Sad Snowy Musings

Here’s the thing. At the end of the day, I’m not an advocate for anything. Oh, like most folks I do enjoy a spirited debate, but I prefer to debate topics like sweaters, or Shakespeare.

I don’t like conflict, and strive to avoid it whenever I can. Now, to the people who know me, I admit I can be abrasive and a loudmouth…but that doesn’t mean I seek out conflict, but rather I don’t shy away from it, should it happen to find me.

Now this morning, which could hardly be considered different from any other Tuesday morning,  except that this Tuesday morning,  my dear friend’s roommate was attacked and beaten in the street.

His only crime? Walking to class. Apparently something about the way he walked inspired a follow twice his size to grab him from behind, call him a faggot and beat him nearly unconscious.  In broad daylight. On a crowded street. Nobody did anything.

This event leaves me angry and confused. Has my life really become so sheltered that I find it bizarre that nobody would say anything? He called 911 himself. Nobody sat with him while he waited for the paramedics, concussed and alone.

Again, I seldom use my soapbox these days, but maybe I should dust it off. I noticed in HFB yesterday somebody mentioned it would be better to be ‘Gay behind closed doors’ but I didn’t say anything.   I worry that I spend so much energy debating things of little importance, that I’m forgetting bigger issues.

So I sit, angry and confused. Mostly with myself.

Why Tom Hiddleston Did Not Make Me Shave My Head

Today I shaved my head. Or, I suppose more accurately a lovely stylist from a local salon did. Still, you get the gist of it.

I've wanted to participate in my local radio station's 'Shave to Save' for Breast Cancer research for years, but I was always too scared, and my workplace was always too corporate.
This year, though, I have a new job and new personal reasons. Now, this is not going to turn into one of those 'My -insert close relative/friend here- has cancer and I did it for/him her' pieces; all true, so no offence to anyone who may be offended. Cancer sucks and I see no real value in repeating it. Though...Cancer Sucks.

I did it because I wanted to. After speaking with my CEO and agreeing that the campaign in no way impeded the messaging of www.TheFashionHero.com it was decided that I could participate and the company would back me.  It was a great feeling, being supported by a company, and really, when I think about it, I don't think I've ever felt that way before.

Sometimes I think the Big Green made a game out of seeing how many times they could say no. Memorial plaque to my friend who died at 48 on their property? Denied; too upsetting for existing employees. Mitochondrial Disease Fund raising? Denied; they'd never heard of it, it could have been a scam. Below the Line? Denied; UNICEF is a corrupt organisation. [Hello Pot, meet Kettle]

So as an office we fund-raised, and as an office we took part in the shave; right down to the girl who decided to do my makeup at the last minute. It was a great feeling...the inner core of www.TheFashionHero.com working together for a common goal.

So, over donuts and coffee and jokes about the hardness of my head, we did it. As much as I'd like to spin this into yet another of my 'Tom Hiddleston makes me want to be a better me' pieces, I can't, because it simply isn't true. Tom Hiddleston did not make me shave my head.

Loki did.

Becoming Beaver

Well, it finally happened. I've up and left Big Green for well, greener pastures...and I seem to have landed smack dab in the middle of the fashion industry. I'm working with a company creating a truly unique platform for modelling. I won't go into it in detail here, but I feel like a fish out of water with all these glamorous fashion types. 

I've been asked, no doubt due to my lack of fashion know how to blog about my journey into fashion.

That blog, 'Fashion on a Tangent' can be found here .

Below was my intro post, discussing my experiences with my younger sister in the fashion world.

Part two to follow.

Becoming

I never saw myself as working in the fashion industry. Hell, I never saw myself as fashionable; that was my sister’s ‘thing’. From the time we were little girls, I was always the ‘smart one’ and she was always ‘the pretty one’. Certainly, there were worse labels to have and I certainly never tried to fight the one my parents had assigned me. I did well in school, and she did not. She modelled and excelled at each and every trend that blew into town; I did not.

In many ways these labels would shape who we became. As the years wore on, I was still the smart one, but I felt the need to wage a personal war on fashion. I dyed my hair, first black, and then pink. Tattoos and piercings came next, followed by dark, studded clothes and combat boots. Going to my sister’s photo shoots I would read Nietzsche and scowl while she was dressed from head to toe in everything from chiffon to Christmas tree lights. I told myself fashion didn’t matter; that I was above it. In private moments I wondered why fate had made me short and round, and her tall and slim.

