centre of the universe - the dreaming

You know what's screwed up? What's screwed up is when you decide that enough is enough, it's time to DO something with yourself, and you start working out every morning, and your body starts doing effed up things. That's screwy.

And by 'effed up things', I mean gaining a pound a day.

One may have discussed this very thing with Neo and with SWC, but none of what they have said is a) news, or b) reassuring. I KNOW muscle weighs more than fat. I KNOW your metabolism changes when you start doing regular activity. I KNOW you can retain water. But a fricken' pound a fricken' day? FOR TWO WEEKS?

SWC said something about something-something 'lose a whole bunch of weight all at once', something-something something (he kind of lost me in the beginning and end bits there, with his fancy talkin' and his multiple choice questions). So that better happen. Seriously. Because if I keep working out every morning and just getting bigger and bigger, I'm going to end up looking like this:

And nobody wants that.

Really.

After the tongue graft and the vein implants, you're just never the same person. And then I'd have to go and find a bunch of tapeworms to make a costume, and some kind of large bladder stone to make a necklace out of.

When I get to this point, you know, there's just no reason to keep going. Not even yoga can save you from the popping veins and the dried-out husk of skin. In the 'you are what you eat' spectrum, this is really the 'walnut shells' stage. Nobody wants to curl up with someone who could snap your thigh in the crook of her elbow.

Okay, *some* people might want that. I am not one of those people. Sure, there's the party trick of bouncing each of your pectoral muscles individually in time to the Village People, but that's only going to get you through two, maybe three art openings or book launches.

Labels: Bad Mojo, exercise

With all due kudos to Lemony Snicket...some people say "bad things come in threes".

My grandmother used to say, "That's Bee Ess. Bad things drop down on your head out of trees. That's what people OUGHT to say."

*I* say, all you need to do to Wreck a Day is do something really bloody stupid, then insist on continuing to do something really bloody stupid, then break my french press. Then do something really stupid.

Stupid poopy being stupid.

Labels: Bad Mojo

Here's a big shout out to all the astrologers and psychics out there: HEY! WHAT'S GOING ON!!??



No, seriously. Really. Is it me? It's the whole universe, isn't it? I'm pretty sure that's what it is. It's like all the passive aggressive mojo in the universe is focussed directly on *my* mojo, and, frankly, that's upsetting my mojo. My mojo is not pleased. And it's a Bad Idea to make my mojo angry. You wouldn't like my mojo when it's angry. It's harshing my cool. It's negating my verbs.

My mojo doesn't like being passively aggressed. My cool is No Good when it's harshed, and, well, everybody knows what happens when you negate a verb.

"cenobyte!" you call out, "doubleyou tee eff!? What is up, my sister/brother/home persun?"

Well, I'm not going to go in to details here, for the most part. Suffice it to say that the icing on the cake came today, when I realised my father's lady friend doesn't know how to spell my name. My four-letter name. Granted, it's commonly misspelled (some people put the squashed bug accent over the wrong dried spaghetti loop), but I was a little disappointed about that.

Here's a little something that should serve to disenchuffulate you if you're experiencing a similitude of poop:

Labels: Bad Mojo, piss in your eye

This really bunches my garters. It's a story about how Roman Polanski, Hollywood director and socialite, is being confined to...oh hell. I'll just quote the first sentence.

Film director Roman Polanski will be confined to his chalet in the Alpine village of Gstaad until the Swiss decide if he will be extradited to the United States for a 32-year-old sex case.

 What pisses me off isn't the palatial treatment an accused man is being "confined" to (I'd punch a nun if it meant I'd get to hang out in Gstaad for a couple of weeks. Even a Swiss nun). I want you to read that sentence really closely and see if you can catch what it is that's making me angry. Go ahead, I'll wait.

"...for a 32-year-old sex case."

Roman Polanski is not charged with sex. If sex were against the law, I'd *really* be in trouble. And so would you. Hell, we'd all resort to the bumbling antics of fourteen-year-old band students in the "instrument" room. But Roman Polanski is not charged with sex. Do you know what he is charged with?

RAPE.

When Polanski was 44 years old, he *sexually assaulted* a thirteen-year-old girl. THIRTEEN. He was convicted of "unlawful sexual intercourse with a minor" which means, say it with me, statutory rape. Do you know why there are statutory rape laws? Because generally, most thinking people understand that a THIRTEEN YEAR OLD is not in full control of their senses. Thirteen year olds still light their farts (okay, that might be a bad example in this crew...). Thirteen year olds like movies about sparkly vampires, regardless of the quality of writing, plot, or narrative. Thirteen year olds are *children*. Sure, thirteen year olds have working plumbing and dangly bits, but just because you CAN do something really doesn't mean you SHOULD.

