centre of the universe - the dreaming

I was driving these crazy mountain roads, the kind that are little more than one lane, with switchbacks and hairpin turns, and heavy tree cover and sometimes you wonder if there isn't just going to be a landslide. We'd gone to some kind of mountainous terrain to research the rugged Western Canadian Mountain's propensity for vicious attacks on unsuspecting tourists - just a few weeks ago, a hapless hiker had been dashed to smithereens when one of the wild Mountains shook him from his foothold on a small hiking path.

SMITHEREENS.

It wasn't that long ago that an entire portion of one of the great Western Canadian Mountains attacked an entire village of unsuspecting people. It just up and fell over right on top of them. No warning (except from the Aboriginal Elders, who called that particular range : the mountains that move), just whup! up in the middle of the night and jumped all over a hapless village. Go ahead and pooh-pooh. The evidence is STILL THERE.

Anyway, we'd been attempting to research these vicious Mountains. On our way back, it appeared that wherever we stopped to camp, there were people there we knew. On one such stop, my friend David was there. Strangely, a number of our friends were there as it appears we'd contacted them all ahead of time to let them know we'd be camping and throwing a camping party. The strange thing about this was that we didn't know until after someone explained it to us that we'd done that.

I figured it out, though. It's very simple when you think about it. We'd *already* camped at that site, on that day. Sometime in the future, I, or His Nibs, had travelled back into the past to alert all our friends that we would be there on that day, at that time. Of course, future us could not talk to past us, because of the horrible things that does to the space-time continuum (evidence: Star Trek, Superman, Back to the Future I, II, and III, and this version of Hamlet I read in a comic shop once). So the party itself was a surprise. Which was nice, and unexpected!

Anyway, David approached me and said, "I have a gift for you in the car!"
And I said, "A gift!?"
And he said, "In the car!"
"In the car!?"
"A gift!" he exclaimed. This conversation went on for rather longer than it probably ought to have, but it was terribly entertaining. Eventually, David went to his car and returned with a little piece of PVC tubing with some shoots growing out of it. I stared at it. I stared at David. I stared at the PVC tubing with some shoots growing out of it. I stared at David. I repeated these two things a few times more. Then I said
"David?"
And he said, "Yes?"
And I said, "Did you just give me weed?"
"Yes!" he exclaimed.
"Hydroponically growing weed?"
"Yes!"
"Little baby dope plants, growing in PVC tubing?"
"Yes! I've decided that I'd rather have fresh herbs all year, and so I've set up this hydroponic greenhouse in my basement."
"David?" I asked, "Are you seriously growing a basement full of weed?"
And he said, "No! That's just for you! Most of what's in my basement is basil, oregano, rosemary...I have some lovely tomatoes, though. You should come and see. Oh, and the chives are DELICIOUS..."

David went on talking about his hydroponics grow op while I stared at the little marijuana plants he'd just handed me. My ears quit listening, and I shook my head, but then terrible, wonderful Ideas came to me as I watched my baby reefer reaching for the sun.

Labels: dreams

So a Long Time Ago, Smarty Pants asked me if I'd write something for his blog. So I did.

Then, slightly less long ago, he asked again if I'd write something for his blog. And I've been trying. I really have been.

I blame Facebook.

And judge shows.

And, um. other stuff.

Because I have no idea what to write or where to start.

Labels: excuses

Endometriosis is a condition where the endometrial (uterine) tissue thickens and grows in places it's not supposed to. Generally, this occurs on the outside of the uterus rather than on the inside, but endometrial cells will travel through a woman's entire body. In a woman unaffected by Endometriosis, the cells will thicken, and, provided she is not pregnant, will slough off the lining of the uterine walls and pass these cells out of the body in the process known as menstruation. The process does continue, however, in a woman who has endometriosis; endometrial tissue responds to changes in a woman's hormone levels - when her body tells her to menstruate, she does.

And if that endometrial tissue has lodged in her abdominal cavity or in her lungs, it bleeds. It can form lesions, cysts, and many other complications (including vertigo!).

