This is going to be a two-parter, because Summer finally came to town in September and hung on through almost all of October.
I did try to make the most of the great weather while it lasted, and when I wasn’t working.
Tomorrow I will do a photo recap of the glory that was October.
Rock on,
The WB
Last November I first learned of National Blog Posting Month.
Apparently it’s been a thing since 2006. Piggybacking onto National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). For every day in the month of November, bloggers will take on the challenge of coming up with a post daily. It was hosted by BlogHer, which supposedly bit the bullet last year. Or was subsumed by something called SheKnows, which I don’t pretend to understand the point of. Not that I ever got BlogHer either. I saw the badges on other bloggers’ sites but I never could figure out what it actually was. My bad, in case it was something great.
So I came to the party too late apparently, because NaBloPoMo is no more. At least not as an organized event.
I don’t know if other bloggers are going to continue on with the “tradition”.
But I am up to the challenge of posting every day in November. Something has got to get me back onto my butt and in front of this screen again. I can’t blame the great weather anymore because yesterday I saw snow flying across my office window.
See ya tomorrow dear Bloggie!
Rock on,
The WB
I’ve had my breasts squeezed and my ass grabbed.
I’ve been grabbed by the actual pussy as I was walking down the hall in high school. The guy (an acquaintance) behind me reached between my legs and grabbed me and tried frantically rubbing my genitals (through my blue jeans), without any warning or hint of what he was about to do. I was so stunned I couldn’t speak for about half an hour as I processed what just happened to me. Then I confronted him and let him have it. Well you didn’t say anything so I thought you liked it, he sputtered as I raged at him. I hope I made such an impression on him that he never tried that again with another woman.
I’ve been threatened with sexual violence. I’ve been chased. I’ve been stalked. I’ve been harassed. I’ve been catcalled too many times to remember.
I had a guy angrily accuse me of lying about a boyfriend when I turned him down for date. He made a scene at my workplace where this encounter happened. Oh yeah, he sneered, so where’s your ring then? (I did have a boyfriend at the time but even if I didn’t I knew it was more palatable to say that you did than to turn down a guy outright. In the male mind, you were then off-limits because you were someone else’s “property” and that was acceptable whereas being refused was not.)
I’ve had more than 1 guy suddenly force his lips on mine, without invitation or warning.
When I was 16 another teenage boy attempted to rape me at a campfire. I had made friends with a gentle guy who often visited the beachfront restaurant where I worked that summer. One day close to the end of the season he invited me to join his group of friends for their nightly campfire. I asked if there would be other girls there as well and was assured there would be. So I went. And there were other girls there. A big blond guy (the group’s “leader”, I realized) sat next to me, and the guy I was friends with moved across the fire from me. At some point I looked up from the fire and realized everyone had silently vanished, leaving me alone with the big blond. Immediately I said I had to leave and asked him to point me in the direction back to my parents’ trailer at our campground. Instead he proceeded to pin me to the ground and started slobbering all over my protesting mouth. He then threw his heavy body on top of mine with such force that I vomited. This changed his mind and I was allowed to get up and leave. I realized afterwards that I was set up and the whole encounter was premeditated by the big blond in collusion with everyone else there. I never saw my so-called friend again at the restaurant. I told no one because I knew I would be blamed for this happening to me.
Once back in the early 80’s, when I complained to a friend’s father about all the catcalling I received when I waited for them on the street to pick me up to take me to university, he countered by saying if I didn’t want the attention why did I bother to dress attractively, comb my hair and wear makeup? Really? I said, Just so you know, even in the dead of winter when I stand on the sidewalk wearing no makeup and my oversized duffel coat that makes me look like a small red refrigerator I am still catcalled and honked at! Just what the hell am I supposed to wear to avoid “attention” as you call it??? There was no answer.
I just hate that no matter what we do or don’t do, say or don’t say, wear or don’t wear there are people who make sexual violence or harassment the fault of the victim, not the perpetrator. It was true when I was growing up and it is still true today. People’s attitudes haven’t changed that much. Not really.
And don’t even get me started on the bullshit attitudes and comments I had to put up with from male police officers when my ex was stalking me. I had to endure months of fear and harassment (and police inaction) before I finally connected with a female officer who immediately made a restraining order happen. Not that it helped, much…but that is another story.
We still talk about women who have been raped rather than men who have raped women. We still talk about harassment of women rather than the men who harass women. We still don’t believe the women who are brave enough to come forward.
Well, here’s me saying ME FUCKING TOO.