Do you remember 13?

Your clothes didn't fit right, and you were tired and cranky most of the time, and you turned into the world's biggest bitch/dink when people treated you like anything other than the Queen/King of Sheba. Your parents knew NOTHING. They were lame, and their only job on the earth was to make your life miserable. Your parents, by insisting you eat dinner *at the table* rather than *in your room* (which smelled of goats and old cheeseburgers) were forcing you to live a miserable, tortured existence because they were NOT treating you like an adult. Your favourite thing to do on Saturdays was to watch Saturday morning cartoons, but only the ones that started after 11am. You had posters of metal bands or girl bands on your walls, right beside the posters of your favourite cartoons.

Face it. CHILDREN at thirteen, given the freedom and care to develop "normally" are caught on the cusp of something they have no idea about. They resent responsibility yet they crave freedom. Their brains are still developing, for God's sake. Their emotions are screwed up. They are beginning to mourn their childhood, and they are beginning to mourn their adulthood, and they're in a kind of sociological dormancy, like when trees lose their leaves in the fall. No child, at thirteen, should be faced with the decision of whether to sleep with a man more than THREE TIMES their age. How could you make an informed decision at that point?

And that's assuming the girl *did* make an informed decision, and that Roman Polanski honoured her decision...that is to say, that's assuming she didn't say "No". But even if she *didn't* say "No". Even if she trotted toward him in Barbie underpants and a Playtex training bra, begging him to "make her a woman", he was FORTY FOUR years old. He was an adult. THE adult. What possible enjoyment could he have been looking for in a CHILD, other than a tight snatch (and pardon my rudeness)?

What, the acne? The acne really turned the guy on? Maybe it was the way she said, "but Moooo-oooom". Or maybe it was the attitude. Perhaps she slammed her bedroom door and threw the stuffed animals on her Wonder Woman comforter at the wall in a particularly alluring manner. Or maybe he did it because he could. Because he could control her. Because he had power over her. Because he dominated her.

Roman Polanski was not charged with sex. He was charged with ASSAULT. He raped a thirteen year old girl, and then he RAN AWAY. He went to a country where he KNEW they couldn't "get him" (he stayed in countries that did not have extradition agreements with the US), even though he'd been arrested, tried, and sentenced (guilty). Sex is not a crime. Rape is.

Labels: Bad Mojo, piss in your eye

Q: What wakes up in the middle of the night and coughs so hard it pukes?
A: The Nipper!

Q: Who is the most likely person to get the Hamthrax (or any other flu) when The Nipper is coughing so hard he pukes, and when The Captain has a fever of 40 degrees?
A: cenobyte!

Q: Does looking up "Hamthrax" on the Intarweebs work?
A: It SURE DOES!!!

Q: Is it great to be home with the Sicky McSickertons?
A: Yes, but it's No Good when they're this sick, with the constant coughery.

Q: Does the Hamthrax vaccine even work?
A: Well, the McSickertons aren't dead, and don't seem to be getting *dangerously* ill.

Q: But what about the vaccine being full of tracking bugs that government agencies can use to trace your whereabouts for EVER?
A: Um. Those are risks I'm willing to take.

Q: Haven't you ever heard that vaccines cause autism?
A: I've heard that, yeah. I've also heard that all life on the planet was created 5,000 years ago, over a span of seven days. And that all life in the universe is going to end in 1,000 1666 2,000 2001 2012.

Labels: Bad Mojo, sicky mcsickerton

So this one time, Smarty Pants and I were walking somewhere, and we were talking about stuff...I presume...because I don't remember it. But he assures me it's true and that this really happened.

Then he said some stuff about the ocean and then I said something about ...um... something else, and then he was talking about...er....whales? Maybe? And then there was some such thing about how stupid some people are, and then I said something really funny like, "Pretty Deep", but I don't remember why it's funny, and I don't remember if it's actually that or "Pretty Dumb".

And you know the worst part? The worst part is that Smarty Pants has re-told me this story, this story *about my own self*, that happened when I was not pregnant, and when I *was* completely sober, and had had a lot of sleep the night before. Smarty Pants has told me this story about my own self at least two times. TWO. Times.

Somewhere in my brain there had better be something really fucking important stored, because I swear to God, it's taking up space that could be put to good use. Not that it isn't put to good use now; I mean, have literally no way of knowing.

