Critique of Roto-Rooter Man as a Philosophy of Life

Today I conclude the trial run of a bullshit free life. My experiment began at the beginning of the month and has proceeded until now. The following are the pros and cons of a no-tolerance approach to fecal matter.
Pros.
1. I experienced fewer incidents of confusion and ambiguity. (ie. wondering whether or not something was the case; the no-tolerance approach requires W-5 style questioning at the slightest uncertainty)
2. I experienced fewer incidents of polite meaningless conversation. The Roto-Rooter man forbids frivolity and niceties.
3. Sometimes this lead to incredible insights.
4. Usually I knew the version of events closest to "truth".

Cons.
1. The number of people I engaged in awkward conversation increased substantially.
2. The the number of new friends I made decreased significantly.
3. Sometimes this lead to information that I'd rather not have known.
4. I discovered, I can't handle the "truth".

In conclusion, after considering the evidence, I would recommend the non bullshit lifestyle, I might just mix in the odd martini to make it more bearable.

In the Gallery of Divinity

Don't you hate it when you come to the end of your day and discover that the sun not only rose but set and you were too engrossed in the insignificance of your life to notice? How devastating to come to the realization that God displayed his dramatic, unfathomable love for you in the form of a dynamic, colourful painting of immense proportions - the entire vast sky was involved- and you were fretting about an assignment. How can your trivial internal monologue rage on as the heavens explode into a canvas of inexhaustible passion and grace?
I suppose this tragedy of ignorance is outweighed by the awe inspired when you do notice, when you peak your head up over your little world of inconsequentiality and discover a bold colourful invitation to love this moment.

cliff diving

What do you do when the person you love most in the world stands at the end of a cliff that you both know she has to jump off?
You can't jump for her.
You can't stop her.
It's her cliff and there are wild, hungry animals nipping at her heels threatening to eat her up if she changes her mind.
Your heart aches.
You want to be excited - maybe she'll experience a heart pumping ecstasy as she soars through the cool mountain air.
But you have a feeling that she won't. All you can see is those jagged rocks. You know even if she makes it to the bottom alive, she's going to bang up her knees, and hit her head, and look a little worse for wear...to say the least.
But you take a deep breath, say a little prayer and then do the only thing you can.
You hug her, and love her, and let her know how amazing she is.
And then you smile, because you never have and never will see anyone look so graceful as they dive off a mountain.

WARNINGS are for the feeble minded

WARNING: increasing the temperature of your hot water tank could increase the risk of scalding.
What?
Is this actually a warning?
Are people actually this stupid?
Unfortunately for me and my life of irony - I went out of my way to discuss the audacity and outrageous nature of such a claim. I lamented a society which needed such handholding and direction.
And then I scalded myself in the tub.

Only 2 days before I made a similar error. One minute (to the second) after exclaiming my frustration and fury in reference to the incredibly slow nature of Calgary drivers, I crashed into the meridian to avoid rear ending a semi who stopped in front of me.

I guess I'm the one they make warnings for.

the fat men

I have 5 brothers in 3 batches and they're wonderful. In fact, I couldn't be luckier if I had 18 brothers... or even just one good sister.
I got to hang out with the fat men today. They are the batch with a 6 and an 11 year old.
They hate girls and every vegetable and bugs (in particular ones than have no legs or hundreds of legs). They love fighting at the slightest provocation and imitating The Pink Panther and eating anything with a main ingredient of sugar.
I nearly fell down the stairs when, upon walking into the house, they each not only hugged me, but complimented my shirt!
Angels!
It didn't even matter that Johnny kicked me later when I was tickling him, or that Austin refused to clear his plate (especially since he was keen to learn about mortgages and financing).
And so I must admit, I've been floating around my house all evening. There's hope! They're emerging into little gentlemen and some little girls somewhere will be very lucky to ever end up with them one day. (Though they better beware...the wrath of the older sister is severe)

thoughts on mail and bathing

There are benefits to neglecting to check your mailbox.
Of course there are serious consequences as well; consequences so severe that some might argue they out way the benefits and must there fore be avoided.
For example, if you were to neglect checking your mail for the entire month of December, you might discover that you had outstanding tuition you were not aware of, and that you cannot proceed with registration for your final term of university because you failed to pay the bill.
However, when you come home to this enormous pile of mail, there is always the chance that you will discover a little treasure inside. In fact, given its sheer size, your chances are greatly increased.
But, after the December incident, I was expecting the worst when I saw the heaps of beautiful crisp white envelops addressed to me yesterday evening. I ran myself a hot bath with bubbles to dull the impact of inevitable disaster.
You can only imagine my astonishment as I tepidly opened each little mystery that I discovered not a bill, but a new card from MasterCard – and then not one, not two, not even three, but four personal letters! One from town, one from out of province, one from out of country, and the last, from a long lost friend across the ocean.
In my enthusiasm, I dropped some part of every letter into the tub, making them less convenient to read…but I’ll argue more romantic. For a girl who hates Valentine’s, I have to admit it was a welcomed mid February surprise. I plan to not check my mail again until my birthday. Imagine the bounty I might discover then! (Or the potential notice of house repossession?) Though, I might avoid reading mail in the tub as it serves to compromise the integrity of paper materials.