Rock on,
The WB
Well hello dear Bloggie,
Coming at you from a hotel room in Kelowna, British Columbia on this fine 3rd day of September – which would have been my 7th wedding anniversary. (Or would it? Hmmm…I’d like to think I would not have divorced my mentally ill, betrayer of a husband had he not died from cancer…but who knows what alternate reality I would be living by now had things turned out differently…) Anyhow, I don’t have a whole lot of emotion surrounding this day anymore…and I think that is a good and healthy sign.
August has been a stressful month for me. My sister has been quite ill and in hospital here in Kelowna – hence my presence. Most of the month I was on pins and needles, not knowing when her surgery would finally happen or if she would be healthy enough to even qualify. This, plus lots of goings on at work made the month both drag on and fly by simultaneously, if that makes any sense (and it does to me).
I did manage to get up to see my other sister (Me Too) and her wife at their lovely lakeside home, on the Civic Holiday Long weekend…and stopped in at a National Park (another one crossed off the list) along the drive up there.
And I did get to Riverfest Elora 2017. A fantastic festival with such a great vibe – I think this will be an annual event for me. Hopefully next year I can convince someone to join me. I didn’t mind going alone, but naturally it would have been even more enjoyable to have company.
As I fretted and stressed the month away, I decided to pour my feelings into the paint I was applying on some canvases.
I did find some time to get on the river.
And then I got word that my sister’s surgery had finally been scheduled and was happening within 48 hours, so it was a mad dash to get plane tickets and book a hotel. I arrived in smoke- and ash-covered Kelowna on Tuesday. This has been the worst season for forest fires in 60 years, I’ve been told.
My sister’s surgery was a success and she is steadily improving. And the skies have cleared up too!
I have booked my flight home for this coming Tuesday. Now there is nothing left to do on this Labour Day long weekend but enjoy visiting my sister and eat my fill of Okanagan peaches.
Rock on,
The WB
Well, colour me verklempt!
For a couple of reasons – first, it’s been now a year and two days since my last TIA and I have been symptom-free ever since – hoorah!
Second, I did a DNA test with Ancestry.ca and my results bear credence to a family mystery. Behold:
Who my mother’s father was (is?) has always been unknown, at least to my mother and her siblings. My Oma didn’t talk about it. But the family story goes like this: my Oma was in love (and pregnant by) a Jewish man – they wanted to get married but because my Oma was not of the age of consent (21, in the Netherlands back then) she couldn’t marry without her parents’ permission. And that was not granted by her Christian Reformed family. I guess having a child outside of marriage (and preventing my mom from having a dad in her life) was less sinful than marrying outside of the faith?!?
Sheesh, is it any wonder I have such a dim view of religion? My mom was whispered about, shunned, and rejected by people because she was born out of wedlock – as if she had anything to do with the circumstances of her existence!!!
After having to confess her transgression(s) to the church elders, my Oma was sent to Rotterdam, to bear her “sin”…and my mother (product of aforementioned “sin”) was born in 1936 in a Salvation Army home for unwed mothers. That was the story. Then later, I was told the story wasn’t exactly true. Mom’s dad now wasn’t Jewish – he just refused to convert to Oma’s family religion.
However, thanks to Ancestry DNA, it seems that the original story was the truth! Mom would have inherited half of her dad’s genes and I have inherited half of Mom’s genes. So given the randomness of DNA mixing, I could be up to 25% Jewish in heritage. The math works.
However, I can’t call myself Jewish because to be born a Jew you have to have a Jewish mother. The dad doesn’t count. This is explained here. I am sure Hitler would have disagreed so perhaps that is why there were conflicting stories floating around about my mystery Opa – to protect my mom from being picked up during the Nazi occupation of the Netherlands?
My dad and his cousin did some digging of their own years and years ago (both are gone now), and said they located the man. He was working in (and possibly owned) a pub in Scheveningen (?), and I also heard his last name was De Jong. My mom did not want to proceed any further because she didn’t want to disrupt his life and the life of his family after all these years, with the sudden appearance of a “bastard” child. Which I disagreed with, but it was not my decision to make. I suspect that she just couldn’t face the possibility of even more rejection, even this late in her life – so who can blame her for that?
Now I am hoping, through Ancestry, to finally find out who the mystery Opa is, or could be. According to the website, they have other members who are distant relatives of mine – 4th cousins – who are Jewish people – who I have never ever heard of and are not connected to the family tree I am building (yet!).
I have to work up the nerve to contact them and see if they can help solve the mystery of the missing Opa. Surely after all this time has passed it will no longer be so scandalous?