Labels: Bad Mojo

"Do you smell that?" His Nibs said, just before the radio went off.
"Ngggghhhhunnnggghhh?" I replied.
"Do you smell something BURNING!?" He was Very Nervous.
To tell you the truth, I smelled my pillow, and that was about it. The kids were moving around, getting ready for school. Then, after a few minutes of trying to figure out if I was still asleep, I realised that yes, I too smelled something kind of smokish.
"I think it's the furnace!" His Nibs called from the main floor.

I sighed, then bumbled my way downstairs. His Nibs (who is not necessarily mechanically inclined) is staring at the furnace. I open it up, turn off the pilot light, then turn off the power. His Nibs asked about the pilot light. It was clear to me that all things furnace were stolidly in my realm. I reset the furnace, and listened to it for a minute. "It sounds like the fan motor is blown," I said. Then I went upstairs and felt the vent. "Yes. The fan motor is blown," I said again. "You'll have to call the furnace guy."

So His Nibs called a few furnace guys, and the morning was spent having the fan motor replaced (it was, indeed, blown. Hot, even).

Then, His Nibs couldn't get the thermostat cover open. Then, His Nibs couldn't find batteries for the thermostat. Then, the light wouldn't work when His Nibs tried to turn it on. Then, His Nibs realised it was Recycling Day, and we hadn't put our recyclables done. Then, when getting eggs for breakfast, he ended up throwing one across the kitchen, and it smashed on the floor.

So.

Today has not been a good day, so far, for His Nibs. Be gentle with him.

Labels: Bad Mojo

I just got a call from the socialist political party I support. It turns out they're beating the bushes and digging in the couch cushions to try to find financial support for their upcoming election drive. The very nice young woman who called me warned me that the opposing party (which is doing a pretty okay job of running the province, if you ask me, which you haven't done, but I'm telling you anyway) starting to fundraise for their party already (DANGER! DANGER WILL ROBINSON! DANGER! UPCOMING ELECTION!). I would have been *far more frightened* had she been able to pronounce the leader of the provincial opposition's name.

I have been a philosophical supporter of the provincial socialist party (otherwise known as the New Democratic Party) for as long as I can remember. I'm talking five, six years old. My indoctrination took place early, often, and was fairly comprehensive. And it's the good kind of indoctrination, and I'm not going to debate politicial ideals in this post. It was only natural last year when I actually purchased a membership and became an actual card-carrying socialist (I've carried cards stating as much before, but they've been mostly handmade, laminated with mactac, and coloured in in highlighter and magic marker). I took out a membership during the NDP leadership race.

I did not cast my vote for the man who is now leading the party.

So this nice woman stumbled through his name, which was kind of cute because I don't like the guy, and then she asked me for my support for the provincial party in the upcoming election campaign. I told her, "you know, I have absolutely no problem providing financial support for my provincial party, and I have absolutely no problem providing support for candidates running in my riding. But I will not...I WILL not support Dwain Lingenfelter. I will not give you support to run him as the party leader. I do not support him as party leader. I'm actually considering not supporting the party at all while he is leader. I firmly believe he will drive this party into the ground. He is an ass, and a political opportunist. Worse yet, he is inconsistent and would most likely deny being a political opportunist. I feel that any money I give to this campaign, with him leading the party, will be throwing good money after bad, or bad money after good, or however that expression goes, I'll be wasting my money and my effort. Should Dwain Lingenfelter be hit by a meteorite, and I'm not saying I want him to be, but should he become a victim of the fell chance of circumstance, as William Ernest Henley would say, I would donate craploads of money, and my volunteer time, to the party. But I cannot support you with him in the lead. My apologies."

"Oh, um...ohhh..." I can tell she's looking at a sheet and checking if my option is on her list. "...uhhh....would you like me to arrange a time to call you back, or would you like me to give you a number for you to call at a later time?"

And I thought, this...**this** is one of the reasons I support the provincial socialist party. It's the unbridled and slightly mad optimism. I asked her for her callback number, and told her I would think about it. Had she been on the ball, she would have told me all the reasons I should support the *party* even if I don't support the *leader*. That would have been a good thing for her to say. Because then I would have said "Normally, I would agree with you. However, I believe that if I supported the party, that should the party win, it would mean Dwain Lingenfelter would be leader of the province, and that, Miss, that would make me personally at least partially responsible for the downfall of the provincial government. Because I believe Dwain Lingenfelter would run this province into the ground. Possibly even further. Possibly he would run this province **all the way to CHINA**."

But she didn't ask, and I didn't say that. If she'd asked, I'd have said it, though.

