I met Alexandria Tucker when I first started working here. I kept hoping that there was some sort of Friday Pub practice, but nothing happened and I never got to know her any better than a nod and a smile in the filing room. I think my first impression of her was pretty accurate though. I have since noticed the large impression she has made on many people. As a result, I wanted to post this:

Support your local trans community by buying a shirt and participating in raising transgender awareness and suicide prevention.

Keenan Pinder will be cycling across Canada this summer in memory of his friend Alexandria Tucker who took her life April 14/05.


The Trans Cycling Odyssey is a tour to raise both transgender awareness and suicide prevention.


Keenan and friends will be stopping in various cities along their routes to give presentation and be on hand for questions.


T-shirts are $20 and go directly into the fund to help Keenan and friends make it across Canada.


Any left over monies will go into a scholarship in Alexandria's name at UVic.


Those students who identify as transgender/transsexual, and have financial need will be eligible for this scholarship.


To find out more about this trip and/or get Keenan's contact info, please check out www.flying trannys.com


T-shirts are being sold on April 3rd from 9-2 in the SUB building (main entrance). Donations are also being accepted at this time.


Come out and show your support.

I've started writing this post over and over again and I figure if I just start typing whatever comes to mind I may actually come away with something. So here I am - writing.

The problem I am having is I'm working out more. I know! I'm one of those "glass half empty" people who seem to find the crappy consequences in whatever I do. You see I get introspective when I exercise and even though there are five television sets in front of the bloody trainers, I still find myself wandering into my life and analyzing the shit out of it.

Even when they are filming the underwater pictures of the Queen of the North.
Even when they are reporting on the daily happenings of TomKat.
Even when old re-runs of Sex in the City are on.

I know!

Lately, it's all been about D.
Last weekend we sat down to watch Sex Traffic. If you haven't seen it, please do - but I should warn you, it's heavy and will stay with you for days and days. I watched it on a Saturday but D went to bed early on in the film. That night, without going into any detail, I dreamt horrible, terrifying things. In the morning I was grumpy and quiet and all I could feel was anger mixed with a strange sense of relief. It was confusing and I didn't talk much all Sunday.

What a movie endorsement, eh?

I'm babbling.

What I'm trying to say was, I was a moody dork with D and Franklin and I should have been celebrating. I have an amazing son and partner and I live in an amazing place in the world. D is one of the smartest and most honest people I know. He is understanding and respectful and we have an amazing life together.
So I'm sorry, D.

I was talking to D about a variety of yoga classes and Franklin had something to contribute - the tree pose. This was taken at preschool. We get little Kodak photo emails every once and awhile so we can see the various stages of development from clean child in the morning to absolutely filthy child by the afternoon.

For a kid with a large head and outdoor gear on, I think this is pretty good. It's a hell of a lot better than I can do in hot yoga when my body is so soaked with sweat that I can't even get a good grip on my foot to bring it up to tadasana.

Speaking of the whole Bikram thing; it's not going to happen. I knew it was a bit of a fad at the moment but holy Moses! It's expensive! I was prepared for about $90.00 a month - only because I really, really love it. However, there is no monthly option here in the land of the insanely rich and I would be required to pay for 6 months up front - there is the option of 4 installments, but it's still not manageable in my world.

So, I’ve joined a gym.
I've joined gyms before and it was successful. There's a drop-in Hatha class I can take, which is what Bikram is taken from so I'll just have to compromise this way. There's also something called "Iron Yoga" - I'm going to reserve judgment on until I take a couple of classes. Yoga with free weights... sounds interesting.

Still, the soft lighting, the heat, the humidity and the calmness is what I'll miss more than the constant reminder that I suck extremely large gopher butt at yoga and anything else to do with stretching in general. Ah well.

Early last week, Franklin and I (okay, mostly I) got so excited about worms and dirt that we (okay, that was also primarily me, again) thought it would be cool to make Compost Art.

We saw this sort of thing while perusing other compost photos on flickr and Franklin (really, it was him!) wanted to make the same picture. I wish I could find it again so I could give credit where credit is due. Really, we didn’t think this up on our own. It was a teacher’s curriculum thing-a-ma-gig.

Anyway, I showed this photo set to a couple of co-workers - partly because I was proud of my budding scientist/artist and partly because the other day I was lamenting that there didn't seem to be any courses to take over the summer and too many people for my comfort told me I can now spend more time with my son.