It is estimated that as many as 1 in 10 women suffer from endometriosis. The World Endometriosis Research Foundation was established only in 2006, which is a little late to the gate, I think. Better late than never, though. But I'm ahead of myself....*ahem*...as many as 1 in 10 women suffer from endometriosis. It can cause a variety of symptoms, from intense cramping and extremely heavy (even constant) blood flow, extreme pain, bloating, painful intercourse, nausea, vomiting (usually related to the pain), painful or frequent urination or bowel movements, lowered fertility, and can even create susceptibility to other diseases, including some kinds of cancer.

In the past five years, I have known more than ten women who have been suffering from endometriosis for five years or more. They sometimes bleed constantly; they often have to miss work, or cannot work. They have left or stalled their educations, their careers, and their families because they bleed so heavily for two weeks a month that they cannot leave their homes, or they are in so much pain they cannot work...and chronic pain is one thing that can lead to, among other things, depression. These women are not only in constant pain, worry, and an ill state of health, but they are coddled, or their conditions are pooh-poohed by the medical profession.

This is what really burns me up. Okay, no, this is the *second* of two things that really burn me up. I'll get back to it. If I don't, remind me.

The first thing that really burns me up is that the first time young women hear about endometriosis is when they've already been through fifteen years of hell. This is something that should be **mandatory instruction** in health class for girls AND boys. ONE IN TEN WOMEN have endometriosis. Ten percent of the female population. That's a hell of a lot of pain and bleeding. Why is Health Class not about health anymore? Why is it all about drug awareness and how to put condoms on bananas and how to wash your hands, but nobody talks about things like the clitoris and circumcision and endometriosis and prostate cancer? Why is it not preventative? Not that it's BAD to talk about drug awareness and how to put condoms on bananas and how to wash your hands. But what health class you were ever in told girls to pee after having sex to reduce the risk of a bladder infection?

What health class talked about yeast infections and what causes them and how to get rid of them and what happens if you have sex when you have one and the fact that boys can get yeast infections too. Or bacterial vaginitis? Or testicular hernias? Sure, we all saw pictures of pubic lice, and we oooohed and aaaaahed and 'oh GROSS'ed, but who mentioned anything about HPV (genital warts, for those of you who don't know it yet) actually being one of the leading causes of cervical cancer? (And, as an aside, can you believe there are people who don't think girls should have the *option* of being vaccinated against it?)

Now, on to the second thing that really burns me up.

I don't know what it's like to be a man, obviously. I've never had to go to the doctor and 'turn my head and cough' while someone gently cups my nutsack. And maybe this is just as bad for men; I don't know. Young women go to the doctor complaining of cramps and bloating and painful bowel movements, and do you know what they're told? "That's normal."

It is NOT normal. If you eat a healthy, balanced diet and get lots of exercise and plenty of fluids, you should really not be having incapacitating cramps, heavy bleeding, and painful bowel movements. If your hormone levels are where they should be, your periods should not last for two or three weeks. They should not be irregular and debilitating.

But this isn't the worst. It really isn't. Once you've been seeing doctors for years, going over and over and over and over these horrible symptoms...once you've been prescribed painkillers and antidepressants and hormone replacements and The Pill and 'just rest'...once you've been through this for five, ten, fifteen, thirty years, and once the doctors figure out you might have endometriosis, do you know what happens?

Usually, dick all. Because the only test that currently completely confirms whether you have endometriosis is a laproscopic surgery, you get put on a waiting list. I knew a woman who was on that waiting list for three years. Just for the *diagnostic* procedure. She'd already had kids, and just asked for a hysterectomy in the beginning. And the doctor refused; said absolutely not because she was too young (mid thirties) and didn't understand the implications of an hysterectomy. So she waited, in excruciating pain, lost two jobs because she could only work two weeks out of every month, just to have the laproscopic surgery, where they told her she had endometriosis and they had to schedule a hysterectomy, for which she had to wait another nine months!

It's effing bloody ridiculous.

