Black and White

Why the black and white look?
It's clean, it's simple. It reminds me of the newspapers I have worked with over the years.
Mostly, though, it's my personality.
I see the world as black or white with only a few shades of grey.
This isn't something I'm necessarily proud of but after 50 years on the planet I'm pretty sure I know myself and know how I think.
To me, the answer to everything is clear - it's either right or it's wrong; it's good or it's bad; it's fair or it's unfair. Full stop.
I am far from perfect. Far, far from it. This black and white thinking is hard for a lot of people to take. My blood boils fast.
I'm also judgemental. Over the years I have made many mistakes, but I have learned from all of them. This crystallization, this boiling down of the bad things in my character has made me who I am now. Some may disagree, and they are entitled to their opinion, of course, but I am a good person. I see myself as a white knight, defender of the common man, upholder of good in the battle against evil. (Doesn't THAT sound crazy?) I admire Sally Fields' character in Norma Rae – imperfect strength in the face of adversity; grubbiness with a shining heart.
I will always take the side of the underdog. I will always have sympathy for the downtrodden.
There is fair and there is unfair and there is nothing in between.
I got angry with a friend yesterday because she didn't see the unfairness in this situation: another friend had worked a long time with a company and had accrued a third week of vacation time. The company went bankrupt and the friend was rehired by a temp agency. He immediately lost that third week. All of the plant employees, some who had been with the company all their working lives and had accrued up to five weeks of vacation, went back to two weeks. I said, this wasn't fair. That they had earned it and then lost it. My friend said it was perfectly fair - they were lucky to have their jobs.
Yes, they're lucky to still have their jobs.
But that doesn't mean what happened to them is fair.
To me, fairness is like karma. If you have done your share, if you've been a good person, if you've worked hard to earn things like vacation time, the universe ought to repay you in kind. When that doesn't happen; when you lose your vacation, when you get cancer, when your husband leaves you, when you get downsized, whatever – it just isn't fair.
I know. Life sucks that way. The universe doesn't mete out fairness. The real world just "is."
Still, a lot of these sucky things are delivered at the hands of human beings, not the universe. It was people who decided to cut our friend's vacation time. People who downsize companies and ruin people's lives. People cheat on their spouses and destroy families.
People are the reason I believe in fairness.
If everyone decided to treat their fellow human beings fairly, the world would be a fairer place.
Fairness is what I strive for.
Fairness is what we all should strive for.
Screw real world thinking – this is the excuse we use to hurt one another.

Cathy.com

Did I tell you Dave's ex is also named Cathy?
Funny, huh.
Like my cousin, Karen – I used to tease her because her husband's ex was named Karen. I thought, what kind of same-name-seeking weirdo would marry two women with the same name? It's handy, I suppose. You never call the wrong name out at the wrong moment. Trust me, that's a good thing. My ex is named Doug and, after 19 years of saying Doug, it was hard at first for the tongue to stop at the Duh sound and not continue on to the Ug sound.
Once it started the tongue didn't know enough to say Duh then Aave. The brain knew but the tongue was a screw-up and the brain was constantly apologizing for the stupid tongue.
Nearly six years later, I now call my ex "Dave." So, that's better, I think. At least the results are better, even though the tongue is still stupid.
Where was I? Oh, Cathy. Yes, when the "old Cathy" dealt him him a "get out of marriage free card," he found me. He wasn't seeking another Cathy. There is no Cathy.com website, although that's a good idea. People get matched up for pretty stupid reasons, why not choose your soul mate based on his/her name?
I, for one, would never go to a Jason.com site because I find people named Jason are bullheaded. I work with a guy named Jason and he's one of my favourite people at the office and while he's not even half as stubborn as some guys named Jason I've met, he still has Jason traits.
I would never go to a Phil.com site because they all have red-rimmed eyeballs and pasty white skin. At least the Phils I know. No, I don't know Mr. Donahue but have you noticed the pinkness around his eyes? I think Phils must be part-rabbits.
I'd avoid Darren.com (self-absorbed and possibly gay), Andrew.com (momma's boys) and Doug.com (can't trust 'em).
These are gross exaggerations, of course and, while there very well may be exceptions, this is my blog. So there.
Gawd, what was I saying?
Oh, the ex.
Yes, she popped into Dave's work today so he could fix her pick-up truck.
He told me right off and was all open and honest because, generally speaking, Daves are that way. Especially mine.
And while I always tell Dave not to be jealous of my ex, I got this weird burning sensation in my chest when I heard the ex paid a call.
Jealousy, I think they call it. Jealousy, or maybe heartburn.
Now, I have nothing to be jealous of. Sure she's skinny and I'm not, but skinny ain't every darn thing. I know I got her beat in about a zillion other departments and I know Dave isn't heading back her way. So I have nothing to be jealous of.
Right?
Pass the Rolaids, please.