What the...?

Really now, everyone. Do people actually picture me ignoring the little precious while I slave away at the computer or my text? These bags under my eyes are precisely because I spend every waking minute with my son – those that aren't taken up by work or preschool.

I know, I know... it wasn't meant that way and I should just say,
"Yes! Thanks for that wonderful and thoughtful insight into my personal life!”
But alas, one of those apparently concerned for the well-being of my son is my mother and when in the presence of my mother, I whine and complain. This seems to be my official role (sorry Mom, you are just such a good listener – especially when the phone cuts out and I realize that I’ve been talking to a blank void for 5 minutes).

Another part of me is all up in the,
Look!
Mothers who work do things with their children, too!
It's not all left to the preschool/childcare!
Really!
He’s not an accessory!
Look!
Attentive Mother walking!"

It’s ridiculous because there have been certain events that have taken place the last few weeks that have “Mother” written all over it. I’m clearly a Mother and I realize this. So, why do I care if you know this? I certainly don’t have to justify it to my working co-workers, do I?

Why?
Because mothers are brutal and insecure and as I have a hard time relating to the brutal and insecure, I tend to want to either stomp them with my feet or gain their complete adoration. You see, the world isn’t filled with people like this and while I really really really wish it did, I will continue the stomping and gushing.

First: Bikram Yoga may not have been marketed as Zen as the rest of the yoga fad that's been going on but man oh man will those 90 minutes of sweat kick a gaping hole in your butt. I went at 8:00am this morning, made an ass out of my inflexible and dehydrated self. I then proceeded to be about as non-functional as the lingerie that I "wore" on my wedding night. Yet! I'm addicted! I'd go back tomorrow except the squash addict that lives here seems to have a court booked at the same time as my class.

I'm also up at 12:47am because for some reason I have an insane burst of late energy that makes me want to paint the entire living room and re-design this website in one night.

Bikram Yoga: an insomniac's worst nightmare.

Second: The work bench has yet to be located. The subject is not brought up around here. I may be asking for a new plastic work bench for Mother's Day. We'll see how long mother's guilt can last - I'm betting on a lifetime so why not get this episode over and done with so we can just go on to the next one.

Third: I accidentally logged on to some insane site called hi5 and it rudely emailed everyone in my hotmail address book. I am now extremely embarrassed. I don't mind that people I read and know have answered back, I would have sent an invitation to them if I had the chance to actually choose to do so. However, to all the journalists, commenters I have answered (good and bad) as well as the occasional website designer... oops?

Fourth: Hi Bob. Dinner was great. I think you may have surpassed Franklin's Bob the Builder expectations - and that's tough. Although, he said something to me about how you have gone home to play with Muck and Dizzy so perhaps he's still a little blurry on the whole thing.

Fifth: My right eye lid seems to have an occasional spasm/flicker. Now that I've said that, my Mother will call and tell me to get to an optometrist. Don't worry Ma, it's the blind one so I don't use it anyway. Besides, it keeps the crazy people afraid of me and who needs neighbours? They only ask for things like coffee and butter all the time... oh wait, that's me.

It's a beautiful day. My mother in law tells me they are practically snowed in up in Edmonton and here I am planting broccoli seeds on my patio. I've become a little paranoid of my worm compost ever since hearing other's troubles keeping the little guys alive. I was told that the ideal spot for the container is inside but if you saw the size of our home you would understand why this isn't an option - unless we used it as a coffee table... but there isn't room for a coffee table in here.

I think the guys will just be a little slower right now since it's still a little breezy and when it heats up we'll move them to the front porch. Of course, this means other things from the front porch will have to be moved.

For someone who is absolutely terrified of a clutter, I certainly have my work cut out for me. What you may think is a few pieces of mail become a mountain of paper work in relation to this place. Last week, the toys seemed to be collecting too high for my unhinged minimalist brain and so I collected what I thought was a variety of things Franklin no longer plays with.

Yikes.
What a mistake.
I think I may turn my child into a pack-rat if I keep this up. It will be his ultimate form of rebellion, saving every essay and kinder surprise he has ever created. If he starts to collect the junk mail I will have to ask him to move out.

I took back the work bench. I say "took back" because we got it from Value Village (where 99% of our toys come from) and back to the big V.V. it went. He hadn't played with it for a long time. Honestly! I couldn’t remember the last time he played with it.

