Unmedicated for your displeasure

Let me start by saying that I'm not a big fan of pharmaceuticals. I'm not a nature buff, but something about feeding my body full of synthetic chemicals instead of natural substances doesn't sit with me well for most things. Yes, I know that some chemicals are beneficial, and mine might be a flawed logic, but "better living through chemicals" only works as a motto for Dow, not as a way of life.

However, when one's "chemically imballanced" as some like to call certain ailments, then it would stand to reason that chemical enhancements would be a great help.

Yeah, tell that to the dickwad I have as a doctor.

Although there still is a huge stigma attached to mental illness, I have no problem admitting to the fact that I suffer from depression. And I don't say "suffer from depression" because that's how most like to call it, but rather because I do suffer needlessly. If my last post didn't paint that picture well enough, I've got a lot of baggage. A goddamned transport truck following me full of it. I have had MUCH MORE than my fair share of horrible experiences and deaths in my past in the last decade. Not even. Make that 8 years. Deaths? There was my Dad, then Morrigan, then my 20 year old cousin, then my Grandmother, my Mother-In-Law, my Grandfather, and just recently, my other Grandmother. My marriage nearly ended a few years back, the health care I recieved during my pregnancy for Morrigan was a major contributing factor to her tragic life (all cause I wasn't living in the city, I've been explained), we were lied to and moved back out here hoping to shut the family up and actually make a life for ourselves out here, my husband's step-mother's cancer's come back in parts seriously far away from where it originally was found (and although no one's told us straight out, it doesn't look good or long), his Grandfather's unable to remember his wife's face and when we last saw him before moving back he was the one who had to remind her what our son's name was (they have 11 kids of their own, and our kids are their great grandchildren, so it's understandable they'd have a hard time keeping track)... And now we're looking to move back with the economy going to hell in a handbasket and the prospect of not being able to sell our house for what we paid for it, as well as the idea of not being able to afford a house when we get there.

And my doctor has fucked with my meds since my first visit.

I've been on Prozac since after Morrigan's passing. Well, not as soon after as I should have, I will admit. I am a product of my time - understanding, but filled with that "not me" attitude. I thought I would be able to shake it off. *Snort* What a load of bullshit that was. And I understand that more now than I did when I finally filled the perscription the first time.

In two weeks I felt "normal" again. No more busting into tears and hysterics when I heard a baby cry or hell, just for something to do. No more feelings of hopelessness and thoughts of ending it all. Yes. Yes I thought about sucide. And what really convinced me to fill that perscription was my Grandmother. A horrible way to think of things... You see, mental illness runs in my family. Both sides. In some form or another. And my Grandmother refused to take her medication for a multitude of reasons, but the real reason was that she was a product of her time - no way in hell was she going to admit to having a mental illness. And her life ended way too early and by her own hands. I knew that if I refused to admit I needed help that one day those thoughts of mine would seem like the best damned idea I've ever had and I'd follow through.

Right now, I'm doing my best to fight those thoughts. My doctor's an absolute idiot, and has been screwing with the actual medication and dosage from the get go. And believe me, you don't want to fuck with that stuff. I've gone from being moderately alright (the effectiveness deminished greatly after my youngest was born, something that would have been fixed with upping the dosage most likely) to paranoid to an insomniac to the psycho bitch from hell, all in a matter of months when he decides to hand me a script, saying "Hey, let's try this". One of the big reasons I want to return to the city I should have never left in the first place is so my family doctor there (who's already said no matter what, he'll take all of us back) can fix things. And so I'm not adding to my depression by a lack of work, a lack of intelligent individuals to talk to and visit, and family who drive me nuts.

Please send any good luck my way that will help me get a job (like yesterday) and that will sell my house.

The only part of it I can put into words, the rest is pure emotion and memory

So, I've been made an aunt again, this time by an inlaw and his wife who should have never been allowed to procreate in the first place.  They can barely make it day to day raising themselves, and now they're tasked to raise offspring?  Heaven (or God, Allah, Calgary, whatever you believe in) help us.  But that's a long going verbal rant that I'm sure to have on a regular basis, and a good chuckle when they realize it's not as easy as playing video games.

But that's really isn't the point of this post.  

