Mid Life Pie

Everything for a reason, for everything, a time

2012-02-13T08:29:00.002-05:00

For most of my life I've been living my father's lies.

He lied to us from the day we were born about his history, his experiences, his past. He kept everything truthful from us, except his generous spirit and sense of humour. He couldn't fake those, for those were the qualities that beyond everything else is what he's remembered for. Not his military service, not his jobs, or his fetish for building models, but for nailing my mother's shoes to the floor. That's the dad I remember.

All our lives he forbade us from researching his family. When my mother was bit by the genealogy bug years ago, he shook his head and said "why bother - they're no use to us dead". My mom just shook her head and told him to go back to his doll houses. (another hobby - he built doll houses and gave them away to needy kids). Before she died in 2002 my mother had managed to trace portions of our heritage back to the Huguenots in France, and proven United Empire Loyalist Status. She uncovered many mysteries and interesting stories about our ancestors, and for that she left us a legacy of knowledge. We know, at least on her side, where we came from.

Dad just shook his head and reaffirmed to us that he did not want that route taken with his side. We willingly obliged him, and short of his stories, never pursued his family.

Dad began getting sick around 2006. Eventually dementia wore its way in to his wonderful head and heart. He began getting his stories mixed up. His facade was falling. He began to mistake his children for his siblings, all of whom he said died in the Coventry blitz in 1942. He always said he was the only one who survived because he was off at war at that time in India and Burma. One day he said something to Kim and I that unravelled everything - he said "I wonder if any of them are still alive?"

Kim and I both looked at each other, and knew then that the stories were fabricated. We knew he had led us all down the garden path he created for us. Now we needed to know.

Knowing that his time was short we began having leading conversations with him. Kim is especially good with this, she had a bond with dad that none of us could, and she began asking more questions, which he freely answered, without straying too far from the wartime storyline. Bits and pieces of a former life were coming through.

We knew then that somewhere in Scotland, we had cousins, and possibly aunts and uncles.

We never broke our vow to dad. We did not pursue anything at that time. It wasn't until he passed away in 2009 that we decided we needed the right answers. My sister did all the dirty work, sending away for documentation from the Scottish government. These docs proved our theory - we had family there.

For the past two years we've been following leads with no luck. This weekend, we struck gold. Several weeks ago out of frustration I posted a Facebook message to dozens of Wilsons in the area in Scotland we knew the family originated. The message was full of names and dates that would surely convince someone also related to these people that we too were family. I also wrote on that message that if this doesn't apply to you, please forgive our intrusion and move on with your lives. One person replied on Saturday confirming that he is indeed our cousin.

We found a living relative in Scotland.

After 43 years of lies, we are closer to truth than ever before. The elation of that moment will stay with me. I stared at his message for the longest time, and could not reply. I could not even read it to Kim - I called her over for her to look at. Then I called my sister and read it to her - she started crying.

This person was skeptical, and wanted proof we weren't scamming him. I understand that in this age of electronic deception, and we had to find him proof of who we really were. I can only imagine his reaction as well - he are these people from the other side of the world claiming to be cousins. We gave him proof and answered his questions. But we have so many.

Yesterday we arranged a group chat that lasted about 2 hours, and just got to know one another. We asked a few questions, but tried not to overload him. He's younger than me, so he's not of a generation that knows the answers readily. But he is willing to dig for us. That's a great start. That's the beginning of a relationship that we hope will first off bear fruit and answer the lies, and secondly, open relations between one family on 2 continents.

We found the answers we were looking for. The feeling of overwhelming jubilation set in. Last night I couldn't sleep. I just kept thinking about the weekend and what we've found.

I wonder if winning the lottery feels like this. Somehow, money can't compare to the feeling of having your heart lifted so high.

Cheers.

Huge Elephants

2012-02-09T09:22:00.003-05:00

I'm about an hour away from doing something that will affect me greatly. It scares the hell out of me.

My diagnosis has messed up everything I know in the past year and I've had to make a lot of difficult decisions. But everything to this point pales in comparison to the one I have to make this morning. I will be meeting with my psychiatrist soon to decide whether or not to go back to work. Part of me wants to, but a bigger part of me realizes that I can't - not in the job I have waiting for me in it's present form.

The medication and therapy has not worked as it should and I'm still having major issues. Most days are good, but bad ones are enough to make everyone around me cringe. The fear and panic associated with the disorder is unbearable at times and I just want it to stop, but I have to let it ride it's course. No medication helps. No soothing music, or calm voice helps, I just have to ride it out. There is progress on this, I'm getting a referral to the Mood and Disorder Clinic this morning, problem is the waiting list for that program is six months long. I'm also on the list for a CMHA worker to begin working with me soon. (Canadian Mental Health Association).

So here I go, into the unknown yet again, list of questions and arguments in hand. Hopefully I can make more progress today, but the one elephant in the room isn't shrinking. He's growing. Gotta stop feeding that damn elephant.

Cheers.

Things that annoy me today

2012-02-08T08:39:00.002-05:00

Let the rant begin.

February. Even though it feels like March, it's still called February.
American politics. Being Canadian, I can't - and won't - even try to understand them.
Bipolar Disorder. If you've read this blog, 'nuff said.
Hollywood. There are no movie stars anymore, just people they found on YouTube. I still don't understand the Kardashians or Snookie.
Mortgage Companies. Or anyone else that can take over your bank account. Let's go back to mattresses like our grandparents did.
The Syrian Regime.
The Iranian Regime.
The Sudan Regime.
The American Right-wing nut job wanna-be Regime.
The City of Windsor and it's attitude toward spending millions without any purpose.
CNN
Fox News
The corporate policy of building things cheaper so we have to throw them out and buy new ones every three years filling our landfills and breaking our bank accounts.
NSF fees for things that weren't your fault.
My psychiatrist.
SOPA, ACTA, or whatever that bill is called now.
Kim Jong Un. I just had to get that nutball in here somewhere.
Random Judges who can overturn government legislation because they don't like it.
Telemarketers. Yup, they're still there even though we're on the 'don't call list'.
Schools that play more movies in class than teach anything. When we try to decide on a movie, my kids say "no, we saw that one in class last week".
A complete lack of financial assistance to people suffering from mental health issues in Canada. That would be me.
The fact that EVERYTHING requires a credit card today. Face it, some people don't want the stupid things!
Rising food and gas prices for no reason.
Canadian politician's pensions.
Things being left in the same place in the house everyday, and everyday I point out where it's supposed to go.
The hype over the Superbowl halftime show and ads. It's just a friggin' game.
The amount of crap in my basement.
The amount of crap in my head.
The amount of crap in my to-do list.
The fact that I can't part with any of the aforementioned crap.
Genealogical roadblocks. Where the hell are all you people!
Lack of funding for youth groups - Cadets, Scouts, Guides, etc.
People texting me and wondering why I won't text back. Face it - I won't.
Reality shows. Spend some money and bloody well entertain me. These shows are crap.
Steve Jobs. Really, did you have to die?
Anyone else who's died lately. I want a word with you when I see you again.
People who win the SuperMax lottery. Just because I didn't.
Writer's block. The reason for this rant.
Medication side affects. You wouldn't believe some of the shit I've endured.
And finally, Robert Plante won't re-unite with Led Zeppelin. What the hell is the world coming to? Are you that arrogant? You're today's asshat.

The opinions here are my own, if you don't agree, please feel free to comment, I'll feel free to delete them.

Cheers.

The battle inside my head

2012-02-01T08:09:00.002-05:00

So far I've found that being Bipolar has absolutely no perks, unless of course you revel in the idea of a constant shift from depression to manic states.

I don't.

The past few days I've been smacked with the former, and it hasn't been easy for my family.

When the depression hits, you don't want to do anything, or should I say, you 'can't' do anything. I keep telling myself to get off my ass and do something, but the nature of the beast brings me back down to a fetal position again. I try to entertain my self with books, games, even chores, but most activities are dropped under the pretence that I'd rather sulk. Depression just plain sucks. I've found my safe place is here in the house, so I don't like going outside, even though yesterday it hit double digit temperatures, I should have enjoyed the walk to the meeting with the Canadian Mental Health Association.

That was fun. For just over 2 hours I sat with a case worker going over the past year's trials and tribulations. She was good about it, and it was with good purpose, I now have a case worker (or will within a month's time, they're a bit busy). She brought me back to the first day I found I had a problem and moved forward from there. Not an easy thing to do - I've been through so much since last April and remembering it all was quite difficult. Dates, medications, breakdowns, family issues, all of these had to be logged. All of these had to be pulled from an already strained memory. Retelling the same stories though, is getting old. There are some instances that are quite vivid and I don't want to keep talking about them, but I have to, for example my 2 week stint in the psych ward.

At the end of it I was shaky and full of anxiety again. Even though it was a productive meeting. I came home with a package full of new information and places to go if the need arises, a referral to the Mood Disorder Clinic, which is at a hospital by physician's referral only - I have to have my psychiatrist enrol me for that. Not to mention there's a 6 month waiting period to get in.

She saw right through me. She noticed my shaking and heard in my voice that I want nothing better than to put this past me and get back to work, which I do. These walls, comforting as they are, are closing in. Not to mention the lack of a paycheck.

Yup, I want to get better.

The manic part is sometimes preferable to the depression, but not much. Last weekend I went on a rampage cleaning the family room and storage room. This of course had the obvious affect of knocking me out. Once done, I crashed. This manic episode, where one tries to do everything possible in the shortest period of time can be dangerous. Some people that I've talked to turn to the bottle or drugs when this happens, some run, some get violent, I clean. Whatever the manic state creates in a person, the ending is always the same - crash and depression.

Hence the past couple of days. Today is new, I'm alone in the house listening to Rachmaninov, having a coffee and writing while the sun shines through the front window. It's all good. I know I have some laundry to do today, and I have some other things I want to get done, but it's early. Relaxed as I am, it's difficult to tell what will happen an hour from now that will change everything. It really sucks.

Some episodes over the past months have started this way - a beautiful sunny day where all is good with the world, and suddenly I'm in an ambulance. (I still don't remember police in my kitchen last November when I passed out in an episode). So being alone is a double edge sword; I relish the peace and quiet, the music and the freedom to carry on as I wish, I always have, but there's the ever present fear of having the day go horribly wrong.

So today I will put stressors out of my mind, I may not even check the mail. I will do what makes me content and calm, and I will get through it. I may even enjoy it. Writing this is the first step to that. I don't even care if anyone reads it, to me it's therapy, and necessary. Readers of this blog have been good for my mental state, your kind words and compliments on the writing boost me up, but it's difficult to do. I re-read the comments to feel better. I never however, re-read the blog!

So to those of you who have played that part, thank you. You have helped me get through this even though you don't know it.

That and the anti-psychotic meds.

Cheers.

Keith Wilson - Graphic Designer

2012-01-26T12:29:00.010-05:00

So today I've decided to be self-promoting and selfish. Call me shallow, but I have done some pretty good stuff over the years, and I want to share them. There's a reason though, so hear me out.

Graphic artists are a skilled trade. I went to college for this, and have spent almost 18 years developing my skills in print publishing, corporate identity, marketing campaigns, copywriting, and more. Good work is worth the money one pays for it. I'm not cheap, but there are much more expensive artists out there who I see as gouging their customers. There are also people who think that because they own a PC that has basic pre-installed software, they can design anything. Therein lies the problem. They're taking my business.

People would rather do it themselves than pay me to do something professional and worthwhile. Even some of my previous clients have gone this route trying to save a buck. I don't blame them, but because of their actions two things have happened: 1) My profession is becoming obsolete and 2) The design work you see out there is just plain crap.

Maybe I'm a little one sided on this issue, but it really bothers me.

Here are some pieces that I've done over the years that I'm rather proud of, you be the judge. I'd welcome any comments, good or bad. One thing I always told up and coming designers is that you must maintain humility in this business - somewhere down the line someone is going to hate something you've done, and you can't be offended by the criticism. Personally, I welcome it.

First off, my graphics business logo...

Next, a poster I designed for our cadet corps reunion. 12x18 gloss print. This one I'm rather proud of. This was part of a larger campaign to advertise the reunion, including smaller posters, tickets, and a facebook page.

This one is a marketing piece for my employer, done up as a leave-behind for sales reps advertising our printing capabilities. Double sided, bi-fold.

This is the inside spread of the piece.

Finally, a double page spread from a magazine I worked for called In Business. Each year we put together a huge spread on the North American International Auto Show. It usually ran 8 to 12 pages depending on ad sales, and this example was my baby that year. The 12 pages took me an entire week of painstaking work selecting the photos to be used, taking the backgrounds out in Photoshop and finally working them into the spreads. This is the intro spread.

So this is just a taste of what training and experience can do. I'm by no means the best at this job, I have worked with some amazingly talented designers over the years, and they each deserve their own credit. But this is my blog. You can view larger versions of these and other pieces I've created over the years at my online resume at http://kswilson.mnsi.net

As I said, I'd appreciate any comments. I'd also appreciate the opportunity to blow our horn as a trade. Graphic arts usually costs companies money, but if it's the look you want, it's worth it.

Cheers.

Dead people that piss me off.

2012-01-23T20:28:00.003-05:00

We've spent several months now trying to trace our family roots in Scotland.

Ick.

My father passed away a couple of years ago now and while he was alive he forbade us from searching for his family, he didn't really believe in all this genealogy crap, even though my mother had traced her line extensively. She even earned her UE status, which is short for United Empire Loyalist - a direct descendant of Tory Loyalists forced from their homes at the start of the American Revolution.

In doing that research we found that some of our ancestors endured hardships that today none of us could imagine. They had everything they owned confiscated, and with only the clothes on their backs they walked to Upper Canada from Schoharie County, New York. It was called the year of starvation, and some of my ancestors died en route. They ended up in Fort George just north of Niagara Falls claiming refugee status. The British Government eventually granted land to the loyalists. Some of my ancestors joined the British Forces, some the Indian Department, and still others joined Butler's Rangers - an infamous 'commando' unit, known for harassing the American rebels in the Finger Lakes area, with the help of Native Canadians. Later, some ancestors moved inward and settled on the north shore of Hamilton, where Inco Steel is now. During the war of 1812, some fought against the Americans.

Obviously, there's more, our personal histories are fascinating for many reasons and each one is special to each family. I could go on about the McCombs and Depew lines of our family, but their not the ones pissing me off.

It's the Wilson line.

Dad left Scotland in 1951 for Canada and left his family behind. My feelings about that are irrelevant, but it happened. He left his family and forbade us from looking for them, but once dad passed our curiosity got the better of us. We know a lot about them - their names, address growing up, marriages, deaths, and more, but there's a huge roadblock in the way of going any farther. In Canada, many organizations have devoted their volunteer time to transcribing genealogical information and making it available online. Here, we have found census records, cemetery transcriptions, court records, military records and more. All online, all free. We've even found websites that are devoted to posting the actual pictures of tombstones from around the country.

Scotland doesn't like doing this. They want money. There are very few resources for amateur genealogists in the British Isles, so finding anything over there is almost impossible unless you're willing to pay up, which I'm not. We have spent some money on some records, but it's not enough.

My ultimate goal is to find my living relatives in Kilmarnock Scotland. I have cousins, aunts, uncles and more there, and I'd love to find them. It doesn't even matter to me if they want nothing to do with us, but putting the pieces together is important to my family. So the dead people have pissed me off. They have taken their secrets with them and to date we have no way to unlock them.

So if anyone has any ideas or clues as to where we could look, please let me know. I would just like to know where my roots are.

Cheers.

Bipolar People

2012-01-22T18:19:00.004-05:00

I've been trying to deal a lot lately with the fact that I'm diagnosed Bipolar. The thing that pisses me off about it is that it's for life. The condition, while not debilitating, is annoying. Kim has been quite vocal about the fact that one hell of a lot of artistic people over the years have had the same condition, and I thought I'd share them with you today.

So here goes...

Buzz Aldrin, Astronaut
Sophie Anderton, model
Adam Ant, musician.
Emilie Autumn, musician.
Andy Behrman, author of the book Electroboy: A Memoir of Mania.
Max Bemis, frontman of the band Say Anything
Maurice Benard, actor.
Ludwig Boltzmann, physicist and mathematician.
Adrian Borland, British musician.
Russell Brand, comedian and actor.
Andrea Breth, German stage-director.
Jeremy Brett, actor.
Frank Bruno, boxer.
Barney Bubbles, graphic designer.
Robert Calvert, musician, former Hawkwind frontman.
Alastair Campbell, press advisor.
Georg Cantor, mathematician.
Jim Carey, Comedian and Actor.
Dick Cavett, television journalist.
Iris Chang, historian and journalist for the San Francisco Chronicle.
John Clare, poet.
Kurt Cobain, musician.
Neil Cole, former Australian Labor party politician.
Francis Ford Coppola, Director
Rosemary Clooney, singer and actress.
Patricia Cornwell, American crime writer.
Robert S. Corrington, theologist.
Michael Costa, former Australian Labor party politician and Treasurer of NSW.
Vincent Crane, keyboard player of Atomic Rooster.
Ray Davies, musician: The Kinks
Disco D, record producer and composer.
DMX, rapper.
Mike Doughty, musician.
Robert Downey, Jr., actor.
Charmaine Dragun, former Australian journalist/newsreader.
Richard Dreyfuss, actor.
Patty Duke, actress.
Carrie Fisher, actress and writer.
Larry Flynt, Publisher
Connie Francis, singer.
Stephen Fry, actor, comedian and writer.
Justin Furstenfeld, Lead singer of the band, "Blue October".
Peter Gabriel, Musician.
Alan Garner, novelist.
Paul Gascoigne, English footballer.
Mel Gibson, actor and director.
Matthew Good, Canadian musician.
Philip Graham, publisher and businessman.
Macy Gray, musician and actor.
Graham Greene, English novelist.
Ivor Gurney, English composer and poet.
Terry Hall, lead singer of The Specials.
Linda Hamilton, actress. Star of the Terminator movies.
Jimi Hendrix, Musician.
George Francis Handel, Composer
Robert Hansen, serial killer.
Mariette Hartley, American actress.
Jonathan Hay, Australian rules footballer
Ernest Hemingway, writer.
Kristin Hersh, musician, formerly of rock band Throwing Muses.
Abbie Hoffman, political activist.
Marya Hornbacher, writer.
Jack Irons, drummer, formerly of Red Hot Chili Peppers and Pearl Jam.
Kay Redfield Jamison, clinical psychologist and Professor of Psychiatry at the Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine.
Daniel Johnston, musician.
Andrew Johns, Australian rugby league player.
Lee Joon, Korean actor and musician.
Chris Kanyon American professional wrestler.
Kerry Katona, English television presenter, writer, magazine columnist and former pop singer with girl band Atomic Kitten.
Rep. Patrick J. Kennedy
Otto Klemperer, conductor.
Margot Kidder, actress.
Patrick Kroupa, writer and hacker.
Vivien Leigh, actress
Jenifer Lewis, American actress.
Bill Lichtenstein, print and broadcast journalist and documentary filmmaker
Jack London, American author.
Demi Lovato, American actress, singer, Disney star.
Gustav Mahler, Composer
Arthur McIntyre, Australian artist.
Kristy McNichol, actress.
Burgess Meredith, actor.
Eric Millegan, actor.
Kate Millett, author.
Spike Milligan, comedian.
Ben Moody, musician. The former guitarist from Evanescence.
Seaneen Molloy, Northern Irish blogger.
John A. Mulheren, American financier, stock and option trader and philanthropist.
Edvard Munch, artist.
Robert Munsch, author.
Friedrich Nietzsche, philosopher.
Florence Nightingale, nurse and health campaigner.
Sinéad O'Connor, musician.
Phil Ochs, musician.
Bill Oddie, naturalist, comedian and television presenter.
Ozzy Osbourne, singer. Lead singer of Black Sabbath and his self-titled band.
Cheri Oteri, actress. Saturday Night Live Cast Member.
Craig Owens, singer for American band Destroy Rebuild Until God Shows.
Nicola Pagett, actor.
Emma Parker Bowles, model.
Jaco Pastorius, jazz musician.
Jane Pauley, TV presenter and journalist.
Edgar Allan Poe, poet and writer.
Jackson Pollock, American artist.
Odean Pope, American jazz musician.
Gail Porter, British TV presenter.
Emil Post, mathematician.
Charley Pride, country music artist.
Rene Rivkin, entrepreneur.
Barret Robbins, former NFL Pro Bowler.
Axl Rose, lead singer and frontman best known for Guns N' Roses.
Richard Rossi, filmmaker, musician, and maverick minister.
Robert Schumann, German composer.
Nina Simone, American singer.
Michael Slater, International Australian cricketer.
Tony Slattery, actor and comedian.
Phil Spector, Music Producer
Sidney Sheldon, producer, writer.
Sting, Musician
Tim Smith, rugby league player.
Peter Steele, frontman, Type O Negative.
David Strickland, Actor, Suddenly Susan.
Poly Styrene (real name Marion Elliot-Said), singer.
Stuart Sutherland, British psychologist and writer
Mackenzie Taylor, British comedian.
Michael Thalbourne, Australian psychologist and parapsychologist.
Steven Thomas, American entrepreneur.
Gene Tierney, Academy Award nominated actress, Best Actress (1945).
Devin Townsend, musician, Strapping Young Lad, The Devin Townsend Band.
Nick Traina, singer.
Timothy Treadwell, American environmentalist and bear enthusiast.
Margaret Trudeau, Canadian celebrity and ex-wife of former Canadian Prime Minister Pierre Elliot Trudeau.
Mark Twain, Writer
Ted Turner, Media Mogel
Tracy Ullman, Comedian, writer
Ludwig Von Beethoven, Composer
Jean-Claude Van Damme, actor.
Vincent Van Gogh, artist.
Townes Van Zandt, singer-songwriter.
Mark Vonnegut, author.
James Wade, darts player.
David Walliams, actor/comedian/author/charity fundraiser.
Ruby Wax, comedian.
Scott Weiland, musician. (Stone Temple Pilots, Velvet Revolver)
Pete Wentz, musician. Fall Out Boy.
Delonte West, American basketball player.
Mark Whitacre, business executive described in the true story movie, The Informant..
Brian Wilson, musician, founding member of The Beach Boys.
Robin Williams, Comedian, actor.
Jonathon Winters, Comedian, actor.
Amy Winehouse, musician.
Virginia Woolf, writer.
Catherine Zeta-Jones, actress.