What did he want to play with last night?
Yes, the work bench.
He had his construction hat on, his tool belt and suspenders fastened and all the hammers, pliers, calipers and wrenches a guy could wish for stuck in all the right pockets. But where, oh where was the work bench?

Although Franklin is easily distracted like every other kid his age, once he's into something, his power of concentration is a mighty force. There was no substitution for his work bench. The work bench was essential. ESSENTIAL

Mother guilt, anyone?
Jeez.

So, I explained to him that I had made a mistake and that I thought he no longer used the work bench. I told him that I was wrong to not to ask him first and that I would never do that again. He wasn’t in hysterics but the three of us had had a sufficiently horrible enough day that this seemed to be the straw that broke the camel’s back.
Poor camel.

He had the following solution though:
So Mom? You need to go to Value Village and get my work bench back.

Sigh.
So I did. I went back. I was wrong. I wanted to make it right – I wanted at least one bloody thing to go right that day. I trudged back to Value Village and asked the nice lady with a thousand scarves in her hair (just because they are there, do you have o wear them all at once?) if there was a way to retrieve something that had been dropped off last Sunday.

Apparently, this is a common thing.
Apparently, there is someone whose job is actually to deal with this.
I'm so happy I’m not the only tool in the work bench (groan). However, I have to return during the day (later today) and I'm sure this person will be expecting me to ask for a watch, or a leather jacket, or an appliance - not a plastic work bench that has all of its parts missing and legs no longer extend.

This morning, I was going through the toys to find a train part and I asked Franklin if there was anything he'd like to get rid of… perhaps send to Value Village for another child to play with?

My little 45 year old man replied,

“Thanks for asking first, Mom.
We can give them Mike the Milk truck. I don't like his singing.”

This mother thing isn't getting any easier but at least he is well aware I'm not perfect.

Since declaring that I have been sitting less and less at the computer and thus blogging less and less I have had an overwhelming desire to post.

- especially once my mother and other such supportive emails congratulated me on my new life. Just to be clear everyone, I truly did/do have a life even though I tend to write to you on this here blog thing. In fact, the time it takes you to read one of these incredibly asinine posts is about the same amount of time it takes me to barf one up. So, in essence, I spend very little time with you, no matter how pathetically dedicated I may seem.

I feel ashamed.
No, not really.

Once, in the early-ish years of this blog, I emailed Heather Armstrong and asked her how long it takes for her to write each day. I included what I hoped were subtle hints of self-flagellation and a dash of something or another about Utah. I was under the impression that she would only answer me if I was of suitable wit. I now know, given the time, she will answer pretty much anyone - even the witless. Of course, this was pre-Leta.

Answer? It varies.
Wow. I would never have thought. Seriously though, sometimes it takes her 15 minutes whereas sometimes, with the bigger posts, she will rework and edit them until they are as clear as possible. I suppose when you have a hit count of 1000 per minute, you might want to make sure you are being understood.

This is where I remind you that I take very little time to write my posts and most of the time I'm the only one who gets my little jokes and passive aggressive insults. Hey, what is personal publication if not self-indulgent and crappy? You're the one logging into the slide show of my life.

Anyway, all this because I was only prepared to give you a snippet of my life this evening. In fact, lucky you got an extended bit of dribble.

Here lies the snippet:

How was his day?
Well, when I got there his nose was crusted with snot.
Man, that is SO gross.

Franklin, perhaps if I gave you a cloth to keep in your pocket?
You know, to wipe your nose when the mucus starts to run down your lip?

Ummmm, but I like tasting my snot all day.

Oh.
Oh.
Did you hear what I just heard?
Yes, I heard it.

Sweet Jesus.

What did you say, Mom? What's a "sweet jesus"?

Last summer D, Franklin and I were lying in bed talking about... things. Franklin probably said something about wanting a train, or a car or the Golden Gate Bridge. So, as a naturally sarcastic mother, I replied that I wanted a compost and D added that he wanted an ipod.

D got his ipod for Christmas.

As you can see, I am now the happy owner of a worm composter.

Franklin has enough trains.

There used to be a time when I would write here everyday.
Everyday.

Back then; I was glued to my computer. I guess I'm not so glued (and D is more glued) and I tend to go to bed at 10pm. I know, I know, it's unheard of in Ada-land!
However, going to bed a decent hour has transformed me. My skin looks... normal... for a 32-year-old mother. I don't watch crap on television. My assignments are done far ahead of time and I'm writing, writing things that are to be published in print, things I may get paid for, things that require more concentration and less babble.

