Tuesday, February 15, 2011


I was going to entertain you today with stories of me falling off chairs,,  getting stuck in a bathroom stall in the dark and having my head compared to a pimple. But not today.

Today, I'm going to talk about a man. A man who had a great impact on my life, and on many others.

Ian was my boss, in charge of making sure everything ran smoothly in our real estate office. He was the reason I went to work there back in 2005. He was the reason I stayed there. He was supportive, and kind, and gentle, and fearless.

Ian passed away last Saturday after a four-year battle with cancer. 

The entire office, the one I just returned to after a two-year absence, is in shock and a state of utter despair. Because Ian was a man who meant what he said and said what he meant, who always had nothing but wonderful things to say about everything (including how he felt, even when he felt like utter crap), and about everyone he met.

Ian and I had more of a relationship than just manager and realtor. We shared jokes, we shared the same views on religion and god, and we also shared a special bond regarding cancer. When I told Ian about Dee's fight with cancer, he became a friend, someone who'd been there and knew what it was. He and Dee had a special connection, and it touched me deeply whenever Ian would ask about the kids. Which he did often.

Ian fought prostate cancer, and then, a year later, discovered he had colon cancer. This was not a man who abused his body. And yet, somehow the disease found him, and wouldn't let him go. No matter how tough things were, however, Ian always had a smile, and whenever you asked him how he was doing, he had nothing but positive things to say: "If I was doing any better I'd be too good," he say. I knew that couldn't be the honest truth, but this was his way of dealing. 

He also refused to burden anyone else with his troubles and his pain, which is more than anyone I know could do, especially when going through what he did.

This is a man who was on one form or other of chemotherapy for four years, who had his liver severed and removed, one lobe at a time, all in an attempt to live.

Ian will live in my heart forever.

If you can hear me Ian, I want to thank you for giving me the honour of meeting you and knowing you. You are one in a million. See you in a while. We'll go for a ride on some nice Harleys.

Monday, February 7, 2011

I am old, and there's nothing more to say

Although I have often spoken about feeling about a million years old these past few years, I honestly know what it actually feels like now, and I can also now honestly say that I AM OLD. Now excuse me while I sob into my fifth gin and tonic of the morning.

So, I worked at my new library job last week, full days both Thursday and Saturday. The job basically entails a lot of shelving of books, moving of books, and not thinking too much about anything except barcodes, the Dewey Decimal system, and whether 906.1782346879 BLS comes before or after WHO GIVES A CRAP. You can pretty much say the job is a little mind numbing, but only in a good way.

Seriously, though, libraries all over the world owe everything to pages (which is what my official title is, which is also a little funny because I'm a page at a library -- get it?). Without us, books and magazines would be strewn pell mell throughout the library, reference books on Floor 1 instead of Floor 3, and (god forbid) mysteries shoved with romance novels.

Working Thursday wasn't too bad, although by closing time, I was tired. And happy. Because yo! I am no longer just a burdensome sponge on the counter I call my husband, sullenly soaking up every little bit of kindness the poor man has left in him. No, I am now making some serious coin, dudes. 'Serious', as in, I can now almost pay for the groceries for two days a month. YESSSS!!

Saturday was another story, however. It started off on a bad note, with my head almost exploding and throwing mounds of brain matter all over the carpet (only figuratively speaking, folks). My sinus infection was back with a vengeance, so I had to work with a headache from the devil himself. I popped extra strength tylenols all day long, which is quite possibly why today's library patrons may not find any of the books they're looking for. Not my problem: I don't go back until Thursday.
The other problem I had on Saturday was the rest of my body. It decided that, although I managed just fine on Thursday with the bending and the stretching and the pushing and the pulling, Saturday was not going to be such a day. In fact, Saturday turned out to be The Day Mary Turned 178. Guys, by the time I was slated to go home, I could barely walk to the car, and I am not exaggerating. Not even a little. I was so sore and tired that I should have just called 9-1-1 because I am sure I was a lot sicker than 90 per cent of the people at the hospital at that time. THAT'S how bad I felt.

I came home, moaning softly the whole way, lay down on the couch, and did not move (not even twitching an eyelid) for three hours. My entire body felt as if a very large, very heavy, very unforgiving machine trampled over it, back and forth, for nine hours straight. Every single joint hurt, every muscle was strained. Even the hairs in the crook of my elbow were crying.

Mr. Handsome made dinner, I made it to the table to eat, and then I lay down again. The only time I moved was to go to bed, which I did pretty soon after.

And that was when I decided that I'm an old bag, ready for the nursing home. It was also then that it dawned on me that I must be crazy, trying to get into the nursing program at university. WHAT AM I THINKING, people?! I must be insane. Because if I can't even manage to shelve books for 8 hours, how in god's name am I going to save lives for 12 hours?! Please, someone, tell me. Because at this moment, I'm thinking I might as well just apply at all the funeral homes for a job, because my time is coming fast.

