asshole, I haven’t spoken directly to you more than once in the last fifteen years – how much more distant do you want me to be?

And now, with my mother pouring her hurt feelings out in one ear, and my sister pretending everything is fine in the other – I’m trapped. Maybe I should increase my phone avoiding capacity. Become a true master, like Buddy.

Yeah. Good times.

*A fact for which my only defense rests in: well, at least it isn’t a straight stick.

Tender

December 21st, 2009

I just picked up a ten pound, 21-day aged, hormone-free, fresh from the producer standing prime rib roast.  I rinsed it, patted it dry, swaddled it in three layers of cheese cloth and set it at the bottom of my fridge on a rack. It will sit there until Christmas Day, getting more tasty and beautiful by the moment - or so I’ve been told.

Fear me.

Why I hate sharing events with my ex

December 18th, 2009

Not because they were casually dressed, front and centre and holding a camera, whereas I haven’t showered today (thanks to my hot water tank for exploding last night), arrived just in time, looking harassed and stressed (because I am - work is insane right now), and parked myself in a chair in the corner.

Not because I didn’t have my Buddy there (thanks again to my hot water tank for exploding last night, requiring one member of our household to stay home and wait for nice fixit people), or any other stars-in-alignment rationale.

No, the reason I hate sharing events is because Rosebud always goes to ex and girlfriend first.

The thing is - I know *why* she does it. She doesn’t live with them, and only has one overnight with them a week. Therefore, they are the speshul parents - the ones whose attention she gets more rarely, and therefore, covets more.

They’re also the parents who don’t have to poke the child awake every morning, wrestle her into clothing, and shuffle her occasionally unwilling body off to school. They don’t have to fight with her about what’s appropriate and what isn’t. Or about what she can have and what she can’t. They can afford to indulge her every whim, because we’re there to do all the discipline.

So yeah - I know why I get to be second fiddle at shared events. I understand it, and can even appreciate that, on one level, this means that I’m such a constant in her life she doesn’t even think about it. I know that this means she feels secure and safe with my love.

But in no way does that make it suck less.

All that said - Juniper and I were able to watch the concert together, and appreciate the awesomeness of our youngest family member together. When she finally did run over to us, yelling “Group kiss, group kiss!”, my joy over being with my girls was pretty much complete.

My kids are pretty much awesome all over.

My husband at 35

December 15th, 2009

On Sunday, my Buddy turned 35.

Pfft. Took him long enough*.

For his birthday, he got fed kielke and trappings on Friday, pizza and beer on Saturday, and my mother’s famed chop suey (with three kinds of meat!) and blueberry pie for Sunday.

See how I didn’t cook a meal for him? It’s ‘cause he gets my food every *other* day of the year. This time of year, he gets everybody else to cook for him.

He was also gifted with a Halo 3 special edition Xbox 360 Elite, which has replaced food, air and me on his hierarchy of needs. Temporarily, of course.

IT IS TEMPORARY, RIGHT HONEY?

To compensate, I’ve taken up crocheting again. Not by any pattern of any kind. I just started making a string to see if I remembered how to do it, and the next thing I knew, I’d created six or seven rows of the same pattern, three up, three across. I have no idea what I’m making, but apparently I like it that way, just fine.

I also gave him as much of the weekend as possible for his own entertainment. Which meant that I had to do more running and bending and lifting than I’ve done in quite some time, but you know what? 1) I’m extremely grateful that my spine came around in time for me to be able to do it and 2) It was entirely worth it.

That man. He draws me pictures and puts them in my lunch box. He pats my head when I’m sad and my back when I’m proud (the rest of the patting has been censored, for your comfort). He is a tremendous father and caregiver to both our girls. He is funny, sweet, kind and clever.

I’m incredibly grateful to have him in my world. I still love looking at him. I miss him when we’re apart. I’ve had to change everything I understand about the world because of the love he’s given me, and I regret not an inch of it.

Which is probably why I (mostly) put up with his ageist remarks against me.

That’s all I’m saying.
* Yes, he’s approximately seven and a half months younger than me, and yes - he does like to hold it over me. Like you, I am also amazed that he survives such antics.

When better living goes awry.

December 7th, 2009

Note to self: I encourage the use of cold medication in the night, when troubled by dry hacking/post-nasal drip. I especially encourage the use of cold medication with a sleep aid. However, I do not encourage the use of cold medication with a sleep aid at 3:00 am or later, no matter how desperately you’d like to go back to sleep. Your attempts to wake up a mere three hours later will be ludicrous at best.

Which is why my best, today? Not so much.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZonk. . . .

