We’re talking family.

‘How funny could this be?’ you ask? Well, we’ll just have to wait and see, I don’t really plan these posts out. You see, Pam was just in town and I love the woman to bits. Pam is Jesse & Renee’s mom, and I saw her a whole lot this week… nearly every day actually. While it is no secret that my biological mother has had as much of a problem with trying to bring about any semblance of maternal instinct as Andre the Giant has touching his toes, Pam has this instinct, and it was weird. Good weird, mind you, but weird. I’m not used to caring mothers; I remember going over to Christine’s for family dinner one night, only to squirm awkwardly in my seat trying to understand the whole mother-daughter dynamic.

I will never be a mother, not in the old school lesbian “I’m not giving birth!” sort of way, but more so because I dislike children, and people like me should not be left to care for things like babies, or guinea pigs, but that’s another story (I’m sorry, Silky). I acknowledge this though, for a long time I didn’t even like people, let alone children; I’ve babysat twice, and it’s really not my scene. I can’t get children to do anything, and when children don’t do what I want them to do, I think about what made me do things as a child, fruitless promises of sips of wine and money. When I was babysitting, I was 14, so I didn’t have any wine. I did have money, but I was a greedy little bugger (plus paying children significantly less than what I would be paid for babysitting them is kind of like sweatshop labour in the babysitting world; except with air conditioning and SIMS). In summation, babies and I just don’t gel. I don’t “gel” with anyone younger than I am, really, though I’m sure that will change when I become a spinster and I start picking up women half my age (money will probably be involved, though they come back for the years of experience, or so I hear).

So what do I think of unfit parents? Yank those kids from them. Seriously, the child will thank you later, aspiring (or currently employed) social workers. Yank ’em. Now I feel bad for saying parents, because I do love my father very much. But if you know me well enough, you’ll know that he’s really more of a close friend than someone I’m forced to talk to because of blood relation. People will, eventually, build their own families, heck, if I can do it, anyone can. Pam is someone who has been built into my family, as have Christine, Jesse, and Renee. And I have to say, I love my family (the created one, of course). But being in a family is something beyond foreign to me, seriously. I don’t understand the dynamic and I’m really taking baby steps with these people half the time, but they put up with me, and my many mistakes. I can’t say I’m the best sibling to have, just ask my bio-sister, Sydney. I don’t know how to stand up for people in my family and defend them as family members, and that’s been one of the weirdest things for me to adjust to. Admittedly, I have some things to get over, but this post is all about admitting, and Andre the Giant, apparently. 

I have said some things I’m not proud of about each member of my family, created and biological. Some of them were, if I recall, deserved. But most of them were not, and I know only a select few family members (and family members in the making) read this blog, so they may never hear this, but that’s okay. I apologize for not standing up for my family when I needed to and playing into people just to see what they had to say. I love each of you dearly, and that is the bottom line, it just took me a long time to realize that was, and is, the case. Sometimes, you drive me nuts, but at the end of the day I don’t know what I’d do without each of you.

Now, back to less pressing family matters. How many of you have stumbled across whythefuckdoyouhaveakid.com? Because it’s kind of hilarious. I think I posted about it earlier, but upside of unfit mommies and daddies (never saying that again) in the Internet age is that we can make fun of them with LOL cat lingo. I’m always tempted to put my mother on this site, but I think it’s more teen pregnancy related, and I don’t have any pictures of her getting ready for a porn shoot with me in the background on a baby leash. Shucks, ma!

If you are reading this, and you happen to be an unfit parent, maybe you should be reading less blogs (by less I mean every blog other than mine, of course. I’ll add news headlines and weather and all will be well). You could spend the time it took you to read, say, this blog, to hang out with your child, buy them groceries, divorce your lame husband/wife/partner, search for a new husband/wife/partner on the Internet, or even work from home (taking pornographic pictures while your baby is tied up with a baby leash, or something). 

In summation, don’t have babies unless you want them. And don’t want babies unless you can take care of them. Sounds simple enough to me.