So there you have it, according to Wikipedia (I wasn't in the mood to put that much research into this). It's common among artistic people, unfortunately, some of these guys didn't end up well, but that's because either they didn't manage it, or it was so severe that their lives were consumed by it. There's some missing from this list, but there too many to list.

Now I don't feel so different.

Cheers.

The Wife's new blog

2012-01-20T16:06:00.002-05:00

Second post today, but I have to tell everyone, my wife Kimberly-Ann, had a blog for the longest time but she had to pull it down for a few reasons. She's back now - visit her at wilsonworldinexile.blogspot.com

Feel free to antagonize her.

Cheers.

Random things

2012-01-20T10:36:00.002-05:00

I woke up this morning to find my oldest home from school, he slept in, so he was called in. As a trade off, he's today's slave. He gets to fold laundry. Hee hee.

The youngest is in the kitchen (which is wrecked anyway), making Kim a belated birthday cake. She has the recipe open on the computer and is coming over now and then to check ingredients, a short time ago she started yelling that the cake broke. Of course hearing the word cake, we all rush in to find chocolate chunks. Everywhere. Now I don't worry about her cooking, she loves doing it, at 10 years old she would randomly go bake a cake with homemade icing on a Saturday; she's done this before many times. So this morning's fiasco was quite a surprise. She tried to take them out of the pans before they cooled and they broke into a thousand pieces. Iain handed a chunk to Kim and said Happy birthday. Nice breakfast.

Young one is at it again, trying to fix the damage, I'm sure we'll have some sort of cake today. Kim's birthday was on January 5th, but that was pre-zombie removal and she couldn't eat, so we promised her we'd take care of things once she recovered.

It's been a week now since her surgery and she's doing great. Yesterday we went to the hospital to have her staples removed, I was amazed how fast that went - only about 10 minutes once she got into see the nurse. Then we hopped a bus and went to Wal-Mart. I wasn't crazy about a 45 minute bus ride, I'm still not used to not having my car. On our way to the stop, the snow hit hard and we couldn't see across the street, by the time we got off it, it was sunny. Stupid weather. Still too friggin' cold out though, I can't wait til Spring. Today it's a balmy -17.

So today is a lazy day - except for the slave. Young one has a PD day and is heading off to sleep at a friend's house tonight, I have to clean a destroyed kitchen, Kim is doing something with clothes, and the slave is taking a break and reading a book. He will be shovelling the walk soon. The house seems active and so far, content. It's a nice feeling. I haven't decided if I'm getting dressed today though, I may not - I may not in protest of winter.

Cheers.

Things of old, and what to do with them

2012-01-16T10:10:00.003-05:00

My wife Kimberly-Ann is recovering from surgery this weekend, she had her gall bladder removed. She's been lovingly referring to it for the past few months as 'the zombie inside me'. Now that the zombie is gone, she is in pain, can't move much, and is popping pain pills, but she's still trying to take care of the world. We (kids and I) are trying to get her to understand that it's her turn to be taken care of. She put this surgery off because of my bout with the hospital of late, and that took it's toll on her. She couldn't eat any solid food for months and what she did eat didn't go down well. Now she just has to relax and recover. But relaxing isn't in her vocabulary - she wants to take care of us. Last night I went through another attack, and while curled up on the couch trying to wish it away, she was trying to help me through it. We're both slightly busted. We will recover and become normal again, she will eat and I will get back to work, in time.

In the middle of all of this, my sister asked me to come over and go through some heirlooms from our parents as she is downsizing her accommodations in the next several weeks and has no room for everything. A fair request, but lousy timing. My parents' collectibles seem to be the last thing on my mind this weekend. But it got me thinking, and looking around my own home, just how much stuff we hang onto. Holy crap.

I don't blame her for wanting my brother and I to take some of this stuff, it's full of memories of our parents who are now gone. Things we grew up with or collected over the years, or has some other meaning - like the basket of toys our kids played with at Nana and Papa's house when they were toddlers. We still have that basket, and surprisingly enough, the kids. But that request got me thinking about our own home, and I'm sure my brother is thinking it too. Family heirlooms and keepsakes are a direct reflection on one's family tree.

Our parents collected stuff, Kimberly-Ann's parents did the same, my sister's in-laws did the same, my brother's in-laws did the same and so on down the line. Somehow or other, all this stuff ends up with us collectively. This weekend my father in-law was down helping out with Kim; to which I am grateful for, and of course the conversation eventually turned to stuff in various homes in London (where Kim's family still lives) that was destined for our home someday. Kim's heirlooms.

So what does one do with this stuff? I am a pack rat, I have difficulty getting rid of anything that has any sort of memory attachment, obviously my sister has the same problem. It's not a bad thing though, we've rarely ever had to buy furniture! Right now I'm using my mother's desk to type this, beside me is my father's favourite chair which sits next to Kim's grandmother's china cabinet. Behind me is one of the three bookshelves that sat in my parent's dining room - each one of us got one. In the living room is my mother's favourite lazy-boy chair, their coffee table, and antique sofa and chair that we figure is about 80 years old and has been re-upholstered, a marble topped washing stand (part of a three piece bedroom set at least late 19th century, the other two pieces are in other rooms), and a corner trinket shelf that was hand-made by Kim's grandfather when he was a young man. The only thing in the living room we've purchased is the TV unit, which is made of particle board and will not last another five years. That's just two rooms. I'm grateful for the inheritance of these objects, to me they're priceless, but the entire house is like this. We still hang ornaments on the Christmas tree that my grandmother made 40 years ago, I have a ton of my dad's books, and Kim still uses her grandmother's electric hand mixer which incredibly enough is still in the original box!

Stuff today is crap. It's made to break so you have to buy new stuff. Great marketing strategy - let's rip people off and fill our landfills with garbage that should still work considering what was paid for it. I can't count how many coffee makers I've gone through since I got married. All junk. But if I want to make a cake, I know the mixer will be there for me! We have entire drawers full of electronics chargers, because every electronic devise uses a new style, we have two TVs in the basement that don't work anymore and I just haven't found the opportunity to toss them, I have power tools that last about four battery charges, then you can't buy new batteries, I have this, that and the next thing that is busted, going, or on my list of things I should never have even looked at.

But the heirlooms are still here.

Why do we hang onto these things? Why do we even hang onto trinkets that have no practical use? Last year I wrote this, and now I find myself revisiting that story. I still use the sugar container. The broken lid has been thrown away and it's a constant reminder to me that some things still hurt when they're not here. We hang onto these things because we can't always hang onto the one's that gave them to us. Sometimes we must make a separation, sometimes we must let go. For a family of pack rats, that's not easy.

My sister is purging but doing it the right way, trying to find homes for the things that matter. Yup, some of it is for sale, if you're interested in what contact me and I will pass the message along to her. But a lot of it is a lesson in letting go. That's a lesson I'm not ready to take yet, even though it's inevitable.

On a brighter note, Kim is doing better, so long as the pain meds are near. She's getting up with a little less pain each time and last night I made her grilled bacon and cheese burgers - she requested that as her first solid food since August. I was all to willing to comply.

Have a great day.

My wife

2012-01-05T11:20:00.002-05:00

Today is my wife's birthday. She's 44.

It's just a number, and if you keep in mind the old phrase you're only as old as you feel, she should be 22. She's an amazing person, who has the ability to rise up to any occasion when called on, help anyone who needs it, and makes our lives better just by being near us. To us, and anyone who knows her, she's the one who makes everyone else feel 22.

I've known her since 1989, married her in 1994, had our first child in 1995, our second in 2000, bought our first house together in 2004, and had countless other experiences over the years and since. I have now spent almost half my life with her, and there is nobody I would rather have achieved that with than her. She is my everything.

She's not always had an easy birthday because it's right after Christmas, she seems to get cheated sometimes, so this year I'm giving some thought to moving it (against her will of course), to sometime in February. Maybe then her zombie gall bladder won't be giving her issues, and she can have some cake. Right now, I'm trying to figure out how to put a candle in chicken soup. Any thoughts? We intend to give her the day anyway, giving her the 'queen for a day' title. But she's my queen everyday.

She's passionate, poetic, sympathetic, ambitious, giving, artistic, musical, beautiful, and yes, tough when she needs to be. She's also been there for everyone who has needed her advise, or to just talk to when you're down. In the past eight months I have relied on her alot, maybe too much, to help me with my issues. Just by her presence I feel better. Just by her coming home I light up again. There are few words that can really ever describe the one you love. Sometimes it's just a matter of being with the person to truly know. With Kim, I know.

44.

I'm in mid-life crisis right now, hence the name of this blog, and the contributing factor to my issues over the past year. Kim is just getting started. She jokes that one day she'll figure out what she wants to be when she grows up. I hope she never does grow up, grown ups are no fun. She jams with the teens, she's the 'cool mom' of the hoard that hangs out here, and they love her too. Not just for the food (I can't talk about food until the zombie is gone, but man, can this woman cook!).

Of all the people in my life over the years Kim has been the one constant. The one shining star in the night sky that I look to for inspiration and hope. She is my best friend and I could never imagine life without her. Today she gets a little older, but also a little wiser. Today is her day to bask in her own glory. We all get our days, and some of us get selfish and greedy about it. Today Kim will still give of herself. I hope we give it back appropriately.

Happy Birthday Love.

I look forward to another 44 of them.

Christmas 2011

2011-12-25T09:49:00.002-05:00

This year is different, or so I thought. This year Kim and I are sick and the kids are dealing with it. So this year we changed our frames of mind. We kept our respective illnesses in the back of our minds and carried on. This morning we woke early; as we always do on Christmas, stirred by the smell of freshly brewed coffee. The kids waited patiently (including Kim, she's a kid today), and we opened gifts. With every one, eyes widened, hearts grew fonder and family grew closer.

Last night Kim pre-prepared breakfast - bacon and sausage. So making breakfast sandwiches was easy. More coffee and a good meal to continue a beautiful morning. With dishes done we are all talking an hour to digest breakfast and gifts. We are also taking time to contemplate why we're doing to do this.

This afternoon we'll go to Mass, as we did last night. We'll hear the word of how one child changed the world. We'll shake hands with our brothers and sisters, as we did last night. We'll know.

We'll know that today isn't about presents or trees or catching snowflakes on your tongue, it's about a child who taught us all to love our fellow man. A child who spent his lifetime changing mankind. Whether you're Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist, Jewish, Athiest, or anything else, you know of this child. It doesn't matter how you feel about Him, or even believe in Him, you know that this is HIS birthday and the gifts are for Him, not us. He taught us to give to our fellow man and keep our neighbours in our thoughts, he taught us to love one another, he taught us peace.

Personally I believe. I believe in Christmas miracles because I've lived through them. Christmas has touched me in ways I can't adequately convey. It's inside me and my family. Every day should be like this, but sadly, it isn't. The world is too full of hatred for that. There are too many wars, too much hatred and strife, too much disbelief, too many people forcing their opinions instead of listening to the thoughts of others. It doesn't matter if you believe, but you should at least take a moment to understand that there are many views. Why they lead to war is the problem.

This child taught us that the path to living a life of happiness is to love one another and pray for peace. There couldn't be a more universal hope. The people who aim to destroy that peace are a minority, but sadly they cause more damage than the majority. We should pray for them, because they don't know how much they are only hurting themselves. Peace of mind is something we have to practise and learn. It can be a product of your upbringing, or it can be a mind frame you yourself adapt. But it's the right course.

Muslims follow quotes of the major profits (including Jesus) using the words "Peace be upon Him". Christians have obvious feelings, and many other religions in the world look upon him as one of the world's greatest profits, if not the Son of God. There's a reason that a man born 2,000 years ago has had this impact on us ALL. His message is universal and right. In a nutshell, we're all on this planet to live, why should we not live charitably, peacefully and with hope for the future.

This Christmas keep this message in your hearts. Regardless of how you celebrate, or even if you don't. This Christmas, Pray for Peace.

Merry Christmas.

Distractions

2011-12-21T08:10:00.002-05:00

Lately I've been writing a little about being sick. Ok, maybe too much about being sick. This blog has been my vent port for a lot of shit going on in my head, it's been as much for me as anyone else, a way to journal my experiences with the hospital, doctors, therapy sessions, etc...

Frankly I'm getting a little bored of it all. Don't get me wrong, it's all still there, the illness, doctors and soon, even more therapy, but I can't hang on this forever. Sooner or later I have to move on and realize that there's still a life outside worth living. If I've learned anything over the past months it's that people don't want to hear me whine about it. Talk and whine are two different points of view, so take that as you wish. I've also learned that if anyone is going to break this cycle of depression and fear, it's me.

Sounds easy doesn't it? Stop being so hard on yourself, pull your chin up, go back to work, don't let the small stuff get to you, smile more, catch snowflakes on your tongue, try to hear a fly fart, take up a new hobby like spelunking or some other weird shit, play chess, get your mind back to the present.

Reality bites. These things are really difficult to do unless you are focused and filled with rational thought - especially trying to hear a fly fart - you really have to focus there. For the past few months my hobbies have included coffeeology, cruising the internet, gaming, watching stories about how Kim Jong Il destroyed a country, playing the drums and walking. Not too interesting of a list, maybe it's time I fixed that. Maybe it's time I picked myself up and found something rational to concentrate on.

I was diagnosed in May of this year, and my groups have people that have been dealing with this for up to ten years. That statistic scares me. If they are still in therapy after that long, when can I come out of it? The answer is obvious - I probably can't. I will have this hanging over my head for years to come so it's up to me to make the most of it. Maybe I can have some fun along the way. I don't plan on spelunking anytime soon, or holding a fly up to my ear, but there are things I enjoy doing and I have been told I'm good at to pursue. One of which is writing. I started writing a story a couple of years ago when I was really bored, and it's been sitting here all along waiting for me. Maybe it's time to pick it back up. I have a strong love of the military and it's history, another option. I also love my family, who have been through this journey with me supporting me. It's about time they got their dad and husband back.

There's been too many distractions for the things I love to do. Too many reasons not to do them and in reality none of those reasons make any sense. Part of the illness is the ideology my brain tells me - these things take second seat to being sick. It's up to me to break that distracting irrational thought and get back on the band wagon. I have to get back to work, I have to find new purpose in my life, I have to live again.

Look for my book launch early in 2025.

Cheers.

Yuck

2011-12-19T08:14:00.003-05:00

Today is a typical Monday. Except that it's 6 days til Christmas, my pills aren't working, I'm having trouble getting over the passing of my next door neighbour, who we took care of and befriended like a second grandmother to the kids, I still have no car, and I don't know when I'm going back to work. Short of that, it's a fine day.

I see my psychiatrist on Wednesday - the one who dosed me up on all kinds of meds over the summer, and I had to spend time in the hospital to get sorted out. I look forward to that argument, he's gonna say 'I told ya so', and I'm gonna say 'shut the fuck up and fix it'. Then I will give him the back to work form and ask him to sign it, to which he will demand another $30. Yeah, I look forward to it.

I'm getting ready to leave for the hospital again, I'm starting week 3 of the outpatient psychiatric treatment, or brainwashing. I really don't want to go as I can't see any benefit to all this. The teachers talk too fast and I'm having trouble concentrating on the material. But in the end, it should be worth it. One issue I've had to deal with since May is a lack of ability to concentrate and follow multiple stressors. Alot of that is the medication, alot of that is the illness itself. My feeling is that the Occupational Therapists who teach this thing should know that and teach accordingly. At least I'll have the handouts to go over - they kill more trees in this class than anywhere I've ever been.

5 More days. Then I'm done, and I don't know what comes next. I'll be going to my own therapist once that is over, I actually look forward to that - it's one on one, and once per week. I'm hoping that January brings new promise for me and this mess I'm in, being always confused and scared sucks. Always being on the edge of a breakdown sucks. I know that in the end only I can fix that - no amount of classes or drugs can reverse this course, but I still don't know how to steer the ship.

On a good note, Kim Jung Il died. One less lunatic fucktard in the world is a good start.

Have a nice day.

I took the road most travelled

2011-12-13T08:13:00.003-05:00

I found myself a few months ago walking down a path in the woods. A path travelled by many people, some like myself out to see what was there, others, on the path heading for a particular destination. I had no destination. The path meandered through the trees and across small streams, where wildlife of all kinds flourished. I felt watched. As I walked I thought about how my life was going and where it was leading me. I thought about my family, my friends, my career, myself. I took in the peace of it all to reflect on middle age. I walked for miles.