In the past year, I've been made an aunt twice.  My sister had her little girl on February 1st, and now the inlaw and his bitch had their girl on the 14th this month.  And while I don't begrudge them their children (although when it comes to the inlaws, I'd really prefer not to think that they could spread their idiocy onto future generations), there's one thing that really stings.

Why couldn't I keep my little girl?

It's been over 3 years since my Morrigan passed away.  And it really doesn't matter to me that she was born way too early.  It's still hurts that by my own morals I couldn't justify having her "live" just so I wouldn't have to lose her, even though her body had failed her and she would have existed as a vegetable as far as all her doctors were concerned.  Unless I look at the few pictures I managed to take in the two weeks she was alive (and I just couldn't make myself take pictures after I learned that the only choice I could make was to take her off life support, even though she remained on it for a few days while I built the courage to do so), the only image I can make myself pull is her face mere seconds haver the tubes were disconnected.  I'm not going to describe it.  Please, don't make me.  

Now, don't get me wrong.  Even though they drive me absolutly batshit on a regular basis, I love my boys.  I love them more than life itself.  But I love her still that much, even though she was only here for 2 weeks.  And I think what burns me the most is how she's been forgotten by many.  Perhaps it's because she meant so much to me that it hurts, and perhaps I'm just being unreasonable here, but I still believe she should be counted.  She had a name, she breathed, she counts.  And yet my Dad's side of the family has pretty much written her off as a two week hardship to get past.  My Mom still acknowledges her (hell, I flew her out so my Mom could meet her granddaughter before she was gone...  I just had to have someone who I knew would love her see her and know her, I don't know how else to justify it).  My sister tiptoes around the subject at best.  But my Dad's side of the family outright ignores the fact that there should be a little girl with the name of a triple goddess of war running around my home.  And they're the type to dwell on death a lot.  My Dad will have been gone for 8 years this May, and they can't get over it.  And yet, I get the "Oh yeah, I forgot" when I mention Morrigan.

I don't expect them to love her.  Hell, I doubt they extend that much care in my direction, much less my children.  Just don't expect them to forget her (given that they're all in Alberta and all had met her).  Her name, sure.  I can't remember all the spawn in the family's names either.  Just don't forget she was here.

And here I am, auntie to two girls, and why them?  Why do they get to keep their little girls and I couldn't?  Why should they be so lucky?  I'm happy I have my boys.  I didn't ever think I'd have a girl.  I was absolutely shocked when they told me I had a girl.  I had been calling the belly by the boy's name we had picked, that's how sure we were.  Do I want to trade my boys in?  Do I wish they weren't boys?  No.  I'm quite fine with the idea of being a Mother to boys.  It's just that...  I really don't know how to put it.  It was like she was a new challenge, and a new joy.  I could have the best of both worlds.  How I was ever going to teach her how to put on makeup, I don't know (guess she could learn from my sister, the girlie girl).  The moment the words "a girl" sunk in, my mind ran through a million different possibilities, good and bad, for the future.  Pigtails and pretty dresses, menustration and those talks about why you need to use birth control and why it would be best to wait, dolls and easy bake ovens, arguments over skimpy clothing and talking on the phone all night...  I wanted it all, just as I want all that will come with my boys (which I'm sure dresses and menustration won't be a part of, but you never know nowadays).  

Maybe it's greed.  That thought has crossed my mind.  I'm greedy cause I still want her, and I'm sore cause others have that chance with their girls where I lost my chance.  I figure it's warrented, given that I was blessed with the most beautiful girl in the world and was given no choice but to let her go.  

And no, I can't bring her back.  And I wish people would stop suggesting that.  Reincarnation, if one believe in such and I do, requires a body.  And I can't try again.  With my youngest, it was the scariest 8 months in my life, and they couldn't even keep him in for the full 9.  To this day, he's the same size as his cousin, who's 6 months younger than him.  And I can't go through that fear again, even if I could afford to raise 3 kids. 

I'm not even sure how to end this.  I'm just rambling now, and I've forgotten the inital purpose of this post.  I just wish she was still here.  I'd give just about anything to have a 3 year old healthy little girl running around here.  To know what she'd look like, sound like, her favorite things...  And my sister and someone who I'd be pleased to avoid for the remainder of my life have that opportunity with their own daughters.  I don't wish to traide either of theirs for mine.  I just want Morrigan too.