But the years went on and the changes began to happen…little things at first, hair colour, tanning, and then bigger things. The first nose job at sixteen. Breast Augmentation at seventeen.

Lions and Tigers and Bears

Have you ever felt like you had to watch your every move?  Not like in a teen aged, 'Mother knows best' kind of way, but more of a 'We see you and know what you're up to' kind of way?

I work for a high security company; I try my hardest not to talk about it and it's weird and wily ways. But sometimes everything in my world just comes crashing together in an epic smashing of crap. They now count our rolls of paper towel; each bathroom is only allowed one a day...keep in mind there are 1300 people in my office.

They've also decided to cut down on energy costs so all blinds must be closed all the time...there are signs posted everywhere in case we forget. So now on top of working in cubicle Hell, we have to work in a no natural light cubicle Hell.

I've worked there for nearly ten years...I've seen alot of things...keystroke programs we sign waivers for...bosses who like to count how often we go to the bathroom...it's fair to say my tolerance for crap [or perceived crap] is fairly high.

So understand me when I say, sometimes I just feel like pulling out my hair at the sheer volume of bullshit that occasionally comes spewing out of the various facets of the fandom.

Good grief. It feels like a soap opera...a really bad one, where the heroes are insipid, vapid liars, and the villains are people just trying to go about their Sunday afternoons in peace. Being vilified for questioning things that needed clarification is not a redeeming feature for anyone; don't ask me to set aside my intelligence just to further your agenda. Donating to causes is great, but the motivation behind the act matters as well.

I'm old. I try really, really hard not to rock the boat. But I do like to poke the bear once in a while...sue me, a girl's gotta have some fun.

An Apple a Day...or Maybe Not

Do we ever really leave high school? I mean, I'd like to think we do...I hated high school and you couldn't make me go back not matter what you paid me.

But some people seem to be in a state of perpetual high school. The cliques, the drama, the endless secrets, the backstabbing.
I honestly thought I had reached a point where I didn't have to worry about it anymore...apparently I was wrong. Or there wouldn't be a post for you to read right now.

I don't really want to get into specifics or name names [because, like I said, Not high school!] so I suppose this is going to seem rather vague.

Have you ever found the perfect apple? You know the one, shiny, flawless skin, glowing a perfect red [or green or yellow if you prefer]. Now, you've bought apples before, so you know they aren't usually so brilliant, but you wonder if this, this apple is special. So you buy the apple and take it home, wash it, and set it in the bowl on your dinning room table. It shines there and you just like to look at it. You're proud that you bought it and made it part of your life; it makes you happy having it around. Your life is crazy and miserable and sometimes insane, but it bothers you less because of the apple. People make fun of you for liking your apple so much, but you don't care, because you love it and it becomes part of who you are.

Then one day, you decide you're going to cut your apple in half, because surely, if a whole apple is good, two parts of an apple will be twice as good.

Only, when you cut into the apple, you realise that under the shiny outer layer, and the nice apple-y goodness, there are worms...lots of them. All writhing together. Twisting and turning, each trying to out twist the other. Each one willing to do whatever it takes to be the better, stronger worm. No matter what you do, even if you put the two pieces back together, you can't forget those moments when you saw what was on the inside. So now, you can't see the apple without seeing the worms.

So you wonder if the apple is spoiled for you forever.

Below the Line Reflections

So the Wog and I just finished our last day of 'Below the Line', with our charity of choice being UNICEF.

$1.75 is the Canadian equivalent of the extreme poverty line. Living on so little gave us a glimpse into the challenges faced by the 1.4 billion people who have no choice but to live below the line every day – for everything - food, medical care, transport, education, everything.

Our Below the Line Page

It was definitely an affair to remember. When I first broached the subject with him a few weeks ago, he was very hesitant; he felt it might negatively impact our kids. Thankfully, I think having them present [though not participating] enriched the experience.

Living on less than two dollars a day is a lot harder than it seems on paper; that was the first lesson we learnt. Just grocery shopping turned into an epic journey of frustration and compromise.
He wanted hot dogs [ew] and I wanted eggs...I conceded but only if I didn't have to eat the oatmeal.

As a side note, anyone who has read earlier posts in this blog knows that last year we nearly lost our house; it's not something I like to talk about, but it did happen, and during that period of time I was a master of the family budget. Trying to stretch things became a matter of pride for me; it didn't matter if half our food was coming from Dollarama...we were eating and that was the important thing.