I came across a crossroads on the trail, one more trodden than the other. As I stood there for a while trying to decide which to take, others walked on past, some took the trodden trail, others, without hesitation, took the overgrown and underused trail. I saw them in the distance ducking branches and jumping streams until they were out of my sight. I stood there again for a while, considering my family, friends and career, and I opted for the heavy trodden trail.

I began walking again, and again, watched my surroundings. I listened to the wildlife, but it became less prevalent. I watched for trees and streams, but they were fewer. I even watched for other hikers, but they seemed to walk on past me without a word. The trail became a highway. It opened up into two lanes where now bicycles began to pass me. Then, scooters, finally cars. The trail had become what I didn't want - a rat race. The trail had become my fears. The road now, as it was, led to places I was afraid of and had no desire to be. It led to stress, anxiety, and a sense of foreboding the likes I had never experienced. It led to all the places in my mind that were wrong. As cars whizzed past me I was afraid of where I was going, I suddenly wanted to go back. But I didn't know how. I couldn't turn around, the traffic was coming right at me. I couldn't keep up with it, I was still walking. I sat down and fell into panic and fear.

I sat there for a long time wondering what to do. All the time the sights and sounds of the rat race flew by me in both directions. I couldn't see my family, friends or career. I couldn't even see myself anymore. I had become anonymous to all but the fear. I sat there, watching the rat race fly by me, destroying what I knew. It destroyed my inner self, it clouded the sky, and even ran over the wildlife. All around me were things I didn't want to see. I needed to get out of this place. I needed to get back to the trail.

I looked around me and saw across the road a small opening in the fence with a clearing behind it. I had to run for it. I bolted across the oncoming rat race and jumped the fence, and fell. It seemed like I fell a hundred feet, but it was only a fraction of that. I fell into the brush, listening to the rat race whiz by me overhead. I was off the road, but now in my own fog. Now I was in the trees with no path. Again, the panic gripped me, the fear grew inside me, and I couldn't see my family or friends. I had to keep moving - I had to find the small path, the one I should have taken the first time. But I had no idea where to look for it. As I moved farther from the rat race the sky began to clear and through the trees I picked out familiar shapes in the sky - trees and wildlife that I had seen before. I heard a stream, peaceful and tranquil. I headed for it.

I had to pick my was through the forest, making my own trail. I climbed over rocks and over swampy areas still saturated with rain. Ever closer I moved toward the sound of the stream but it seemed like it was so far off - it seemed like the closer I got to it the farther away it moved. I began to hear my family calling. I began to hear my friends calling. But I still couldn't see them. I walked for what seemed like months, through the trees and over bogs that held me back. Swampy land that made me find another path. Several times I fell down and cried because I couldn't shake the fear and anxiety. Several times I collapsed. But each time I knew I had to get up and keep moving. The stream was still there, in my head. It was in front of me, but I couldn't see it. I kept going.

Finally I came to the small trail, the one I had lost. Finally I had made it there. The trees were as picturesque as I had remembered them and the wildlife was all around me, and they all seemed like they were egging me in a certain direction. The direction that would lead me to my lost family and friends. I could hear them, but I could still not see them. Again, I panicked and and the anxiety caught hold of me. I sat down against a tree and stared up. I thought long and hard if this was the right path. Were there three? After all this progress, after all this falling down and getting back up again, was I still on the wrong path? How could that be when I could still hear the familiar stream, which was still so far distant. I knew they were there, I knew I had to find them.

I must keep going.

Sanity School

2011-12-05T07:54:00.004-05:00

This morning I start a three week program at the hospital for outpatient mental health issues. Basically it's intensive psychotherapy. I have a therapist that I am due to go back to at some point, but with one hour appointments once per week, it won't add up to this.

I'm a little nervous, sitting in a room with a bunch of other people telling all about my issues, but if I think about it, that's not too far removed from what I've been doing on this blog, facebook and with my friends and family. I've not hidden this. The difference here is that I'm face to face with strangers. Once I'm finished with this, I can finally go back to work, but that's a whole other issue.

I was going to write a part three of my experience in the psych ward, but I didn't get there. Sorry, I will anyway soon, so stay tuned. For all of you who read the previous posts and sent me some wonderfully supportive comments, I thank you. Some of you even forwarded these to other friends. One person whom I do not know asked if she could use the blog in her outpatient sessions for mental health somewhere (I can't remember where). To which I eagerly said yes.

Everyone should know that these issues are way too common. It's not me I'm writing about, it's the illness itself. As I've said before, there are people in this world physically ill with diseases so complex and horrifying that they wrench our hearts. I know some of these people. I don't want to put my issues above their issues. I don't want to take away the awareness, but although mental illness is not physical, but there is no cure. By writing about it, I am better, but not cured, I never will be. I will just learn to cope and live.

Today is a new day.

The Psych Ward - Part Two

2011-11-24T08:16:00.004-05:00

Day two of the looney bin started off stranger than day one ended. I woke up at 7:30 to a nurse and a lab tech wanting my blood—again, followed by a full physical exam by the ward medical doctor. I was hoping for breakfast in bed.

I also realized I forgot my toothbrush. I asked my nurse if I could get one from somewhere; she came through not only with the toothbrush, but deodorant, soap, shampoo and hand cream. Apparently I didn't need to pack anything for this vacation. I borrowed my razor (I had to sign it out), and took my newfound supplies and headed for a shower. The showers in this place are far and few between. There are three on the floor, one was out of order. That of course, was the one across the hall from my room. After waiting in line for a while, I was not impressed. The water was luke warm at best, I also realized this in my bathroom, they keep the temp fairly moderate so nobody gets any ideas about scalding themselves to death. After my trickle of warm water I got dressed and headed for breakfast.

Breakfast is normally served at 7:40am. But because of my inspection and needlework, I didn't get there until around 8:30. The room was almost empty - just a few stragglers. This made it easy to find my tray containing cold oatmeal, a muffin and finally, coffee. Yuck. I spent about a minute and a half choking that down. There was a menu on my tray, this was a good sign. I checked off the options for lunch and dinner - you get no breakfast or weekend choices, and went on my merry way. I was hoping to catch some news in the lounge, but alas, music videos.

The doctor had informed me earlier that my blood showed a high cholesterol count, so my meals would be adjusted accordingly. It's kind of ironic that after spending the first 42 years of my life underweight—just a shade over 140 pounds—that now I had a fat-free diet. I also had lost 15 pounds prior to going in. I was so depressed that I had just stopped eating. I now weighed in at a normal looking 185.

The woman in the next room should be here. She had been screaming all morning. None of the rooms have call buttons, so instead of walking up to the desk to get assistance, she screamed. A lot. By the time the nurse came down, she had almost completely ripped a hallway railing off it's mounts. She worked it so much that the heavy duty wall anchors let go leaving the railing dangling. She of course decided it was in her best interest to add the smashing sound to her own chorus of screaming. All she wanted was a drink. The nurse was very professional and very stern, giving the women a ribbing any high school nun would be proud of. Tough love? This behaviour kept up most of the time I was in there. Later that day a maintenance man came up with a security escort, shook his head a few times, asking to whoever would listen "How the hell did she do this"? He finished ripping off the railing and patched up the wall. It stayed that was until I left.

At one point they moved her to another room closer to the nurses station to keep an eye on her, but after about five days I heard the alarms go off and security teams come running. She had belted a nurse. This woman was small by comparison, but that didn't matter, she had the ability to do some real damage. At one point in my life, before I had a life, I was a hospital security guard. All we did was take money at the parking lots and tow illegally parked cars. These guys, given whatever jokes you wish to make about cop wannabees, are good. The ones on the psych duty are huge—one towered around 6'6". It wouldn't surprise me if he was just waiting for his admission to the police college. Four came running when the alarm went off. Each staff member on the floor carries a personal alarm with them, when they hit that, sirens sound, guards come running, and even lights flash indicating the direction of the problem. Essentially, lock down. They dragged this woman to the PICU (Psychiatric Intensive Care Unit). This is the place where people sleep on a mattress on the floor, have all their personal belongings taken away, and are under 24 hour surveillance. I didn't see her again before I left.

The rest of the afternoon was spent pondering that incident. Lunch came and went, the TV finally got changed, I read a book, and met some fellow patients. Luckily I did know one person in there, and she helped me out with some issues the book doesn't tell you. For example, on the menus, mark X2 on which items you want more of. I marked X2 on every spot marked coffee.

Kim came up to see me that night. It was a beautiful two hours. She brought timbits, coffee, Reeces Peanut Butter Cups, a homemade pastry from a friend of ours and a smile. It made my day. At 8pm they kicked out the visitors, and I was again alone with my thoughts. But at least I had munchies!

At 9 we all lined up for meds. This is where people's illnesses come shining through. There are six nurses on in the evenings, and one dispensing machine. This machine is biometrically operated - it takes a thumbprint to fill a prescription. Once the order is taken, the meds are fired up from the pharmacy in another part of the building and into the machine. I envision one of those old systems of clear plastic tubes one used to see in offices for firing memos around. Given all that, it takes a while to get all 25 or so patients (I never really counted them) their meds. Not one has any patience. The yelling begins. The entire process of medicating this many patients takes about an hour, but the patients want it to take three minutes. My first thought was hey, got somewhere pressing to be? My second thought was what a bunch of selfish egotists. The nurses had the patience of saints. They dealt with the barrage, like they do every day, three times a day. Once in a while, they'd yell back, but only when it got out of hand.

These people really are sick. These people really do need help. Not that there was any doubt, but seeing the mad race for pills and a complete lack of order, not to mention the self-serving attitudes brought it all home for me. I stood back, watching the show, shaking my head. There are people here who would never again survive outside these walls. There are people here who would attack any authority figure given the correct circumstances. There are people here who need more than just being warehoused in a psych ward.

Then there was me. I realized this night that with all the problems I've had over the past years, with all the headaches I've caused, and with all the confusion going on within my own mind, I'm relatively normal. I just needed to get evened out. I was only in here to get my medication straight. I don't see things that aren't there, I've never tried to overdose, I don't want to hurt anyone, I realized that I can again become a decent contributor to society. It opened my eyes. There were others like me in there, all for different reasons, but of the population of that unit, I estimate that over half will be institutionalized for the rest of their lives. That is a scary statistic and one that should be pondered. What scares me most is that these sick people are being warehoused - locked up and put away because they can't rejoin society in the way that you or I can. (I want myself included in that because I have the motivation to do just that - become normal again).

I'm home now, in the house alone, drinking coffee and considering my future. I am making jokes again, doing chores, pondering ideas, being creative and having fun. I feel like I'm normal, but inside I know I'm not. I have a mental illness that will be with me the rest of my life. During the summer, when I made jokes about things people wondered if I was off my rocker again. Believe me, I'm not. I can differentiate between right and wrong, and even with the judgement problems I've encountered, I could still understand that concept. Now, when I make a joke about something, it's a little easier for someone to say "That's OK, he's been to the nuthouse, we expect these sort of things from him". It makes me laugh too. The other day my daughter slept in and needed a note for school. I wrote her teacher telling him that she was late because when we woke up there was a Jabberwokky playing XBox in the living room and we couldn't get rid of him, so I needed her cast to bonk him on the head until he left. Or, we slept in. You decide. I signed it "Father of the Year.

Some of those people in the unit would actually believe that. That's the fine line between mental illness and mental illness. I have it, and as long as I keep myself on the right track, I'll never again be in that psych ward.

Cheers.

Things to strike off my bucket list - The Psych Ward

2011-11-23T08:46:00.003-05:00

Almost everyone knows by know that last May I was diagnosed Bipolar. Just to recap, this is a mental condition in which the brain cannot regulate itself properly, resulting in highs and lows in moods. Where a normal person gets into a mood to clean things out and plan dinner 6 months in advance one day, and the next day is very tired because of it, a person in a Bipolar, or 'Manic Depressive' state endures that everyday. It's difficult to manage and can be very irritating for the people around him or her. Not only because of the ups and downs but because of the degrees in which that person fluctuates.

For example, I could never control my anger, at one point this summer I was intent on selling the house and moving to Scotland, I went for short walks that last most of the day, instead of writing notes to someone I would write long lambasting insulting messages, etc. After each of these incidents, I would crash for a period of time, the depression kicking the shit out of me. Being near me was not fun. Being me was not fun. Add to that the fact that I had absolutely no filter - what seemed like a good idea to me was just plain stupid. For example, I thought it was a good idea to bring a bottle of scotch to a cadet weekend camp. I'm not even going to try to justify that one. There were many more dumb decisions, but you get the idea.

I spent the summer off work visiting a psychiatrist once in a while to get new drugs, and with each prescription came new side effects, some even had the effect of increasing the problems instead of fixing them. Even though I had a 6 month summer vacation, it was the worst period of my life. Something needed to be done in order to keep my family and friends. Something drastic.

On November 5th, while cooking dinner for the kids I collapsed in a manic attack. I have no recollection of the event. Because I was hyperventilating so much I blacked out. I was later told that as well as paramedics in my kitchen, someone also decided to invite the police. I still don't remember cops in the house, but apparently they are dispatched to all mental health ambulatory calls. I came too in the ambulance en route to the hospital. Kim sat patiently with me for hours in ER waiting for 'service'. As I slowly came to, she filled me in, and my first reaction was one of embarrassment. Not only because I really didn't feel I needed to be there but I hadn't done the dishes and the kitchen was a mess The previous week I begged my psychiatrist to admit me to get the drug issue straightened out. When the attending Psych finally saw me and looked over my meds, he expressed a rather colourful displeasure with my pile of daily drugs. He immediately admitted me to the hospital.

Only a handful of people know why and where I was admitted - Hotel Dieu Psychiatric Ward. There, it's out for the world to see. I was officially a looney. or so I thought.

As there were no beds readily available, I was allowed to go home, pack and spend a night with my family to discuss how the next little while would play out. None of us knew how long this would last (like most visits to the the hospital). So we planned for a week or so. My palms began to get sweaty, my heart raced, I felt afraid of what I had just gotten myself into, essentially, I crashed - again.

The next day at noon, my sister and Kim drove me and my kit bag to the hospital for my 'stay'. Kim didn't want to come up, she was already not dealing well with the concept, even though we both knew it needed to be done. On the floor there's a phone to call the desk, the doors are always locked. I introduced myself and waited for a nurse; once inside the doors they closed with a loud crash that sounded more like a prison gate that a hospital door. I just stood there looking back, scared.

They ripped open my bag, confiscated my electric razor (just in case I felt the need to shave myself to death) and my shaving cream, because it had alcohol in it. Have you ever tasted shaving cream? I felt this was overkill. They brought me to a small interview room and began the intake paperwork. It felt like a college level exam in it's scope and complexity. Questions I had never thought I would ever be asked, such as 'have you ever had electro-shock therapy', to which I replied "They still do that?"

After about an hour of this, I was taken to my room. The rooms in this ward are doubles, with standard hospital beds, a chair, one of those funky elevating tables, an upright locker and a small bathroom. No shower though, they're in the hallway, one per wing. I took a few minutes to examine my surroundings and a few things caught my eye. First, I had a nice view of the downtown skyline, not so bad, some rooms looked out over the mechanical systems for the entire hospital. What really got me was that there were no locks. On anything. Not even the showers. There was a hook on the inside of the bathroom door that collapsed if you hang something too heavy on it - to prevent someone hanging themselves. And to think they also took away my electric razor.

I was allowed to keep my own clothing, because I hadn't been brought in by the police. Voluntary admissions only have that privilege - other than that, you're treated like everyone else. There are varying degrees of admission. It took me a few days to see this system of 'forms'. Police can incarcerate you from 72 hours for observation to a month of treatment. During this time you wear what the hospital gives you and all your personal items are confiscated. If you're good, they give you some shoes. If you're really good, after a while they start allowing you to keep some of your own stuff. Luckily, I bypassed that little rule.

I sat on my bed for a while wondering what the hell I just got myself into when a nurse came in, shoved a needle in my arm for blood, and took my BP. They left just as quickly. It must be said that the one thing that always through me into a panic attack is a needle. This did not go well. Another hour later my new roommate showed up, practically unconscious and tossed onto his bed. He was talking to the nurses a little, but almost illegibly. I left the room to give them some privacy and went exploring. Two TV lounges, a long hallway, and a dining room. That was home. Already people were doing the daily 'psycho shuffle', nothing better to do than wander from one side of the unit to the other. Those that didn't watched TV. Being an introvert I wasn't too quick to introduce myself, I just sat down and watched what was on - music videos for top 40 crap. Nice start. After a while I went back to my room where I found my new roommate unconscious on his bed, legs and arms draped over the sides. He woke up several hours later complaining that he couldn't see. That was a side effect of taking over 120 pills at home after he left a note. Welcome to day one.

There was a handbook for the unit, but someone really should look at revising it. Just as in a jail (from what I've heard, really), you learn about this place by the other patients and watching what they do. Dinner was interesting. We had to all eat in the dining room with every nurse on duty supervising - mainly because dinner usually was accompanied by knives. A large truck of food trays is rolled in and someone just starts handing trays off to people in the room who then randomly place them on tables. Each tray has a patient's name, at that point we play hide and seek. Wandering around to find your own tray, in the process invariably pissing off someone because you're looking over their shoulder. Once I found mine and sat down, I had my first introductions to my new colleagues.

Did I mention this was a psych ward? I was told to fuck off within minutes of starting to eat. This was even before I opened my tray and muttered the same thing to the kitchen staff. Halfway through the first meal I experienced the swapping ritual. Because everyone in there has a specific diet, people begin yelling out what they really want. "Anyone got any milk?" "Who's got butter?" and so on. I had Shepherd's Pie, Tomato Soup, a piece of bread and butter, tea, an orange juice and sliced peaches. It wasn't too bad, but it certainly wasn't home cooking.

After dinner I took my tea to my room to have some privacy and take in the day.

Privacy. Did I mention there's a closed circuit camera in my room?

My roommate was finally awake. He introduced himself, and I in return. We didn't talk too much about why we were there, but he did say this was his second trip in - the first being a month. He had been let out a week before and promptly tried to kill himself. As it turns out he was a really nice down to earth guy (I won't give his name here). We both had families, both Bipolar, both messed up, and both of us already hated this place. After a while I ventured out to see if I could watch the news, but to no avail, still watching bad music videos. I went back to my room and pulled out a book. My friend Dan loaned me his Kindle, which quickly became my best friend. Over 15 days in there I read five and a half books on that thing.

At 9pm I was told to come to the counter for my meds, weigh-in and more blood pressure. At this point I realized how sick I was - In mid October I weighed 200 pounds. On day one in this place I was down to 185. I had just stopped eating.

I crashed around 10, wondering what was next.

For the first time in my life I felt like I was in a cage. Doors slam shut behind you, cameras on you at all times, people you can't trust everywhere, security guards (big ones) making hourly rounds, and staff everywhere barking orders. It truly was culture shock. Most days were like this, but in my next post I will tell some more stories of the people in there, and some things I saw that opened my eyes to mental health forever.

So now you know. Feel free to pass this along, and if you've been there, please don't be afraid to keep your stories quiet. The underlying goal of this ward is to help people, and in my time there I met some success stories and wonderful dedicated staff. I also met a whole pile of lunatics.

It's good to be home.

My Brain Hurts

2011-10-01T07:12:00.003-04:00

Still sick. Still sitting here wondering how to fix my brain. Still wondering why I broke down last night even though Kim was doing everything in her arsenal to bring me out of a funk.

Biopolar sucks.