Yet another reason, SWCoyote, I would not do well in politics. I don't think I'd be good putting my support behind someone duly elected to lead if I thought they were bad for the people.

Labels: Bad Mojo, Politics

That was a bit of a joke, there, in the title. For church nerds.

The Roman Catholic church has made an overture and invitation to 'conservative' Anglicans (read: the more 'orthodox' Anglo-Catholics) to join the Roman Catholic church. Those people who have serious concerns about the Anglican Church's position to ordain women as priests and bishops, to ordain homosexuals as priests and bishops, and to accept (and in some cases, to bless) "same-sex unions".

The Anglican Church's official position on this is that the Anglican Church "approves" of the move. Individual Anglicans have always been "allowed" to convert to Roman Catholicism...but this is a welcoming of all kinds of stuff, except homosexuals, homosexual unions, and the ordination as priests and bishops of women. What I find interesting is that the RC Church is agreeing to ordain Anglican priests as RC priests, even if they're married. I find *that* interesting. Very interesting.

The Eastern Rite churches still in full communion with Rome have married priests...priestly celibacy is an ongoing discussion in the RC church (spurred on, I suspect, by the fact that fewer and fewer people want to be priests if it means they must be celibate and/or cannot get married). I guess I'm a little peevish because the RC church is offering to "ordain Anglican ministers". That pisses me off, actually. The Anglican church has Apostolic Succession, which means that Anglican priests and bishops are ordained by bishops and archbishops who have been ordained by a succession of bishops who can trace their apostolic lineage right back to the original apostles. So first of all, according to ME, there is no NEED to do so.

Of course, the RC church doesn't recognise the Anglican church as being in any sort of communion, since the splitting of the factions, first in the eleventh century, then in the seventeenth century when Old Hank got pissy with the Pope in Rome. Sure, Anglicans don't believe that the Archbishop of Canterbury (the canonical leader of the Anglican church) has a red phone line to God, but there are differences that run a lot deeper.

I think it's wonderful that the Roman Catholic church is making this overture, for those people who feel their very souls are in danger because of the Anglican Church's willingness (and eagerness, in some cases) to ordain women as priests and bishops, and to ordain gay folk as priests and bishops, and, in some cases, to bless "same-sex unions".

Ultimately, who benefits from this invitation? Well, the Roman Catholic church gets more priests. Disaffected Anglicans who demand less tolerance and more divisiveness, I guess.

Look, I have no problem with Anglicans wanting to move over to a more conservative form of worship. I'm firmly ensconced in the "High Church" on the more 'orthodox' side of the Anglican couch myself. What bothers me about this move is that it seems like the nasty old uncle with pockets full of pre-licked hard candies covered in cat hair and bits of fluff opening up the door to his musty old bachelor suite for his much younger nieces and nephews. Not in a kind of cool way like in The Magician's Nephew, either. This old codger gets his nieces and nephews in the house, tells them to sit nicely on the ancient settee, and then proceeds to get the nephews to fix up all the baseboards and wiring that's gone wonky, while the nieces prepare to remain in a perpetual state either of virginity or of pregnancy. There's a certain patronising patting of the head done on the part of the old Uncle that really picks my panties.

Regardless of what you think of religion in general, or of Christianity in general, this is an interesting move, politically speaking.

Labels: Bad Mojo, Politics, religion

My friend RJ and I went for lunch together yesterday. I love going for lunch with my friend RJ. In fact, I love doing a lot of things with my friend RJ. And what's cool is that if it hadn't been for my friend AJ, I might never have met my friend RJ. So thanks, AJ, for introducing us!

So RJ and I were finished having lunch (actually, I didn't quite finish the pressed fairy cider, but that's because I was trying to untangle a Ball of Uncooperative Yarn what Bad Cat had tangled...and was secretly (not so secretly) enjoying the look of Great Consternation I was getting from RJ who gets so uptight when she knits that she breaks the needles. Or so I've heard), we were walking back to where I work so's she could get her own self to work. And it was miserable and sleet was "falling" sideways and the wind was cold and it wasn't at all a nice day like there ought to have been but weren't very many of in summer, and after half a block, I said, "let's walk indoors".

Because when you live in a wind tunnel (I'm fairly certain the Winterpeg folk will back me up on this one) it's really Rather Nice to have a series of warrens and burrows indoors that you can follow from point A (place what serves pressed fairy cider) to point B (place what pays you money to read books). So kudos to The City, who allowed contractors to build buildings with lovely connecting bits. Anyway, on the way to the connecting bits, which sounds vaguely naughty but really isn't, I saw A Sign.