This is why I hate people and why I fear for my kids future...

I had intentions of waiting till tomorrow (read: later than 2 am today, really) to write something, and the topic was going to be a little more in depth than my previous rants.  But I'm so fucking pissed off right now I'm spitting bullets.  Too bad that the perpitrator(s) aren't near by, so I could repay them 10 fold.

Now, like I've mentioned before, I'm working at another goddamned call center.  And like your usual 3rd party call center, it's located in a mall that's not doing that much retail sales.  This one happens to be located in the south end of town.  Now, a plus that this call center has going for it is that the parking's free, unlike the better known one in this hell hole where the parking can be astronimical for the shit pay you get.  But the parking that's right in front of the site is normally full, and far from adequate for the number of people that work there.  So what happens is that I have to park up around the back, and the nearest parking spot is this clearing on top of a hill that transport trucks use to line up their trailers to unload their gear for Zellers.  The next nearest parking spot is further around the back, and given the absolutely frigid temps lately, I'm not going to freeze my tits off just to make it to work.  So I park there and normally move my truck during lunch.

Yes, I said truck.  Cause it's less syllables to say than SUV.  Or fake SUV, really.  Thank you Chevrolet, because due to your shitty customer service and outright lie to me regarding the service performed on my car, I now own a 2009 Kia Sportage.  Why I say it's a fake SUV though is because it's a 4-stroke front wheel drive jobbie.  But still, she's my new "truck" (cause she's taller than a car), seats all of us much more comfortablly than the car, and at least Kia doesn't try to make you believe that they don't sell Korean made vehicles, unlike Chevy when I asked about the origins of my Optra.  Fucking Daewoo with a bowtie.  But that's another story.

She had 903 km on her when I parked on top of the hill this afternoon, along side a number of other people who are in class with me.  And at lunch, I gave into my stomach rather than my desire to have a closer parking spot.

Given that the area isn't very well lit, I waited until one of the women who is in the class with me was ready to go to her car, parked near mine, as to have someone walking with me.  I didn't feel like joining the other girls walking up there - a little too young and immature for my tastes, and I wouldn't have anything to talk about for the 2 minutes it would take to get up there...  So I stand outside and have a cigarette, and wait.  The other girls go up first.

Just as we crest the hill, I can hear the three girls all swearing.  Curioscity gets the better of me and I ask what's going on.  Turns out the one girl's car (a 2004 red mitsubishi something or other) was broken into.  Whoever did it used a cinderblock to bust open her pasenger side front door window and left the damned cinderblock there.  They stole her deck's face plate unit, and various other stuff from within the car, and popped her hood (didn't appear that anything was taken from in there or fucked with).  So me and the woman I walked up with check our vehicles.

I could see from not too far away that the woman's passenger side front door window was smashed in too.  And her hood was jimmied as well.  To add insult to injury though, for whatever reason that these asshats thought that this was a good thing to do, they flung a fucking turd against her driver's side front window.  Damned thing was stuck there and about the side of a Joe Louis (forgive the reference, my husband now says he'll never look at those snack cakes the same way).  Then I checked out mine.

From the angle at which it was parked, I couldn't see anything.  I opened the front passenger door and there is tinted glass EVERYWHERE!!!  From my dash all the way to the back cargo compartment.  They busted out the driver's side rear door window (which is privacy glass tinted, so like I'm going to be able to match it with going to an autoglass shop, I'm going to have to go to the dealership).  The itsy-bitsy little shards are scattered throughout my truck, and are about the same fucking color as all the seats and carpeting in there, so like I can see it in the dark.  And for shits and giggles, they bust my passenger side tail light.  Nothing was stolen out of my or the other woman's car (I had absolutly nothing in my car save for a mounting bracket for a GPS unit and a road side safety kit, and she had breath mints and an ice scraper).  I'm fucking LIVID!  Like I said, not even 1000 km on the thing.  Engine isn't even broken in.  I've only owned the thing for 16 days.  The insurance company hasn't even issued me the updated policy slips!  And now I've got to bring it in for repairs???  What the fuck is wrong with this place???