3 coffee, 2 red bull, and a pack of cigars

As it turns out, the detour is the adventure.
You know that feeling when the road goes right, you should go right, home is right, but you just go straight because it seems more exciting?
Well, if you’re ever thinking that as you leave Airdrie on the number 2 – you’ll end up in Edmonton.
And your adventure begins.
I’d recommend an outfit adjustment. All too often people view travel as a non-event requiring comfy jeans, or worse, sweats. I’ll advise stilettos, jewellery, sunglasses- you’re always more ready for adventure in such attire. Of course your journey on the number 2 is at least two hours so there’s plenty of time to change in the car (beware of semis, they can see into your vehicle much more efficiently than other vehicles on the road).
Right, East, may have taken you home – but North leads to freedom. There’s nothing quite like a double lane highway, no map and no plan in the middle of the vast bald prairie to give a feeling of complete liberation. It doesn’t even matter that the road leads anywhere, so long as you have some great tunes and a pack of cigars.
And that’s just the driving bit.
Once you arrive there’s a whole other myriad of possibilities – from bliss to brutal beatings, so I recommend using caution and avoiding stopovers at the Strathcona Hotel. I’ve heard it’s sketchy.
You can eat alone in a quaint pub.
You can shop.
You can surprise family.
You can watch people as they watch you –wondering what on earth a lone girl is doing in stilettos and sunglasses late at night in the winter.
You can pretend to be absolutely stark raving mad.
You can be totally and completely lost in the world – anonymous, mysterious, unknown.
And then, when you eventually remember that you live a real life in a real home where you know and are known– you can drink 10 cans of red bull and drive home through the night.
And it will remain your secret adventure. No one need ever know that you went North when you ought to have gone East.

if my brain had a manual

What is the deal with boys?
How is that they can enter the perfectly ordered sanctuary of the mind – the one corner of the world that I can control and know implicitly - and within minutes they leave a wake of pandemonium so extreme I can no longer recognize the fragments of thoughts and dreams as being my own.
How do they get in? Why are they so disruptive? Or am I the only one who suffers the side effects of an extreme disease called over analyzation?
Perhaps this problem is somehow connected to the deeper issue, namely, me. As the only common thread weaving between awkward, chaotic situations, I begin to wonder what part I play in this.
I guess I must really like drama.
That, or I am severely mentally unstable.

a girl without her best friend is like...

Who am I if not my best friend’s best friend?
My best friend is the loveliest person I know. If it weren’t for her I might have to admit the monster that I really am. I mean, who else would love me like she does?

She loves me even though I hate eating noises, and hearing people sing in the morning, and talking when I’m feeling grumpy (which is more often than not).
She loves me even though I yell at her boyfriend, and shed more than other girls, and don’t do the dishes, and wear her favorite brown stilettos.

It goes without saying that I adore her. I find her beautiful in every way; from her warm, elegant face to her hilarious, haphazard wit. I wish there were more people like her, but I’m glad that since there’s only one, she’s mine.

The problem is she’s hundreds of miles away.

And so I drink wine alone.
I write notes and stories and random ramblings that no one reads or critiques or cares about.
I buy new shoes that no one compliments, or tries on, or helps me coordinate with my entire wardrobe.
I tell jokes that no one gets, or finds amusing, or even hears.
I analyze my drama and no one giggles with me, or questions me, or prods me into deeper understanding.
And to be honest – life just isn’t anywhere near as much fun.
It turns out that in her absence, there is something vast and irreplaceable missing from my life.

And so, I find I am like a lazy afternoon without a good book; I'm like a warm, wide-brimmed mug without a hot, creamy coffee. And what on earth use is that?

can school make you stupider?

At the conclusion of 6 hours of lecture, it grieves me that the only thought swimming through the ocean of my brain is, "Can poor instruction lead to learning disabilities?"
All these little people that we label as 'special' and 'gifted' and whatever other politically correct rhetoric we can think of, are probably just bored out of their little minds listening to egocentric teachers drone on and on and on about meaningless fluff.
What a waste of valuable time...time we could have used to bake cookies. Think of how fat and happy we'd be if we baked cookies instead of attending class (even just for a week!). We could work towards feeding the hungry and surprising our grandmas. What could go wrong in a world like that? (Don't answer that question.)
But alas...

in the humble smiles of children

Is there anything more beautiful than a grubby faced princess with a snotty nose, grinning up at you with little more than two teeth in her whole head? She runs or dances or screams in a dramatic ploy to catch your eye – she wants to show you her new haircut (courtesy of lice). She loves it when you smile at her, when you praise her; when you listen to her explain how she made her valentine’s card. She tries to remember the Fruits of the Spirit simply so she’ll have a few moments of your undivided attention – and maybe a prize. She feels beautiful when you watch her. She feels safe when you listen to her. She treasures her notebook, her prize. And all the while – she beams that broad, beautiful rainbow of a grin... just for you. And you didn’t even earn it.