It doesn't suck as bad as cancer, or Crones, or a large screwdriver through the eye, but it sucks. I kinda figured that the past 5 months I'd get a grip on this and go back to work whistling happy little tunes - in two weeks I go back, but without the whistling shit. I still have a long way to go before my brain is considered fixed. Next week I start Cognitive Behavioural Therapy, otherwise known as brainwashing. I should have started that a few months ago, but I got complacent with the way things were going, and didn't make the call. I thought that I was doing fine, the drugs were working, meditation was working, a new outlook on life was working, etc. etc. etc. Hey, I was a little bit wrong.

In the past couple of weeks I've felt more like a weepy kid than anything else. I get down about the smallest things. God forbid I run over a caterpillar. Last night I found out a good friend was back in the hospital. It's serious, but he'll get through it. This of course was not the news my broken brain needed. That, combined with the fact that I spent the better part of my afternoon at the ministry office replacing my plate tags, made it a particularly bad brain day. Hence, Kim doing everything in her power to fix me.

In the past couple of weeks I've not smiled much, broken brain says not to. I've fallen apart several times, and one day - I don't remember this beauty: I had a panic attack while sleeping. Yup, I was out like a light and don't remember anything except Kim standing over me when she shook me awake, looking like she was going to call an ambulance. I was glassy-eyed and breathing heavy, but other than that, I didn't have any recollection of it. Anxiety attacks are common, the brain says to be worried about something, so I do. Sometimes it last a couple of hours, sometimes a few minutes. Sometimes just smashing the drums is enough to get over it, I'm at the mercy of my brain and the drugs inhabiting it.

Drugs suck.

How do people get hooked on this shit? How do people function with their bodies full of man-made cocktails of chemicals designed for the sole purpose of changing the way your brain functions? Why would people do this to themselves intentionally?

I've never been on drugs, I quit smoking about seven months ago, but I don't know if that really counts, weed, acid, hash, meth, coke, nope. Never. I'm proud of that. I can see how it really fucks people up, and I thought I was a mess from smoking!

The shrink has me on a mixture of controlled meds right now. I won't tell you what because hey - they're controlled. That means NARCOTICS. Lovely. They very time in my life that I'm trying to improve my physical status, they doctor fills me with crap that is supposed to fix my brain. Unfortunately, the side effects stopped being fun on day one. Here's a few at random:

Short term memory loss

Drowsiness (otherwise know as random nap time)

Dizziness

Nausea and in rare cases, vomiting

Skin rashes

Drop in platelet count (I have to have monthly blood tests for this one)

Weight gain (combined with quitting smoking I'm now up 60 pounds)

Blurred vision

Sensitive skin

And a whole lot more!

I really hate these meds. Worse yet, I don't believe they're working. So next week I'm calling the shrink and asking him to change the drugs for the fifth time since my brain broke back in April. I'm currently on four different meds, at six pills a day. I suffer from most of the side effects listed (I haven't puked yet), so maybe less pills = less side effects? Maybe? I don't know, I'm just the patient.

I'm due to go back to work in ten days. In Kingsville. That's a one hour commute, then a full work day, then a one hour commute. Please refer to side effect number two - random nap time. Talking to my boss last week he did ask if there were any work related issues he must know about, that one came up pretty quick. I'd rather not be dead in a ditch on day two thanks. He's offered to move me to the Tecumseh office until this gets sorted out. Nice guy. I just think he'd rather not do the paperwork from the ditch incident.

So my brain is still broken, and full of drugs. I don't even take aspirin for headaches. Nevermind all this crap. I have to get back to therapy, I have to get back to work, I have to get back to normal (what is normal anyway?)

Even now as I type this at 7:45 am, I feel weird. I feel the anxiety creeping up, I have to push it back down. I described it to my shrink as that feeling when you're at the top of a tall coaster looking down but not moving yet. That feeling when you're stomach is suddenly where your lungs should be and your lungs are around your back, not working very well. That's the constant anxiety that I have to fight. That's part of the Bipolar syndrome. In the grand scheme of things, big deal. It's a feeling, not like fighting MS, or Parkinson's, or cancer, or any other physical disease. This one is mental, or physical if you consider that my brain isn't firing on all cylinders, hence, my brain broke.

I can get over this, it's certainly not life threatening, and won't do anything to shorten my life, if anything, the past six months have given me cause to live longer. It's just annoying. Less drugs, more therapy, more family and friends, less stress, etc.

I can do this. I have to. I have to fix my brain.

Walking

2011-07-12T07:17:00.003-04:00

Firstly I want to thank everyone for the positive comments on the last post. It was reassuring to know that this is well accepted and I have nothing to worry about. Not that I didn't feel that way to begin with, but re-enforcement helps!

When I took time off work I began to walk. A lot.

I began to walk with the intention of ending up somewhere I'd never been before. I managed to accomplish that several times which was a challenge when I grew up in this city. I used to think I knew every nook and cranny of this place (what the hell is a cranny anyway? Just sayin'). As it turns out nobody really does. We all focus on our little part of the world, our little piece of heaven as it were. We have blinders on in most cases, we move from point A to point B, and if we're driving we normally see nothing but the tail lights of the car in front of us and street signs.

I found with my walks that there's more to any city than meets the eye. Walking each day, or as often as circumstances permit, averages about two hours. In that time I don't ever intend to follow that same course more than I have to. I intend to see things, to slow down and become more observational. A sort of urban explorer if you wish.

One day I started out as normal, and headed towards the Detroit River - about a half hour from home. I wanted to see how they were getting along with the massive water retention basin project that have essentially turned 5 kms of riverfront parkland into a construction zone. I made it to the river along Devonshire Road near Hiram Walker's Distillery, and turned toward downtown. I made it about three blocks before the rain started threatening. Along the river at that point, there is no shelter. Unless I parked my ass on someone's front porch and waited it out, I was going to get soaked. The black clouds rolling in seemed a little ominous. I turned towards Wyandotte Street. By this point I was near the old Danny's Tavern - a male strip joint that closed about five years ago. Behind Danny's I found the alley that ran up behind my old house I grew up on. I played in that alley as a kid and I hadn't walked it since. A flood of memories welled up. I saw graffiti on people's garages that has been there for thirty years. I remember that! For a moment I felt like a kid again, kicking stones down the old alley, I even thought about climbing some of the old trees again. Then I saw my old house and how much it had changed. I realized at that moment how time had passed. I walked on, threatened by the storm once again. By now, it was raining lightly.

Down on Wyandotte I looked for somewhere to ride it out. There isn't much. Within minutes the rain became heavy and I became wet. I was not dressed for this. By Parent Avenue I had had enough, I ducked into a bar that has been there for years and does not enjoy a positive reputation in town. I knew this going in, but screw it - the intention was to go somewhere new, and this qualified even though it was a little seedy. I ordered a beer from the woman behind the bar - a middle aged black woman with a personality that indicated that she reserves judgement on anyone. She looked me over quickly and went back to the regulars. Except for that woman sitting by herself at a table looking a little worn down and scruffy, the clientele here was perfectly normal, just guys having a mid-afternoon sabbatical at the local bar. No big deal. After my beer I checked outside, the rain stopped, so I moved on.

Walking down Wyandotte wasn't what I had in mind, I completely missed the construction zone. When I got downtown I headed down Ouellette to Dieppe Park. I wiped off a park bench and sat down, taking the time to watch. Boats on the river, freighters, fishing boats, cruisers, all the time wishing I was on the water too. I walked on down the park and again stopped to watch. I listened to a tourist couple within earshot pointing at things in Detroit. Their accent gave them away as American. I thought it strange that they were here in Canada, looking across at their homeland with a strange interest. Shouldn't they be looking around in Canada? I moved on.

Further down the river there are two railway cuts, both long since closed to trains. At one time tracks came right to the riverfront, where barges would take the trains across. Now they use the tunnel. One of the cuts has been turned into a park by local residents. The owners of the cutting don't provide anything for it, either does the city; everything there was done by residents. There has been news lately about it going downhill because nobody can afford to keep it up anymore. This became my second objective of the day. I heading into the cut, but within ten minutes I realized I went into the wrong one. This was no park.

The trail running down the centre was obviously well used. Trees covered the embankments up either side so that you cannot see any signs of urban growth. Even the taller buildings are obscured. A complete urban forest. Garbage began to appear - tires, shopping carts, and more crap. As I walked it got worse. I began to realize my mistake, but hey, it was all about exploring right? So I kept going. A man was coming down the path towards me, he wasn't exactly dressed for the opera, I was a little nervous until he gave a friendly hello and walked on.

Underneath Wyandotte Street rail tracks appeared. Further down you could make out the huge CP rail yard. I was a the tail end of it. Underneath Wyandotte I stopped - amazed by what I saw. People live down there.

There were giant fire pits still smouldering, there were signs of people eating, sleeping, living, all around me. Up on the concrete supports holding up the road was graffiti like I had never seen before - and it covered every inch of everything. It was all oddly beautiful art in a can. The colours and patterns, not to mention portraits. Some of this stuff would be in a gallery if the medium was different. For a few minutes I forgot where I was. I had to leave, the tracks in front of me meant climbing out of the ravine, but I could find no path. I climbed up making my own. I came out in an empty lot near Crawford and Wyandotte. I began walking back towards downtown. After about a half hour I was a McDonalds, so I had some lunch, then turned toward home. That was enough for the day. The walk home took another 45 minutes, again, meandering down streets looking for the route less taken.

By the time I got home my feet hurt (I was wearing sandals), I was wet with sweat and rain, and dirty from climbing around in a ravine. I changed and showered, grabbed a bottle of water and sat on the porch. I relaxed there for a while contemplating my day. Just over four hours. I looked around at my neighbours homes, and my own, I greeted a few that were outside and in that time I developed a deep appreciated of what I have in this life.

I realized just how lucky I am, disorder or not.

Cheers.

The most difficult post I've ever written, and most important

2011-07-08T06:07:00.007-04:00

I've already started writing this three times. It's very difficult for me to find the words for this post, as I'm still a little reluctant to admit these issues. In a nutshell, I've been diagnosed Bipolar.

Really, what's the big deal right? I'm taking medication now to control it, and seeing a psychiatrist and psychologist, as well as a wealth of support from my family, especially my wife, Kimberly.

But all that aside, there's a huge stigma to this disorder. I was afraid to admit it because of that. I will be the first to admit that I've made snide remarks to someone in the past who had this condition, whether deserved or not, it was wrong. Now more than ever, I know that. I've also met several people lately who are also suffering from this, one of which is my neighbour's son. I've had the opportunity to talk extensively to this person about it, and that conversation gave me hope that this will affect me in a positive way, not negative.

Being Bipolar is not a curse, but a potential cure for a condition that people have long accused me of - that of being an asshole.

For years people have looked upon me as having a sorry attitude and carrying around a little grey cloud. Always negative, always grumpy, and one to steer clear of. Luckily my friends stuck with me through all this, even though they made their own opinions well known. Then, other days the sun shone through. The grey cloud dissipated and all was right with the world. I got my sense of humour back, and was helpful to everyone.

This is the basic definition of Bipolar. One with this disorder can't find a balance between two extremes. One experiences highs and lows on a scale that most don't see. When depression hits, it hits hard; in some cases a person will give up completely. On the other hand, highs were almost as if someone was high on life - ecstatically happy. There are several levels of Bipolar, and luckily I fall into the lower of the categories. My shrink described the highest level this way; one would call the Vatican and demand to know why the Pope missed the dinner invitation at his house last night. This person would have honestly thought in his or her mind that this would happen. The depression resulting from the rejection would be intense.

My diagnosis came about a month after my nervous breakdown on April 23rd. I don't remember about four hours of that afternoon. I don't think I want to either. Shortly after that I admitted to Kimberly that I did indeed need help. I agreed to see a shrink. My family doctor diagnosed me with depression and anxiety disorder, and gave me prescriptions for it. She also gave me a referral to a psychiatrist. My psychologist also insisted on that referral. The shrink changed the diagnosis to Bipolar within an hour of my first session, and changed my meds accordingly. The problem now, is that they aren't working.

The most benefit to any of this has been my therapist. I was very sceptical at first about someone I've never met messing with my head, and my telling him many personal details. I'm a very private person - even this blog only touches the surface of what I want people to know about me. The therapist changed that impression in me. He saw inside me to the person I really am - scared. He began Gestalt treatment on me - and I will not look back. Of all the drug cocktails and all the doctors that I've seen in the past three months, meditation and focus on self has been the best medicine. I'm now a believer in what this can do for a person's inner self and soul. I'm not cured, but now when anxiety and panic attacks hit, I can walk myself through a process that completely calms me, and eventually eases the pain. It's only a step, but a positive one. It has helped me re-focus on life. It has helped me realize what a jerk I was. It has helped me to find myself again, the person I was years ago.

When people didn't call me an asshole.

I have a long way to go yet. I'm off work on medical leave right now, mainly because I can't control the attacks and I work an hour down the highway. I really can't drive right now. I've spent my days seeing doctors, working on my self help 'homework', and getting back in shape. I quit smoking five months ago, and have since devoted considerable time to fixing the body as well as the mind. Out of boredom I began walking. Now these walks average 1.5 to 2 hours per day, depending on if I can mentally do it. One day it was four hours. Just walking. When I head out my intention is to normally go somewhere I've never been, a road, a park, and destination of some sort. However, when you live your entire life in the same city, that's difficult to do. But it keeps me thinking. I've also been reading. A lot.

My other new hobby has been my drums. I bought a used kit at a yard sale, fixed it up, and made some additions with the help of my brother in law, who still has a bunch of his old kit laying around that he doesn't use. Surprisingly enough, I'm not too bad! We've been having weekly jam nights. My son is a pretty talented up and coming guitarist, and my brother also plays guitar, so smacking the skins has been a very effective outlet for aggression and anxiety.

I was reluctant to write this entry. I was afraid to put these issues out there for all to see. I was going to keep my diagnosis a secret to all except my closest friends, but Kim convinced me that I need to write this. I need to tell everyone that there is no stigma attached to the this disorder, and no shame in mental health issues. Yes, I'm sick, but yes, I will get better. I will get back to work, and I will find a medication that controls the highs and lows of Bipolar disorder. I will find myself and even out my behaviour. It will just take time.

I shouldn't have any fear of telling anyone this. Now that I've posted this, I have no choice! It's just one more thing I have to deal with. Maybe now I will have a more positive outlook on life, on my friends and on my family. Maybe this is the mid-life crisis that HAD to happen in order for me to realize what I've been missing.

Maybe now I won't be afraid.

Cheers.

Two weeks and one flu bug

2011-02-15T20:32:00.003-05:00

Yesterday it was two weeks since we quit smoking. I feel good about it, even though I still doubt my ability to resist the temptation without a patch on. Kim however, hasn't had one on for the past week, she's doing great. Today she was tempted by the evil stick, but she resisted, in the end, the Borg were wrong. I don't have any cravings, but I do have the occasional bout of old habit, especially when someone I was dealing with last week blew smoke in my face. I was on the one hand completely disgusted, thinking that I used to smell like that, and on the other hand reaching for his pack and lighter. Mixed feelings will be around for a while yet I'm afraid.

But I will soldier on.

Not only am I feeling better about myself, I feel better about my financial outlook and the smell of my clothing. Yick. That shit really stinks! Everyone has a 'thing' when they quit. Some chew gum, some eat anything not tied down, some punch people, some chase small animals, I found that every time I had a thought about smoking I simply took a deep breathe. Every time I wanted a cigarette I inhale fresh air and realize that I can. Two weeks ago that hurt. Today it feels like the breathe of life. It's wonderful. Kim said her main motivation for quitting now is that she wants to be an old woman sitting on the porch with me while we watch our grandchildren play on the front lawn. We always promised to grow old together, and in the past few years, stress, middle age and several family losses have made that simple dream more and more distant. Today, the dream got closer for both of us. It feels good, but the very idea of looking forward to old age is just plain weird - I'm nowhere near old!

Yesterday I felt old. Yesterday I had the flu. I spent the past two days out of it on the couch, fleeting moments of consciousness sucking back orange juice and piling on more blankets. I called in sick yesterday, something I hate doing, more or less because I don't trust the others in my office to keep my work up to date while I'm gone. In any case, I went back in today, not feeling 100%, but enough to function. I'm bloody tired now, I still have a ways to go before I'm completely up and around, but hey, that's life. At least I'm up and around, at least I'm not gasping for breathe under the tremendous weight of addiction.

Tomorrow is another day and another deep breathe. The sun will be out and the deep freeze is in it's waining days, soon Spring will be here, long walks in the park, bike rides, playing with the kids outside, backyard parties with the village, and more. All of that while breathing free.

All that brings my one step closer to sitting on the porch with Kim, watching my grandchildren do the same one day.

Cheers.

Day 6

2011-02-06T08:30:00.004-05:00

This was the worst day yet. If someone had of handed me a cigarette yesterday I would have eaten it, not smoked it. I was irritable, short tempered, and just plain assholish. I didn't help that it snowed again yesterday, all I want is a warm spring day and a cigarette, and I can't have either.

So it's Sunday morning, I sitting in a quiet house drinking my coffee listening to Fleetwood Mac's The Chain - one of my favourite songs, telling the world about my issues with tobacco. Yesterday proved to me that this is by far the hardest thing I've ever had to do. How people do this cold turkey is beyond me, I just don't get it. I had the weekend child over yesterday too, and Kim was at work. So, here I am with 3 kids, no partner, no smokes, tons of snow, and no sleep. Did I mention that one of the side effects of the patch is insomnia? Don't know if I've covered that yet, but I've seen 4am each of the last six days. So add fatigue to the rest of the issues.

The snow didn't stop until 7 last night, and by the time it was done we had another 4 inches on top of the 10 already on the ground. I hate winter. Yup, I'm sounding negative, that's not gonna change until I quit! The pic was taken out the back window, notice the crane sculpture in the distance. That thing actually has long legs. Somewhere out there is my patio, just waiting for the fond attention of a family BBQ. But alas, not today.

Today is a new dawn, a new day of challenges, today is what I make of it. It's day 7 without my old nemesis. I have laundry to do, some dishes, some errands, then the day is mine to do what I wish, I hope it's better, I know by this point I don't like myself nevermind what my family and friends think of me. My sister told me yesterday of her husband's worst day, in which he spent all day pacing, but thereafter, it got easier. Here's hoping yesterday was mine.

Cheers.

Day 4

2011-02-03T20:37:00.002-05:00

Today is day 4. For most of the day I've had no issues with smoking, I had my coffee this morning, cruised the web a bit, caught up on news and played a game, all without thinking about it. I went out and shovelled snow, dug my car out, talked to a couple of neighbours, all without problems. This afternoon I took Kim to an optometrist appointment, and even though that took an hour and a half, I had no cravings. I even took the time to snicker at two ladies standing outside having a smoke break. A friend called while I was waiting for Kim, she quit 6 weeks ago, and is still on the patch. We traded stories for a while - all very therapeutic. All this reinforced my desire NOT to smoke.

Kim and I have been trying to have a lunch date since Christmas and today we finally went, off to Kelsey's, Kim had a pulled pork sandwich with Guinness BBQ sauce, I had a peppercorn sirloin burger. As Kim fixed the waitress's Blackberry, I had my first craving in a couple of days. After a good lunch, I always had a smoke, it was all habit. We drove home with full stomachs and tobacco-free.

