Monday, February 28, 2011

I left the island on Thursday the 24th.  When I left, the island was blanketed in snow; odd for February; odd for the island at all, actually.  I arrived in Squamish just as it appeared it’s own snow was making it’s way out and the skies were breaking for spring.  I woke the morning of the 26th and my world was once again white.   
It was snowing again here.   

I could not make out where the lawns ended and the roads started.  I could not see the color of my car.  I’m not a fan of cold.  I don’t like having to dig my car out in order to get in and drive it away.  I don’t like icy roads, or frozen toes.  And I certainly don’t like that as snow fades away, it becomes slush: sticky, heavy, mucky slush.  I made my way to work just the same.  It continued to snow the entire day and I had to dig my car out a second time as I headed for home that night.

The weather forecast threatens snow, with snow mixed with rain as far ahead as they dare predict.  It actually causes me severe anxiety while I sleep at night – thinking about potentially icy or slushy roads and having to drive on them.  Perhaps it’s because one of my first experiences ever with death had to do with icy roads.   

Brian’s sister died thanks to black ice, more than 15 years ago now.  My mom broke the news to me.  I broke the news to him.  It’s not easy telling someone you love, their loved one has passed… (I cannot imagine how my brother felt telling me about mom). But then, Brian’s sister really wasn’t my first experience with death, nor should it have any effect on my feelings for snow and cold now.  I’m pretty sure I’m just a pussy, perhaps with a bit of drama queen in me as well… 

Snow gives me something to complain about, feel discontent about.  Snow, and my negative feelings towards it give me variety.  And at the end of the day, variety is good – even when sometimes, we have to switch it up for something we dislike.

So it’s snowy in Squamish. I’ll live.  I bet I’ll even appreciate the warm a little more when it comes around too.

I miss my Lars.
Friday, February 18, 2011

When James and I started talking again, I learned a few things that have changed my life forever.  James was one of my best friends.  We understood each other.  His first visit ever out to the coast was to come visit me for a few days.  Then we fell out, James did something to me I thought I could never, ever forgive him for.  And under the slight chance that I could, I couldn’t forget.  And thus James was to be thrown in the ‘no-longer-exists’ pile, where my biological grandmother on my mom’s side, and that dirty-cunt of a half-sister of mine will spend eternity, and where countless other people have been thrown throughout my life.  They are bridges burnt intentionally, by me.  And I never looked back.

James was patient though.  He waited the greater part of a few years, offering steady, positive encouragement towards me through my blogs and via email.  He apologized, more than once.  I never replied: not one single word. 

Then it occurred to me one day… I really liked James.  He brought many, many smiles to my face.  He and I had a healthy, happy, full friendship.  I wrote him a letter that started with, “I’ve recently come to the conclusion that there is too much good in life to ignore.” That very truth is still a cornerstone of the person I want to be and choose to make myself – I’ve spent too may years in the dumps.

I closed that letter with this paragraph:

I was determined to never talk to you again. And if history should repeat itself, I wouldn’t. But I’ve come to realize I don’t have to be the person I was yesterday, today. And I don’t have to make the same decisions over and over. It looks to me like you’ve been learning similar lessons. You were a very good friend once and it was because of that you were able to hurt me. I forgive you that pain. And though I know you forgive me without my request, do know that I'm sorry for my reaction.
“Life leaves you tainted. So apt and true the saying.”

In finding my siblings (there are 5 of them total, 1 not yet found), I’ve already founds bits of drama, surrounding a very pissed off Ed.  I see some broken ties between sisters that my heart aches to help mend – but I know I have no power over such things. 

And I see a lot of me, in each and every one of them: even the one who won’t yet talk to me…
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
We woke this morning to the first rays of sunshine to creep through the window and touch our skin, in months.  It was a beautiful morning and today has been an amazing day.