Let's put this into perspective, shall we?  In the city I should have never left in the first place, I lived just south of an area known for car thefts and other various crimes.  On many occasions, I would leave equipment in my car (raning about $1.5 - $5K), as would my husband (and his ranged from $1.5 to $10K).  Now I know I have forgotten to lock my car some nights.  And yet, every morning when I got up, the vehicles were there and so were all the contents.  Sure, some jackass backed into my car and never fessed up to leaving a sizable dent in the driver's side back panel, but never once did I come to find shattered glass, missing contents, or even a missing vehicle.

The husband's truck was stolen 2 days before I went into labour for my oldest.  The fucktards who stole that one destroyed the passenger side door handle, used his tire iron to bust off the steering collumn housing, and his screw driver to bust the ignition and rammed it through his stock tape deck for the helluvit.  

In January when we first lived in this house, we forgot to lock the car one night.  And the next morning I get in to find every CD, paper, and my satelite radio (minus the antenna and charging unit, the dumbasses) stolen.  Yeah, my fault for not locking the thing, but whatever happened to morals?

And now this.  Let me remind you, that I moved into this place in December of 07.  So yeah, about a year has passed, if that.  

So I'm fucking frozen cause I spent 2.5 hours standing outside in -20 C weather on the top of a hill waiting for the fucking cops to get there and finish their report.  And now I'm just waiting to get up tomorrow morning and find my fucking truck missing cause now with an open back window, what's going to stop the asshats who ransacked my car from thinking that this one's already been violated, let's take it for a joy ride?  Yeah, I don't care if it has a fuel pump lock - apparently it's not that hard to bipass if you know what you're doing.  And I wouldn't put it past some of the youth out here to know that shit (well, except for the ones who tried to do whatever it was they were trying to do with the other girl's cars, my hood didn't look fucked with).  

I am so beyond sick of this place.  My kids have no other kids to play with, I live between two elderly widows who's families never visit them (so no grand kids for my boys to play with), and the both of them are right fucking annoying.  The job market sucks crusty donkey nads, there is absolutly nothing to do here (one decent mall, one over priced theater, and a few McDonald's with playlands, nothing else unless you want to pay a ransom for a membership at the Y), and the people here by and large are horribly ignorant and unintelligent.  I want this house gone, and if it wasn't for the fact that I already have a battle on my hands with my insurance company coming up, I'd be fine with it burning to the ground when all of us were out.  I just want out of this city so fucking bad.  It was the biggest damned mistake to ever return.  Love my family - get airmiles and a long distance package on your phone.  I'll visit, but once I'm gone, I'm NEVER coming back here!  I'm even considering having my remains burried somewhere else, that's how much this region's pissing me off.  My kids don't need to be raised around people who think this kind of recreational activity is a good way to spend a Friday night, and it appears the percentage of youth that parkate in this shit is much higher in this area than it was out there.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to hop into the shower and try to defrost myself...  I'm still shivering like mad and I've been in my house and wrapped up in a blanket for 30 minutes.

I like mail order...

Believe it or not, I can be girly.  Not pink and frilly, makeup wearing, butterfly chasing girly kind of girly.  But I like crafts, I've read myself a few romance novels, I know what to do with those funky eyelash curling clampie things...  You know...  Sorta girly kind of girly.  But I might want to turn in my gender cause if there's one thing I hate, it's shopping.

And it doesn't even matter what kind of shopping it is.  Clothes shopping is the worst, cause I really think that designers the world over have never seen a woman in their lives.  Either they believe we have no tits, or if we do, they must be up around our collar bone or down by our navel.  And I'd love to meet the woman with the 4 foot stretch between her waist and her crotch, cause I keep finding pants made for her.  But no, clothes shopping isn't just the only thing.  To keep it within the girly section for a moment longer, shoes are a pain to shop for.  Clothing stores don't believe there are pudgy girls out there, and women's shoe stores don't understand that there are females with wide feet.  The bane of my adolescense was my wide feet.  The only dressy shoes made for wide feet are hideous and nothing short of a hacksaw will get my feet into anything else.  