Rock on,
The WB
A former spouse of mine once infamously asked me that question.
Back in the late 90s, I had told him that we should take the kids to a music festival together (Edgefest, in Barrie) for the day. The lineup was awesome, and I thought it would be a great opportunity to show the kids what an outdoor rock concert was all about and how to do it safely and enjoyably. They were excited, as there were many groups/artists they liked; I was excited as there were many groups/artists I also liked. But he pooh-poohed all over the idea. He didn’t want to go. And he didn’t want us to go either. I said that’s too bad – we’d love it if you came too, but we were going, regardless. He then asked me when I was going to GROW UP and stop wanting to do “THIS SHIT”. Well, hello? I thought he had enjoyed going to concerts with me.
He ended up going, grudgingly – only because there was no way he wanted me to be having any kind of fun without him. (If only he knew how much fun the kids and I had when he left us alone to go up north to see his family for a few days!)
By the end of the summer, I had found a townhouse and was moving out, thus ending our 17 year marriage. Not because of this one stupid comment, obviously…but it speaks volumes about why we were no longer suited to be together.
I have been in love with music since I was a babe in arms. My mom told me when she took me to church as an infant tears would stream down my face whenever I heard the organ play. I asked her why and she said, it seemed to her that I was feeling the music on a visceral level, and it had moved me to weep.
Which is pretty cool – and you’d think a kid like that would be a natural musician – but no. I must have been standing behind the door when the Mystery was handing out musical talent ‘cos I got none.
But what I do have is a major love of music and attending live shows. However, as I am getting older it is getting harder to find people (in my demographic) to attend these shows with me. Especially as I continue to listen to and enjoy new and emerging artists, as well as those I grew up with.
My usual concert buddy – my daughter, Mizz J – is in British Columbia this summer – so what’s a badass widow to do, when there are so many great concerts happening all around me?
As much as it is not my preference, I am going to a 3 day outdoor music festival on my own:
I just have to go, even though I will be going solo. I learned my lesson from missing WayHome last year. There were at least 16 acts I wanted to see but I couldn’t find anyone to go with me. So I missed them all. Never again.
So this got me to thinking: how many major bands/artists have I seen over the years, since I was a teenager? I tried to write them all down.
So, I guess I am never going to grow up. Sorry, Husband #1. (Not sorry).
I still see people at these shows who look even older than me, so there is that. Trust me, I look. I am not the only one still doing “this shit”.
Rock on,
The WB
Dear Blog,
You know I’m mad at you, right?
First of all, for making it hard (if not impossible) for people to comment.
Secondly – and this is new – now you are making it damn hard to post pictures. Correction: it is still easy to post pictures. It is hard to post pictures that haven’t been cropped by you dear Bloggie, such that people’s heads and more are missing.
I’m going to have to change my blogs’ theme again, or maybe learn some damn code so I can try to address all these problems I have been having with YOU lately.
In the meantime, I am doing other, easier shit with my free time than get my blood pressure up trying to figure out what the hell went wrong with you, Blog.
Today Mizz J and I went to the Big Smoke to see the Georgia O’Keeffe exhibition at the Art Gallery of Ontario. Picture taking was verboten but here (fingers crossed) is a picture of the art book I purchased afterwards, at ye olde gift shoppe:
Once again, dear Bloggie, you have taken it upon yourself to crop my picture even further than I had done so before I uploaded it. ARGH.
Anyways, I am not going to spend any more time on this.
What I really want to say about this exhibit is that I LOVED getting up close and personal with the paintings. I generally always do but today especially so. And here’s why.
I saw the artist’s pencil sketching on the canvas that didn’t get completely covered up the layers of paint applied (Red Poppies). I saw the tiny triangle of bare canvas in the painting where the artist didn’t quite fill in the design (Jimson Flower) where 2 colours met. I saw where the artist tried to refine the edge of the stem by painting a lighter colour over dark green and the green of the oopsie was still apparent underneath (Cala Lily).
It was wonderful to see all the little errors because it gives me freedom and permission to not be perfect either. If it’s good enough for Georgia O’Keeffe and the entire art world, well….
Rock on,
The WB
My dad has been gone for I think about 20 years now. He tried to be a good dad despite the deck being stacked against him but his demons got the better of him, especially in later years. The rest of the family experienced the brunt of this as I was already out of the house when his drinking got bad. I only witnessed snippets of what my sisters and my mom had to endure, and that was awful.