It did hurt my heart a little when Goose asked 'Momma, did Daddy lose his job again?' when we sat down to our first dinner. Thankfully, after a careful explanation both he and Roux relaxed and came to enjoy that they were eating a variation of our meals.

All in all it was a learning experience, and a valuable one; it helped us remind us how close we came to losing everything we had...but it also helped us see how far we'd come.

Dance with My Father Again

No, this is not to be a 'Below the Line' post, because I'm waiting until the end of the week to gather my thoughts.

Here's what I do want to write about. I've been mulling this over in my head for days, trying to decide if I wanted to put it out there or not, and this post will be the result...if it manages to come out slightly more coherently than it sounds in my head. Probably not.

Our relationships with our parents are complicated ones. As children they seem perfect to us, untouchable, never doubted. As we become teenagers they are the opposite; disparaged, mocked and ridiculed.  I won't even touch on what manifests as we reach adulthood. No, I'm not passing judgement on anybody else's relationship with their parents...this is my blog and I'm talking about me.

My childhood with my Daddy was a love story. He was my everything, and I always thought he could do no wrong. In a way he only disappointed me once. Only once.

On May 2nd 1993 my Daddy died, in the garage of our home, alone. I found him there. I called the ambulance. I did everything they said. I screamed to God, the neighbours, and anyone who would listen; but he died anyways. It was five days before my fifteenth birthday.

The problem with this, is that in those twenty odd minutes while I waited for the ambulance, I lost nearly all the good memories I had. They were buried beneath anger, betrayal and death.

Like any good girl I've had therapy; years of it. So I built my memory palace [mine is more of a cottage but still] and I filled it with information, facts...stuff. I have a 'Daddy' room; over the years I've cataloged  and filed away every image, story detail, sense memory, everything. I have it all. It fills rows of books, all colours, textures, scents. If you were to come into the room it would seem like a shrine. It is in many ways.

Except one. There's one memory that doesn't stay on any shelf I put it one. Visually it's a box, not a book and if you made the mistake of opening it, its' howls and screeches knock everything else down.
I hate that damn box. I only open it one night a year. Thursday will be that night.

But this year, the twentieth year he's been gone from me I have an unexpected weapon. Three days ago I received a very unexpected gift from a childhood friend. Her father had been digitising their home movies and she sent me one so I could see how young we all were. It was filmed in 1988 and the quality wasn't the best, but suddenly, as I was halfheartedly watching, there was my father. In all his stupid fisherman's hat, too short shorts glory. I HEARD HIS VOICE. I hadn't heard that voice in twenty years. Twenty years.

East Hill Farm 1988

This girl has no idea how precious those three seconds were to me. To hear a voice that I had long forgotten, that I never expected to hear again. Just wow.

Oh My Daddy. Not a day goes by that I don't think of you and wonder, 'What if?'

Thank you for reading my long and rambling post. So sorry if I offended or upset anyone.

Bicycles and Blah

You know, when I first started writing this blog, I swore up and down it wouldn't be a MommyBlog; not that there is anything remotely wrong with MommyBlogs, I had just been there and done that. This was supposed to be a random, perverted something-or-rather...

But, as art [not particularly good art] tends to imitate life [not particularly interesting life] this blog is slowly becoming me and my life at its [not so] finest.

This past Sunday Goose learnt to ride his bike without training wheels. To most, this is a normal right of passage that occurs with little angst. Not so in the Mommy Mab household.

Goose, being Goose, had long had a longstanding love/hate relationship with his bicycle...he was still using his tricycle at five, and was only barely coaxed off that, when his Grandma bought him a bike for his sixth birthday. Wog and I never fought it; it didn't bother us what he rode, so long as he was having a good time.
Everything changed on Sunday though; Goose attended a classmates birthday where though he won the bowling [given that I've never taken him bowling I thought that was an accomplishment], he was upset when everyone was riding and he couldn't.

When I arrived to pick him up he was sitting morosely on the curb while all the other kids biked around. He was happy enough to explain the mathematics of bowling to me, over and over, but I noticed he kept looking at the other kids.
'
Would you like Mommy to go and get your bike?' I asked
He shook his head,
'It has four wheels; I don't want them to see'.
This broke my heart, because I've never, ever said anything like that to him.

So I asked the Super!Dad running the party to help us out...and it worked! Within half an hour Goose was zipping [well, and zagging] around with the others.

Moral of the story: Our kids will always surprise us...no matter what!