So perhaps that's why I'm not that girly.  The dressiest shoes I will wear that fit are Doc Martins and the utalitarian look always accounted for tits that were somewhere between the collar bone and navel...

However, it's not just the apparel shopping that pisses me off.  Even grocery shopping drives me bonkers.  And with two young kids, and a husband who believes that avoidance is better than handling the situation, I have been forced to do groceries solo on many occasions.  I'll leave in a neutral mood (happy to get out of the house, not that happy to be going alone), and come back mad as a hatter.  And there is a good reason.

It's not because of the selection.  I've come to accept that in order to get everything I need or want to get grocery wise I will have to go to multiple stores (and in this city, I might as well mail order, cause no one carries a lot of stuff I miss).  It's not the prices.  Those suck no matter where you go.  Rather, it's the other patrons of the store.

Maybe I'm too idealistic here, but is there not an unspoken set of rules regarding grocery shopping?  Like for instance, most isles have enough room for two carts to travel beside one another.  Should they not be treated like a road?  You stay on your side, I stay on mine, and no fucking parking in the middle, taking up both lanes, while you contemplate the sodium content in the stack of canned peas you're standing in front of?!?  Oooh, and how about if you're at the end of the lane and you see a friend of yours doing their groceries, you MOVE THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY when you decide to stop to talk to them and not block the end with your fat ass so others can get out?!!?  And let's not forget, keep 6 inches away from the person in front of you when you're in line to pay, or perhaps I should shove your $400 worth of groceries, cart and all, up your fat ass for trying to take out my Achilles tendon?  Oh, another!  If you have $400 worth of groceries, DON'T GO THROUGH THE SELF-CHECKOUT LINE!!!  Damnit, they're slow enough as is, cause it requires about 5 more IQ points than is required to breathe and wipe your ass, and most people don't have that.  Multiply that times 100 items, and I'm going to toss my now melted ice cream at you if you're waiving that can of sardines over the scanner 10 times before you figure it out you have it upside down.

Today in Costco I finally broke.  I was stuck at the end of an isle with a cart loaded full of heavy shit my Mother was going to buy (plus the milk and broccoli I was buying, a mere 10 pounds rounded up on the 150 pounds I'm trying to shove around in a cart), while 3 women chatted it up.  And Costco's isles are even wider than you average grocery store's, but they're taking up the whole fucking thing with how they're standing there with their carts.  And so I stand there.  And then I start tapping my foot and clearing my throat...  You know, the "excuse me, look over here, realize your error and move" tactic, but the polite way.  Had to try to be polite, my Mom was there after all.  She's trying to convince me to go the other way, but the cart I'm pushing barely makes the 90 degree corners necessary.  I'm not hauling it into a 3 point turn to back track through the crowded store; what I needed to get was 30 feet past them.  And so I say excuse me.  Nothing.  Say it again.  Nothing.  One of them looks at me, and then goes back to talking.  And didn't move...

And so that's when I said "Would one of you inconsiderate asshats move out of the way so people can get past?"

...they moved.  My Mom wasn't in earshot, so at least I didn't have to put up with her being embarrassed.

I've been contemplating manufacturing and marketing v-plows for shopping carts...  Might be able to use the welding and fabrication education I got to do it too.  Watch for the infomercials.

I'm with stupid

So, weither I like it or not, I'm working at yet another call center.  Working on fixing that one.  And as usual, I find those that surround me rather dull, bland and for the most part, unintelligent.  The grand majority are your typical call center fodder - young 20 somethings who want to spend their paychecks on clothes and drugs and/or booze.  I usually can manage to restrain my desire to kick those types, oddly enough.  Mind you, they befuddle me.  Have genetics been so destroyed in so little time that all females are now prissy whores and all males have no ass and a want to wear their skinny jeans well below where that ass should have been?  No word of a fucking lie, there's a guy in my training class who's got the full blown king emo hair cut, and his head is twice the size of his pelvis and all flesh attached to it.  I can only guess that ass wiping for him is a flat job.