It's pretty difficult for me to imagine that if there is technology that lets you see the zits on an unborn baby's backside in utero, it can't somehow be used to help diagnose endometriosis. Or if you can see a mitochondrial fart in an MRI or PET scan, you can't see endometriosis. Or if you can detect West Nile Virus from a hobo's blood sample, some kind of biopsy or blood test can't be figured out to see if there is endometrial tissue where it oughtn't be.

Now, the World Endometriosis Society helps to host the World Congress on Endometriosis every year (there have been ten), and that's good news. And there is some research that indicates that some of the rise in Endometriosis rates could be environmentally linked. That kind of research is difficult, though, because the fact remains that womens' reproductive health is still somewhat taboo. I'll save my rant about how pissed off I get when people get 'grossed out' over menstrual products or how cheesed I am that some putz is making so much money off of douche and 'scented wipes'. The bottom line, if you'll pardon a bit of a pun there, is that since women's reproductive health has not really been taken seriously since the 'riddance' of community midwives, it's difficult to get accurate records. In 1962, a woman with endometriosis probably would just have been prescribed valium and possibly might have been assessed for 'neuroses'.

In the 1970s, she would have been given MASSIVE amounts of estrogen and progesterone to most likely stop her periods altogether (there's another rant about 'birth control' that stops a woman's cycles for three months). It's just really difficult to tell how long women have been suffering from this condition in these numbers.

There are several herbs, by the way, that can be used as uterine tonics. The safest is red raspberry leaves. Make a tea with the loose leaves. Of course, you should check with your doctor or midwife before you begin taking any herbal medicines.

But anyway, this has been making me peevish for the last few days. I want more money, time, and effort devoted to simple things like educating young girls about their bodies and about what conditions are common out there (and I consider 1 in 10 to be pretty bloody common), and to finding better ways of diagnosing reproductive health issues. Okay, GO!

Labels: health, rants, women

I talk about her a lot, I know. She was, and is, a huge influence in my life.

My grandmother planted a garden every year. It was small by the standards of other folks in the town, but she was only feeding three. She planted lettuce, peas, corn, potatoes (LOTS of potatoes), onions, beets, radishes, beans (I always hated their sticky, furry feel; they always seemed to pull at your fingers), spinach, carrots, cabbage, and some other stuff that rotated from year to year. Her garden was behind the house, behind the hedge, next to Grandpa's workshop (a dark, oily-smelling mysterious place full of old license plates, rusted tools, a few hidden bottles, tins of tobacco, and log books full of flowing, spidery script written in pencil), between the granaries and the neighbour's burning bin. Together, we weeded that garden (I pulled out more than a few of my share of beets and radishes), we took the hoe to it. We watered it after the blistering sun had passed its zenith, leaving waves of chattery grasshoppers, popping caragana pods, and the smell of burnt grass in its wake.

When she talked, sometimes her teeth clattered where they oughtn't have; I didn't know until many years later that many people with ill-fitting dentures spoke that way. I thought it was only my Nama. Together, when the sun was at its most hot, we made pastry, washed berries, and shelled peas. Together we sorted laundry, folded towels and sheets, and changed the linens on the beds. Together we scrubbed the bathroom, vacuumed the floor, and swept the stairs. Together we made sandwiches for the men in the field, made iced tea for them, and together we rode out, she sitting on a phone book in the driver's seat, me holding the iced tea on my lap.

In the field, the soil tossed itself about on the breath of the wind. Dry, dry, dry. The newly-swathed rows of wheat would stab into my ankles. Nama would lay out a thick denim quilt between the swaths, and we'd lay out the potatoes, the beans, and the roast. The iced tea, we put on the tailgate, along with a basket full of plates and cups and cutlery.

The meals we had in the field were always special. They were my favourite. I got to drive the swather, or the combine. I got to sit on my grandfather's lap, and he'd tell me how to steer. How to gauge where the header would catch the standing wheat. Or I'd sit with my uncle, as my grandfather had a little nip or two. My uncle, more like a big brother than like an uncle, would tell me how much bread would be made from the wheat I was cutting. He would point to the sky and show me how to tell the difference between hail and rain on the horizon. Or he would just sit back, let me drive, and he would sing.