My daughter, my therapist.

December 2nd, 2009

Over the past couple of days, Rosebud has been applying some heavy duty emotional grind to her mother (and really, all of her beloved and loving family). It feels like being inside a keg of suspicious looking black powder in a room full of nervous, lighter-bearing pyromaniacs. You just never know what’s going to set off the explosion. After a while, you become conditioned to flinch at everything.

So that’s been our last couple of days with the spirited, one-of-a-kind child that is Rosebud. However, I think she’s doing her infamous mind-melding trick again. Like any child this well-versed in tyranny, she senses when she’s pushed her loyal subjects too far.

She then throws them a bone.

Last night, halfway up the stairs to bed (typically a raging minefield, with the black powder and aforementioned nervous pyros), she decided to take matters into her own hands.

Rosebud: You be me, and I’ll be da mama.

To reinforce this, she put her hand on my back to gently encourage me up the stairs.

Rosebud: Okay honey, it’s time for bed.

If you could resist this opportunity, you’re a better woman, mother and human than I will ever be.

Me: But I don’t WAAAAAAANNNNAAAAAA GO TO BED!!!!!!!! NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

To my surprise, this was precisely the response Rosebud was after. Apparently, she sensed that I might feel better if I could play the role of recalcitrant child.

To be able to whine loudly and have it elicit giggles and encouragement? Oh hells yeah, it was on.

All the way up the stairs, through the toothbrushing process, the final potty break and the pyjama donning, I carried on with my tantrum. At full volume. Until my throat hurt.

Damn, that felt fan-fucking-tabulous. Must do it again some time.

I think this is a new level of maturity, for me.

November 30th, 2009

Dear Fates,

Whichever one of you sorry bastards thought it would be funny to rob me of my taste buds has reserved his or herself a special place in my Big Book O’ Hatred.

Seriously. I mean, and I get how very tempting it would be to see me, all food lovin’ and happy with my taste buds, suddenly robbed of my flavour detecting agents. I see it and I’m the actual victim. The perfect, unsuspecting victim for such unkind tomfoolery.

But don’t you see? This is exactly why this is so very wrong. I haven’t got my mobility. I’m still recovering from a cold. I have no cigarettes in my life to love. All I have left of the creature comforts is food. And what you’ve done to me, you rotting scum bucket of angst and malevolent glee, is take that away. Not only eating it, but prepping it. Because really? I discovered on Saturday precisely how difficult and joyless it is to make food that you cannot taste and can barely smell.

Even ordering in is no comfort. Remember Friday night’s meal, you asinine and gormless excuse for an omnipotent being? That gorgeous pesto pizza with sundried tomatoes and feta? The one I had to stop eating because I couldn’t taste anything, but could feel the sprinkles of dried oregano on my tongue, giving the illusion that I was attempting to chew sawdust cud? Yeah, that was a good one. Hilarious humour, you maggot-ridden piece of excremental residue.

So – props to you. Great work in putting a damper on my weekend. Har har, good laugh. Well done.

But this is day four. DAY FOUR. Did you leave the taste bud sucking machine running by accident, you witless piece of deified butt shrapnel? Are you so busy basking in the glow of your pranking prowess that you’ve forgotten about me? Are you deficient in all ways, including your grasp of time?

Listen – I know it’s your job to throw wrenches into people’s works, you misanthropic waste of immortality, but this is NO LONGER FUNNY. Or ironic. Or clever.

Cease and desist immediately and all shall be forgiven. Continue and I will make as many empty threats as I can conceive of until such time as my voice goes high and desperate and your ears bleed from the pitch and you’re forced to appease me simply to get your mythic ears working once again.

Sincerely,

Me

P.S. Okay, in all fairness, I don’t have a Big Book O’ Hatred. In fact, I have a very short Hate Slip O’ Paper, made from a torn half of a post-it note. Nonetheless, you will go at the top of this list, and I mean business.

Because it’s true.

November 27th, 2009

You know, it becomes more obvious on a daily basis how much my kitchen is my happy place. I love to bustle around it in, even (and perhaps especially) on a Friday night. I go there to put everything else in the world aside.

And it’s a mark of how often I’m in there, and how enthusiastic I am about the whole process of making food that nobody even comes in to check, regardless of how much hammering and thunking goes on. They’ll snoop about the food, but they never blink at the noise.

This is good, because I lost the head of my meat mallet whilst beating naked chicken thighs to a pulp. When I say lost, I mean propelled. And when I say propelled, I mean tossed upward.

Guess the reflexes haven’t quit on me just yet.