What else does sleep do for me?
Well, I seem to have an overwhelming urge to skateboard. I don't know where this came from but all of a sudden, my new sense of consciousness has woken the 14 year old inside of me and I want to grab a long board and feel that rush of wind as I carve down the street with a skullcap strapped to my head.

Franklin, as you read this in your sixteen year old distain, you can mark this date as the turning point from when you might have had a mother who was normal (rode a bike with a wicker basket and grew rose bushes) to a mother who skateboards and says, Doooode.

Besides skateboarding, I have a renewed urge to smoke.
I know! Huh?
The only cigarettes in this house are one of two packs of Serbian "smokes" I bought in Belgrade back in, um... 1997? I smoked the first pack and went back to my European staple, Camels. The second pack I thought might be good in a pinch but by the time I rediscovered them I had long since returned to Canada and was not able to stomach North American cigarettes. Now, I can't stand the smell of smoking.
Yet, I illogically want to smoke.

That sounds snotty when I am really just trying to make fun of myself.

I'm reading! For pleasure!
I'm embarrassed that it's an Oprah book but I'm not in that it's an amazing piece of writing.
Night, by Elie Wiesel. Has anyone read this? Has anyone read the first translation? Is there a big difference? I'm having trouble finding a copy of the first publication (for obvious reasons) but I would be interested if anyone who has had the opportunity to read both has an opinion on the differences.

Most importantly, I've got the time now to spend a couple of lunch hours with Franklin at preschool. Today I stayed as he fell asleep after lunch and it would have been sweet and dear and oh so loving had it not been so weird and funny. I'm not a childcare worker so I was not prepared for the show that a gathering of 3 and 4 years put on as they drift off to sleep. There they are, all cozy on their mats with their sheets and their blankets and their various stuffies. There's a story being read about fairies and whatever. After the story is done, some extremely relaxing choir music is playing softly in the background. By Jove, even with the stupendous amount of hours of sleep I've been accumulating, I wanted to curl up and drift off to never never land.

However, these kids? They are wiggling and squirming, banging their heads, shaking their bums in the air and generally squeezing out the last vestiges of movement possible so that their bodies can finally relax. To sit in a dimly lit room with comforting music playing and soft blankets all around with such a flurry of suppressed go-go dancing was really quite funny. I giggled most of the way back to work.
I am both disappointed and relieved that childcare is not my chosen career path.
If I worked there everyday, would I find it as cute and funny? I think the lucky ones do.

Well, that's what's been going on - vicarious carving and inhaling while giggling to choir music and bum wiggling.
Fun Times.

A little while ago, Mimi Smartypants made a reference to a competitive mother she has the unfortunate tendency to run into once and awhile. I, on the other hand, seem to be awash in competitive mothers and other females who feed the inner "fuck-you" of my soul and makes me have to find my "happy place" on a regular basis.

I wrote that about two weeks ago and never finished the post.

In the meantime I've spent time with one amazing friend who I've never had a competitive vibe from in all my years of knowing her and met another wonderful woman who is the same. Both of these women are extremely different and I can't exactly place why I feel more comfortable with them except that there is no "one-upmanship" going on.

I can't tell you how relaxing this is.

I am, I think since birth, an extremely competitive person. I am also fiercely loyal.
If you screw around with my friend I find it hard to contain my anger. I will go out of my way to make life miserable for you. No one is allowed to make the people I love feel bad. Apparently, this is my personal mission in life and definitely not something my friends ask of me.

In the past, this has got me in some strange situations.

I've learned to curb this and keep my distain to myself unless it is asked for. I haven't actually "leapt" on anyone for about two years - even though I'm pretty tempted at the moment. I'm proud of this.

I suppose, as someone who spent much of her adolescence competing with any other woman she got to know (ski racing) and getting sabotaged by her own team-mates (a regular occurrence and all part of the sport), friendships mean a lot.

So when I entered motherhood, you could either consider me extremely well prepared for the competitive edge of Mommy insecurities of woefully scarred and easily sucked in. Whatever the case, I've been extremely hurt by people I hardly know and others I've known for years. Motherhood can do nasty things to some women.