First, before I get to that Sign, I need to tell you something.

You know when you're walking through a department store and first, there's all the womens' clothing that looks like some poor geriatric cat was fed day-glo kibble before being shoved in a paint mixer inside a cement truck...and then, when you're done with that ocular feast, you usually walk through one of the 'specialty' sections (Fat Broads, Short Chicks, Really Really Old Farts), and then, eventually, you are faced with a full-frontal assault on every single sense at once? You know how that happens? That happens when you walk from the *outside* doors to the *inside* doors. What happens when you walk through the mall and enter the department store from the *inside*?

I'll tell you.

First, it's the visual cortex that dies the little death. There are shiny things, and sparkly things, and colourful things (and often, you can just see past the mall entrance to the geriatric cat/day-glo kibble/paint mixer/cement truck section). Sometimes, there are moving things. Sometimes, they even have Made Up Ladies hovering about talking about Very Important Things with other Made Up Ladies. Your best bet here is to stare very hard at the floor and hope you don't end up in the Hideous Scarves section. I've heard Sir Edmund Hillary actually died in the Hideous Scarves Section in the 80s, and not on Mount Everest as had previously been suspected.

Next, the aural centres shrivel and die. This is because anytime from November to January, the department store is playing the Christmas carol. There really is only one Christmas carol that department stores are allowed to play. It starts out with "O", and it never, ever ends. For THREE MONTHS. If you happen to be in the department store when there is no Christmas carol playing, you will hear the loudspeaker, which is always calling Missus Somebody to Somewhere. I suspect this is where they send the Really Bad Angels to re-train them for the Trump and Call.

While your visual cortex and aural centres are dying, the skin on your hands and face, and any other exposed area, is actually in the process of flaking off *all at once*. In one big, huge, chunk. As you enter the department store, it makes an audible 'thud' as it falls off. Cue the Made-Up Ladies.

And, finally, your sense of smell, and taste, simultaneously, are annihilated by the Horrendous Stench caused by all kinds of tinctures, balms, eaux-des-toilettes (seriously. TOILET WATER? Gross), perfumes, colognes, creams, and cure-alls. It is the depleted uranium of the cosmetic industry, except rather than killing you slowly with radiation, it kind of causes everything you've ever eaten and every breath you've ever taken to immediately vie for top billing somewhere around your larynx. It is most decidedly Not Pleasant, and I dislike it Very Much. In fact, if you know someone with a flame thrower, or some kind of mortar or shells, or even a tank...I'll settle for a tank...please have them immediately eradicate the cosmetics section of the department store.

This brings me to my point.

RJ and I had managed to survive the majority of the Cosmetics section, and I was, to be honest, kind of sprinting through, when I saw this sign. This sign had pictures of tinctures and balms and sparkly things and eaux-des-toilettes, and the Big Lettering on the sign said this:

FREEDOM TO CHOOSE

And I thought, What the fuck? I mean, please excuse my language here, but really, what the fuck? I thought, Germaine Greer, and Gloria Steinem, what would you think if you saw this? What would you think if you saw the words we most often associate with equal rights and reproductive freedom emblazoned across an advertisement for face-paint and perfume? When did 'freedom to choose' move from the anti-censorship movement over to the cosmetics department at the department store? When the hell did Roe v. Wade get reduced from the right a woman has to choose what happens to her own body, to a catchy jingle selling cubic bloody zirconias and cheap lipstick? Isn't it bad enough that women are pressured to look younger, thinner, better than they did at 20? At 16? Isn't it bad enough that we, as a society are pressured to buy, to consume, to HAVE? But now this? Now, you take a statement that is so full of meaning, so pregnant with important ideas, and you reduce it to materialistic prattle? 

What does "freedom to choose" mean to you? Does it mean you get to decide which watch to wear with that eyeliner, or does it mean you have the right to read whatever you want, whenever you want, wherever you want? Does it mean you can mix and match your earrings with your perfume, or does it mean you have the RIGHT to decide to have an abortion - that nobody else gets to make that decision but you? Does it mean you can pick a toner shade from this pile and a nail file from that pile and put them together for an all-in-one beauty care package, or does it mean that you have RIGHTS enshrined in law that make you a *person*?


Rousseau held that freedom is inherent to humanity; it's what you get for being self-aware. The Greeks differentiated between inner freedom (freedom from anger, fear, and lust) and external freedom (conquest over enemies). Philosophers have long discussed the difference between "freedom from" and "freedom to".  And I guess being able to pair stinkfume with skin poison is one of those 'free choices' you have...but what an utter insult to the very idea of freedom.