~*~

My biological father’s name is Ed.  I met Ed once in my life when I was 13-years-old.  I hated the man with a passion.  He had beaten my mother and I knew it.  She never complained or bitched about it.  She answered questions honestly, when asked, is all.  She also arranged that meeting for me, so very long ago, at my request.  And when I met Ed, I met his partner Valerie (who I remember flinching when Ed moved too fast near her - a sign I recognized even then, that his fists were more than likely comfortable on her as well), and their son Adam, my 7-month-old (at the time) brother.

I remember vividly Ed’s lame attempts at buying my love and respect; taking me to the mall offering to buy me anything I wanted, trying to manipulate me while in the car on the way there into telling him I loved him – when I really did not; could not love this stranger.  I also remember his cheap attempts to be an instant-father, trying to give me shit for being on birth control and having a steady boyfriend, trying to tell me drinking was alright but I shouldn’t be smoking.  But most prominent of all memories, I remember Ed asking me if I still suffered asthma.  There’s a thing about that…

The thing is, I have never suffered asthma; what I suffered was a direct result of Ed bending my eight-month-pregnant mother backwards over a bathtub and smashing her head 6 (or so) times against the side.  When I was an infant and even a toddler, just bumping my head resulted in hospital visits because I would stop breathing.  That’s not asthma asshole – and no matter how much you may wish your version were the truth, we both know better.

But there are bigger and better parts to this story… Since I joined Facebook, I’ve randomly messaged people with the first name Adam and the last name as my own asking them their father’s name.  They’ve always replied with, ‘Sorry, my father’s name is Peter’, or ‘My dad is Bob’.  Until today.  Today, Adam replied with, ‘Yes, that is me.’

I thought my heart would fall right out of my chest.  There simply are no words to describe that feeling.  And there’s no way I can explain the mixture of tears and sheer happiness I type through now.

With the discovery of Adam came Brandy, whom I vaguely remember Ed mentioning as my younger sister and presumably a few other siblings I’ve never heard of or had the pleasure of knowing.

Brandy upon introduction, said what I initially feared to say, “Ed is no father of mine.  He was merely a sperm donor.”  I’m so very glad I’m not alone in those thoughts and feelings.

Yesterday, I went to bed knowing that the only blood relative I had left was my brother Jesse.  I went to bed with scraps of my father, a few distant photos, random documents, including a hand written contract Ed signed in 1981, stating he’d pay my mother $50 every month in child support – he never adhered to (and I've often contemplated suing him with, for the sake of expressing the true hatred I have for him).  $50 every month for 30 years equates to a fair amount of money as well...  near 18 grand, actually.  I could pay off my car with that. But I digress...

Today, my family at least tripled in size – even if they do all seem to be in Ontario.  They exist.  Today, I have the 1st bit of good I’ve ever known of Ed – siblings.  And from today forward, they will all be a part of my life.  We have a long journey of getting to know each other.  We have stories to share and to hear.  If it weren’t so damn late now I’d be making phone calls this very minute.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Valentines Day has always been a Hallmark holiday to me.  It’s just another excuse to force or be forced into wasting money on crap we don’t need – but want to make us feel loved.  I think those are surface feelings though: you know… the feelings that are most prominent, obvious and loud? (It’s often the loudest one of the bunch, talks the most crap). 

This year as Valentines came around I found myself remembering the cinnamon hearts my mom used to give to us kids every year.  I wouldn’t eat them today if I were paid… but I’d give my right arm for my mom to give them to me again.  Then, something clicked in me a month or two back and had me buying Lars one of my favourite colognes for men (which is now one of his – amazing the difference ‘quality’ products can have on a person’s opinion of something as he hated cologne before), and I bought him cute little lover’s scratch cards, and an actual Hallmark card that said, well… everything I needed to say.

We went to bed last night telling one another we weren’t going to celebrate today.  I should say, he went to bed, while I stayed up to watch the last hour of my show, not quite ready for sleep and not needing to be up until much later.  When I tucked myself into bed however, I pulled out the pretty red gift bag, with all his Valentine’s goodies and sat it on the bedside table next to his phone/alarm.