In looking for relevant links, I looked though nine pages of LOL cat photos and stumbled across this:



It’s a wonder I’m single, really.


The perils of being all over the Internet

Bloggers are everywhere, whether or not people read those blogs remains to be seen. However, I often find that people who have blogs with someone reading that blog in question, have a readership of relatives and friends. Well, when I first started blogging, I thought people would be more worried about the random creeps (of course, none of you fall under the random creeps category, you’re more like “hot bitches with taste”) looking into my personal life, but that was not the case.

My dad found me on YouTube over Christmas and has made fun of me ever since. Sure, it’s jokingly, but he thinks I’m “too gay” on the Internet and that it will hurt my future. To that I say “bah!” and “well this advice came a little late”, the “don’t post videos about sex, of sex, or regarding your sexuality, on the Internet” talk should come right before the sex talk. Parents, put down your cucumbers and condoms, and pick up your keyboards, because your child could be an Internet menace, just like me!

Apart from my dad, there’s always the threat of my other family; especially if we’re talking about my bio-mom (my real mother being Pam). My mother apparently loves Google, but whether or not she’s ever had the brains to Google me, well, that remains to be seen. If she were to Google me, I’m sure she’d find very nice, rosey things, like my YouTube channel, this blog, my Twitter feed, my Identi, knowledge of my Internet activity on Identi, and sites I frequent on Delicious (not that I’m ever at my computer). My mother is too Christian, and I am too gay, which usually works out because I could just pull the “cut all ties” card, but my mother is Christian, mentally unstable, and violent; I occasionally hetero-it-up around her, it’s funny.

My friends have also expressed worry, some because I don’t blog enough (hi Zach!), some because I blog too much about too many “personal” things (this person will remain nameless), and some because I gratuitously link to anything remotely gay. Thankfully, I am about as personal as that darn pancake bunny when it comes to blogging (makes you want to keep reading, doesn’t it?). I will, however, start blogging more, I’ve just fallen off a bandwagon or two. Fret not, avid readers, I will be back and spunky in no time. Plus, lots is going on in my life, so, keep on coming back (and surprising me when you do).

Fixer-upper logic

Clearly, the worst of my woes is the enormous animated "bow tie of confusion"

Clearly, the worst of my woes is the enormous animated "bow tie of confusion"

Removing paint is a messy job. Sanding down wood, and sanding off paint, is also a messy job. In all honesty, I’m starting to realize that there is nothing clean about DIY. I’m also starting to realize that some of the things I’m doing are so far out of my league. I picked up this eco paint remover today, and while I definitely prefer the paint stripper to sanding everything down, I have ruined a table, infinite containers, scrubbers, scrapers, speckled my floors, and dropped my glasses in a mound of goopy, probably 100 year-old paint scrapings. Today, friends, has not been pretty. 

    But in defense of the DIY method, I feel as if I’m learning something. And everyone knows how much I love learning. That’s why I’m taking journalism, after all. But I digress, the great part about this apartment is not that it keeps me busy, but more so that it allows me to do what I want. When I first got the place, it was one of those ‘nowhere to go but up’ sort of places. I found the place charming, the price right, and the landlord hilarious, and really, that’s all that mattered when I chose this place. I like to think that I have the Midas touch when it comes to this place, even thought I know I’m in way over my head. 

    Recently, I’ve realized that I: a) hate paying for labour and b) have this sudden urge to learn how to do things with my hands, that I’ve never had before. I grew up in an environment which never really made me think I had to do anything on my own. We have people for that. That was my train of thought. And coming to university, I thought I had myself all figured out. I thought that I had already defined who I was in high school, and that I was only here to find like minded people. I was the hardcore vegan, indie rock, treehugging, skinny jean-wearing, literary-minded, hipster of questionable sexuality. Now, of course, I am as out as can be. But that’s really all that’s changed. 

     I thought that was all that’s changed.