Hot Lips

I could handle the fact that my white t-shirt was splattered with coffee, honey garlic chicken wings, soap and pen. 

Cause I'm used to that.

Every day I spill something on me. Dave doesn't have to say, "Whadja have for lunch, honey-bucket?" because he just looks at my shirt. Sometimes my hair, because lunch hides there, too. It's handy having chicken salad where you can nosh when the mood strikes.

"WHY do you wear WHITE?" my friends say, scoffing at me.

White is my favourite summer colour, I say.

I like white.

I feel FRESH.  

I feel DEWY.

And I continue to look like that right up until the moment my first cup of joe slops down my front.

I also like white because I can bleach white. Right? You know what I'm saying... if you spill something greasy on a black top, it's just a bitch to get out.

The other day I met my soul mate. He was the guy who attached the heart monitor. He must have been feeling all personal, you know, gluing wires to my boobs, because he announced, "I'm so embarrassed. I spilled coffee on myself." 

I'm half-naked and HE'S embarrassed. Typical man.

I looked at the big brown stain on his otherwise pristine white golf shirt.

"Did that this morning, I bet." sez I.

"Yes!" he says. "How did you know?"

"BROTHER!" I exclaimed.

"SISTER!" he shrieked, grabbing me and hugging me close. The wires tangled up in his stethoscope and it got all weird after that.

So.

Here I am today, having just pigged out at a company pot luck for a bride-to-be, covered in honey garlic chicken wings, chocolate icing, pen marks and tomato pasta (because only the coloured things land on my shirt - club soda and water never get on me. They are repelled, like I'm a polar magnet pushing away, or the wrong line at IKEA:  "this is the coloured messy things line only, clear things get the express line over there." And people are laughing at my white shirt. And I'm laughing along.

Until, suddenly, my dear friend Leah sidles up to me and says, "Are they lips?"

I look at her like she has two heads.

"Lips?" I say.

"Yeah," she says, looking down at my crotch. "Lips."

I'm thinking to myself, is she talking about what I THINK she's talking about? Out loud? In front of everyone?

"Er," I say. Because I can't think of anything else. "Er... lips?"

"Yeah," she says. Like I'm stupid.

Suddenly it dawns on me.

"On my underwear? YES! They're LIPS."

I have pink kisses all over my gotchies. Obviously you can see through my white pants.

So there I was.

Filthy white shirt.

See through white pants.

Everybody in the office lookin' at my underpants.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuudge....

My Boob Stickies

This is like my chest, only this guys' boobs are bigger than mine and a little hairier.
Imagine this, only with Band-Aids holding on the stickies. That's me.

So there's this thing. On my chest.
Seven things, actually. Seven sticky things. And there's a strap around my neck and over my shoulder holding this transistor radio-sized computer thing.
It's a heart monitor, a halter thing. I'M FINE. Not that you were worried or anything but I'M FINE. No heart attacks, or murmurs, or strokes. I get this drug called Remicade every two months. It's for my Crohn's disease and it's a bit of a miracle drug. Thanks to Remicade I went from the doc wanting to remove my colon to having no symptoms. It's good stuff.
Only thing is, on the day I get the infusion (at the Huntsville hospital's chemotherapy clinic with the world's best nurses - "Hi Jodie! Hi Yvonne!"), I get this weird feeling. Fluttery. My heart races. I feel all crawly on the inside. The weird feeling lasts all evening. When I wake up the next morning, the weird feeling is gone.
I didn't even want to mention the weird thing to my doctor because I was afraid he might take away my Remicade and then take away my colon. Hey, I can live with the idea of a heart attack... I just don't want to poop into a tube if I don't have to. (Although this could be viewed as a positive. Just think. You never have to look for a washroom in a mall again. You don't have to endure stinky outhouses while camping. Or leave the slot machines. You just poop at will. Right in the middle of a conversation. While you're blogging. No one will know unless you announce it. "Hey, I'm pooping right now.")
Where was I? Mention the word poop and I'm all distracted. Oh yes. The halter thing. So, after my Remicade infusion ("Hi Jodie! Hi Yvonne!"), I went to the hospital's cardio department and got outfitted with a heart monitor. A nice gentleman stuck seven round sticky things to my chest and wired them to a monitor.
"When you start to experience your 'weird' feelings, press the Event button," he said. Then he added, "Whatever you do, don't sweat."
It's ninety frickin' degrees outside.
The minute I got home and went to the washroom, four of the stickies fell off. En masse. It was like they all gave up at once and fell to their deaths in front of the toilet. Like Elvis.
"Crap," I said, although I was just peeing.
I stuck them back on my chest, trying to guess where they had been before. It wasn't a scientifically-based guess. I stuck one on my boob, one under my boob and two more in the middle.
But I was sweating like a pig and, two seconds later, they all fell off again.
So I stuck 'em back on. Only this time I raided the Band-Aid box and used a dozen to re-stick the stickless stickies.
I look like a mummy who ran out of white bandages and used Band-Aids instead. A beige mummy. Oh, and did I mention all the Band-Aids are stuck to the sunburn I got whilst chasing campers off my site on the long weekend?
If they don't stick, my next recourse will be duct tape.
If they do stick, I'll be pulling them off in the morning and having hubs drop the monitor off to the man in the hospital who stuck things on my chest. Don't think that fact won't be crossing hubs' mind.
Not long after I emptied the bandage box, I noticed my heart start to race. BUT WAS IT REALLY? My trigger finger hovered over the Event button. Should I wait till it really starts racing? Should I do it now? What if it's a false alarm? You should have seen me when I was pregnant. I AGONIZED over labour pains. Real? False? Real? I didn't want to go early and annoy the doctor. I didn't want to go late and have my kid at the side of the road, either.
I pressed the button. Half-expecting a 9-1-1 swat team to show up I was vaguely disappointed that nothing more exciting than a pop-up window on the monitor with a few choices: heart attack, heart murmur, heart racing, heart stopping. Really? Do you think if my heart stopped I'd be able to push the Event button? I think stoppage would be pretty clear to the coroner even if you didn't push the button. "Well, I think it was a heart attack. A little hard to tell since the cats ate her. If only she had of pressed the Event button ..."