My friend Smarty Pants will probably say (as he does when I go on tears about things), "so what do you do to change it?"

Well, my opinion is to rip the bloody thing down. Anyone interested in a downtown flash mob to take back our freedom?

Labels: Bad Mojo, equal rights, women

Tonight, I found a picture
of a rocket ship from grade two.
I worked really hard on this
was written at the bottom.

This was the rocket ship
we were going to paint on his bedroom wall, but
my hands were full with the new baby
and then there was always more work
things got ...faster, somehow.
I could make excuses all night
and all day and for the rest of time,
but that will never be enough.
How long would it have taken to just paint
a goddamned rocket ship on his wall?
I worked really hard on this

Now I must weigh that question against this one:
How long will it take before he doesn't think
rocket ships are cool anymore,
before he doesn't want me painting anything
on his wall, before he doesn't want me
helping at all?

I need to work really hard on this
and I'm afraid it will be
too late.

Labels: Bad Mojo, kids, The Captain

That September is going to be a crazy, bizarre month with lots of crazy, bizarre things happening. His Nibs and I were in Mexico, and we were staying at the same resort-on-the-sea. This time, though, the second time we'd been for a vacation, there were other folks there who went with us. We'd talked about that after we got back, about how we thought it would be quite a lot of fun to head to Mexico with a few other folks. There were good things and not so good things.

F'rinstance, when you travel with a group, there's always the concern that you have to stay with the group. At least, that's the concern that His Nibs had. We spent most of our time just hanging out at the condos or on the beach, which was fine...going for dinner and drinks...doing a few touristy things...but there's this pressure, you see, that if you want to lie on a beach and read, you'll be somehow being rude to the folks you've been travelling with.

Things like GenCon are great because there's so much to do, no matter what your buddies are doing. But...well...okay, that's a bad example, because there are always lots of things to do when you're Away. The trick is, you have to be willing to go off and do something on your own. Yours Truly is pretty used to doing things on her own, and so it's not such a big deal to split from the group and sleep on the beach all day. I don't think I insulted anyone, but it's difficult to know.

So anyway, I kind of decided to split from the group and hang out on the beach all day (have I mentioned how much I love beaches?), and then go for a walk in town. But when I went for a walk in town, I was suddenly reminded of the UofS campus. Mostly because that's where I was. It seems I'd decided to take a few classes, and the UofS handily had become some kind of centralised location with transporter or portal that Very Few People knew about (like, His Nibs and I and two of the four people we were with. Maybe it's only UofS alumni who can use the portal.

But, as often happens, the campus was wonky. Nothing was where it was supposed to be. In fact, it was really more like the University of Manitoba, which is a gorgeous campus. I was toodling around in the religious studies department, and found a Strange Thing - some windows built into a hill that looked in on a hall in the building. Cool, actually. I wondered if those were some of the tunnels.

Around the back (or front?) of the building, I remembered a dream I'd had where I'd spoken to someone who'd worked on the landscaping. He'd told me that there were religious symbols on every brick in the walk, religious imagery in every tree and shrub planted, and even the design of the path was in fact part of a mandala that could only be seen from the third-floor landing. I took note of the bricks; I was trying to figure out what symbols were on which bricks and what religious tradition they originated from. Then I heard shouting.

Glancing up, I saw a huge grey dog loping toward the Administration building. Someone screamed. I jogged up the steps and realised it wasn't a dog at all. it was a wolf. I ran across the lawn, to the landing in front of the building. Women were screaming as the wolf tore around the campus and sniffed and growled and bared its teeth. I stood on the concrete landing, watching. The wolf approached. A girl who used to date a good friend of mine told me to stay calm, that the animal protection people were coming. But the wolf wasn't aggressive, just determined.

I touched its shoulder. It turned around, licked my hand, whined, then put its paw in my hand. It looked at me with green and yellow eyes. Then, as strangely as it had come, it loped off again toward the field house.

I looked around, saw frightened and astonished faces. Suddenly, I was on the patio of the pub, and Neuba was there, and I knelt down beside her and sobbed, because I knew what the wolf had said to me. He'd come to tell me that His Nibs was dead. My phone rang, but I wouldn't answer it. I knelt there on the patio, and let Neuba hold me, because even had I wanted to, I could not do anything else.

Didn't much like this dream, to be honest. Nothing like waking up sobbing to set the tone for a day.

Labels: Bad Mojo, dreams, His Nibs

This.