After a couple more errands we made it home, and enjoyed family time with the kids, now home from school. Now, I'm sitting here typing this, and I'm struggling. For the first time today, I'm really having a hard time with the smokelessness. I know it's entirely psychological, but that doesn't make it easier. Kim's patch fell off a couple hours ago, and it doesn't seem to be bothering her at all! (there is a lot of talk from the next room about donuts and me going to Timmy's, but I'm not biting). I'm inching closer to the end of the day and a new one tomorrow, a day closer to being a non-smoker. Hopefully, I can make it through without any cravings. Realistically that's a long way off, but every day is closer to that goal.

Cheers.

Day 3

2011-02-02T15:22:00.002-05:00

Damn, this patch itches. It fell off last night because I kept trying to relieve the itch and it finally gave out, so I sat there for a couple hours without the patch on. I really had no desire to smoke at that point, but eventually the urge came back. I've crashed a couple of time over the past couple of days, but most of the time my issue is purely habitual, not physical. The patch is ensuring I have a constant uninterrupted supply of crap I don't need and am trying to stop.

Kim started her treatment yesterday, one day behind me. She says she's doing well, again, the problem is habitual more than physical. I haven't seen her since Monday, tonight we'll compare notes and admit to each other that we've either caved in or come very close. We'll see, but so far this has actually been easier than I thought. However, it does require assistance. Will power is not my forte.

Last night we were hit with the "storm of the century", as the Windsor Star called it. We made all kinds of preparations, as three of us in the press department live at least a half hour down any highway from here. We got the boss to sponge for a hotel room close to the office. If we were to get wailed, the presses would still run. Two of us went there last night, got some pizza, munchies and some drinks, and watched the hockey game. Then shot the shit til 2am. I'm not exactly on top of my game today, this morning began hung over with no coffee and no smokes. Yuk. I quickly fixed the coffee situation, but I'm finding myself now struggling to resist the smokes. I still haven't had one, but it's tough.

The storm wasn't half as bad as predicted, even so the winds and freezing rain alone made staying in town worth it, no to mention the camaraderie of the evening. Today is crawling, and it seems like I've been here for two days - frankly, I have. I'm taking tomorrow off, and spending it with Kim. Hopefully, we can make it without the cravings.

Cheers.

Patching things up

2011-01-31T11:15:00.003-05:00

This morning I put on the patch. I intend to quit smoking.

So far so good, I really don't have any cravings, except of course the habitual ones, it's such a habit to run out for a smoke if you're waiting for the computer to chew on something, or if you're bored. I'm finding that right now is a hard thing to overcome. The ride down to Kingsville this morning wasn't bad, I had no desire to smoke, as a matter of fact I had the window cracked open (even though it's -11 here), and took in the cold crisp February air. I'd like to say there was something different about how it tasted, but It had only been 2 hours since my last smoke at that point, kind of silly to expect results that quickly.

When the pang hit me to have a smoke though, I find taking a deep long breath can push that aside quite quickly. The sore cracking lungs quickly make their prominence, and suddenly the craving is gone. That's why I'm doing this, I can feel it in my chest, I can feel myself running out of breath. I feel like I'm 70. I'm 42.

When I've gone without before I feel the weight lifting off my chest. I feel the rush of air in my lungs, I feel better. Smoking is taking that away, and I miss it. Spring is coming, my favourite season, and I want to enjoy every minute of the warm spring air with all it's wondrous scents a and feelings, I don't want my lungs to fight back.

So day one is well under way. It's 11:30 and I don't want a cigarette. I'm really hopeful and optimistic about this lifestyle change. It's step one to fixing myself and reversing the trend towards feeling my age.

Step two begins in...... days? weeks?

Cheers.

Those poor newspaperists

2011-01-28T09:05:00.003-05:00

I'd hate to be working in our head office today. Last night we pronounced our server dead. Yup, no files. The remnants of the server presently sit on my desk at home while I eagerly devise a solution to not having any files to create newspapers with. I'd hate to be in there right now, as I'm sure sharp objects would be thrown at me.

I'm the guy who's supposed to fix these things, and I couldn't, but not for lack of trying; I was still at it at 11pm last night, while on the phone with our IT department in Vancouver. Apparently I have to mail a pizza to Lawrence, the IT wizard because he was doing this work from home. I wasn't so lucky, I was 50 km away, in Kingsville.

I was actually done work at 11am yesterday morning, but because I work with the Kingsville cadets on Thursday nights, I was going to hang around, off the clock. I didn't feel like driving back to Windsor just to turn around again. At 3, I got a call that the server was non-responsive and they wanted me to immediately go to Tecumseh. So I did, in the blowing snow, I made it there in 45 minutes, took the drive out, and headed to our repair guy here to see if he could rescue the drive. Luckily, I had another machine there that was just being finished up, so I had a working G5 to test. It didn't work. So with Vancouver on the phone telling me what to buy, I walked out of Marty's shop with $700 worth of new drives and other crap, and headed back to Tecumseh. My thought was to try to mount the server drives in the G5 (they're identical machines) and try to mount them. Nothing worked.

Back on the phone with Vancouver. We brainstormed for a while, the only thought on my mind at this point is how to get the contents of the Kingsville server moved. Lawrence's idea was to clone the server onto the G5. Interesting idea, so off I went into the storm, back to Kingsville. I hooked everything up, called him to let him know he could start, and headed off to meet my corps friends for dinner - all this was conveniently timed! After food I headed back to the office to check progress, but there wasn't any. We couldn't clone the drive. At least we tried. Right now, it's 9:30am, and my boss is heading back to Kingsville for me to get data moved so they can at least try to rebuild.

This is a lesson in backups. Three papers going out on Tuesday with nothing archived. Yippee. I'd hate to be in that office right now. I'm sure there's people swearing. Alot. At me. I don't control the equipment, I just fix it. Now, a valuable lesson has been learned, and hopefully this never happens again. As for the drive that failed, made in China. Need I say more.

Cheers.

Time to get ethnic

2011-01-21T15:03:00.006-05:00

I'm ordering my new kilt. Yup, it's about time I did something selfish and egocentric. I've wanted to for the longest time, but I couldn't justify the cost. I still really can't, but hell, I'm doing it anyway.

I found a great website that custom makes kilts, at a great price, and best of all, they're actually in Scotland, not Zambia, or Guam, or Bangladesh. I have nothing against these places, but a true kilt should come from the place that made them famous. Check out http://www.scotweb.co.uk if you feel you should also fulfil your destiny as a crotchety old Scot. They've got some great stuff.

I'm a Wilson, so our tartan is but-ugly. However, I am of the Clan Gunn, which if I was getting picky (and I am), they have much better colours. It's a difficult choice, even the Gunn offer 3 different tartans. If I hate it after I get it, I can't just have them redo it!

So this is my first blog entry since Remembrance Day, and I'm going on about buying a kilt. Kinda silly, but that's where my head has been lately. So much going on at work and at home, constantly running around and taking care of things elsewhere, I've decided to treat myself to something I've always wanted. Problem is, shopping for highland kit isn't the same as going to Moore's and buying a suit. The kilt is just the start, then there's the sporran, the hose, hose tabs, jacket, kilt pin, Sgian Dubh (small knife sticking out of your sock) and whatever else your heart desires. Lots of stuff, lots of money. So the idea is to assemble everything over the next little while, and be ready to wear it... ???

Doesn't matter, I feel the heritage in me, and I want to honour it. I know the jokes will fly about me in a kilt. It doesn't bother me at all, it's not the first time I've worn one. Beside, if anyone asks what the difference is between a kilt and a skirt, the answer is simple - a punch in the head.

Cheers.

Remembrance Day

2010-11-10T19:06:00.005-05:00

Tomorrow is November 11.

At 11am stop everything you are doing. Stop working, stop talking, stop playing, stop reading, stop listening to music, stop everything.

Stop everything and listen to the wind.

Listen to the voices on the wind of those who paid the ultimate sacrifice for us. Listen to the voices in your head that tell you that you know why you're free today. The voices of souls who long ago died on the battlefields of Verdun, of Vimy, Passchendaele, of Cambrai, the Somme, Normandy, Ortona, the marshes of Holland, the hills of Korea, the sands of Afghanistan.

Stop and thank them, in your own little way. Say a prayer for them or their families, or just stand there, and listen to them. They still talk to us. It's when they stop talking to us that we begin the process of forgetting. That's not what this day is about. This day is about remembering, so that it never happens again. The tyranny of the world's past cannot ever come back to threaten our freedom, the idiots of the world must be kept in their places. The sacrifices of those who fell on far off fields of battle have made that possible. Without the 42,041 Canadians who were killed in World War Two, as well as the other allied nations, Hitler would have kept going.

All the way back to the War of 1812, Canadians were dying for what they believe. We weren't a country back then, but we were still Canadian. That pride started there, and has never faultered. By the way, we lost 1,600 in that conflict, including some old relatives of mine. While that war was against our greatest present ally, it was different then. With the Bicentennial of that conflict approaching, it's fitting to get it mentioned, as it will many more times in the near future. I will be making a pilgrimage to the Niagara region to pay my respects, you should as well. And when you do, stop, and listen to the wind. The dead of that war will talk to you too.

A couple of years ago I wrote this post. I put tons of research into it, crossed my i's and dotted my t's, and since then I've had hundreds of hits on it. I guess I got the info right. I urge you to re-read it, because nothing I can say here does it justice. The dead talk there too. In the names of the places they died, and from that, one can get a firm idea of why they are buried in far off lands, or have no known grave, only a name on a granite monument. There are over 112,300 Canadian war dead. There are countless wounded. The numbers who have paid the price are staggering.

In World War One, Canada had a population of around 7 million people. 400,000 volunteered to fight. Think about that for a moment. That's 6% of the population of the country. Of those, 66,000 didn't come home. That's 16.5% of those who went. A huge amount. To date, we've lost 152 in Afghanistan. 152 dead in a country of 33,000,000. Don't get me wrong, I'm not advocating more casualties, what I'm saying here is the war was so massive, such a scale that nobody now can even comprehend it. Imagine the City of Chatham dying in one blow. That was the Somme. Think about the sheer magnitude of this "War to End All Wars". Think about the fact that it wasn't.

Think about them. I also wrote this, last year. I also go lots of hits from it. I hope some of the people who read it teared up, I know that a year after writing it, I still did. This story, in a different version, was true. Men did this. Remembering started that day...

At the 11th hour, of the 11th day, of the 11th month, the guns fell silent, and remembering began.

Wouldn't it be nice if the guns truly fell silent? Wouldn't it be nice to just here the wind?

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep,
though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Painting: Ghosts of Vimy Ridge

Depicting the ghosts of the Canadian Corps on Vimy Ridge surrounding the Canadian National Vimy Memorial. Oil on canvas, 138 x 270.2 cm. Source Canadian House of Commons Collection, (AN: O-4714). 1931 William Longstaff

Shilo Ranch

2010-10-30T08:33:00.003-04:00

I taught a class to green star cadets the other night about exercise preparation. After following the lesson plan for what seemed like forever I finally found myself going off topic, which of course is infinitely more fun that following the rules. We talked about weekend camps that are more memorable than others, and how they get that way. We discussed what makes a camp that you tell your kids about. It's not easy to decide which ones make the books, but in all my years, one thing is certain, the best camps were the ones that were, at the time, sucking.

Of all the weekend camps I have participated in over the years, I find it hard to remember places we went, training we did, anything that would make something stick out in memory. Nothing that would be worthy of stories down the road. Just run of the mill camps. The ones you remember are the ones that were essentially traumatic, if only to the young ones.

Hence, Shilo Ranch.

Shilo was a weekend camp in 1982 or 83, either way, a long time ago. Now, I was only 14 at the time, so I would love it if some readers (you know who you are) would add to my little account. I know several people who read this were there, and your additions to this little story would do alot to add to it. Use the comment feature at the bottom and go to it!

Shilo wasn't infamous for what happened, but rather what didn't happen - training. It was a wet, cold, foul muddy weekend camp in a field just south of Windsor. I was selected as part of the advance party for the camp - the group that sets up the tents and generally gets the place ready. So off we went Friday morning, trucks loaded with tents, tables, kitchen equipment, and various other stores required for almost one hundred cadets to spend a weekend in the field. Certainly, a large undertaking. The weather was beautiful Friday afternoon and we set to work setting things in place. The remainder of the Corps was to arrive around 6, so we had to have it all built by 5ish. Members of the 21 Service Battalion trucked everything out to us in their MLVW trucks (large 6x6 army trucks - they had the nickname 'mighty large volkswagens'). We spent the afternoon building modular tents and getting the training areas ready.

The rest of the Corps arrived at 6ish, disembarked from busses and got the grand tour. After a couple of hours of quite forgettable camp routine, the rain started.

And it didn't stop.

All Friday night the rain continued. The field where we set up was quickly becoming a mire of mud and ponds of rain so deep you could easily find yourself up to your knees in it if you weren't careful. The temperature dropped from a balmy 60ish during the afternoon to a wet cold 40ish in the evening. Everything became wet. Your clothes, your hair, hands, feet, sleeping bags, food, everything. It quickly became a chore and a goal just to find something, somewhere, out of the water. With 100 people on the ground, it also became impossible.

This is where my memory of the events begins to fade. I was a junior cadet at the time, not quite privy to the goings on of the staff and seniors, never mind the militia guys. So I ask you to fill in the holes.

I do remember a few tidbits. I remember Dave Brooks had a Ford Pinto that was the only vehicle not bogged down. I remember him bombing past an MLVW that was up to it's axles in mud and completely immobile.

I do remember John Pudar jumping up onto a 6' folding table inside the mod tent, and the table collapsing into the mud.

I do remember seeing a fire actually floating.

I do remember the mud.

I now remember that was the worst weekend I ever experienced. And I would do it again in a heartbeat. Not for the pain of it all, but for the memories (however sketchy), and the experience of being there. In my new position as assistant training officer, I hope to plan weekend camps that are useful, educational, and fulfilling to the cadets. I certainly don't hope for a write-off like Shilo Ranch, but at the end of it all, I won't remember the successes.

Please help me fill this one out. Joanne, John, Villian, Joe, Veronica, Paul, Phil, Jeff and more, you guys were there, add your thoughts!

Cheers.

Mongolian Tree Sloths et al

2010-10-16T22:06:00.002-04:00

Today my cadets marched in the the Kingsville Migration Festival Parade. For the first time marching in a town parade they did a great job. There was only 22 of them on parade, but most were new cadets and really had no clue what they were doing. Prior to the start we gave them the speech about following the pipes and drums. Just listen to the bass drum, and the rest will fall into place. The CO arranged for us to march immediately behind the pipes, so that part was easy. Within a half hour, we were done, and preparing to meander back to the legion hall for pizza and an afternoon of shooting.

While the relays were ongoing I took advantage of the captive audience to teach some classes and tell some stories. Of course, I then opened the floor for the cadets to respond in kind. We had a good afternoon sitting on the grass on a beautiful day - we won't have many more 70 degree days in October, so we took the opportunity to enjoy it.

The theme of the tales was that the memories you cherish most in this organization. Stories of rained out camping trips or when the equipment shows up completely non-serviceable, or maybe the time when some schmuck caused some weird accident that messed up the rest of the trip; years later these are what you remember. These are the weekends that make you come back. Part of you wants to relive the activity, while the other part wants it erased from recent memory. But of course, you tell the story, thus perpetuating the legend. I especially like telling horror stories to new recruits. One half of their faces cringe in horror, the other half beams with excitement. You can tell when you've left them wanting more. It's my sincere wish to give these kids their own memories, so that one day they sit on the grass telling stories of their own, just like I did today.

So in the spirit of great memories, here's one from my "Best Weekends Ever" Collection. (I haven't actually started a collection yet, consider this the first).

1992 - Gesstwood Church Camp, Gesto, Ontario.

I was the Training Officer for a Corps in Windsor. My job for this particular weekend exercise was simple - plan it and execute it. I had support from my Commanding Officer and other staff, but for the most part the Ops Order and all supplemental planning was my fault. If anything went wrong it would be on my head. Great. Nothing like holding the lives of 40 kids in your hands and being told not to screw anything up. At the time I was a young officer, 3 years in, and full of ideas, however unique. At times, I was also full of alcohol - not a good combination when working with youth. Yeah, I know, stupid. But hey, it was almost 20 years ago, move along.

While on a bender one night I decided to complete my leadership exercises for the weekend. I had the cadets move through a series of team building and leadership exercises culminating with a night exercise that evening. Some were simple - cross this obstacle as a team with the obvious difficulties imposed, or shoot a bearing on certain locations correctly. But I wanted to have some fun with a particular person in my charge for the weekend. Each exercise we had support from our affiliated unit - The Windsor Regiment. They provided vehicle support and a driver who was at our disposal for the duration. This weekend, I got a young cocky corporal who had no time in his life for our organization. He was vocal in his belief that we were all wannabees, and except for being paid, he shouldn't be wasting his time. Several times I asked him to keep his comments to himself, and each time he reminded me that I was 'just' a CIC officer - one not to be taken seriously. He was pissing me off.

The cadets were coming to the last of the stations I had set up. I used the mouthy corporal to my advantage. If he really wanted to see what we were doing there with a bunch of kids, I'd be happy to show him. My instructions to him were simple - go ten feet up the tree and wait. The cadet's job was to get him down, safely, in teams. He wasn't allowed to help them unless he felt his life was in danger. He was my Mongolian Tree Sloth. A creature too stupid to climb down out of the tree he climbed into.

He took a moment to absorb that.

He finally said "Are you serious??"

Yup. I'm serious. Climb that tree, and wait. The cadets would do the rest. Upon arrival to the tree I gave the cadets an overview of the situation. They grinned as they looked up at the corporal. I could see the wheels turning in their evil little minds. I was however, very clear that I was not going to be responsible for anyone getting hurt. I reminded them that if at any time the corporal had to help them, they failed. And the games began.

The first couple of teams struggled to find a way to do the tasking, but managed the task. Then the next team, then the next. With each group, the young corporal began to get the swing of things. By mid-day, he was acting like a Mongolian Tree Sloth - whatever that would be - being a fictitious animal, he pretty much had carte blanche to make it up as he went along. He began groaning, making weird noises, most of which would pass for really stupid groans, and tried to chew on the tree branches. When cadets tried to help him he acted more. He chewed on their berets, reached into their pockets for food, and more. He was really good, and really having fun. He made my day, and that of the cadets.

By the end of the day I had an apology from him and a request to help the Corps out in the future. We took this militia know-it-all with a single track mind and opened his eyes to what a bunch of teenagers are capable of when they need to be. I also reminded him that if he asked around his regiment he would find that the majority of his peers were cadets once. We feed the regiments. He was converted to our little world.

Years later I still tell the story of the Mongolian Tree Sloth. The cadets that were there that weekend so many years ago also tell the tales. A simple funny story about a great day. The sort of memory that makes us keep coming back. We want more of these, and we want the younger generation to create they're own memories.

One day, I will be camping with them again, and someone will send someone up a tree and try this exercise again. I just want to be there when they do. I will grin ear to ear and think back to 1992 and my kids. I will think back to the reason I do this.

Cheers.

I'm back!

2010-10-02T18:51:00.003-04:00

I'm back.

Haven't posted anything here since August 16, because frankly, I haven't wanted to. I have had no desire to be creative, no desire to express any form of thought, no desire to type, no desire to do anything but eat, sleep and work (the work thing is on the fence). Yesterday I spent the better part of 8 hours loafing around the house bored stupid. Several times I looked at things I should have or could have been doing, and then opted to waste more time in useless endeavours. Eventually I fell asleep on the couch with the TV on. Around me, my son came home, my niece went home and apparently my sister was here.