And now to share two gorgeous pictures of my Littles by Kelly Meagan Photography...

 Photos by Kelly Meagan
https://www.facebook.com/kellymeaganphoto?fref=ts

Mommy Moments and Letters to Loki

Today I had one of those Mommy!Moments.

Things have been utterly wretchedly crazy at work the past few weeks and I admit I've been kinda snarky on the home front. I always swore I'd never let work get in the way of me enjoying time with my Littles, but at the end of the day, I admit that their daycare teachers see them more than I do. It breaks my heart, but that's the way it is, and unless I win the lottery [which would mean I'd have to play the lottery], they have to stay in daycare. I know they love their teachers, but I always worry I'm missing out on key moments in their lives.

At any rate, today I arrived late to pick up Goose [which by proxy meant I was going to be late to pick up Roux as well] so I came flying into the school, when the director asked to speak with me. Heart sinking, I thought I was up for another lecture about a) My lateness, b) Goose acting out, or c) Both.

My Goose is a special boy, and I try to avoid labels when talking about him or writing about him, because I want people to get to know him, for him, and not pity him because of some label concocted by another [myself included]. But I digress...

When we got into her office she pulled out what I recognised as Goose's big notepad; he struggles a lot with printing so he likes to practise on this, where he can write as big as he likes. I immediately thought I was in for a repeat of last year's notepad incident which involved older boys and four letter words, but instead she opened it and handed it to me.

Here is what it was:

 In Case you don't speak Goose I'll translate:

Dear My Mum's Favorite Actor Loki,
Please come to her birthday party.
She will be very happy and buy me toys. And make you cake. Love, Goose.
*Please note the lovely illustrations where Loki is twice the size of Thor*

Turns out she was concerned that I had let him watch Thor and The Avengers; I haven't, but he doesn't live under a rock...and I admit I buy early reader Avengers books to try to tempt his reading. I assured her that I would not be inviting any Frost Giants to my birthday in May, tempting though it may be.

I may be the mother of one of the sweetest Gooses in the history of Geese. My beautiful boy.

Beaver Unplugged

Okay, so tonight I had my first true troll experience on Twitter. Now, I've been involved in online fangirling for nearly fourteen years now [yes, I'm THAT old ;)]...ever since Buffy came along, so I'm no stranger to trolls. When I was younger it always seemed like some extra excitement to shake up our message boards.

But now that I'm older, and not necessarily more mature, I found the experience rather upsetting. Not in a you-hurt-my-feelings kinda way...just sort of, really, REALLY? Did you really just send me not one, but FOUR DMs?

Tiny bit 'o personal information; I work in a high security environment...nothing terribly interesting, but still security is involved. I'm also the Social Media and Communications Champion so I'm in charge of the company's Twitter etc. among other things. What this means is, as an individual, I'm not supposed to be on Facebook, Twitter...or Blogger [oops].

After much back and forth with the company, I got permission to use Facebook, provided I didn't post or join inappropriate things/groups.  When I wanted to join the Hiddlestoners group I had to draft a memo...yes, an actually memo, outlining why I wanted to join the group. Which, I'm positive my VP didn't actually read, because the first response came back, 'Rejected. Relates to Drug/Alcohol'.

Ah, bureaucracy at its finest! 

Now, I make no secret of the fact that I joined Twitter [without my company's permission] largely because I found the Hiddlestoners  group to be such a glorious bunch of people. They were the first people I spoke with on Twitter, and everything has always been great. I love participating in my own little way, even though I don't really have much to say.

I'm very aware my handle isn't pleasing to some, but it's close to my heart as it was a nickname given to me by a coworker who died two years ago...

I can honestly say in all my years, through various fandoms, I have never come across a more diverse, creative, giving group of people than them. I owe then alot. I was going through a really rough patch in my life, and they made me smile every day...even if I was just lurking in the corner :)

Wow. This is getting long.

At any rate, tonight, who should happen to tweet just as I logged in? Dear Mr Hiddleston.  Now, this never happens...I can't post from work and I don't have a phone, so I have to make due with reading about it after the fact. But tonight I was determined to post! In my eagerness {I am a beaver afterall} my tweet made absolutely no grammatical sense...I was so embarrassed, but my pride kept me from deleting it.
I moved on, made dinner for the kids, started a load of laundry...then the first DM arrived. It detailed my insulting behaviour and advised me to apologise immediately. Er, okay. But then the second arrived, more insulting, more demanding...plus two more which I wouldn't have wanted my kids to read.