I heard him wake this morning.  And through my own sleep I heard his ‘awwwwe’ as he discovered the gifts.  And as I do almost every morning, I felt him hug and kiss me goodbye before he took off to work.  He came home early, surprising me.  He had a naughty gift of his own: fur lined heavy-duty handcuffs.  Having spent the morning cleaning and arranging the 2nd suite, finally getting it listed and about to make lunch, he instead had me open my gift.  He helped me try them on.  I find it incredible that almost a year into our relationship we can still play with one another like we are still falling in love…  In some ways, I figure it’s because we are… consistently, constantly, truly.  We really were made for each other.

As I’ve said to him more than once today, I love him every day… not just on Valentines Day.  And I know the same is true for the way he loves me, the way he shows his love to me.  This man is always spoiling me. There are so many of them, I hardly remember to mention the little things he does anymore; like the dozen roses that sit on my desk, he brought home to me yesterday.  He loves me and wants to make me smile every day.  Most days he succeeds.   I hope he feels the same about the smiles I give him.

I think just maybe, this love has given me a little more clarity about Valentines Day.  It’s given me a reason to embrace it.  And if my mom were around today to give me little cinnamon hearts – I’d share them with him, but I wouldn’t have to - I’m certain she’d have bought some for Lars too.



Friday, February 11, 2011
It’s been an ugly day.

I fucking hate ICBC: the Insurance Corporation of British Columbia. Almost like I fucking hate BC Ferries. (Almost as much as I hate you, bitch, and wonder why the hell you still read my blog… but that of course, is for another entry altogether, if/when I have the inclination to bother with it.) Hell, I hate any monopoly organization. ICBC isn’t just a monopoly though, they’re exact proof of the failures of a socialized system: socialization at it worst.

Today, I had the misfortune of actually having to complain to an ICBC operator. I imagine it’s akin to what complaining to BCTel was; prior to competitive phone companies forcing BCTel to change it’s treatment of consumers (along with their company name altogether to Telus). The woman was an arrogant bitch, as I imagine (and have been told) they all are. I suppose you’d have to be, to be working for one of the most hated organizations in this province.

To make a long story short, I recently (as in at the end of December or beginning of January) renewed my yearly insurance; which should have expired this month. I renewed it almost 2 months early, YES – because I’m fairly neurotic about being on time about payments due. I have an automated debit from my account with them, which takes place on the 18th of every month- except this month it turned out. This month, they got greedy and took the money on the 9th. Not expecting that payment to come out, and already depleting that particular account of any available funds, that debit forced my account into the red. I was charged a simple $5 fee for going over my available balance – the bank decided to deny the overdraft, reversed the charge and billed me my first ever NSF fee. Thanks to that fee, my account is still in the red – ICBC will once again have to try and take their fee, and I’ll have to pay all charges.

When I called the ICBC bitch to ask about the change of dates, her response was a little convoluted, absolutely disdainful, and totally rude. She actually told me that ICBC doesn’t actually sell ICBC insurance so thus it wasn’t up to their staff to inform us of such changes –when I mentioned my bank statement showed ICBC takes the charges, the office I went into had an ICBC logo and called themselves ICBC Driver’s Services, and the receipts they offered all carried the ICBC logos, she explained that some brokers choose to use ICBC’s logo, just for the sake of using it. Doesn’t sound like proper business ethics to me. And in short, she pretty much said it was up to me to read the fine print when I signed the documents to renew my insurance with them TWO MONTHS early.

I don’t know about you, but when I renew something, I expect that it will be renewed under the same terms as the current agreement, unless otherwise agreed. I’m pretty sure the definition of ’renew’ implies just that. I also believe it’s under the business’s responsibility to point out any goddamn changes so that the buyer is aware they are apparent. If of course, that's if the business has ethics: which we all know, ICBC doesn’t need to. They’re a government owned monopoly and by law we have to do business with them in order to drive in this fucking province.  I get it. I didn’t read the fine print. But FUCK! Why should I have? From what I understood, I was simply extending a current agreement as is.