Missed it all.

Stupid. I wasted a day. Well, no more. I need to rejoin the living. This is a good start. Part of the reason I haven't posted is that I've had to endure some fairly shitty days of late, and as much as I've wanted to tell the 3 people who read this all about it, I felt that I should be better off just keeping my trap shut. So I did. I haven't written anything for fear of my temper showing itself in my writing. Nutbags and asshats begin that way. Writing evil diatribes and manifestos, letting the world see their anger through their writing. Ted Kazinski was just one such nutbag, now he's serving life for trying to blow people up. Luckily, with the support of my family and friends, I have felt now need to make anyone go boom. I'm on the path to fixing things. This is therapy writing now.

Therapy action has been going back to the Cadet organization. I started back last month after a five year hiatus. At the time it was retirement, but now that I'm back in, I wonder what the hell I was thinking by ever leaving. For the past five years there's been a hole in my heart where the kids used to be. I missed them more than anything else. I've been involved with them for just shy of 30 years all tolled, and my life was empty without. I got involved here and there from the outside but never was I parading and teaching. It just wasn't in me for the longest time. As time went on I felt the calling. I felt the pain of not being a part of the Corps. Last May I got a call from an old friend asking if I wanted to go back. I was asked to go help fix a nearly defunct unit, and I jumped on it. I have to re-enroll as an officer, I have to go through all the training again, I will lose my rank, and for the next year or so I will be parading as a civilian instructor, but that really doesn't matter. I'm back.

I just came home from spending my Saturday afternoon cleaning the Corps office. A blank slate as it were - we had the chance to clean out the old and bring in the new. Ideas flowed like water from the well, three of us working away, no cadets or parents around, just working on brining back the glory of this 40 year old Corps that almost closed last spring. We get to fix it. The very idea of being part of that is exhilarating. I had memories come back to me that haven't paid their respects to my consciousness in years, like the time I blindfolded cadets four at a time, drove them around county roads for a half hour, then kicked them out and told the to find their way back to camp. Not to worry, each group was armed with a compass and map, and I dropped every group within sight of a visible landmark to the camp. If they had paid attention, they just beelined for home. All but one group made it back fine. Those were good times, even if the CO was pissed at me. The kids loved it. The Mongolian Tree Sloth is another story. I'll save that for another post.

This Corps is lacking in officers. Hurting actually. I was actually recruited as a Lieutenant, but the paperwork problems were not readily foreseen. So we're still short a couple. We have a very competent Lieutenant now, and a Commanding Officer we're borrowing from another Corps. It'll be a while before we're up to full strength. Until then, I will be parading in a suit. I'm the drill instructor. A role I've always loved. The small problem is that civilians aren't supposed to teach drill, but we do what's necessary to accomplish the task. Each week now I've been on the square yelling like a marine, bringing these cadets up to snuff. I haven't done this in years, so my voice is cracking, my demonstrations are rusty, and I have on more than one occasion referred to the Canadian Forces Manual of Drill and Ceremonial (affectionately known simply as 201). I'm getting there, I review my lessons, and march around my house like a dipweed, but I'm getting the cadets back to parade ready. I'm proud of what they've accomplished in a few short weeks, even though each week has involved me tossing out everything they know and starting over. You see, the previous CO never opened good old 201. He wrote his own book!

We've got weekend exercises planned soon, and parades coming up for the Kingsville Migration Festival and Remembrance Day. We're also planning shooting weekends and fundraising events. We want to give these cadets what they deserve - opportunity. We want to bring back the pride in their Corps. We want them to be proud to wear the uniform and the badge of the Essex and Kent Scottish. Last week we let them put on their kilts for the first time in months, and they were damn proud to do it. They want more and it's our job to give it to them. We want the Corps to grow, and in a small town like Kingsville that's not easy. A tough task for an established Corps, nevermind one that's in the process of being rebuilt. But I like the challenge.

On an ironic note, the weekend camp in mid-November is at the same place that saw me blindfolding cadets and twenty year Mongolian Tree Sloth sightings. I can't wait to go back.

When something grabs your heart and doesn't let go, you shouldn't let it go. You should hold on to it and nurture it. That's how it is with this organization. I never should have let it go. I'm happy to be given the chance to give it a second go. I'm motivated now, more than I ever was. I feel a purpose beyond just working and keeping house. (family excluded - they're always my purpose), but a person needs passion. Mine is seeing young cadets grow and achieve. Seeing them move up in ranks, win awards, and lead their peers, and know that I've been a part of that effort. I makes me proud.

On Annual Inspection in the Spring I will stand off to the side and watch my cadets come forward to accept what they've earned, and I will beam with pride. Once again, they'll be my kids again. Once again, I'll have purpose.

The old me is back!

Thinking in plaid

2010-08-16T20:59:00.003-04:00

I went off to play silly bugger this weekend. I attended the First Annual Military Muster at Heritage Village. I won't go into all the details, frankly almost everyone who reads this was there. If i didn't talk to you, I at least saw you. From my vantage point in the vendor's area I watched thousands of people wander by all day taking in the sights and sounds of a wonderful and long overdue event. I was playing the role of recruiting officer this weekend, trying to snag unsuspecting teenagers into the cadet movement. A role I've played many times over the years. I enjoy talking to the parents more than the kids, it's usually them asking the questions anyway. I had a half dozen cadets with me, all of whom probably enjoyed the free admission and lunch more than the chance to bring up their numbers. In any case, putting on the kilt again this weekend gave me the itch, again. For years I've wanted to invest in highland garb and play the part. Recently I've even become a member of the Scottish Club. It seems that as I get older my heritage is more important to me; maybe as a way to honour my father, or maybe because I'm just proud, but I want my own kilt now. Not a borrowed one.

As I sit here pondering such a silly thing the first question that comes to mind is where would I ever wear it? Would it be practical? Should I go regi... oh, wait, never mind. It doesn't matter, it'd get use. Lots of it, just not in January. There are many events around here that could warrant it's use, everything from Highland Games to this weekend's muster. I'd find a use. I got married in one once... I could do it aga... oops.

Just a thought running around in my head, a thought of heritage, history, culture, everything my father brought us up with, the sound of the pipes, the swing of the kilt, the jokes of the un-initiated. It's all part of the game.

So I'll begin trolling the net for deals. My missing other me is out there somewhere.

Beannachd leat

This is not the summer you are looking for...

2010-08-08T09:59:00.003-04:00

So I'm watching my friend's facebook posts and looking at their vacation pics, and I realized something - This summer was dull. With a capital D dull. I didn't go anywhere, I didn't do anything, I accomplished none of my major goals (except the door), and now, first week of August, I regret it. I want something, I just don't know what.

I want to be in a tent somewhere, with a canoe by my side. I want to hike a trail in the mountains, I want to see a castle in Scotland, I want to ride a coaster. Hell, I'll settle for an ice cream in Cottam at this point. Anything. I'm stupid bored.

My summer has consisted of babysitting 5 cats - 3 of which are 12 week old kittens, born here in the spring to a mother we took in as an emaciated stray, close to death. WHO KNEW SHE WAS PREGNANT? So now, the kittens, as cute as they are, are very destructive. I spend most of my day picking up after them, sweeping, flea control, emptying the cat box, and constantly feeding the little lovelies. They're cute, but they've taken over. The old saying that dogs have owners and cats have staff is absolutely true here. I'm a zookeeper in the feline enclosure.

My summer has also been spent fixing things. The new back door finally went up, so we've done away with the redneck door lock. We can open, close AND LOCK our back door at will. Silly thing, but it made me feel better. Then the hot water tank died. Woo hoo. Normally it would have been a simple phone call to have that replaced, but not here. Here, we had to empty the room of it's constituent junk (cats included), then haul out the old tank, clean and dry the damage under the old tank - the floor had a crack so big that we had 2 trees growing up through the basement floor. After a ton of concrete and a 24" patio slab, they were ready to drop the new tank in.

We tried gardening this summer too. It's growing well, we've got a plethora of cucumbers, and some very small but tasty strawberries. The watermelon are going slowly, but they're growing. We should have them by September. Several other crops are creeping along. Not bad for our first attempt. Next year will be better.

This summer has seen my children have more vacations than Kim and I. Bug has been to camp three times, and my son is presently on route back to Canada after another week in his grandfather's truck. This time they went to West Virginia and Quebec, with all parts in between. He'll come home tonight, play with kittens, and pick up his guitar.

This summer I found out that getting back into the military will be really tough. I found out that my last clearance was a "5F" - or put into civilian terms, unfit for further military service. Looking at my records I'm sure it's because the paperwork was a real mess on my release four years ago, but I'll have to prove that. Anyway, I'm looking at six months before the army makes a decision on whether or not to let me back in. In the meantime, I'm working with the Corps as a civilian instructor. Better than nothing.

Just to add to the hell of the army paperwork, while sitting on my porch yesterday enjoying sunshine and a good book, walked up two Windsor police officers. Two months ago, while REALLY pissed off, I kicked the front end of a meter maid's car as they ticketed me for double parking in front of my house. The 4-ways were on, but they said I'd been there too long. I tried to talk my way out of the $30 ticket but they would have none of it. I booted the front of their car. Yup, shouldn't have done that. Now, two months later I'm being charged with a misdemeanor - damaging the car. Yup, it took two months for them to realize "hey, someone kicked our car 2 months ago, we should charge them!" The police claim that since that day, the door won't open properly. Funny, I kicked the FRONT end. I think they damaged the car somewhere and I'll be the fall guy. This will look great when I go before the admissions board for the military.

All the while, the evil kittens just stared out the window.

I've taken a total of two vacation days this summer. Two. Not even good ones. I'm covering for other people's vacations, simply because Kim is still relatively new in her job and hasn't got enough time banked yet for a real vacation. So I've been taking a day at a time. So instead of going to some far off land, I've managed to scam a few three day weekends. Time well spent cleaning up after kittens and getting in trouble with the evil meter maid department.

The kittens are staring at me. Probably 'cause I haven't fed them in a half hour or so.

I intended to get into shape this summer, that failed too. I've gone running a few times, even visited a gym and considered handing them a pay cheque or two, but alas, nothing. I'm still a skinny, out of shape 40-something couch potato. There's still some summer left. I've got time. I was running with my son, maybe when he comes home tonight he'd be willing to go for a jaunt.

The last kick in the teeth this summer is my bike. It was again, stolen. Again, while locked up somewhere else. Again, I'm walking. I have a special relationship with my bike(s), I love the peace and freedom of just going for a ride somewhere, the whole wind in your hair thing, the energy it feeds me, but now, nope. No bike. I had to pay for other things this summer, hot water tank, door, other household repairs, and oh yeah, kittens. Did I mention I have a house full of kittens? So no bike this year. Sigh.

There's still some summer left, there's still time to salvage this. Next week is the Military Muster at Heritage Village. A huge event that I'm volunteering at. I'm considering the offer from the organizer to dress in WWII battledress and act the part, but I'm on the fence with that. 100% wool in 90 degree heat. Not good. Either way, it will be fun, and everyone should come out and honour our vets. There will be over 60 restored vehicles, live bands, demonstrations, fly pasts, helicopter rides, and 40s era swing party, veteran's parade, mock battles, period encampments from Romans to Vietnam era, and vendors. Lots of stuff to see if you've got the historian's itch. And regardless, just supporting our veterans and current forces is all that really matters. All proceeds from the weekend are going to the Canadian Transportation Museum at Heritage Village. I'm camping there the weekend, not exactly the camping I had in mind, but I'll take it. The canoe will have to wait.

So this post hasn't been exactly rosy. I'm seeing people coming and going to cottages and theme parks, visiting family in far off lands, or having people show up on the doorstep from far off lands (thanks Shelley, for bringing Ingrid down!) I don't want to begrudge anyone for having a great summer, you all deserve it. and eventually, so will I.

Once I'm finished my job as a cat nanny.

Cheers.

Happy Canada Day

2010-07-01T08:42:00.003-04:00

Happy birthday Canada, you're 143 today. We'll all have some cake and ice cream to celebrate, all 34 million of us. One big-ass cake. We'll take the day off work and reflect what it means to live in the best country on earth, we'll ponder our place on the world stage, as other countries rally to send greetings and blessings to us all. We'll even get to choose whether or not to do any chores, maybe today we'll all get breakfast in bed served to us by the Brits, or the French. The Americans will have their hands full getting ready for tonight's backyard BBQs, getting the grills ready for us, cutting the grass, etc. etc. We'll send the germans to the beer store and the Australians to the liquor store - they have the best wine in my opinion, don't send the Chileans, I don't like theirs.

We'll light the bonfires tonight and celebrate our day with all our friends. We'll roast hot dogs and marshmellows for the kids, have a few beers and relax. It's our birthday. We may even get presents. I know I asked for a raise, that would be nice. Some other friends of mine asked for tax cuts, one asked for a job. Dalton McGuinty, that lovable, ever so affable little dictator of Ontario, has given all the residents of his little province the HST. So kind. We really should all thank him now, but it may be better to wait 'til the election is called.

We'll toast each other tonight, to our health. To our health care system. To hoping we don't have to take advantage of it, although after tonight, some may be in the ER, but not to worry, they won't get a bill, just a long wait. The lasting affects of another gift from a government long ago, universal health care.

We'll probably get a little rowdy tonight as well, and some of us may spill into the streets looking for trouble. The police will undoubtedly be called to quell the riots, and all 6 hooligans will be thrown into the cooler for the night, their broken hockey sticks and rocks taken away. One may even have a gun, but it will more than likely not have any bullets, they're illegal here.

The immigrant population can partake too, those who have come to Canada over the years have done so for a reason, all different, all unique. But there are those who have come to this country to settle because they've heard about our wicked birthday parties and just want to get in on it all. Then, there are those who will see the excitement and long for their homelands, in some cases, knowing they never can return. So they become reluctant Canadians, but they will join in non the less, and make the best of it.

There are those who will attend the party tonight that we didn't invite; the nosey neighbours who always lean over the fence to see what you're up to. We laugh about them, and joke about what we'd do if they did jump over, but when it actually happens, we do nothing. We hand them a beer anyway. Better to keep your enemies closer I suppose, it's just the Canadian way. Eventually we'll send them little hints to hit the road, but they won't get it. The only time they'll actually leave is if they catch wind of another party somewhere. Shouldn't be a problem tonight, there will be lots of parties for them to hop around to.

Our police will be patrolling the streets tonight keeping us safe, our firefighters and hospital workers will be on call in case we need them, politicians will make speeches about how great of a country they have made for us to live in (kinda like you cutting your own grass and the nosey neighbour tells you how good of a job he did in not stealing your lawnmower).

Somewhere in all of this, Canadians of all makes and models will come together to wish each other Happy Birthday. It may not be the most coherent or audible cheer, but it will be there, felt in the hearts of those who chant it out. And there will be those who will break into song for each other - singing Happy Birthday over and over again. Some may even resort to the Beatles' edition. Others countries may sing for us, like Afghanistan, who as we all know, have a large population of Canadian loving folk, at least those who've been told they do. At least the ones the Taliban haven't targeted.

Our flag is universally recognized as a symbol of a peaceful country. A nation of fun-loving people who are ever so quick to help out someone in need. A nation of caring low key people who are humble enough to avoid making waves in the world's swimming pool. Happy enough to enjoy a day truly meant for us. Other nations are jealous of our accomplishments, our food, our tremendous cultural offerings (The giant inflatable mountie is everywhere!), and our hospitality.

Come on over! Our border guards will cheerfully hand out maps to the best parties, and offer all kinds of advice on what areas to avoid. And you thought the delays at the border were caused by unnecessary inspections? Of course not, we don't care what you bring in, but we will take the time to help you get your cargo where it needs to go.

I love this country, and I'm proud to call myself Canadian. I'm proud to wear the maple leaf, I'm proud to have worn the uniform. I will shout from the rooftops about my heritage, and I will have no fear of reprecutions.

I am Keith, and I am Canadian.

Enjoy your day everyone. And to my American readers, Happy Fourth of July. We'll be there to help with your BBQ this weekend, but keep in mind there's not really enough of us to help, so you'll need some other countries to lend a hand.

Cheers.

Morning Ranting

2010-06-29T07:15:00.005-04:00

The HST comes into effect next week. Add that to the list of laws added by Ontario's rulers in the past year or two, included outlawing cell phones in cars, smoking in cars, tough rules for teenage drivers, policing what kind of dogs people can own, pesticide bans, removing pop from schools, ordering bars to post sign so pregnant women now finally are told alcohol is dangerous to their babies (it's about time someone told them), overriding municipal bylaws when they deem fit, and much more.

Now I'm not necessarily against some of McGuinty's laws, I just think it's time he stopped for a while and let people decide for themselves. It's time he goes away, stop imposing more rules and regulations to the point that we don't know anymore what's legal or not. At some point I'm going to get a ticket for doing something I thought I could do - Sorry officer, I didn't realize it was against the law to walk up the left side staircase - there was no sign posted that that was the down side! Here's my $55.

Most of this is tax grab. Most of this is making so many laws that the provinces coffers are being filled up with money from unwarranted fines. The HST is in that category as far as I'm concerned, it's another grab at our ever-diminishing bank accounts. McGuinty says it will create jobs. He's right in one sense, because once I'm broke from the extra 8% tax burden, I will have to bust my ass to ring up freelance work just to pay my fucking utility bill or put gas in the car. So there Dalton, your theory worked - I have to start my own business just to raise enough money to feed my family.

It's the same with the graduated licensing system in this province. You have to right several tests now to get your licence, that's not really that inciteful, but the fact that you are destined to fail the first of each and have to pay to retest is an atrocity. I'm firm in my belief that the province has mandated the testing offices to fail everyone on the first go in order to raise more money. Who are they fooling? Taxpayers are not blind or stupid. Well, OK, some are blind and many are stupid, but we need them for entertainment purposes. Why doesn't the province just raise the cost of getting a licence? We're paying through the nose anyway?

With the rising costs of driving now, more people are going to be inclined to take alternate forms of transportation. I'm all for that. I love my bike (or did, til it was stolen for the third time), but how long is it going to be before Dalton decides there's too many bicycles on the road that are not paying their way, and taxes the hell out of them too? Can you imagine - park your bike somewhere and have to pay a meter? Give him time, Dalton will sort out the details. Or how about a 100% tax on bike helmets, and then a $100 fine for not wearing one?

In Windsor we're getting the new Parkway shoved down our throats. The province has anted up buckets of money to pay for it. Our money. Yes, we need the solution, but Dalton and his cronnies have decided to bypass any sort of municipal input and are installing a roadway that Boston is spending billions of dollars to REMOVE. (The Big Dig - Google it). The input of the city was dismissed in favour of our loveable dictator's dream. A concrete garden chock full of diesel belching trucks. All paid for with money from the HST, higher fines, and other hidden tax grabs. The theory here is that they're paying for it - they get what they want.

Anyway, my rant is over, I'm late for work. Here's a morning smile...

Earthquake Zone

2010-06-23T19:23:00.002-04:00

I called National Defence Headquarters today, inquiring about my service records. As I left the employ of the Department of National Defence four years ago, my records were transferred there for archiving. So I have to retrieve them before I proceed with my evil plans to return to uniform.

So I made the call and settled in for a long summer's hold please. It is after all, the government. I got an answering machine the first try, so I left my number and went back to work. Surprisingly enough, within the hour they called me back. Miracles never cease. I cheerfully greeted the girl on the other end and began to explain what I needed when I was rudely interupted by this...