THIS is the day I'm very, VERY upset at having lost three years' worth of videos and photos. The kids and I cleaned out some toyboxes, and I packed up some baby toys. These are not the ones for the giveaway bin; these are the ones for the 'keeping forever' bin.

**sigh**

I'm really not good at this.

So then I was looking through bins down in the basement to see if we had a spare one for the keeping forever baby toys, and I found the bin of keeping forever baby clothes. That still smell like my babies. Who are no longer babies.

It's happening too fast. Too damned fast.

Look, I was built for the first part; pregnancy, labour, wee little sprogs. Nursing and swaddling and diapering and carrying-in-a-sling. I'm good with toddling and holding hands and singing songs and kisses and cuddles. I'm *very* good with kisses and cuddles, in fact. I'm good with staring into wide eyes, watching for smiles, listening for little coos and whimpers and watching for sign language. I'm built for protecting these little critters, and holding them.

Not so good with putting away the little clothes and little toys and memories. Really, really not so good with that.

I know what you're going to say. You're going to say - learn to love watching them grow. Learn to love helping them become the people they will become. There are joys at every age. Think of how proud you're going to be when...

Yeah.

Bullshit.

I mean, sure I'm going to be proud. Of *course* I love watching how they change and grow. But this really, really hurts. I really don't like it. For all that I natter on about embracing change and marvelling at the newness of the world every day, I HATE this change. They're changing too fast, and I am changing not at all. Their worlds are exploding outward, rushing forward, while mine is growing smaller, spiralling ever quicker into its own centre. I can't hold them forever.

And these times, times like this, it is just me, however narcissitic that sounds. But that's how it is - it's just me, because I can't explain...not at all well...how terrified I am that I will never learn to just look forward with joy. How it feels like a million endings, each just as painful as the last. I have lost count of the nights I've passed without sleeping, just sitting with an empty book on my lap, trying to figure out how to write about them, about how I feel about them, about how they have and will continue to change the world. But there are no words for them, because those are their stories, not mine to write.

So I watch them. And I hold them, and cuddle them, and wonder and marvel at their growing independence. But I mourn also; at once knowing there is no greater joy than holding for the first time a new person...knowing I have been blessed twice...and fearing that the mathematical/graphical representation of everything after that point is a descending line. Each new joy is just a little less joyful than the one before it, from the moment you first meet that new person. It's by no means a steep line, but by God, how do you top that?

You don't, and that's the blessing and the curse of being a mum, I think.

To be honest, I'm a little surprised I don't burst into tears every time I look at them. Stupid mixed-up tears of happy and sad.

Labels: Bad Mojo, kids

Watching a documentary called "Painted Babies at 17". It's about these young women who were in 'beauty' pageants when they were ...well... infants. You know the kind I'm talking about. Parents and grandparents (usually mums and grandmums and aunties) tart up these gorgeous little girls and trot them out on a stage to sing and dance and trained-monkey their way into the "hearts of the people". I'm sure they haven't changed that much - four year old girls doing little waggly-arse dances and singing sexually suggestive songs.

They put enough makeup on these poor kids that they look like really bizarre, crushed-face twenty-five year old women. It makes my heart ache.

If there is a Hell, it is a constant beauty pageant, where you're never pretty enough, never talented enough, you never have a permanent enough fake smile. Someone else always has a nicer dress, sparklier shoes, whiter teeth. I can't imagine all the money that people spend on this shite.

And you know what the parents say? The parents say "oh, she loves it! She wins cars, money, cruises..."

Right. Because a FOUR YEAR OLD needs a CAR.

Oh Christ. One of these girls is singing this song: "I see people working, and it just makes me giggle/I don't have to work; I just have to wiggle, because I'm a blonde! Don't you wish you were me?"* My teeth are grinding. GRINDING, people. **

So let's take a step back and reflect on what these parents are teaching their children - the women who will be ...well, judging from what the young women are saying now, the women who will be married to the men who will be running the country in ten years.

Value 1) Physical looks are paramount. If you have a blemish, you're going to lose.
Value 2) You are more valuable if you can sashay and wiggle.
Value 3) Your appearance will get you everything you need in life.
Value 4) Pretty clothes are more important than free will.
Value 5) The more sparkly crowns you have, and the bigger they are, the better a human being you are.