The dad of my childhood was my shining star – patient, loving, just, wise and good. The dad of my teen and adult years was prejudiced against others; domineering; tortured; addicted to food, coffee, booze and cigarettes; and often downright scary. He was the poster child for a hurtin’ unit. And boy, did he know how to hurt others – especially my mom and sisters; especially when he drank. How did he lose his way so badly?
I know he witnessed things during the German occupation of the Netherlands in World War II that no human, let alone a child, should ever have seen. He lost his own dad while he was very young and then his mom remarried and this changed his life forever in so many ways. But Dad never talked about his demons and he hated to admit any weakness or that he needed help. He lived a life of denial.
I loved him and it broke my heart when I grew older and realized he was not the dad I thought he was and that we didn’t even share the same values anymore. Did we ever? We must have, or how did I come to value honesty, hard work, helping those in need, being accepting of others, and keeping an open mind? It didn’t just come from Mom. My childhood self remembers that Daddy instilled these values in me too.
I could see the dad of my childhood return when he interacted with my kids. He started to calm down a bit once he retired from full-time work. He stopped smoking and seemed more at peace, at least on the surface. But then he died suddenly of a heart attack at 63 – the result of years of abusing his body and genetic predisposition.
Now – with what I have learned by this age about human nature and failings – I often wish Dad was still around, so I could talk to him about what was eating him up inside…and show him compassion and love…and forgiveness for the deep hurts he inflicted on his family.
But that will never happen. And now and forever, I will never really know him.
Rock on,
The WB
How’s that for a click-baity title, huh?
I have a day-bed in my home office. It makes a handy space for naps or reading or for when I have a houseful of stay-overnight guests.
I found some cute throw pillows at Homesense one day. I loved the designs and the colours so much they came right home with me. Behold:
Mizz J was studying on the day bed one day last week. Oh boy, was she studying…the pillows.
Mizz J: Mom, did you look at these pillows before you bought them?
Me: Of course! You know how much I love colour and mandala designs!
Mizz J: Did you look closely at them?
Me: Why?
Mizz J: Take a closer look.
Me: OK.
Me: OK, yeah. I ‘m looking but what am I supposed to be looking at?
Mizz J: Look closer. Much closer.
Mizz J points to a part of the design.
Me: Huh? What the…!!! OH MY!!!
Cut to Mizz J killing herself laughing at her ol’ mom’s realization of the not-so-hidden design on her pillows.
Hope this post made you laugh as much as I did when I discovered my pillow…er…porn.
Rock on,
The WB
Back in February I committed to another half-marathon race. I started training for the Niagara Falls Women’s Half Marathon (again). Things started out well but I began to struggle as temperatures rose and distances increased. I made the decision early in May that I would not participate, as I couldn’t meet the minimum pace required to finish the course in time.
This was a tough decision to make and initially I felt defeated and like a failure. I have successfully trained for and completed 5 half-marathons and I have never had this problem before.
I had no idea why I wasn’t improving despite adhering to my tried and true schedule of training walks. I wondered if maybe I was developing exercise intolerance due to the daily medication I now have to take (thanks TIAs!) or if work was kicking my ass even more than I suspected. What the hell has changed?
I made an appointment to see my doc for a physical and blood tests were ordered. My clever doc ordered a TSH (thyroid stimulating hormone) test to be done along with the “usual suspects” of blood counts, lipid profiles, blood sugar etc. I downloaded my results on Friday and noticed the TSH levels were reported as abnormally high, meaning my thyroid gland may be under-performing. Hmmmm….this explains a lot of symptoms I am experiencing, not just my poor performance on my walks.
I am making an appointment to discuss this with my doc first thing Monday, to see what the next steps are. I do feel a bit better now about my inability to meet the pace requirements for today’s race. I know I made the right call to pull out, even though a part of me wishes I was on the course with all the other runners and walkers right now.
Anyhow, it does seem that indeed something has changed and I will get that investigated further and addressed. Stay tuned!
In other Badass news, I have experienced a setback with my rooftop garden as well. Thanks, Mother Nature.
Looks like this gardening adventure is going to be a “fall down 7 times; get up 8” type scenario. Still up for the challenge!
In Kayaking news, I took my newest acquisition out for its maiden voyage. (I’m stopping now with kayak purchases, I promise!).
When the weather is bad, I play around with my art supplies. I put together a new storage cabinet yesterday for my ever-expanding collection of pencils, crayons, markers, inks and paints.
Here’s a sneak peek at a work in progress.
Rock on,
The WB