"Oh my God! Hold please".

Then the phone clicked. I turned to my coworker and in bewilderment told her what I'd just heard, which was met by a crinkled brow and quizzical look from Rox. Simply out of shear morbid curiosity I held the line. Let's think about this for a moment; I'm calling National Defence Headquarters - the home of the Canadian Forces administration and logistics services, among other things. Also, this coming weekend, Canada is hosting the G20 and G8 conferences in Toronto and Huntsville respectively. And unless you're living under a rock, you know just how much security has been put into place for those events. My attendant greeted me with "Oh my God".

For about 5 minutes I held the line, wondering what was happening. When she finally came back, she was incredibly pleasant and apologetical, while informing me that I'd have to call back later, as they were in the middle of an earthquake, and they were evacuating. You see, NDHQ is in Ottawa, which is just south of the 5.5 magnitude earthquake today, at 1:41 pm.

Just as I was calling.

The quake didn't cause any major damage, but it was registered as far away as Boston. We felt it in our office, and one of the girl's husband called asking if we felt it. I didn't. But several others did.

This was my first earthquake, and I didn't even feel it. Not that I really wanted to, but the experience was lost on me. The only hint of the event was being put on hold quite rudely. For a call that started so upbeat and friendly, it certainly took a downturn. Tomorrow I'll try again, and unless they're still having aftershocks, I shouldn't anticipate any problems, except of course that tomorrow the phone will be answered by Master Corporal Shitforbrains, who's been relegated to a desk job due to his offensive leadership tactics and horrible mannerisms. Such is the army.

Cheers.

Long summer days

2010-06-14T07:23:00.002-04:00

It's started, the long days of summer. Notice I left out lazy - that word has been stripped from my vocabulary. This past weekend we did the county roadtrip, for the first time since dad died almost a year ago. We've headed out before, but this time there was no agenda, no destination - just out. It was our intention to find our way to Leamington at the very least, and then meander back towards home. So off we went, around 8am, hit the Timmy's drive through for breakfast and then away.

This trip is nothing new for me, I do it every day going to work, but it's completely different with the family on board. We went through Kingsville, and then down the lake road to Leamington. We stopped at a few yard sales along the way, Kim bought a really nice reproduction tea wagon at some rich guy's house - always go to gated communities for yard sales - they've got the best junk! Next we headed into Leamington proper. There was a small part of me that wanted to see tornado damage, but the larger moral part of me just wanted to leave these people to picking up their lives. As you get closer to the harbour you can't help but to stare - the damage is astounding. The police were doing their part to keep gockers (sp?) out, they were checking ID at roadblocks, so we carried on. Down the road towards the point, we stopped at the lake and let the kids stretch, then back again. On a whim I pulled into the go-cart track, and we took the kids around a few laps. It's nice to be spontanious like that every now and then.

Back to Kingsville for lunch, then to the candy store. There's a place in Kingsville called Sugar, right on Main Street. Three words - you must go. This store has all the retro candy we grew up with, and the best 'fun' stuff around. Everything from insult greeting cards to stuffed animals in the shape of bacteria and viruses. I want to buy a brain cell this week. (Go ahead - I opened the door). I was particularly attracted to the five pound Hershey bar. I didn't ask the price.

We moved off down County Road 50 along Lake Erie, again, more storm damage. People were still cutting down the last of their destroyed trees. That is a very scenic route, and quite relaxing to drive. We came out around Harrow near the new wind farm. Kim was taken back to the turbines - they creep up on you, and their size is certainly impressive. She took a pile of pictures, and again, we moved on.

We headed back to Windsor with the used book sale for Terry Fox in mind. They held that at an empty store at Windsor Crossing - an entire store of cheap books! It was heaven for about an hour. I got a very heavy bag of books for around $20. Nice.

Just as we pulled into Windsor though, the rain started. Nice timing. We were home by 3:30, just in time for our extra child (Bug's friend who stays with us quite often on Saturday nights).

We emptied the car, set up the tea cart, and fell on the couch. A tremendous day. You don't really need to go to some theme park to have fun, although it helps! We needed that day - we needed to be spontaneous and light-hearted. I needed to beat my kids on the go-kart course, we needed ice cream and gum balls, we needed to laugh. I pulled us together as a family and probably did more for our collective phsychie than any other planned event.

Take you family and go. Go somewhere where there is no game plan, no map, just a car and a road.

Just go. It's worth it.

Blog Redux

2010-06-11T17:19:00.000-04:00

This is one of my favourite posts, and I felt the need to repost it after rereading it today. It's still applicable.

Enjoy.

A small list of things that bother me, feel free to disagree.

1. REEEAAAALLLLYYYY old people driving 30 in a 60 with their brakes on in the fast lane. Even the buses were honking at her.

2. Things that break too soon, like modern electronics. Why is shit only built to last a couple of years before the self-destruct mechanism goes off? Why do manufacturers think we're going to run out and buy another one of their shitty devices after the one broke the day after the warranty runs out? We're going to buy a different brand, think about it.

3. People who make too much noise late at night, like the idiot down the road running his dirt bike down the alley at top speed at 10pm. I'd like to throw a net across the next time he flies down. This is also the guy who plays with an extremely loud remote-control car on the street. I'd like to accidently back over it.

4. Strikers. Nuf' said.

5. News broadcasts that reiterate what was just said with a text version across the bottom, AS THE PERSON IS TALKING. If you can't hear it, turn on your sub-titles. Broadcasters shouldn't presume that we want to have to read what's being said as it happens. Cut it out CNN.

6. Spam on my cell phone. Hey jackasses - I have to pay for your call. Shut the fuck up. That also goes with texting me about my personal credit history. Let's think about this - you're making it worse!

7. Texting and twitter. People don't really care what you're doing every minute of every day. We have our own lives to think about. Cut it out. As far as texting goes, pick up the damn phone if you want to communicate with me somehow.

8. Cable TV. $60/month to see informercials about shit I heard about on my cell phone. I wasn't interested then, I'm not now. Then rebroadcasts of the shit the networks picked up cheap, like stupid reality shows that cost nothing to produce and take an exacting toll on our brain cells. If I wanted to see and hear people doing normal everyday shit in a house, I'd put webcams throughout my own. Or better yet, get a twitter account.

9. Reality TV. See #8

10. PETA. People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. These people are just plain weird and need to be shipped off somewhere. How about somewhere with lots of animals for them to play with, like Borneo. I'm sure they will have a great time playing with man-eating snakes and carnivorous rodents. When they tried to have fish renamed sea kittens in an effort to halt fishing they drew the line. They thought the cuteness factor would do it. Do they really think that me eating a nice cedar smoked sea kitten is going to make me enjoy it any less? Mmmmm, sea kittens... Mmmmmm.

11. Pants hanging off people's asses. It's not sexy. Get over it, your fucking pants are falling down. Either eat a donut or buy a smaller pair.

12. Low rise pants. We don't care to see your C-section scar. As per 11, get a pair that fits.

13. Remakes of things that shouldn't have been made the first time. I hear there's a live action version of the Smurfs coming to a theatre near you. Hopefully not me. Stop it. Get an original idea for Christ's sakes. Bad remakes and bad movie ideas are melting our population's collective brains. People who waste their money on this crap are only contributing to the producers of such shit wanting to make more. Michael Bay is a horrible director. Face it, Transformers 2 sucks, as does most of his movies. Somebody ship him off to Borneo. Maybe there he can get inspired to write an original movie about PETA members being eaten by hordes of angry man-eating parrots, with the cannibalistic residents picking their teeth with the leftover bones. Maybe Michael Bay can be eaten.

14. Sarah Palin. Just shut up and go away.

15. Remixing classic music. Rap artists remix old classic music with new lyrics and sell it to the masses claiming originality. Stop it. Anyone doing this should immediately be sued and shipped to Borneo. Vanilla Ice (remember that freak?) started it, he had no talent at all and proved it when he ripped off Bowie and Queen. Borneo. Nuf' said.

16. Kim Jong Il and Osama bin Laden. Please die.

17. People who keep their jobs with absolutely no effort and no brains. How do you people keep bringing home paychecks? Why is it that with so many people on the unemployment lines you can't see that you really need to make an effort to keep your jobs? This isn't an employees market, it's an employers market. Bosses should fire shitheads who spend all day goofing off and providing absolutely no contribution to the economy. You're taking up valuable space. Go away, get a double wide somewhere in Mississipi with a bath tub and a car motor on your front lawn and leave the jobs for those who will appreciate them.

18. Special interest groups. PETA, NRA, Pro-Life, Pro-Choice, Greenpeace, Pro-Nuclear, Anti-Coal, Pro-Man Eating Parrots, I don't care who you are. You shove your message down our throats with a militant zest. We can't escape. If we don't agree with you, we must be against you. Well, yeah! Of course! Shitheads. Hand out your pamphlets and let us make the choice, don't read it to us and threaten us if we disagree. Just shut up.

19. Vandals and Thieves. People who slash tires, knock over grave stones, bust windows, spray graffiti, steal bikes and lawnmowers, stop it. You're a bunch of bored kids looking for a thrill. Here's a thrill - Borneo. Please give me my 6 bikes and lawnmower back.

20. Arrogant narcicistic morons. Stop looking at yourself in the mirror and become a member of society. You're really not that great, if you were, we'd praise and admire you. Ghandi was great, Trudeau was great, Mandella is great, you're not. Look past your own face for once.

OK, so if you qualify as anyone on this list, or practice anything on this list, stop it. You piss people off. Or maybe just me, but hey, it's my blog, so get over it.

I've played nice nice lately with posts, but this was overdue.

I feel better now.

Cheers.

Motivation

2010-06-09T12:34:00.002-04:00

So I have to get back into shape if I'm going to do this. Peak physical condition is not necessary, the PT testing is actually quite a joke, however, I have no intention of struggling through it. I have vowed to use this opportunity as the motivation I need to do something I should not have waited so long to do - get off my lazy ass.

I drive a desk for a living, and as such the only exercise I get is moving pens around, answering the phone, and running outside to grab a smoke (admittedly ironic!) So here I go. I've been out on my bike a few times now, between rain drops of course, and yes, it hurts like hell. Last week I went for about 2 hours, and my legs are still reminding me how utterly stupid that was. My goal is to change that. A friend of mine has started jogging, and I asked him if he wanted a partner. He's kind of in the same boat as me, out of shape and taking it slow at first, so going together is a no brainer, however, he doesn't start until 11pm. I don't really know how I feel about that. Another friend has decided the same thing - he's intent on using this effort to quit smoking. I guess a similar goal should be in order. Either way, I have support and won't have to do this alone. By my own admission I have absolutely no self-discipline. It's too easy to come home and jump on the computer or hit the couch. It's too easy NOT to exercise. I need motivation to do this and I may have found it in my friends. Ironically, not in the reason I'm starting this in the first place.

So I have the summer to do it. I have the summer to quit smoking, start running, biking, flying, climbing, whatever. I have the summer to revert 20 years. This ought to be fun! I will set myself goals and fail to achieve them on a daily basis. I will buy myself some new exercise clothes, that of course will be used to anything but (nice comfy track pants to play PS2 in?) Kim will kick me in the ass now and then for not getting to it, and I will start drinking the protein drinks again (I'm horribly under weight - another bridge to climb).

I will do this, even if everything here says otherwise. This post is my motivation. If I can look back on this and laugh when I consider just how wrong I was, then my goal will be met. If I can get my new uniform issued at least one size larger than my old one, my goal will be met.

I can do this.

I have to.

Cheers.

And it begins... Again.

2010-06-08T07:27:00.001-04:00

I've been asked to come back into the military to help a struggling Corps. Of course, that's a decision that only took a minute and a half to make. I've been out for four years now, and there's a hole in my life where the army used to be. I've been in uniform since I was 12, and the past years, as much as I've joked about being a 'civvy', have been empty. I've been offered the opportunity not only to reenter the system and work with the kids again, but to redeem myself for past issues which shall remain in the past.

I love working with cadets, they're energetic, eager to learn, and in the end, teach me about life and staying young. Seeing a teenager on parade wearing rank, medals and carrying the pace stick, when only five years earlier this individual was a little hoodlum, is a mark of honour. Seeing that person progress and grow under your direction is heartwarming. On top of that, it's just fun! I start back with 2918 Essex and Kent Scottish in Kingsville, first Thursday in September.

Now the fun part...

When I retired in 2005, I was a Lieutenant, qualified Captain. I had all my courses, and was considering at one point applying to teach the officer qual courses. I had 16 years in the system, which qualified me for my CD, a medal for 12 years service. I also hold the Queen's Commission, awarding me all the rights and privileges entitled to an officer in the Canadian Forces.

Not anymore! Now I have to re-enroll. I have to restart from the ground up. I have to back up over 20 years and start at the bottom. I've lost my commission and rank, hopefully, I maintain my time in towards my CD, we'll see. I have to redo all my courses as well. Everything. This process has already started, I wrote the National Archives last night for my service records, then down to the recruiting centre. I have to go through the interviews, medical, physical fitness testing (that'll be fun!), and because I work with youth, background check and phsychological interviews. This entire process should take about 8 months, at which time I can get back into uniform, at a reduced rank.

I bit of a blow to the ego, but I'm up for the task. After all, it's about the Corps, not myself. It's about giving kids opportunities they wouldn't get anywhere else. It's about giving back. And besides, I've been looking for a way to shake the middle age duldrums, I've found it here, joining the army - again!

The challenge begins. Today.

16 years

2010-04-23T06:32:00.003-04:00

Happy anniversary Kimberly-Ann.

16 years today we did what I never thought I would do - said vows in front of my family, friends and God, to spend my life with a woman I love.

I was scared shitless that day, and frankly for a long time after that. I had no responsibility, lived with my parents, came and went as I pleased, did what I wanted to, That day I was scared of losing all that freedom. I wanted to marry you, but right up to the day I was apprehensive about the future, what marriage really meant, what starting a family would entail.

That morning 16 years ago, I disappeared - it was a beautiful morning and I took off at around 6:30 (around the same time I'm writing this), and sat in solitude in Jackson Park, listening to the birds, watching the people doing their morning routines, sitting in quiet contemplation about what to expect. Not just for the day ahead, but for the rest of my life. I wondered to myself if this was the right thing to do. I wondered if I was making a mistake. I was afraid. I sat there for a long time just listening to the voice in my head while watching the clouds and the birds overhead. Then I saw an older couple - maybe in their 60s. They were walking through the pergola near the end of the gardens, hand in hand. They too had come to see the morning in the park - they came to see the gardens awake. They never let go of each other. I watched them for about 5 minutes before they walked off out of the park and down the road. Then silence again. I looked back to the Lancaster, knowing that afternoon I would be standing under her graceful wings wearing my kilt, with you in your dress (that I hadn't seen yet), getting our wedding photos taken.

I knew then, it was the right thing. I knew then I had no misgivings about what I was about to do. I knew then how much I loved you and that I wanted to start a new life with you, as well as a family. I headed home.

When I got there, there was panic. People were up and about and looking for me. My mother got on the phone and simply said "he's back, OK." Then hung up. My best man Jim yelled at me, and my father just snickered. I didn't think it was any big deal - I got up early and went for a walk. Something I've done a thousand times, and again a thousand times since. But I did that on my wedding day and didn't tell anyone. Everyone thought I had bailed.

Now to put things into a sort of perspective, I was literally carried out the night before and taken to Charlie's for a last fling, so I was not exactly feeling my best that morning. Dad put on breakfast and I again contemplated the day - now realizing how much my head hurt. We decorated the cars, made last minute phone calls, and goofed off a bit. Later the time came to start getting ready, I put on my kilt, and took care of the rest of the bits. When it came time for my shoes, Jim told me to sit down and he'd put them on me. I replied that wearing a kilt really didn't prevent me from tying my own shoes, and it just sounded weird having someone else put them on me - I grabbed my shoes and went to sit down. Jim shuddered. He didn't want me to see what was written on the soles - HELP ME. One word in liquid paper, on each shoe. I laughed my ass off. He was afraid I'd take it off. I said 'Hell NO! It's staying!'

When I knelt down at the alter, the shoes had the intended affect - the congregation started laughing out loud. I looked over at Jim to see him red faced and almost not breathing he was laughing so hard, while trying to contain himself. Outside, I was made to kneel down so people could get pictures of the shoes. A big hit. And to think that Jim thought I would want it scraped off.

Then there was Kim. I had yet to see the dress, or the flowers, or her. When she entered the church I knew this was no mistake. She looked beautiful, and on her father's arm coming down the aisle, she knew it. I watched the procession in wonderment - I had never seen her this stunning. There was a part of me that felt as though I was not good enough for her, that she deserved more than me. She was crying. Her father was welling up, everyone in the church turned toward this vision entering the midst. As Canon in D played, Kim and her father came toward me, and I could see or hear nothing else. I knew this was no mistake.

After the service it was back to the park. My morning excursion was now common knowledge. The guys made jokes, the girls sent disapproval messages. But all was good, I didn't disappear. We walked through the gardens, posing in various places and in various manners, but when I walked through the pergola where I had seen the elderly couple hand in hand earlier that morning, I took Kim's hand. It just felt right.

It still does.

There was obviously much more to this day that could be written here, it ended up being the best day of my life. So full of every emotion one could imagine. And so memorable to those who were there. From the morning, to the shoes, to the munchies, to disappearing in the hall, having people trying to look up my kilt all day, homemade alcohol, cars full of balloons, and more. At the end of it all was my wife, who stunned me that day with her beauty and grace.

Thank you to all who helped us that day. John Day, Scott Wilson, Jim McAree, Grant Turner, Dave Bull, Chris Insell, Tracy Hardy, Joanne Noble, Heidi Watts, Denise Esson, Neil Noble, Father Jim Roache, My parents John and Faith Wilson, Kim's parents Bill and Tony Insell, Kim's grandmother Nora Gilles, and aunt Henrietta Lee, and all the rest who helped make the day special. And thank you most of all to Kimberly-Ann Insell. You have made me a happy man. Without you, I don't know where I would be today, and without you, my children would not be here to love and cherish. Without you, I would be lost.

Today will be a busy day. Lots to do before the party tonight with many friends and family, some of whom were there in 1994, I'm sure that memories dragged up, some of which I probably won't care to recall! It seems to me that today is following the same vein as our wedding day - Me with an early morning reflection, followed by last minute planning, followed by a party, all of this on a beautiful sunny spring day. But the one thing that parallels that day more than anything else is the fact that you still take my breath away.

I love you Kimberly. Happy anniversary. Want to go for a walk in the gardens with me?

Spring? Really?

2010-04-10T07:21:00.003-04:00

So it's spring. The birds are singing, the cars have lowered their roofs, the children have actually gone outside, the windows in the house have been opened, blah, blah, blah. We've had some beautiful days so far, I've fixed bikes, cleaned up the yard, we've enjoyed one round of porch and BBQd. All nice enough, but then yesterday the cold reality hit - and I do mean cold. The temp only got up to 4 degrees, and right now it's only 1 degree outside. Spring my ass.

Since spring has come (and apparently gone again), we've had some interesting days around Wilsonworld. We've adopted a new cat, a scrawny affectionate little furball named Stella. You can read all about her at Kim's blog, here.