There can be no other reason for feeling the way I was feeling on Saturday. Age is it. No argument, no excuses. And then, of course, my mind started to weave through manic thoughts at a frightening pace, thinking about how awful life was going to obviously get from here on out, because if I felt like that, I'd clearly feel twice as bad in a few years. And twice as bad = dead.

So, instead of taking it easy, I instead accepted a second job to take up the rest of the time I apparently have so much of. 

To be continued ....

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Anyone need a job picking my nose? Apply herein

So, I got another call from Adonis yesterday, telling me his office has blocked my blog so that he can no longer read it while he sits at his desk pretending to work.

I feel sorry for you, Adonis. Really, I do.

And then I felt kind of proud that they felt it necessary to block my blog. I should probably get an award for that because, in my opinion, this is a HUGE success! Who doesn't want to be blocked by the federal government?!

And then Adonis told me I should email him my posts, or type them out in Microsoft Word and email them to him so that he can read them at work instead of doing his job. 

I told him I didn't have time for that, and Adonis laughed at me because he knew I had tons of time. But alas, I no longer have the time to even scratch my left buttock crease because, guys, I start my library job today, and I am still doing my biology course, which is a hell of a lot harder than my biology course last year, which is kind of making me freak out a little bit because I can't Google the answers to my questions, so I actually have to think, and we all know what happens when I do that.

Not only that, but I might be starting a second job any day now. Yeah, you heard correctly, folks. A second job. That means I will now also not have time to brush my hair or teeth, or even probably sleep, because altogether, I'll be working and studying more hours than there are hours. Did that make sense? Not sure.

I'll go into more detail with this second job once it firms up, which might be today.

Meanwhile, Adonis is sad because he can no longer read my blog at work, so I suggested kindly that he read it once he gets home, but he didn't like that idea because Adonis likes to cause his sister grief. Apparently, his wife, WoodNymph, is on the computer ALL THE TIME (his words, not mine, WoodNymph), so he would never have the chance to get on and check out my blog, and although I have a smidgen of sympathy for him, I pretty much don't care because I know damn well WoodNymph has to get up at some point to pee. I'm not that stupid, Adonis.

Adonis and WoodNymph will probably never speak to me again now that I've written this post. Not that I'll ever have the time to listen to them anyway...

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Electrode hickeys

I thought I'd better post another post lest Adonis call me and spit wrathfully at me again for not posting often enough. Brothers.

Is "wrathfully" a word? Not sure. Don't care.

So, I'm sitting here, at the dining room table, and writing this instead of studying crap senior biology. Do you blame me? Didn't think so. I'm also scratching just above my right nipple, where one of my heart monitor's electrodes has left a rather nasty allergic reaction, not unlike a really large and ugly hickey. So unfortunate that it's not a hickey. I miss those days. Not that I'd really know what I'm talking about, because I'm pretty much a virgin. And not that hickeys are even itchy and all raised, like a hive might be, so maybe I should have started out by calling it a really huge and nasty hive instead of a hickey, but if I had done that, you probably wouldn't still be reading this right now. Am I right?

I'm also trying to not feel guilty for sneaking out to a movie today, ALL BY MYSELF, when I was supposed to be studying. I think I may have done this only one other time my entire life, because I got stood up, or needed a break from life. Today was more of a spur-of-the-moment, I-don't-want-to-be-here kind of moment, and it was also a I-just-need-to-get-out-of-here-for-awhile kind of deal, as well as a I-really-really-really-want-to-see-this-movie-but-I'd-rather-not-go-with-someone-because-it's-probably-kind-of-embarrassing-seeing-as-it's-rated-18-and-over-and-we-all-know-that-means-there's-probably-lots-of-really-explicit-sex-in-it kind of situation.

I went to see Blue Valentine, which was as good as I thought it would be, except for the part of the movie where the cameraman was running after Michelle Williams and Ryan Gosling, and everything was all jiggly, and I started getting dizzy and had to close my eyes and grab the arms of my seat because I felt like I was about to fall on the theatre floor, and you all know what's on those floors. Have these film guys never heard of a camera track? I might have to write them a letter.

So, I loved the movie, except maybe for the jiggly part, and even that I enjoyed until I needed to take an anti-emetic. I even cried, guys, and I rarely cry at movies, except when I'm ovulating, which I'm not. So that means it must have been a good movie. See the logic there? So go see it. Unless you're a guy. Because this is pretty much a film full of emotion and lots of profundity, and from my experience with guys and movies, I firmly believe the majority of guys would rather have a prostate exam than watch that.

Except, I was a little surprised by the ending, which I won't go into because I just told you all to go see it yourself (unless you don't like watching people have sex, in which case, go anyway, just close your eyes every few minutes. Or pretend, because I know everyone who says they don't like to watch sex in the movies is actually a big liar because -- SERIOUSLY -- who wouldn't want to watch?!?!). Ahem.

I have to get back to biology.

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