    Nowadays, things don’t really add up with me. I’ve realized that I have become, or at least, I am becoming, exactly what my parents raised me not to be. The irony of that is that it is widely accepted among my dad’s side of the family, as well as my immediate family, that I was the only one to really flourish in the family. Overcoming situation after situation which I would never wish upon anyone. To become the gay, vegan, alternative lifestyle poster child daughter of an overly religious mother and an absentee father. I’m starting to think, or more so, I’m starting to understand that the best way to be a part of this family is to distance myself from it. And I’m realizing that I have become my own person, granted that person is a bit of a recluse these days, I am still my own person. I’m sure my independence will come back to haunt me at one point or another, but for now, I’m embracing the new me.

[ First posted: 16/09/08 ]

What to do with the hybrid



Even my dog knows...

Even my dog knows...

Back to the topic at hand, today I am definitely going to Brakeless, and I know I’ve talked about this before, but, really now. I can’t wait for my fixie to be done to go there, I need things from there now. Like a seat post for my fixie, and I think a seat post, correct me if I’m wrong here, is kind of integral to the the bike. I would have used the stock seat post, but the issue with that was that the seat post was so short that at maximum length, my seat wouldn’t sit higher than my handlebars. And that just won’t do on a road bike. The sizing was all off, is what I’m saying. I also need a new seat, because I remember that when I took the seat off the bike when I first got it, I felt as if I were caught in the second coming of some sort of biblical plague. Earwigs came out of there like it wasn’t anybody’s business. I feel as if that was a good enough reason to get rid of it.


    So, Brakeless. I will be parking my Marin a block away, but still walking in with my helmet attached to my bag. I think that will cover me at least until I get my fixie up and running. I need to ask their opinion, or advice, really. Because yesterday, after buying a toolset, I removed all the bolts from my cranks, because I want to keep the original Sugino’s, but there’s two chainrings, both of which are not the size I’d like them to be. So I need to take off the cranks, then remove the chainrings, put on a new chainring, and reattach them. Simple, right? Well the issue is that after I removed the bolts holding the cranks on, which is really hard to do without a work stand, and no real upper body strength. 

    The upside of working on a bike yourself though, is that you accumulate all these tools. I mean, I have this one closet which would have been a total pain had I not accumulated all these tools.  The closet is in my living room, but it is at the back of the living room, so it’s not for coats, or boots, or anything like that, it’s just generally ill placed. Now, it’s my tool closet. With snowboarding season approaching, and my need for a new (or a used) board growing, my snowboarding tools are going to increase too. Because I’m close to Tremblant, and St Anne, too, So I have no excuse, especially with 4 day weekends, to not be out in the parks. But preparing a board, especially if it’s a new one, for the park is a pain. I have to bevel and sand down and I should probably dent-proof my tip and tail for chairlift lines, and then there’s the whole stop pad choosing thing, which will take me eons I’m sure. Getting my stance just perfect will be another thing too. I need a work table. That is the answer. 

    I’m sorry that I keep giving you all my shopping lists as blogs, really. I should probably plan out what I’m going to say before hand, just to keep chaos to a minimum. I will try later. And there may be a new vlog in the works! It should be up on Tuesday, or sooner if I give in and go to Starbucks. We shall see, I guess.

    On a totally random side note, yesterday was my sister’s birthday. My mother called me with this “great idea” of giving her a card with a cat on it, with $40 in it, and signing my name for me. How lame is that? A cat card? I’m the person at birthday parties, who has some sort of a reputation for giving terribly inappropriate cards, so people know to just open the present and open the card when their parents are not around. I don’t give cards with cats on them, unless it’s a joke about pussy. Then I would do so. Otherwise, no. So I’m going to make Sydney a “because I care” package, in which I will assemble some things which she needs, but she doesn’t realize she needs them just yet. I don’t think she reads this blog, but just incase, I won’t give it away. It’s going to be a pretty awesome care package, though.  I’m writing a list of things as I type this, actually, and it’s kind of depressing because I really don’t know what to get her half the time. I mean, I haven’t lived with her in years, and now I’m hundreds of kilometers away, and I sort of, kind of, feel bad. Aren’t people supposed to know something about their siblings? I think this is something I’ll have to work on. I want to catch up with everyone in my family, except my mother, who doesn’t really count because I’ve essentially disowned her, for the first time in my life. I used to think that I didn’t care about my family, and vice versa, but now I feel the need to connect with them. Is that weird?