I've heard people say before that beauty pageants are child abuse. I tend to agree...not just because parents are forcing their daughters to act like sparkly blow-up sex dolls, but because they're teaching them *horrible* things. Sure, you can make the same argument for parents who push their kids into *anything*, whether it's hockey or swimming, or the army. And the minute I see a parent teaching their kids that the better you *look* as a hockey player (snicker), the better you'll do, I'll probably laugh out loud. Yes, it's a little questionable to force or to pressure your children into anything. But seriously. Pressuring your children into this horrific bleached, tanned, manicured, taped, plastic promenade is, frankly, fucking disgusting.

My friends who have girl children are teaching their girls to be strong, intelligent, able women who value justice and morality over gorram false eyelashes. I shudder to think what becomes of these pageant girls as they become women. I shudder to think.

Anyway. I'm screaming inside. What is the matter with people who think this is okay? What's the matter with people who don't see how wrong this is?

No three year old should have to ever wear makeup for any reason. No four year old should have her hair bleached and backcombed and coiffed like that. No five year old should sing those songs or dance like that, and I don't care how many people say that the only people they're performing for are judges and parents. It's disgusting.

Just. Stop.
___
* The full, horrifying lyrics reprinted here, for your viewing displeasure. It does please me that whoever transcribed these lyrics can't actually spell "Blonde":
Because I'm a blonde I don't have to think, I talk like a baby and I never pay for drinks
Don't have to worry if I'm getting a man if I keep this blonde and I keep these tan
Cause I'm a blonde yeah, yeah, yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah

I see people working and it just makes me giggle,
cause I don't have to work, I just have to wiggle
Cause I'm a blonde B-L-O-N-D
Cause I'm a blond don't you wish you were me?

I never learned to read and I never learned to cook
Why should I bother when I look like I look?
I know lots of people are smarter than me, but I have this philosophy, "So what?"
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah

I see girls without dates and I feel so sorry for them cause whenever
I'm around, all the men ignore 'em
Cause I'm a blonde nyah nyah nyah
Cause I'm a blonde nyah nyah nyah

They say to make it you need talent and ambition, well I got a tv show, and this is my audition;
Umm. . . okay. . . what was it?. . . ummm don't tell me. . . oh, yeah, okay "Duck Magnum, duck!"
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah

I took an IQ test and I flunked it of course, I can't spell BW but I got a Porsche
Cause I'm a blonde B-L-I-N-D
Cause I'm a blonde don't you wish you were me?

I just want to say that being chosen as this month's Miss August is
like a compliment I'll remember for as long as I can.
Right now I'm a freshman in my fourth year at UCLA but my goal is
to become a veterinarian cause I love children
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah

Girls think I'm snotty and maybe its true
With my hair and body, you would be too
Cause I'm a blonde B-L- . . . I don't know!

Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah
Cause I'm a blonde yeah yeah yeah!

**As God is my witness, if I ever hear anyone singing this song in anything other than a disgusted or mocking tone, I'm going to break some teeth. Not my own.

Labels: Bad Mojo, just wrong, kids

The night is warm, but the wind is cool. I stand in the centre of a field of summerfallow. Above me, the stars glint and shimmer. Below me, the earth is solid and warm. The soil in the fallow rows is loose and soft as my sandals sink down into it. The soil covers the tops of my feet.

Across the field, far out into the darkness, I hear a coyote yip. It is answered by another, further off away from the river. They sing back and forth, and their song is solitary, even though there are two...solitary and mournful. Their song is a song to the changing face of the moon; they wonder why their grandmother's face is covered by a veil, but she cannot answer them tonight for she is watching the sea.

Sometimes, this comforts me, this darkness, these stars, this moon, the coyotes, the earth, and the wind. Tonight, I reach for my grandmother's wisdom. I reach out my fingers, and try to touch her strength. My fingers play lightly through the heavy air, but her strength is not there. I say to my mother, who hears everything now, "Please. Please, I need you now."

My voice rolls over and over across the field.

This is where you have left me, my heart full of dust, my ribs dry stalks of wheat. I don't know why I remain standing, why I do not topple to the warm soil, my fingers becoming the earth for next year's crop. But I do not. Something keeps me standing.

I hear your voice, as if through molasses. Your words are sharp, abrupt. You judge me. I falter. You judge me. I wither. You judge me. I fall.

Grandmother moon glances down.

Where do I go from here?

Labels: Bad Mojo, dirt in your eye, Lowering standards, ring made from a spoon

You know, I just don't know what to say.

I'm trying my best to think of something witty, and the best I can come up with is a joke about poop. Granted, jokes about poop are pretty funny, but I wouldn't say they're 'witty'.

In fact, I'm feeling kind of weird. It's a strange, apprehensive feeling that something Bad is going to happen.

I don't like it.

Labels: Bad Mojo