I didn't realise until that moment how ferociously possessive some fans are. I didn't realise the sheer nastiness people were capable of venting to complete strangers. I won't name the person in question, but I've heard of her before.  I've never had to block a fellow fan, and the Mom in me hated doing it.

A great big thank you to everyone who wrote me afterwards; I never really thought anybody knew I was there. Thank you. It means alot.

Tuesday Musings, or how Queen Saved my Evening

Ever have one of those moments when stop and think, 'Wow, is it still only Tuesday?'

It's March break so both Goose and Roux are home with the Wog during the day and me at night...I still only get to spend less than two hours with them before bed, but good god do they make up for lack of time.

Chaos. Insane Screaming. More Chaos.

Tonight trivets were smashing, then there was screaming, followed immediately with biting, then thanks to an absolutely lovely person on twitter's suggestion of music, there was dancing and singing.
I'm continuously amazed by how little people respond to music; both of mine absolutely adore Queen, much to my pleasure ...we'll ignore Roux' unfortunate interest in Rihanna.

I enjoyed watching both kids sing along with the words they knew [Roux] and gladly make up the words they were missing [Goose]. I've loved Queen so much over the years, it made me happy, that even for a short time I could share it with my kids.

Can't Kids just stay Kids?

As I was driving Goose home from school today he announced with great gusto,

'Mummy, today we had a drill!'

'Oh, my kind of drill?'

I responded, my mind more on the snowy road than the actual conversation.

'You know, a drill in case somebody comes to the school to take us or kill us. We had to face the cubbies and be very quiet; it was fun.'

What.The.Hell.

I wanted to scream, I wanted to laugh, I wanted to cry.

'Nobody's is going to come and take or kill you, Goose'

I answered quietly. Firmly.

'But Mum, somebody did, they came to a school and-'

I didn't let him finish. I couldn't. I don't think anyone will ever forget those poor babies, but I won't bring them up here.

My Goose is six years old, he has brown hair, blue eyes and loves to run. He's always telling me I am the most beautiful Mummy in the world. He's six years old. Six years old.

The world has a way of encroaching  on our lives without us realizing it; I knew I couldn't protect him from the world forever, I just thought I had more time.

The soul does not surrender to despair without having exhausted all illusions

"L'âme ne se rend pas au désespoir sans avoir épuisé toutes les illusions." ~Victor Hugo

"The soul does not surrender to despair without having exhausted all illusions."

I haven't read 'Les Miserables' since grade nine, but over the past two weeks found myself pulling out my tattered old copy and revisiting it. I was an angry young person and it suited my mood at the time; nobody made me read it, and I learnt to read in French before English so it only made sense that I would read it in its original form [that, and I was a terrifically pretentious Goth girl].

Something about Tom Hiddleston's visit to Guinea really touched a nerve, as I'm sure it did with alot of people following his blog posts. I've spent the better part of two years, though only five months on this blog, complaining and wailing to anyone who would listen how hard my life had become. I did it over, and over again, like some kind of bad country song...first we lost the job, than the car, than the house...

But I never really stopped to think about anything other than what was happening in my little corner of the world; I never realised how selfish I was being. Now, this isn't about to turn into a 'He changed my world' type post, but something has changed and I'm not sure if I can quite put my finger on it. I have come to the realisation that I'm not putting enough good into the world; I want to give more.  I've spent the better part of ten years working at the Big Green making mounds of money for one man. My unit alone pulled in nearly half a billion dollars last year. Half a Billion Dollars...for one man. When I think of all the things that money could be doing I feel ashamed. I want my time and energy to matter, to mean something. Something other than a bottom line in somebody's ledger.

So I'm going to dig deep and see if I can make some changes. So I'll end with the words of another great man: " If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and then make that change". ~Michael Jackson

Hats off Hiddleston Fans

I can’t not say it, even if I come off sounding terribly Mom-ish. I’m so very, very proud of the Tom Hiddleston fandom right now. Tom’s upcoming work with UNICEF is just plain glorious, and the fan response trumps it a million times over.

Now, I’ve been involved with various fandoms for an awfully long time, but this is the first time I’ve seen fans actually working together to create, share and give to others without a thought for their own personal gain. A fandom where we’re not all trying to trample each other to be first or prove who the ‘better’ fan is.
I love, love, love that I can stand up a little straighter when a coworker says ‘What good has that actor you like so much actually done?’

Hats off to Tom and his Fans