A to Z Honesty - B is for Bad Thoughts

It's not good to be alone with your thoughts, not for hours at a time.

I realized this with depressing clarity on Saturday as I spent yet another full day in front of the wood splitter. The throaty rattle of the machine obliterated all noise but the scrambled negative voices in my own head as the hydraulic wedge pushed through block after block of wood like it was processed cheese.

My weaknesses, my bad traits, ran through my head on a loop, piling up on each other until tears flowed in the sawdust.

I'm mean to people. I'm fickle. I want friends but I push them away.


I'm angry. Too emotional. Judgemental. Who made me the goddamned queen of morality? Like I have any reason to feel superior – HA.


I'm a terrible mother – I must be. And how do I deal with my children? I want to hold them close, but I don't want to crowd them. I want them to want me on their terms – but are they wanting the same thing?


I say I'm a writer but what have I written? My novel has sat untouched for so long I barely remember where I left off. What a fake I am. Charlatan!


And diet? What diet? When the chips were down last week I fairly flew home to the comfort of crackers smothered in margarine and cheese. Cracker after cracker slid past my tongue, without me even pausing to taste it. Like a dog. Feeding until the frenzy inside quieted and then looking in the cupboard for more, always more.

I can only live one day at a time. Be the best person I can be on that day. It's all I can do. All any of us can do. That, and check my anti-depressant medication – maybe I need an adjustment.

Or maybe I just need to do something else besides freaking splitting wood.

A to Z Honesty - A is for Allen

I thought I knew everyone in the Ontario community newspaper business but I'd never heard of Bill Allen until 2006 when I applied for a job at his Huntsville Forester. Frankly I don't know how I missed him. He was an institution; a local legend. Gruff-voiced, like he'd had too many long nights and too many whiskies, I later found out the gravel in his voice came from cancer. Like everything he did, he fought it like a man. Not in the comedic sense of men being sick and whiny but in the true sense of the phrase – with guts and grit.

Over the years we've worked together I have seen this strength repeatedly. But also kindness. He was a father figure to so many. A guiding hand with a sense of humour and a bowl of candies on this desk that anyone could help themselves to when two o'clock sugar-lows hit.

A few weeks ago Bill had a devastating heart attack in his office. Brave co-workers saved his life with CPR but his big heart had worked too hard and a lifetime of toil finally caught up to him. I heard yesterday that he died in hospital on Friday night.

Work won't be the same without him. I feel like we've lost our ship's captain. Our direction.

I know what it's like to lose a father and I send all my very best wishes to his lovely family in this terrible time. I hope you can take comfort in the fact that he made a difference in his community and that he was loved.

Funeral information for Bill can be found here: http://billingsleyfuneralhome.com/home/2012/04/in-loving-memory-of-mr-bill-allen/

And suddenly it's April

The last few weekends we've been wearing shorts and riding our bicycles then it snowed like crazy yesterday and suddenly it's winter again. I have no idea why the tree in our front yard is so darned happy about it.

Everybody's talking about the A to Z Blogging Challenge starting tomorrow and, yeah, I'll be taking part. Me and more than 1,500 other people around the bloggy world. I did it last year and had a riot and made plenty of new friends. And honestly, as far as challenges go, it's not a tough one. Nothing like National Novel Writing Month, for sure.

Most participants I know have themes picked out for the challenge and many already have their posts written. To them I stick out my tongue, make obnoxious raspberry sounds and yell "KEENERS!"

Naturally I have no theme. I have written no posts. The whole concept of doing anything in advance, blog-wise, is as foreign to me as economic policy, how big the universe is and whether or not my cats can make it through the day without horking a hairball on the chesterfield. You might be surprised to learn I am exceedingly organized at work. I have time management degrees from all the best internet universities and, seriously, cannot fathom or put up with lesser mortals who scramble to meet deadlines.

Blogging, though, that's a different kettle of fish. Whatever comes out of my head is what flops down on the page, usually all squiggly, wet and writhing. I have to do it this way, for the sake of my sanity. What's left of it anyway.

I was reading a blog post by Rubye Jack this morning. She is one of the most honest writers I know. Her work is compelling and heartbreaking and inspiring, all at the same time. I admire that about her as I admire that in everyone. Honesty is the most important thing to me. I value it above all other things and when I see it in another human being I can't help but want to reach out and share in some of their spirited light. Dishonesty, on the other hand, makes me turn away.

That being said I can't always be perfectly honest in this space. I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings, first of all, and I don't want to get in trouble with family, friends, or at work. There are times when, more than anything, I'd love to load a blast of shite and level it at my job but to do so would hurt only me and, anyways, 99% of the time I love my job and love my pay cheque and would seriously love to have it continue plopping into my hungry bank account.

Which brings me to the point of this diatribe: while I say I don't have a theme I think I am leaning towards one. A little piece of honesty, a little piece of my soul, for every letter of the alphabet.

Sounds like a deal with the devil, does it not?

We'll see.

***

Now, off to split firewood. It's what I do on weekends in April.
And to my darling son, Angus, I wish a happy 15th birthday tomorrow, the first day of April. Happy birthday also to my Auntie Ellen, a gracious and lovely lady. April Fool's day has produced some wonderful people, including these precious two. Hugs to both.

Note to self: I am number 172 on the list. (It took me five minutes to find myself amongst 1,532 names!) I am going to take Alex's advice and start my tour with the blog following mine, number 173, which (and I just looked this up) belongs to Watercolors by Mimi Torchia Boothby. An artiste. Cool!

Mother of god, in the name of all that's holy, what IS that smell?

Sniff.


Sniff, sniff.


Sniff, sniff, sniffetty-sniff.


SNIFF.

Ugh. What is that SMELL?

Smells like dog shite. Or cat poo truffles. Some sort of animal excrement.

I peer under the kitchen table and scout around for pliable land mines. Nothing.

Sniff, sniff.

Well, SOMETHING reeks!

In front of me is a cheerful bouquet of daffodils, a present from Dave in honour of the Cancer Society. Every year at this time they sell daffodils to raise money for cancer research. Which is great, right? But they might as well sell dog poop on a stick because those daffy flowers are stinko-amoondo.

A rose by any other name might smell as sweet but daffodils smell pretty much like somebody's dirty underwear.

Dave went all out - the flowers came with this unique vase!

Forget anything?

I had a big meeting today.

BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIG.

Like Mad Men big. Me. My idea. My presentation. Biggie-sized big.

Woke up at 5 a.m. because I was so excited I couldn't sleep. Christmas-morning big.

Dyed my hair because my roots were showing. Picked my prettiest blouse. Remembered to put eyeshadow on both eyes. Wore my new pleather biker's jacket.

Looked HAWT.

Got to work.

Realized my armpits were damper than usual.

Took an unobtrusive sniff ...