We'd get back to the truck, and the meal would be packed up, and I would jump down from the tractor and slide in beside my Nama.

Then, at night, the men would come in. Nama always let me stay up until they came in. It didn't matter if it was ten, or midnight, or two - she would wake me up and bring me out to the kitchen and we would serve the men a late-night sandwich lunch. I loved the smell of diesel and dust that came in with the men. I loved the look of their work boots, lined up at the door; their gloves, laid gently on top of the boots. I loved the look of their sock feet, under the table...revealed and somewhat bashful, it always seemed to me.

These are some things I remember in August.

Labels: harvest, Nama, remembery, summer

1. Canadian Movies - especially old ones.
2. Symphony Orchestras
3. Bow Ties
4. The Rolled 'R' Song, as composed by The Nipper
5. T'under and lightnin'

Labels: 365 Days of Grace

I did not know most of the other girls I went to junior high school with; at least, not very well. I knew who most of them were, but the pretty ones intimidated me terribly, and the cute ones made me feel inadequate. The butch ones made me roll my eyes and the metal/hair band girls wore far too much spandex for my comfort level. I didn't understand what made the popular girls popular, and so just figured that was one aspect of junior high school I would never experience.

Once, I was the treasurer of our Intramurals "house". Our "Houses" were named after Greek things: Poseidon, Achilles, Concordia, and Icarus. Poseidon's colour was red; Achilles' was blue; Concordia's was green; and Icarus had a slightly jaundiced yellow. I didn't know what it meant to be the treasurer of my Intramurals "House" (I was in Concordia). In fact, I didn't know what it meant to be a lowerclassman in the "House senate" at all. We had this meeting in which I was very excited to be included, until John (the junior vice president) glared at me and said: "we don't *need* a treasurer. You should just leave."

I did leave. Turns out he meant "we'd prefer someone else". I figured I'd done something wrong, but never figured out what it was. Good God, 13 is awkward. It'd be really nice, I think, if we could just kind of erase the ages of 13 and 14. Blech.

Another thing that was very 1960s of my junior high school was that everything was gender-segregated (which I think is a good idea in junior high, except for this next bit). Even the lunchrooms. Boys ate in one lunchroom, and girls in another. The girls' lunch room was on the second floor of the school, and it got bright midday sun, regardless of the season.

There was this one girl; she was cute as a button. Seriously. Until I met her, I never understood what the phrase "button nose" meant. "Cute as a button" meant someone like her. She had long, dark, curly hair, and big bright blue eyes. She was short, and thin, and had a delicate, soft voice.

Once, in the middle of lunch, she stood up and said, "oh dear," only her voice was so quiet only a couple of people heard her - I was sitting at the desk right beside her, and I happened to glance over in time to see her eyes roll back in her head as she collapsed to the floor. She began flopping all over the place, spit and foam flying from her mouth. Some twit screamed. Some other twit started to cry. One of the cute girl's pretty friends knelt down and just held the cute girl's hand.

"Oh God, is she DYING!?" someone screamed.
"Gross!" someone else hollered.
"Sit down and shut up!" the pretty girl shouted back. "She's EPILEPTIC, not *contagious*."
"Put your wallet in her mouth!"
"Hold her head down!"
"She's going to bite off her own tongue and swallow it and die!"
The pretty girl glared. She looked up at me. "Is there anything I can do?" I asked.
The pretty girl's eyes softened, and she smiled. "She's really tired when she wakes up, and she'll have to sleep. I'll sit with her if you can go tell the principal to call her parents."
"Okay", I said, crimpling up the sandwich bag into my lunch kit.
"Hey," the pretty girl said. I looked over. "Thanks," she said.
"Most of these people are idiots," I answered. "But you can't really blame them. They probably think books cause mono."

I'd never seen someone have a seizure before. I ran to the staff room, knocked twice and opened the door. I understood about the sacred sanctum a staff room is in schools; I'd been in many as 'teacher's kid'. "Excuse me," I said. "So-and-so is having an epileptic seizure and will need you to call her parents, please, Mr. Scary."