I hate the one-upmanship. The need to judge another person's parenting skills and exalt your own is transparent and laughable and not really worth my time. However, the subtle digs and innuendos are definitely my area of expertise. I can play this game - really, really well. I don't like this about myself and yet, I find I am in battle maneuvers about once a month.
It used to be more, when I met with a baby group during my maternity leave. Now, it's only sparingly, when I occasionally meet someone outside of preschool or work and whom I don't generally socialize with. There is a reason I don't see these people, I don't like them (and they don't like me). I don't discuss little Suzy's speech impediment and how her parents aren't doing enough to help her. I don't whisper about Johnny's temper tantrums and how highly strung his mother is. It makes me feel awful.

So, what do I get when I choose to stay out of these conversations? Petty insults when we do meet.

"I'm sure Franklin's already writing his third novel, right? He's always been so advanced in his own special areas..."

"You work so hard, Ada. Franklin will always look back on this time of his life and remember how busy you were - getting things done."

"Children are such a blessing. We worked hard to be able to afford more than one and this was always our plan."

"We don't vaccinate our child. We have read the literature and thought critically about the issue instead of just followed our friend's advice."

Yeah.
I succumbed.
I showed them what for.
They didn't even see it coming.

I feel gross.

In an effort to be helpful, my brother transferred our many precious files from one sick computer to another. We didn't know the second one was sick at the time so in essence, he was being helpful. However, things didn't turn out the way I had hoped.

- but only because I am an idiot.

I had some trouble with Yahoo when I left my geocities account for Tart Graphics. Just for anyone out there using Yahoo, you don't own your blog. You may think that you do because you write there every day and you pay for the hosting, but you don't. In fact, Yahoo does. So, if you ever have trouble with your account and they decide to cancel it because say... they decide that international credit cards are no longer valid (just an example, of course) you may not get any warning and you will definitely not get your words back.
Your words, apparently, belong to Yahoo.

So I lost a lot of content. I fraction of that content was saved in my email folder. When I moved to Tart Graphics, I would load more archives whenever I felt like it but I felt safe that at least they were in my computer and no longer with Yahoo.

When my brother transferred everything over, my archived emails didn't make it. It seems that much of first few years were never meant for the long haul. Well, to be honest, none of these words should stand the test of time. Although I fully intend to print them out (or save them to a disc), they will not stay here if Franklin asks me to take them down one day .

At least, this is how I'm thinking right now.
Feel free to give me ideas.

Anyway... what I'm trying to say is that I believe I've written about my first memory before but it's in one of those posts that has vanished forever so I'm doomed to repeat it - and you are doomed to read it again (if you were one of those 5 people who read this blog near the beginning).

My first memory is important to me. From a couple of emails and one comment from my last post, it doesn't seem that everyone's first memory is as important to them. This is a bit of a relief and yet, somewhat troubling. On one hand, I'm glad that Franklin can have any old memory and still grow up to be somewhat sane. For the record though, I am not all that worried about his sanity. However, it's both a little sad that I cling to mine so much as well as the fact that others don't really have anything to cling to.

Yes, I'm feeling sorry for you guys.
You people have to get yourselves some memories!

I was born in Quebec City. My family, which consisted of my brother, my sister and my parents at the time, lived in an old brick house. It seemed like a castle when I was small. D and I went back there on our honeymoon and I was astonished at how small it actually was - the house, not anything else...

Behind our house was a smallish back yard with tall flowers and grass growing by the brick wall. Seeing that sort of grass and that particular type of flower now, I realize that I was about 2 and half feet high. I remember the sensation of the rough grass poking my ankles and how I got up the courage to get up close to this thing that was flying around so smoothly and silently. I watched it for, what I thought was, a long time. I remember getting excited that it was staying so close to me. It was hard not to reach out and touch it. I felt very grown up by resisting the sensation to disturb it as it landed on the grass. I turned to my Mom and asked her what it was. She was looking down at something and I remember that she flipped her hair up to see what I was talking about. I remember her hair. I remember that she told me it was a dragonfly. The way she responded to my question is the same way I respond to Franklin now.

Wow, I just realized this.
When Franklin asks me a question about his surroundings, I answer him in the exact same voice, same stress on the syllables, same excitement, same approval of his curiosity.

So this is my first memory - courage, wonder, temptation, approval, love and a very strong sense of how special I was to my Mom. It's important to me.
I want that for Franklin.
I guess I want to be that for Franklin too.