But aside from those undesirables, there is another category of call center fodder.  And that's the one I'm having trouble with.  The bored empty nester.  Most times people within this group are women, many of whom were housewives for the majority of their past and have realized that after their husbands pass away from the plethora of health problems they ended up suffering from thanks to the mines that their life insurance benefits are far from adequate.  Out here, these women have done some work before, usually for the government out here, which doesn't mean that they're compitent.  And lucky me, I'm sitting beside the most extreme examples of this.

Why the hell am I a magnet for idiots who can't remember something told to them not 3 seconds ago?  I understand that learning something new can be a daunting task for anyone, but by the gods, I'm trying to figure it out too, I'm not getting paid to reteach everything 5 times over to you!  To give you some idea about how this is going...  I'm stuck in a training class to learn how to support cellular phones and services for a particular cell service provider in this country.  Now, I don't know about you, but I would think that a particularly important prerequisite for this job would be the understanding of what a cell phone is.  And not to get them mixed up with cordless phones.  Day two she was all worried that she was going to have to sign up for a 3 year contract to use the cordless phone she got for xmas.

Every 5 minutes I'm answering questions for her regarding the most blatent things.  Like how many times in one fucking 8 hour shift does someone have to be told "Press alt+f2 to switch screens"?  Particularly since we've done this EVERY DAY SINCE WE STARTED!  Or that if the company's webpage is showing up in French, then click the damned link that says English?  

And if she gets pissy with me for finishing a test before her again, I'm going to scream.  Yesterday we had a test.  25 questions, multiple choice, open book, and the turd sucker trainer pretty much gave us all the answers not 15 minutes before we started.  I finished in 10 minutes.  We were asked to go to the lunch room and wait until the turd sucker came to get us, so those finished don't interrupt those who haven't.  I wasn't the first person, but I was one of the first 5.  I spent an hour in the break room knitting and listening to my ipod.  The previously mentioned idiot woman was the last one to finish.  And she tried to accuse me, albeit in jest, of either cheating or being a genius.  Fuck you, I'm not cheating.  And it doesn't take a genius to understand that we just finished an entire written review of topics covered this past week and so every question that you couldn't answer off the top of your head is written in your own handwriting, sitting right in front of you!

So I've been taking my breaks and lunches in my truck, just to keep my 15 and 30 minutes "work free".  3 more weeks of this, and I'm sure she's going to try to park her ass beside me when we get to the floor...  So another reason why I want someone to fucking call and offer me a job in the city I should have never left in the first place.  Hopefully I'll be rid of her, and next time, I'll make sure I sit away from anyone who's IQ looks lower than 110.

My luck, that will put me out in the hallway.

So much for my vows...

No, my marriage is fine.  As fine as a marriage that involves two people who only see each other on weekends and have two small children to take care of in absence of the other can be, but that's another rant.  What I meant was a vow I made a while back.

That I wouldn't sling phone calls for a living again.

By the gods, I have done way more than my fair share of call center bullshit.  I have essentially done every thankless job in a call center from the front line agent to trainer to call center operations, management, HR, you name it.  Truthfully, the only roles I haven't had to play were facilities, site lead and janitor, and that last one only counts if you don't take the slobs I had to teach for years in a crowded classroom.  Yeah, I may be called "Mom" in my off hours, but even my kids pick up after themselves.

Again, another rant for another time.

But thanks to the ever wonderful job market in this festering hell hole I was conned into returning to, guess what I'm doing again?  Slinging fucking phone calls.  Right now I'm in a training class where the turd sucker who's training me (and I mean that in a personal way, not in an "all trainers are turd suckers" way, cause lets face it, I was a trainer, and I so did not suck, and I know people who can vouch for that) is a turd sucker that if there wasn't a freak last minute request for a transfer from some scrawny twerp from the Phillipines, would be my direct report.  (Woah, run on sentence much?  Oh well.)  To put it in clearer terms - I applied for a Training Manager position with this company 6 months ago, made it to the top of the list, and was going to be hired if it wasn't for the previously mentioned scrawny twerp from the Phillipines requesting an internal transfer.  So, can we say bitter?

You know how hard it is to not sit and scowl for 8 hours while working bottom rung when you know that you had a top paying job nearly in your lap?  Not to mention when you've seen their choice in action and would like to bitch slap them for being useless?  If I had intentions for sticking around for very long, it would probably drive me to drink (more so than I have since moving back here).  This is merely money to keep the roof over my head until some schmuck buys it and fulfills step 1 or 2 of the Ultimate Plan(tm).  The plan goes as follows.