"WHAT!!??" Three teachers exclaimed, jumping to their feet.
"It's nothing to worry about," I said. "Such-and-such is with her. She'll be fine, but needs her parents."
Mr. Scary looked a little shell shocked. I turned to Mr. L. "Mr. L, will you please call her parents?"

Panic is a funny, funny thing.

Labels: panic

I happened to glance out the window this morning as I woke.
Clouds, like tufts of soap bubbles, dotted the mountainside.
Even mountains get bedhead, I thought.
To the east, clouds embrace everything above the blue tin roofs at the ranch
just visible through the spruce across the river.
I could believe there was nothing behind them, nothing inside that ephemeral touch.
I could believe this was a valley in Scotland
(even though I've never been in a valley in Scotland)
but that's dangerous.
I hear out in these parts, they giggle at you if you let your brogue show.

Labels: mountains, poems, summer, vacation

His Nibs and his "Sinister", as he calls her, took me 'gophing' (The Nipper for two years referred to golfers as 'gophers', which quite confused many people for a bit) yesterday. I rather enjoy gophing. But here's the thing - I don't give a fiddler's fart whether there are people behind me - if they're faster than me they can skip ahead of me (they call this "playing through", don't you know). I don't much care what you're supposed to wear or not wear. I don't really care about all that 'gentlemenly' business.

So this means I get to save rather a lot of money by *not* playing on courses where these things matter.

His Nibs can be somewhat ...insistent... that, even on little par-three courses where, according to the really good gophers around here, that kind of stuff doesn't matter, we follow The Rules. Rules, I say, rules are suggestions, really. People don't *actually* care if you wear sandals on this course. People don't *actually* care if your Sinister and I share a set of clubs. Besides, knowing the way your Sinister gophs, she'll probably hit anyone from the staff with a ball, so we have nothing to worry about.

"Be nice," His Nibs says.

"No, she's right," his Sinister says. "Last time I was here, I think I just about hit someone on every hole."

"And you hit every tree on the course!" I say helpfully to His Nibs.

His Nibs sighs *meaningfully* and begins some crazy stretching thing.

But here's the deal - it's terribly fun. When it doesn't matter, it's terribly fun. His Nibs said, "should we keep score?"

And I said, "the only person who's going to be bothered by the score you keep is you, so it's probably a Bad Idea for your own enjoyment of the morning."

We don't keep score. Fun should not include arithmetic and figurin'.

Here, I have to say to Sean-by-the-Sea, "You told me so. And you were right."

Gophing. Huh. Who knew?

Labels: gophers, mountains, summer, vacation

It is morally wrong, I say...
...It is wrong, morally, I correct myself.
Morally speaking, I begin...
how can someone be 'morally speaking'? Really. Either you've a set of moral behaviours that you adhere to all the time, in which case you are *always* 'morally speaking', or you do not have a set of moral behaviours that you adhere to, in which case you are 'amorally speaking'. OR, I continue, you have a set of *immoral* behaviours to which you adhere, in which case you are 'IMmorally speaking'. Like, all the time.

There is a pause. I realise, people are staring at me.

I'm just saying, I say. I'm just saying that you can't really start a declaration of judgement, from a morals point of view, by saying "Morally speaking". I mean, you *can*, but it's not really accurate, so you *shouldn't*.

The pause is still there. It's waiting like the first after-dinner fart that no one wants to let go. The pause shifts uncomfortably in its chair.

It's just that, someone else says, glancing furtively around the room. It's just that I think no one here...I mean, I don't presume to speak for *everyone*...

Oh, but you *do*, someone else says.

Thank you, the first person says. Not the first person as in the narrator...I mean, I don't mean the first person narrator says "Thank you". I mean the first person who spoke up after that great uncomfortable pause. That person speaks again, and says, Thank you. What I *meant* to say...that is, what I was going to say before...well, it's just that I don't think anyone...

Knows what you're talking about, the second speaker says.

Well, I should think that's obvious, I say. I'm talking about how it's inaccurate to say "Morally speaking" when what you really mean to say is something like "from the standpoint of an argument in which a particular moral position is to be considered". Or something.

