I’m busy busy busy with graphics and coding. Need a blog job? Order through Swank, or email me there. I’m finalizing a few things and then I’m available again for new orders! My latest creations are here and here!
In the meantime, if you want to win one of the cash prizes over at 451 Press, you best be commenting over here or at one of their other sites. Contest runs until the end of January.
Motherless is still up and running, and although it’s limited to those who are dealing with being Motherless, you can become a contributor anytime by emailing me here. All funds raised through the BlogHer Ad Network go to RAINN.
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I have been told I can sing. By many people. On a few occassions. Like most Canadians, I’m pretty modest about my ability to do stuff, though I’m a little less modest about some things, cuz, you know, I’m a blogger and everyone knows bloggers are self-absorbed, conceited mofos.So the other day, I’m busy doing graphics and I get this idea. I could videoblog myself singing a song by whatever artist is the guest judge for the week on American Idol! How FUN!
One of my favorite songs to sing is “Foolish Games” by Jewel. Jewel so happened to be the guest judge last week. So I taped myself singing that song with my Cybershot. Not so great as a digital video camera, but definitely a good, easy-to-use digital still camera.
You know on American Idol when the contestant really believes they can sing, but as it turns out, what they are hearing vs. what Randy, Simon and Drunka are hearing are three different things? I say three, because Drunka probably just hears the feedback of her brain on vodka buzzing back and vibrating her lopsided little head.
At any rate, you won’t get to see it. I deleted it. It was ranging against the buzz in my head.
I’m sure you’ll get over this huge letdown.
Oh Oh! I almost forgot. If you participated in this challenge, let me know so I can call attention to your post!
It’s not often I go back and read the archives of a newly-discovered (by me, anyway) blogger. I think the last time I went through someone’s archives was Jenny’s of Three Kid Circus. Her writing and her kids crack me right up and well, she is a talented lady.
But tonight I was surfing and found this blog, called A Girl and a Boy. I forget how I got there, but once I did, I was hooked. I read several entiries before truckin’ on over to “Leah’s” 100 things page, and that captivated me for a good long time as I took in her writing creativity. In particular, these four points that first had me worried about her but amused me greatly by number 32:
29. I deal with the fear of death nearly every day.
30. I suffer from moderate obsessive-compulsive disorder, claustrophobia, agoraphobia, and some sort of gastrointestinal dysfunction not-so-lovingly referred to as “stomach monkeys.”
31. I believe the above neuroses were subconsciously invented to make up for my complete lack of common disorders such as low self-esteem, passive-aggressive behavior, distorted body-image, eating disorders, religious fanaticism, or bigotry.
32. I am one of the most well-adjusted people I know.
So I got all mad that you guys didn’t ever talk about Leah, because I would have found her sooner and gotten to read her all this time.
But then!
I clicked a few of her comment links and found I didn’t know anyone there but JenB and HeatherB. Neither one of them told me about Leah. Jerks.*
So really, since my real last name starts with B, making me KarenB, and I’m concluding the following: a) I have a new blog crush and ya’ll should totally go visit her and love her; and b) People with last names that start with B are jerks.
So here’s an assignment for ya. Find a new blogger and dive into their archives, then introduce them to your readers. You can start in my blogroll and see if there’s anyone there you’ve never heard of, if you want, it’s below and also at the bottom of the links page.
*I don’t really think JenB or HeatherB are jerks. They are both lovely people. I’m sure I’ll get over this soon.
I found out over the Christmas holidays that my Granny’s mother was a lot like my own mother. Abusive, cruel, always yelling and upset. My Granny was treated like a slave, a dog, and not seen as a person. That is, until she went off to visit her grandmother. She says she remembers walking miles, clutching her pillow, as a 4 or 5 year old, in the snow -all the way to her grandmother’s home. Her grandmother lived in a two room house - one served as the kitchen and living space and the other as a bedroom, with a wash basin and stand. When my Granny would visit her own, they would sleep in the same bed.
She remembers waking up in the mornings and her grandmother had put an orange on the pillow beside her. My Granny was very poor, as a lot of people were then, and her tummy often went hungry. She said that she remembers cupping the orange to her face and smelling it for a few minutes before carefully peeling it and savouring every piece. To this day, the smell of orange makes her think of her grandmothers little home, the long talks they had, and those memories with live with her forever.
My Granny is a special person. Her own daughter, (my mother) has always been disturbed, even as a small child of 3. So my poor Granny was sandwiched between an abusive mother and later, an abusive daughter. As we discussed over Christmas holidays, we think that the mental illness skipped our two generations. A bold statement, maybe, but both of us are the polar opposites of our own mothers.
The day we were set to leave my Granny’s to come home, I waited until she had made her bed and I sneaked upstairs to place an orange on her pillow with a thank you card. I just thank God that we had each had a grandmother who was kind, who listened, and who validated our feelings as young people.