    A part of me feels as if I’ve never really had a “family”, sure I have people I’m related to, but by the definition in my head of family, I’ve never really had one. My dad is the only family I have, as far as I’m concerned. Sure, he’s been absent, but I can understand why he has been. I went through, and I’m going through, a lot of the same things I imagine that he’s going through, or things that he’s overcame. But he doesn’t talk, his dad died when he was really young, and my Nana, though awesome now, was really hard on her kids. He calls me all the time now, though, so maybe this move was a good thing. I’m hoping I’ll get him to open up one of these days. Because the one good thing that came out of this divorce is the mostly unspoken bond him and I share. It’s different with us. When the separation was just beginning, and my mother took everything out on me, I moved in with him. I slept on the couch of his one bedroom apartment for many, many months. He bought us a townhouse, which my mother consequently took over. And then he bought me a loft down the hall from his, despite everything going on with him. He supports me, in his own way. If my dad wasn’t so supportive, I probably wouldn’t be here. My mother sent me to therapy for two years, in order to scare the resentment I have for her out of me, I guess. And my dad always stood up for me, my sister tried to, but my mother threatened her before every family session, as she told me later on, about putting her in foster care if she made her out to be an unfit parent. Essentially, my dad is awesome. I didn’t mean for this to be such a long post, but now you know a little bit more about who I am, and why I am who I am.

(First posted: 12/09/08)

My sister’s a (dirty) bisexual, who knew?

Since summer’s started I’ve been carted, quite literally, all over the country. These past couple weeks I’ve been to Manatoulin Island for my grandfather’s 80th birthday, and then all the way over to Victoria, British Columbia for my cousin’s wedding. When I get back tomorrow night, I have one rest until I head out to Montreal to find a new place to live, only to come back to a place I just moved into. After that, New York for a week or so. I mean, holy shit, man.

    I kind of feel like an asshole traveling so much, I mean, I think seeing the world (or parts of it selectively) is great for a person, especially a writer, but I really need to get me some carbon offsets. My credit card came in some time this week, and this total breeder, Steven, who hits on me all the time, wants me to come in and get everything all set up. He makes me wonder if I’m leading on anymore men. The first time I met Steven I was wearing black organic skinnies half way down my ass with black boy shorts (the ones with that nice elastic band, you know? Yes, I’m one of those lesbians.), a red wife beater, and a flannel, plaid, and not to mention dark brown & organic, long sleeved shirt, with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of oversized aviators in the front pocket. Who in their right mind would think I was interested in men? Apparently him. It’s awkward because he makes so much eye contact with me, and makes awkward jokes, and tells me stories that he thinks I can relate to. I hate that I come off as a dirty 20-something breeder. Occasionally I feel the need to shave my head, you know like those gangs do? And have them write “BIG DYKE” on the back of my skull. Gina would shoot me, so that’ll never happen. Breathe easy.

    Anyways, I suppose I should get to the point of this blog. My sister, Sydney, is one of those dirty bisexuals (which is just a joke, I don’t actually think all bisexuals are dirty, Sydney’s just a special case) who identify as straight in public (seemingly), but reserve the rights (or lack there of) associated with being a gay lady. It pisses me off just a little, possibly because I don’t understand it all, I just see it as you are what you are. You’re never all, and you’re never neither. I feel as if, on some levels, we identify. But on that same merit, we are not in the same boat, as she occasionally assumes, and she jokes with me as if everyone is of her orientation. It may just be another one of those social-interworkings which I don’t comprehend fully, wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened.

(First posted: 09/07/08)