Well, someone else says. This is someone completely separate from the first two someones, neither of whom are the narrator, first OR second. But I think the issue is that no one is really sure where that statement *came* from.

It came from me! I exclaim. I'm *very* good at dispelling confusion.

Er, said someone. This was the first someone.

Um, said someone else. This was the third someone.

You see, the second someone said, it's just that...well...we're not really sure what *sparked* that statement. Its...

Genesis? I asked.

Yes, its genesis. Exactly! Said the second person.

Is that important? I asked.

Again, a pause filled the room. I suspect it had been at the berries and cream, which would explain how it grew so large so fast.

I mean, is it important where the statement came from? What its genesis might have been? The statement is true regardless.

At this point, everyone else in the room stared blankly at me for some time, then each of them, each of them **to a man/woman/child** began a spontaneous conversation with the person to his/her immediate left.

Coincidence? I think not.

Labels: fire sinks, ring made from a spoon, stories

For mountains to fall on my head. Smoky, misty mountains with a hatred and a vengeance for prairie folk. Stupid mountains.

But it's *really nice* here. Like, there's *sun* and it's more than 22 degrees, and there's no wind, and and and and no frost, and stuff is *growing* because it's *hot*...so...well...I'm conflicted. It's *summer* here. I suspect what it is is this - I suspect it's some kind of lure the mountains are using to lull us in to the nest of the Mountain's evil.

Then, when we least expect it, after we're all lethargic and flooby from eating all of Gramma's awesome food and drinking rum and lying out in the sun all day, **BOOM**!! the mountains are on your head.

And there's no *helmet* you can wear to save your delicate, delicate brain from a MOUNTAIN FALLING ON YOUR HEAD. I mean, sure, you can survive a direct plummet from a tree, but you can't just walk away from a direct hit from a mountain. It's just not possible. Ask those folks in Pompeii.

Okay, yes, technically, Pompeii was a volcano, not a mountain, but the end result was that a mountain fell on their heads after it 'sploded out of a volcano. Thankfully, there aren't a *whole* lot of active volcanoes in the Rockies. That I know about.

More DECEPTION! More LURING! There ought to be a law.

Labels: mountains, vacation

Have I mentioned I'm not good at leaving?

I'm not good at leaving. Good at packing. Good at *being* gone. But it's that transition...maybe that's it; maybe I'm just not good at transitions.

So I get all crotchety and grumpy and generally unable to sleep well and kind of avoidy. Which doesn't at all help when things need to be Planned and Done. I'm more the "Oh jeez, I should have brought ---" type rather than the boy scout "Thank God I brought ---!" type. In fact, I would have failed the 'being prepared' test, but I would have aced the 'making do' test.

I wonder what the "making do" badge would look like. Maybe it would have a picture of MacGuyver on it. That's what *I* would do if I were designing a "make do" badge. And for those people who were around before MacGuyver, their "make do" badges would have, maybe, a piece of binder twine and a twist tie on it.

And if someone were to sneak in to my house and clean it, top to bottom, and organdize it, bottom to top, I would be ever so greatful. Grateful. Graitful. Appreciative. I might even be convinced to bake for them. Sadly, i'm pretty sure that His Nibs would Not Be Okay with this plan.

It also doesn't help that we're travelling to a place that, in general, I don't much like. Specifically, I quite enjoy the people we're going to see. In fact, I love them dearly. I love their house and their friends and staying with them. But, truth be told, not real fond of the geographical location. So, put all those things together, and I have what is known colloquially as 'travel-jeebies'.

Travel-jeebies is a known medical condition that involves anxiety, sore achey muscles, short temper, headache, and any kind of phantom pain you can come up with. I have a throbby thing going on in my side, in fact.

But I know that once we *get* there, I'll enjoy myself. And I know that I'll enjoy myself *on the way there*. It's just the putting everything in smaller and smaller packages until you have one or two big packages filled with a crapload of smaller packages, and everyone's excited but you, because you'd really rather still be asleep.

So anyway. Leaving tomorrow.

Labels: vacation