Step 1 or 2:  Get job in city I should have never left in the first place and leave this festering hell hole OR Sell house and take the fuck off.

Step 3:  Get husband to find work in city we never should have left in the first place.

Step 4: Have husband and kids follow me out to the city we never should have left in the first place.  I will find a place while they make their way here.

Step 5:  Live happily ever after with minimal family meddling (what kind of bullshit can they cause 3000+km away?)

Yeah, it's a work in progress, but it was launched late last fall...  It's one of them there "living plans".  Which means I change the rules as we go along.  But in the end it's the same outcome.  Sell house, get job in Alberta, and GTFOH.  The kids will be better off in an area where there are a lot more kids their age (my oldest wasn't nearly as bratty or clingy when he had 20 some odd kids to play with at any given time, and only 10% of them should have been skimmed out of the gene pool for the sludge they were).  We have a compitent doctor out there who has already informed me that we're all still his patients, no matter how long we've been gone.  And I've got quality daycare lined up and ready for the boys.  So this isn't just a freak thing.  I've been laying the ground work down.  Now if someone would just bite at the fucking resume or the "For Sale" sign in the front yard, this wouldn't be so depressing.

Especially considering I DON'T WANT TO FUCKING SLING PHONE CALLS!!!!  

For the love of cheesecake, just cause I'm good at it doesn't mean I want to do it.  It's brainless damned work, and pays worse than that!  I am way too good for this job, and it's bloody obvious...

But like the bank cares.  They want their money...  And I like having a roof.  Not too many choices, and even though prostitution pays more, I just don't think so.  I found the only decent male in this region, no more kissing frogs for this princess.

So much for my promise to myself...  In the meantime though, I can entertain myself with the image of choking the customers with the products they are calling in to complain about.  That, and the liquor store takes air miles cards.  

Oh, and first irk...  BDJ?  Who the fuck are you?  Big Dumb Jerk?  Leave a clue behind wouldya?

Deja Vu

I've had a number of different blogs back in the day...

When I first started blogging about 7 years ago, it was all about the design and content.  I would spend hours, sometimes days, redesigning the site on my own personal domain.  I'd fuck with the content management software, stuff the appropriate tags into the HTML and CSS and PHP in order to display the right information or post in the right spot.  I'd write long and nearly poetic posts on the musings of my day-to-day life, observations, etc, all for an audience that at one point ranged in the 100's of dedicated daily readers.  And then, I got bored.

I found this blogging shit too time consuming and flakey.  I was writing and rewriting posts to try to impress an ever apathetic audience, just to get the crack of the blogging world - comments.  Proof that you're not writing in vain.  And then I realized...

Who the fuck cares?

Will the world change if people don't read about my adventures in raising kids?  The events of the last diaper change?  My dislike for navigating rush hour traffic?  My opinion on whatever pop-tart starlet or politician asshat has said or done that made news this week?  No.  No they won't.  I was sick of pouring over a keyboard for hours filling hard drives full of content just to get "Great post Menerva!" as a reward.  So I stopped.

I had stopped a few times before, but for different reasons.  Moving providers, ran out of money to renew my domain once, was sick of censoring myself cause family found my site, but never out of boredom.  I enjoyed blogging.  It was cathardic.  I love to bitch, which would be the understatement of the year for those who know me well.  Truth be told, I'm a pessimistic realist with a cynical outlook on most things.  Jaded and pissed off.  And I find true, albeit short lived, joy in verbally berating those persons and things that manage to irk me the most on a given day.  At this point, I don't give a shit if anyone reads this.  Chances are, one of my readers will be a targeted irk raiser.  Everything is fair game.  But at this point, I'd like the ability to scream, but will settle for wearing out yet another keyboard.  At least this time I'm not spending money to do it, save for the internet access which is high up on my necessity scale as water and oxygen.

This time, I'm writing for me.

And fuck you if you don't like it.

And if you don't like it, leave a comment.  I could use the fodder.

This time, it's for me.  And without an ounce of remorse.  I'm selfish like that.