Miss Manners Goes Camping

1. Don't cut through my campsite. 
I mean it.
Canada Day weekend, Algonquin Park, and we're packed like sardines - salty fish, who, for the most part, know their boundaries and stay in their own school site. There was a bunch of fish kitty-corner to us, a big school of fish, too many fish for one site, if truth be told, who were treating our site like a path to the washrooms. They didn't even stick to the outside of the site – they walked right beside our picnic table, almost under the awning of our trailer. WHILE WE WERE SITTING THERE.
We just stared at them because we're polite and we had come to the park to relax, not confront rude people.
They didn't even make eye contact, or apologize, or even say hello. They just trundled through our campsite like they owned it.
After that, Dave arranged our four bicycles across the driveway. They didn't blink an eye, just pushed the bikes aside a bit and squeezed through.
Finally we were forced to say something. On yet another trip by our picnic table, Dave said, politely, "Guys, this our camp site. Can you not walk through it, please?' The couple looked startled, mumbled, "sorry," and walked away. Thankfully, that was the end of that. Except that when we were walking by their campsite, on the road, we heard them snickering.
Just to clarify, there was a proper, signed path leading to the washrooms, not 10 feet from our campsite. After Dave confronted them, they had the good grace to use the path.
Ranty part: I wouldn't DREAM of walking through someone else's campsite. An empty one, sure, but never one with people's stuff on it and never, ever with someone sitting at their picnic table. And if, for some unknown reason, I had to go on someone else's site? I'd ask permission and thank them profusely, not ignore them like they weren't even there.

2. Slow down, arseholes.
There are kids running all over the place at a park. Running, biking, playing ball, being kids. I'm thinking that running over one of those kids is not a good idea. Perhaps taking your foot off the gas pedal would be.
And do you really want to raise a cloud of dust? You do? Then you're a bigger arsehole than I thought.
Ranty bit: I'd slap you upside the head if I could catch you. No one cares that your ride is pimped. No one but you likes rap music played at ear-piercing decibels. It's nice of you to share, but honestly, it's not necessary. You're in a provincial park. You're camping. You're not going to see many bears, moose and deer with the music cranked, unless you run them over first. Which you probably will, going so fast.

3. Don't bring your dog to the beach.
In fact, look over there. See that sign? It says NO DOGS ALLOWED.
Ranty bit: I left my dog in the trailer. Why is your dog on the beach? Is your dog special? Does your dog have a beach pass? Is your dog not really a dog? I swear, if I step in your dog's crap with my bare beach toes, I will stoop and scoop it right onto your doorstep.

4. Don't fart around the campfire and make your friend retch.
Um, I did this. Don't recommend it. Camping's all fun and games until someone loses their lunch. Sorry Tammy!


There was more, something about sparklers on the beach and Ranger Bob but I think I've blocked it out.
*shudders*