Snow would still exist but booger-insta-freezing air would not.
Same goes for toddler tears, whining and screaming. KILLSWITCH! KILLSWITCH!
Crayons and other colour-y devices would only work on paper.
My dog would have no toenails to gouge into my leg or make that click-click-click-click-click-click-click-click- noise while I make dinner or did dishes.
Also, she would have an anti-farting chip installed.
Absolutely NOTHING would be fattening. Except bean sprouts. And tuna. And pickles. Just because I don’t like any of those things anyway.
Pregnancy would be shorter. By 8 months.
Children would never suffer, for any reason.
General Mills would not list TSP as an ingredient in Cheerios and other cereals, allowing me to once again enjoy Cheerios without thinking of cleaning my esophagus with the same chemical we scrub our driveway with.
I would buy Britney Spears 18 pairs of $6,000 panties and make her wear them. All at the same time. Then I would point and laugh and call her lumpy-butt. Oh and then I’d kick her in the lumpy-ass and tell her to go be a good Mom already.
Last but not least, I would buy myself some talent and stop writing crap like this post.
What ridiculous things would you do if you were really really rich?
Last night I dreamt of my father. I’ve written about him before and basically the story goes like this: Deadbeat Dad hides from girl and her mother to avoid paying child support for 18 years.
I didn’t meet him until I was 7 years old, and my childhood memories are all good ones. He took me to Centre Island and the CN Tower on the weekends that he actually showed up to get me. Believe me, I sat on the front porch many-a-Saturday mornings only to be in tears by after-lunch and consoled by my angry mother. He bought me my first computer, a Vic 20, and my first radio that played cassette tapes. His face was like Santa’s: jolly, trusting, and round. I loved my Dad dearly, but something nagged at me through out my life. He wasn’t consistent in anything: visits, jobs, affection, moods. Nothing.
At 20, while living out in Vancouver, him and I tried to develop a more mature, adult child and father relationship. The truth is, I had very little respect for a man who not only disappointed me for years and avoided my mother to avoid paying child support, but later repeated his actions with his second wife and their daughter who is now 20 herself.
Dad and I talked on the phone a few times, and I’ll admit I was unforgiving when he fed me excuse after excuse as to why he was hiding from the half-sister I barely knew. I didn’t accept his explanations for not holding down a job and told him I did not respect his choices. I guess I was bitter, working full-time myself, only to watch as my tax dollars fed a man who was perfectly able to support himself.
Our relationship was strained, awkward, difficult. He tried to hold down jobs for a few years after those phone calls, even helping my grandmother out where he could. As far as I know, he continued to hide from my half-sister. I often think of reaching out to her, to help her understand our father, but I barely understand him myself.
I have been called emotionally bankrupt when it comes to my father. Sure, he walked me down the aisle, but the man on my other arm was more of a father to me than my own was. My best friend’s family had taken me in when I left home at 14, and I get more emotional about my friend’s Dad being on my other arm then I do about my biological father even being at my wedding. We had a few falling outs after the wedding and I haven’t spoken with him for about three and a half years.
I wish I had a father I could be proud of.
Last night’s dream was no exception to how I feel, I think. In the dream, Dylan, Daren, Thomas and I were all going to visit my father in his apartment (I have no idea where he lives, but whatever). We got out of the car and I turned to see my father, smoking a cigarette, at a bus stop. Getting ready to leave.
As I approached him, I wasn’t smiling, and he didn’t see me near-scowling at the back of his head. My inner thoughts were begging to know why I had come. I couldn’t answer them.
I stood beside him, and asked where he was going since we had planned on visiting with him. He didn’t answer me. Instead he pointed behind me and I turned, just as a bus came barreling down the street. I looked back at him as he put his cigarette out with his shoe, and he smiled at me, got on the bus and left.
I can’t get this out of my head. Does this mean that he isn’t long for this world? Like a child who knows from experience that the stove is hot, I’m extremely reluctant to reach out, only to be burned again. Maybe it’s just a stupid dream.
* Bittersweet Symphony (Jungle Remix) by Capital J (7:33)
* Lover’s Spit (with Feist) by Broken Social Scene (7:32)
* Magic and Mayhem by Afro Celt Sounds System (6:35)
Click the column header My Rating. What are the first 5 albums?
I haven’t rated anything, since I had no idea you could.
Finally, look at the bottom of your iTunes window. How many days of music do you have?
* 3.7 days - holy shit! All I need is coffee and an empty house to enjoy it all by singing along without the constant “STOP DAT SINGING MOMMY!”
I’m tagging a couple of crazy kids who I knowhave awesome taste in music. I need some new finds, stat. If YOU have awesome taste in music too, please please PLEASE let me know…my ears are STARVING.