I’ve heard multiple stories about ICBC fucking people, whether it be under these conditions or from people making a claim. My father pointed out in one of ICBC’s pamphlets that they actually have the authority to confiscate your vehicle, for ‘unlawful’ activities without any charges being laid or proof. READ THAT – they’re own marketing material says that it’s the discretion of ICBC employees to take away your car if they decide your actions are unlawful – YOU DO NOT have to be charged in a court of law, proven guilty, arrested, or even accused of unlawful activities by someone (other than an ICBC representative of course). Just pick up the Drunk Driving Penalties Pamphlet from your local ICBC office for yourself. What I don’t understand is WHY DON’T CANADIANS STAND UP AND DO SOMETHING ABOUT THIS BULLSHIT? We are supposed to be living in a democracy. Don’t tell me the people of BC want this bullshit; choose this bullshit; and will continue to accept this bullshit. They will, though. Because as a general rule Canadians are fucking pussies that convince themselves they are ok with everything and anything – for the sake of keeping quiet. Just like the housewives of the past. Canadians are pansies.

I envy the strength of the Tunisians for their recent successes as a community, and the Egyptians – who today, forced their dictator president Mubarak to step down.  We Canadians... We’ve got it so good in our comfy little lives, we’re afraid to make it better – even if that is what a democracy is truly about.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
In a month and a half, I’ll be turning 30 - or what I tend to answer when people ask: 25 for the 6th time. I’m not sure why people want to interpret that for twenty-five times six, when I really mean, when I turned 25 it was the 1st time, the following year it was the 2nd time, so on, and so on. Perhaps it says a lot about people’s psyche. Perhaps it says a lot about my own. I don’t know. I just know that as per usual, what seems commonsense for me… isn’t so much for the majority.

I don’t really have an issue with being 30. I’ve spent a lot of time trying to embrace getting older. I’ve spent a lot of time letting go of a childhood and a youth many argue I never really got to have. As I get older, I get a greater understanding. I got to have both a childhood and a youth. Mine was just so very varied from others; I got the chance to have a different perspective, a different view of the world and my life as well as others.

I had a great childhood, full of alcoholism and poverty. I had brilliant youth, full of learning to love and lose, and all else that is great in the world. And now… now I’m having a great adulthood. The only thing that is really lacking is my eagerness to be a child again.

And no… I don’t mean be a child in the sense that most would. I mean be a child when it was easy to stay in touch with those you love: when making time, space and putting effort in to be with those who meant the world to you was effortless. My regret is not making a better effort.

Tonight, I spoke to an old friend. Or rather, he feels a lot like an old friend though, I really haven’t known him long enough to call him that: maybe a year or two. The point, I love him with all my heart – yet I don’t talk to him daily, weekly, or even monthly. Today after we spoke, I sent him a text wishing we both make a better effort to stay in touch in the future. I’ve made that request before of other friends… it’s just that tonight I realized how important it might really be to follow through.

I’ve lost the one person I love and admire most on this planet. In light of that, I realize how important it is to keep those you truly love close to you. Know, that if I’m pointing this at you (and even for some of you I haven’t because it hasn’t occurred to me you read my blog or didn’t know it already even), I love you. I want to thank you for being a part of my life.

Disclaimer

This is my personal weblog. The thoughts and opinions represented here are mine and mine alone. They do not reflect those of my employers, associates or peers.

I am forever changing and always staying this same; a true living contradiction and as such, my thoughts and opinions change frequently. I may or may not still hold the same opinions noted in out-of-date posts.

By reading my blog, you agree to accept these realities as absolute truth.

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No matter where I am, I'm lost and learning to like it. I'm a living contradiction, and the best lies I tell are the ones I tell myself.

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