The kids have a Wii now, and Kim has taken up boxing. In just three days she's brought her Wii fit age down from 74 to 55. I'm still at 80. She keeps complaining her shoulders hurt - it's a good workout, and that's great. Maybe she'll actually inspire me to start. The ironic thing is that she's spent a good portion her time hitting a virtual punching bag, but we have a real heavy bag hanging in the back yard!

We celebrated Easter with friends and family last week. 10 for dinner and 20 for porch, on a beautiful evening. We brought out the best dishes and silver, all the kids drank from wine glasses, and we toasted my father, as this was our first Easter without him. Some tears were shed, but not as many as I thought there would have been, just as in the days after his passing, we celebrated his life and what he gave to us, not his death and what we lost.

I've had my work hours cut. That's a sore point. My hours, and those of two others have been cut to pay for a part time person doing the same work. My boss - whom I have absolutely no respect or appreciation for; has now made a stupid company decision that costs me money instead of him. I've been waiting for that to happen. Oh well, sooner or later fate will catch up to him. I don't need to help this jackass get himself into trouble - he does quite nicely on his own. Am I bitter? yup. Now not only has he shipped me across the county to work (gas is fun to pay for), and demoted me, now he's cut my hours. He says the girls in the other office are overworked and need help. So it's up to my to sacrifice my own pay for that? He created this situation, he can get himself out of it. It's really difficult here not to tear the man a new one, I have to keep in the back of my mind that this post is public!

Neighbours are changing this spring too. The house across the street that my friends had seized by the bank last summer has a new owner. A family with two young boys. I've met the mother, she's nice enough but the language barrier is huge - she's chinese and doesn't do english very well. They're doing alot of work on the house, I just find it funny that they have newspapers covering the windows, and they keep shuffling the papers around every day. Almost like they went up as blinds before they were fully read! The house next to that one has new tenants as well, but I'm not crazy about them. A young woman and her very young son, and several men who visit daily. Hmmmm.

So as I sit here listening to the birds fall out of the trees in their frozen death throws, while hugging a coffee and listening to Mussorgsky's Pictures at an Exhibition (one of my favourite symphonies), I leave you with a morning giggle. Here's a video that sums up this lovely spring morning....

Cheers.

Spring

2010-03-29T08:14:00.000-04:00

It stopped snowing, now it's raining.
Bring on Spring.

The temperature is supposed to be way over 20 before week's end, and I'm bike shopping. It is my intention to be on 2 wheels as soon as the temp goes over that magic number. My legs will probably rebel on me, and I will again consider quitting smoking, but that's spring! I spend the winter closed up in the house and wrapped up in sweaters and coats, I get no exercise save shoveling the occasional snowfall, and the rest of the 4 months I hibernate. I hate it.

Spring is rebirth. Mine.

I actually go outside without going anywhere. I actually look around my yard and consider what needs to be done. I actually see neighbours. I actually clean out my car. Then I hit the bike.

I have a long list this spring. I have to replace the front door handle, replace the back door and frame, fix the foundation at the rear of the house, paint the porch, fix the chair cushions (in preparation for porch), fix the back fence, clean out the shed, strip and clean the BBQ, and that's just my list. I'm sure Kim has a honey-do list ready.

This weekend is Easter, a really big deal around here. We will host dinner, and the guest list keeps growing. We're up to around 20 for dinner, with more people to contact. All that and 20 degrees too! We'll be outside and I can't wait.

All this coincides with some nasty crap going on in my life - my boss cut my hours last week - because someone complained they're too busy. So I'm helping to pay for a part-timer. Nice. Just another whack at the pocketbook, add that to higher gas for my 45 km commute, and no raise in sight. I'm looking for another job right now, but casually. At least I have one right now, so it's not urgent. I want to pick up the freelance graphics again; it' s been a long time since I've done anything here, and the itch is hitting me again. Not just because I miss working for myself - the money is a huge factor. I started a fan page on facebook - Ink Blotch Graphics. I'm using it for a sort of online resume, so go visit and see if I can offer anything you need! It's not very complete, I'm still working on it. I'm also putting together a website, and looking at other online marketing schemes. What pisses me off is the number of people who think that they're designers because they have some cheezy imaging software. I lose so much business from people thinking they can do my job themselves. Hey - go build your own car because you own a junkyard, let me know how that works out for you.

I'm optimistic about the future now. The jobs will come, as with Spring. Ah, but there's the rub - when the nice weather hits, and I want to be out on my bike, I'll be on deadline for some sort of design work, and I will look longingly out the window. Maybe I need to invest in a laptop and work at a park!

Have a great week.

Bloggity bloggity blah

2010-03-21T22:20:00.000-04:00

It's been a quiet week, so I really have nothing to say.

The weekend came and went, March Break came and went, Spring came, the wife went (to work), The bills came and my money went, my kids won't went.

Same old same old.

Blah.

Here's hoping the week ahead comes and goes with more fanfare and memories than this one.

Cheers.

Ah, Facebook

2010-03-14T22:21:00.000-04:00

I do freelance graphics, and we have a little thing around here called Ink Blotch Creative Graphics and Publishing. (The latter is really just a dream, we don't do much of that, yet). I've been meaning to build a website for months now, but just ask any mechanic what condition his own car is in. I haven't got there yet. So I did the easier thing tonight, I started a fan page on Facebook. Now I, along with 400,000,000 other people, have a fan page on Facebook. Soon, my cat will have one too. So I'm really not getting excited over it, I'm not expecting to see the job work pile in. It would be nice, but come on now, my cat' s page will probably get more hits.

I've been doing graphics for years, and I'm really quite good (HIRE ME). I'm not bragging or anything, but I know how to keep a print customer happy. Web customers, well, I'll work on that!

I want to pick it up a bit, lately I haven't done much due to the longer days at work, the commute to another town, and Kim's weird schedule, but I'm getting the itch again to start up. I need to get my fingers dirty with something other than Canwest.

Eventually, I'd love to work exclusively from home on freelance graphics, but that's still a dream. I have friends who get to do that and I'm really jealous. Working in you pajamas hold a certain appeal to me. Not to mention no commute, no alarm clock, and a steady stream of coffee. Run errands when I want to, take a 4 hour lunch when I want to, you get the idea.

Yeah, there are trade offs, the self-discipline involved is intense, and of course, that's listed on my resume as my major weakness. So I have a goal - work from home, build some self-discipline. I started the fan page just to get some feedback on my stuff. I will keep posted new stuff, and I will endeavour to tag all the stuff I've put up, eventually. But until I find the time to do that, it will just have to remain a mystery. However, anyone who hires me will be provided with all the answers, and the meaning of life.

Just don't become of a fan of my cat.

Facebook - search Ink Blotch.

Porch

2010-03-10T20:50:00.004-05:00

I put my favourite chair on the top of the blog. Anyone notice? With spring coming I want to be there soon, having 'porch' with neighbours and family. When we bought this place, my father immediately nicknamed the porch a hockey rink, considering it's size, that's not too far from the mark. We actually have played hockey on the porch.

Porch is a tradition around here. It involves people randomly showing up and the chairs multiplying on the porch, all of which hold a friend or relative, all of them holding some sort of beverage. This started with storms. We have a bunch of freaky neighbours who love to watch storms, and with a porch this size, you never get wet. We've sat out there through the worst spring storms, while other people are battening down their hatches. We leisurely sit there watching the lightning. It's getting to the point now that if the sky turns dark, someone will show up with a case of something. I like it.

That evolved into the spring and summer social event. We gather as the tribes did around their fires, to tell stories and laugh the night away. Yup, once again, we're responsible for changing the entire meaning of a word. Porch will never be the same.

So in keeping with the spring tradition, and while we await our inaugural 2010 porch, I have changed my header to reflect it. A warm spring day, with my chair waiting.

The pic is a portion of a panoramic pic I took when I was playing with the camera one day. Here's the entire pic...

Have a great spring, and don't forget the munchies!

Airheads

2010-03-10T07:55:00.003-05:00

On my way out into the county yesterday I realized that I had a low tire, so I stopped to get some air. To my surprise, it now costs $1.

$1 for air.

Let that sink in for a minute.

One fucking dollar for AIR!

I moved on thinking that I had arrived at one of those stations that feels that customers should be jacked at any opportunity. To my amazement, every station I stopped at from Windsor to Kingsville has had the same air machine installed. All of them cost $1. I probably wasted a lot of fuel in my search for cheap air, but there's a point to to made here. Why should we be screwed for something as accessible and cheap as air? Why do corporations take advantage of consumers like this? It goes way beyond penny candy now costing a dime. It goes way beyond banks charging service fees to access your own money. It goes way beyond high taxes and high food costs. Now Air is a pricey commodity.

This is just one more reason I want to become a hermit in a log cabin in the woods. Somewhere where I never need air except to breathe it. Is that next? Are we going to get charged a tax on exhaling?

Fucking stupid.

I still haven't topped up that tire.

Have a nice *&#!@?*%$ day.

Things of days gone by

2010-03-08T22:10:00.002-05:00

I find myself sitting here tonight in a quiet house, surrounded by things I grew up with. My parent's antiques are everywhere, including the couch which was such a news breaker just a few weeks ago. I see these things and memories flow. Days of carefree living in a house of love, with family that for better or worse, was always there for me. I find myself seeing small imperfections in the table or a scratch on the desk, and I know exactly how it got there, and how old I was when I caused it (yeah, most of the time it was me).

I see things that Kim and I brought into this house together, yet somehow these things have much less meaning. I see the barrister bookcases behind me full of books we bought together - it was always our goal to have a library instead of a dining room. Right next to those, stands my father's large bookcase - one of three - the other two went to my brother and sister. Somehow, it means more. It's out of place, it has no match. It's an oddball. But somehow, it means more.

I see my father's red easy chair, sitting in the library, eagerly waiting someone to curl into it and read, or my mother's marble top cabinet taking a place of prominence in the living room. The door has been held closed with a wad of newspaper for years, but that doesn't matter, somehow the broken latch adds character.

I see Kim's heirlooms - the china cabinet, not very old but full of meaning. It holds our wedding crystal, patiently waiting guests. Or the old wash stand that we've been using for hats and gloves for years. The drawer doesn't work well anymore, and it so full of scratches that most people wouldn't think twice about throwing it out.

The list goes on. Kim's grandmother's mixer - still working great after 40 years. My dad's knives, various glassware, pictures on the walls, the ugly little stuffed thing my grandmother made me one year, and sits on a window sill, and most of all, books. Tons of them.

All these things we've inherited. All these things of value that we've been entrusted with. All these precious memories that we endear ourselves with. They make me comfortable. They make me remember. They make me thankful.

Of all these things, why is it that an ugly plastic sugar container has affected me most of all?

I broke it tonight. It's 50 years old and has always been in my home. When I was a kid I used this to put sugar on my cereal. Tonight I lost my temper and tossed it. It broke open on the floor spilling sugar everywhere; the small clasps that held the cover on broke off, and the cover will no longer attach. The other end has a larger cover, meant for larger portions, that side just cracked. It can be salvaged. but that's not the point. Tonight I broke one of my memories.

I don't think crazy glue can fix it.

Changing

2010-03-07T11:01:00.003-05:00

I've had some complaints that trying to read this blog is enough to make someone's retinas explode. How's this?

Spring is here, time for some upbeat visuals anyway. I'm looking for a new photo for the header block, check back soon!

Cheers

Reflection

2010-03-06T08:10:00.004-05:00

In the movie Star Trek - The Motion Picture, Spock pays a visit to the alien ship that has the Enterprise trapped. He melds with the intelligence on board and is thrown back to the Enterprise. Upon his return he relates his experience. He indicates that V'Ger is empty, questioning it's very existence. V'Ger wants to know - Is this all I am? Is there any more? Spock sheds a tear for V'Ger, he relates to the intelligence, as he, at the beginning of the movie also questions his destiny.

So am I.

At middle age, (yes, I've finally given in to that concept), I'm questioning my destiny. What more can I offer this world? What more can I be? Am I destined to be a prepress operator in a small town printer? Is there any more? I decided I'm not prepared to answer yes to that. There must be more, and I intend now to find it.

I've always done freelance graphics on top of whatever job I've had. It's been an enjoyable sideline - being able to work on my own terms without a boss hanging over my shoulder and my ultimate goal was always to do that full time. The concept of working from home intrigues and scares me. I've never made the jump into that because of the uncertainty of it - we're not in any position to give up the steady paycheque yet. I hope to, but I'm not there yet. Working freelance has it's own problems, primarily self-discipline. It's just way too easy to get distracted. I have friends that work from home offices, and they manage it, and enjoy it, but can I do it? I don't and probably won't know.

But there's another destiny I'm shooting for - teaching. I've always enjoyed teaching, as an officer with a cadet corps I always taught the kids, and whatever problems were going on in life or with the corps itself, none of that mattered when you were in a room with the kids, enriching their minds. That was my playground. I had the chance there to entertain, interact, train, and get to know the kids. Seeing the 'ah ha' looks on their faces when they accomplished something was quite a feeling. Teaching in a corps is a little different from school - these kids wanted to be there, that changes the entire dynamic. It made the classes so much more fun. What also mattered was the subject matter. Teaching cadets came with lessons like fundamentals of rifle shooting, Orienteering, fieldcraft, and the like. Fun stuff.

It got even more fun when we went to the field for hands on training. On one exercise, we were accompanied by a driver from the Service Battalion who had no desire to work with kids over the weekend. To him, it was a paycheque. He looked at we officers as 'fake', and refused to acknowledge us. He thought he was above us all. I decided to use him. I put him in a tree, about 15 feet up, and gave him the instruction that he was not to help the cadets unless he felt his life was in danger. Getting him down would be the cadets' job. Then I told the cadets as they arrived at the tree in groups that a Mongolian Tree Sloth had got himself stuck and was too lazy and/or stupid to get down, their task was to rescue the sloth. A leadership tasking, one of many set up around the camp that day. The militia corporal looked at me with an eye of distrust and fear, but he soldiered on and followed orders.

Within an hour, he was getting into it. He was making sloth sounds (really, he made dumb sounds, nobody knows what a Mongolian Tree Sloth sounds like), and he was playing dumb - trying to eat bark, or take a nibble at a kid's arm. He was having a great time. All the while, the kids were trying to 'rescue' him, we kept a sharp eye out for any potential flaws or dangers, but all 8 groups that came to the 'rescue' encountered an ever-more entertaining beast. By the end of the day, the corporal had asked if he could volunteer with the cadets, and finally began addressing me as sir. It was my intention to use him, not teach him. But a good training plan has affects you never count on. To this day, the tree sloth scenario is still used by the corps, not bad considering I wrote the training plan after a half-dozen beers!

I want to teach again. I want to see the 'ah ha' look in people's eyes again. I want to make a difference to a new generation of media aficionados. Most of all, I would like an answer to the question - Is this all I am?

So in the past couple of days I have built an online resume - a website. I won't give the URL here, it's not the kind of thing you just let anyone see. I have also started to rekindle contacts I have at St. Clair College. I talked at length yesterday to one of my old professors whom I have had dealings with over the years, as he's the teacher contact for the Graphic Design Internship program, which I used to take part in. I let it be known to them that this is what I want. I want my foot in the door to the college. I want to be able to use all these years of experience doing all sorts of traditional media and pass that knowledge along to the next generation. Hell, I can't think of anything to do with newspapers or magazine that I haven't done! All that and a teacher too.

I've been loosing my passion for this work lately, for many different reasons. I need to get it back. I feel my talent is currently being wasted in a cubicle, and I'm hungry for more. I'm hungry for a change of pace, a new opportunity, a new beginning, a new reason to look up. I think this is it, I just hope the college agrees with me. So Monday I will shove my foot through the crack in the door and force it open. I will make more calls and feed more contacts.

Spock and I have something in common besides bad hair. We're both asking the same questions. In the movie he never found his answer, I hope in the next week or so to find mine.

Have a great weekend.

flu season

2010-03-03T22:48:00.002-05:00

We've all been hit by the flu around here lately. Last Friday, after surviving the initial burst that Kim and my daughter fell victim to, I spent the night sharing the bathroom with my son. We took turns. I managed to crawl out of it by Sunday night, just in time to go to work on Monday.

Sigh.

Why can't I get sick during the week instead of the weekend. We're all better, however tonight, my daughter again ran for the bathroom. A week to the day since she got it last time, it's back. Kim spent her day off yesterday bleaching every touched surface in the house, and opened every window for most of the day, bringing scornful comments when my son came home from school about the fact that it was warmer outside.

We've been through the worst flu season in our families history this week, all four of us hugging a toilet almost simultaneously. It wasn't fun.

I didn't eat a lot for about five days, and weighing in at a whopping 140 pounds, that's not something I can well afford to do. I did come home tonight to a wonderful dinner and all four of us with appetites, the first sit down dinner since last week. That all eroded within hours. Now we're back fighting the demon.

Tomorrow should be fun - again. Seems like we've all done this before. Here's hoping it passes me by this time, we don't need spring coming in like this.

Cheers.

The couch

2010-02-21T08:17:00.003-05:00

Yesterday I decided I hate my couch. Before I took Kim to work in the morning I told her that in no uncertain terms. The couch is an old, ripped up piece of crap. It does have a couple things going for it - It's big and very easy to fall asleep on, but ick, it's just ugly. It was a freebee about 10 years ago, so it's had a good run, of all the old 'apartment' furniture we started with, the couch is the last remaining piece of early marriage start up stuff. Over the years we've disposed of most of the cast offs and begun to build our own collection. When mom passed away and dad sold the house, we acquired a great deal of their antique furniture, something I consider heirloom, not cast off, you certainly wouldn't find any of this stuff on a curbside.

Dad lived with us after he sold the house, so essentially, he still had all his furniture. It was just in our living room upstairs instead of his downstairs, especially his couch. When we moved in here, dad had his own apartment, and his sofa went down there for him. Getting it down there was a feat to itself and we vowed that it would never come out of the basement.

Until yesterday.

In my living room, one sees a unique collection of furniture, my mom's easy chair, an old wing back, a marble top cabinet that has to be a hundred years old, the old victorian style coffee table (actually dating from the 60s, but it looks nice), and one really ugly couch. Time for change.

As I was laying on the 'new' couch yesterday in dad's living room; which is now the family room since his passing, playing a game on the PS2, I realized what I needed to do. I paused my game, pulled out the tools and started working. I removed the kitchen cabinet that prevented access to the doorway, removed the door and the jams to that room, removed the banister from the stairway, and moved anything out of my way that would prevent the sofa's escape. I asked a friend for help, and we were on our way.

Within an hour, we had the beautiful antique sofa in the living room, along with the matching chair, and the old ugly one was relegated to the family room. All pretty effortless considered the vow that it would never happen. It did.

So now, in my eyes, the living room is complete, a showcase sitting room, where I would be happy to accept company and entertain guests. OK, so the 'new' couch isn't as comfy as the old junky one, but we'll get over that. For the most part, we don't even use that room, the TV is rarely on anymore, the room has become a staging area of sorts - people get up in the morning, sit there over waky waky juice deciding a game plan, and then move off.

Kim's not too happy, but at least I didn't move something in front of a door this time. In our old apartment, I moved the furniture around while she was at work and forgot to tell her. That night she came in leaving the lights off so as not to wake us (Iain was a baby then), she tiptoed in and smashed into the chair I'd moved. I woke up to a loud 'ooophf'. She never forgave me or let me forget that.

At least this time all the pieces are in the same place as the old ones. Today's job is to put the kitchen sink back together, replace the banister and rehang the door I took apart to get the thing through. No job is finished until the mess is taken care of.

Cheers.