Is there anything more heartbreaking than acts of violence against this blessed treasure – a diamond in our inner city rough, this sacred child God loves? Is there anything more horrible than whatever causes these beloved children of God to cry, to suffer, to go without, to see so much?

You want to hold them, take them home, protect them, love them. But you are the child. They are the adults. They know the way the world works, and you my friend are a stranger in a foreign land. So you watch them cry…you watch them suffer…and you wait. And you do nothing.

How can we rouse the quick, radiant smiles of these toothless angels?

How can we keep them safe from the dangerous world that wants to hurt them, the dangerous world that we created?

day 1 free of stench

Well, it is less pleasant than you might think.
Unlike the picture in my mind which featured me in linnen pants walking carelessly down a golden beach, wind tousling my hair; a bullshit free life is really quite startling. It turns out it is a lot more like creeping fearfully through the dark sewers of the underworld looking for a manhole to escape through. It’s smelly and cold and weird down here and I never know what to expect by way of mutant sewer life. (Though I feel confident it won’t be the Ninja Turtles bursting forth with retro outfits and a catchy tune.)

Is it better to know you're here now than to wait until you're drowning in someone else's crap before you figure it out?

I guess that’s the price we pay for peace of mind. Or something...

new month resolution

I do not want bullshit in my life.
I do want bullshit written as often as possible; not only is it cathartic, spell-check doesn’t pick it up! It has been legitimated by Microsoft as a word worthy of presence on a page. It has however, been prohibited (by me) from entering my life.

Bullshit, in fact, shit of any kind is unattractive (specifically when it gurgles out of my laundry room floor drain to mock me). It’s even less appealing when it litters my brain and my reasoning and my integrity. It hinders and impedes and devalues what truth and honor would leave pure.

So, my new month resolution is to live bullshit free. If that means awkward, uncomfortable, non-polite living…then call me Roto-Rooter man. I’m done with the stench for at least 24 days. (Fortunately February is the shortest month of the year.)

a blog by any other name

What's in a name?

A blog – would I feel such aversion to bearing my heart and soul on this computer screen if it weren’t called ‘blog’. As a person whose world is made up of words - both their meaning and sound - how can 'blog' serve to satisfy my craving for beauty and meaning. The words: blob, bog, log, and bob pop into my mind instantly at the utterance of the word 'blog' and conjure unsatisfying and murky imagery of soggy wetlands.

At least with my journal, which is the epi-centre of all thought and emotion in my world, I can treasure it, refer to it, and write in it without feeling my shoes will get muddy and I'll find leeches on my legs. It's beautiful, my journal.

My journal is not only aesthetically pleasing, but functionally. I can fit my heart and soul into my pocket; I can bring it with me for coffee, or to the beach, or into my bed. It is never more than 5ft. from me at all times.

But what's more - it is a treasure. A secret and safe place where I can let my mind wander and my heart wonder and no one can judge it. No one can see it. It's protected from the critical onlookers who would condemn the things of my heart.

So, it's hard to discern if it's this word 'blog' that is making me feel queasy, or the thought of blogging - letting it all hang out for others to poke and prod at my naked soul.

the day my mom discovered her inner redhead

To be a redhead is so much more than to have red hair. In fact, I would argue the colour of your hair has little or no bearing on your inherent identity as a redhead. Despite the discrepancy between having red hair and being a redhead - the connection of inner reality and outer appearance is nothing short of miraculous.

Which is precisely why today was so momentous. It was the day my mom discovered her inner redhead. I should have known - with her passion, her righteousness, her unrelenting, uncompromising, pure, just nature. I should have known as she is the only person I know who looks classy in a Cadillac, covered in paint and drywall mud. I should have known by her boldness, her bravery, her spirit. I should have known by her affinity for red wine and laughter. I should have know by her courage and her love... but I didn't. And there she was today - brave as ever - a redoubtable, radiant, redhead.

I fall into the forementioned category of red haired non-redheads. Waiting, watching, wishing I could learn to live out of such fearless, firey red. A redhead in training, if you will.

But she doesn't even need it, the hair that is(red or otherwise). She is beautiful - bald or grey or with a red wig; bright young skin or wrinkly and worn; glamourous or sawdusted; today or tomorrow or always. She's just a beautiful redhead - inside and out.

And if that isn't the case for trying on wigs...I'm really not sure what will convince you.