start: 2013Feb07

It’s presently, godforsaken, 4:34 in the morning and I’m on the sofa in the living room writing this post from my iPhone. I’ve basically been up since 12:01 AM and things unraveled as such: I fell asleep thereafter for seven minutes then woke up at 12:08 unable to believe only seven minutes had passed. I then tossed left, right, sat up, lay back down, then fell asleep again. 28 minutes passed during this second nap and I woke up again. My mouth felt like what I imagine an old camel’s would after a 10-hour shift of hauling tourists all day around the Sahara Desert. There was no way I was going to fall into slumber under such conditions and turned to study Nick’s face instead.

He lay beside me in a heavy sleep, breathing deeply and rhythmically through his clear, breezy nostrils. His peace almost brought tears to my eyes until I realised they were probably watering because the fluid in my face had nowhere else to go.

i.was.fucking.disgusting! It’s better that Nick was sleeping so as to not be a witness to the haggard monster that I turned into since we hugged and kissed each other good night only hours earlier. “You’re so beautiful,” he said to me with heavy, lusty eyes while brushing my hair off my face and kissing my forehead, “I’m so lucky to have such an angelic, dainty girl friend.”

I’m just kidding, he didn’t really say that – but, he was so obviously thinking it. I really just included that for dramatic effect so you can better visualise just how ghastly things had become since we said good night.

I tried desperately to absorb some of his slumber via osmosis, telepathy, vicariously, anything. I tried breathing in sync with him and only ended up basically hyperventilating because my sinuses weren’t allowing me to draw a nice lungful of air and his slow, deep-sleep breathing left me gasping for it and I was downright defiant over being forced to breathe through my mouth so I settled for all that my only available (although barely) nostril would afford me. Okay, okay, I admit that in my defiance things did become desperate as I really couldn’t breathe properly, so then, like a fish out of water, I would gasp quickly through my mouth without knowing it was coming and then shut my mouth again.

Vicarious breathing techniques were a fail.

I swear, under the slices of streetlight sneaking past our curtains, Nick actually looked like he was smiling. Or, maybe a shadow was just in perfect position. Or, maybe I was just looking for something to be angry about.

Nick was oblivious to the torment that was going on beside him only a foot extension away – thank god. I was in tumult as I started to make matters worse by psyching myself out as I anticipated what was obviously going to become a complete blockage of both nostrillular (I made that word up) airways at some point. When I get sick, my sinuses do not mess around, as noted in a past post: TMI in the kitchen with Andrea. It’s like they fight over which one is going to be the most congested then, when they cannot agree, they both just slam the door on each other thereby closing off all chances of me breathing through my nose.

Let me tell you, it’s very hard trying to contain the need to thrash around, blow your nose, sneeze, and cough in an effort to respectfully not disturb the person beside you who has to be up in five hours for an early morning shift. When a cold manifests in such a way, I really am better off on my own island.

To make matters even more ridiculous, we are flying to Puerto Vallarta in four days. I’m banking on getting my shit together before then, otherwise I dread, with every cell in my body, having to fly with a congested face. I’m hoping, though, that it’ll clear up by the time I get there and am in the warmth and sunshine.

At 2:47, I eventually got up and visited the medicine cabinet. In a total fog and complete inability to understand time, I wracked my brain trying to count the hours since my last administration of decongestant and anti-inflammatory drugs. My mistake was to separate my Advils from my decongestants so I couldn’t remember when I had last taken which. “Was it two o’clock that I took that decongestant? Or, was it two hours ago? Or wait, maybe I took the Advil two hours ago and was supposed to take the decongestant two hours later?” I popped them both anyway.

You know what’s really stupid of me? When I’m taking over-the-counter medication like this and it seems like I might be taking way more than the directions are advising, I actually take the time to tell myself, ”If you were in a hospital they’d give you quadruple the strength of medicine than those silly little pills you’re holding in your hand right now.” and, that’s how I feel better about exceeding the recommended dose.*

For fuck sakes, Nick’s alarm is going to be going off in an hour. He’ll open his eyes, expecting me to be there, but instead he’ll find me on the sofa buried by Kleenexes, smelling like Vicks and a camel.

It’s getting hard to type this on my phone so I think I’m going to try to close my eyes sitting up and hope for the best. I will write more when I am less upset with my circumstances.

2013Feb13 - Greetings from Hotel Catedral Vallarta.

I AM in the hell of all hells right now.

First of all, remember when I was terrified of flying congested? Well, my nightmare came true during our descent into Puerto Vallarta. My popping ears were nothing compared to the immense, shocking, severe pain that was radiating across my entire forehead. Your forehead? you ask. Yes, my forehead! I compare the feeling to how, I imagine, it would feel if someone slowly began ripping the skin off my forehead to reveal the fresh, raw flesh underneath. Then, after doing that, they would take some sand paper (coarse grade) and rub it side to side, but, not before spraying the area with rubbing alcohol first. It was almost so unbearable I contemplated calling the flight attendant but then figured there really wasn’t anything she could do for me. To make matters worse, Nick was two rows behind me. I didn’t even have his hand to crush, or his shoulder to snot on, or his expressions of sympathy and complete and utter pity. Instead, I was against the window beside a couple that brought their own freshly washed veggies in individual Zip-loc bags. I had basically been blowing my nose and/or sneezing and/or coughing the entire flight and I’m sure they were making plans to disinfect themselves upon landing. I tried so hard to keep it away from them and did all the courteous things like coughing and sneezing inside my sweater and using hand-sanitizer practically every 10 minutes. I knew they really hated me, though, when I asked the lady beside me if I could borrow her pen (which was sticking out of the pocket in front of her) so I could fill out our declaration forms. Her tray was down at this point but the pen was most definitely jutting out beyond the level of the tray. She told me that she “couldn’t reach it” because her “tray was down.” At that moment I felt so sorry for myself I just curled into a ball, threw my hoodie over my head, closed my eyes and wished death would hurry up.

Since landing, I have gotten worse if that was at all possible. I’m typing this from our bed while Nick’s on the veranda of our boutique hotel reading contently under the warmth of the sun; where I should be. Instead, I can’t fight the urge to rest and sleep. This, whatever it is, has completely overcome me while I am on vacation and I can’t even begin to describe how frustrated I am. It’s our second night here and I can just feel the sickness setting in. This is way beyond the little cold I thought I was going to have to contend with. My poor body, it’s like, stop moving right now! But my conscience is like, but I’m in Old Town Puerto Vallarta, leave me alone! I can feel it moving downward, too. As if staying in my face was too boring. I can tell by the cough I just developed this morning that it’s unfriendly and likely very vicious. It BETTER not become bronchitis while I’m in Mexico.

We had a wonderful and romantic supper last night on the beach at the ocean. Candles on all the tables, waves crashing on the shore. It’s so fun walking up to a dinner table with your toes in the sand. I had a couple delicious-looking Pina Coladas and some margaritas and a delectable-looking, serious, Fajita, however, I have no idea what they tasted like. I had to use my imagination and also made Nick taste everything then describe the flavour in great detail. It felt like such a waste.

But nooooo, I’m on vacation in Mexico. My body and I are in a big argument because I refuse to feel shitty while lying down. Instead, I’ve been feeling shitty while doing all the things that people who are not feeling shitty would be doing. I’m sure it’s quite counter-productive but I’m stubborn plus would feel guilty if Nick was stuck playing night nurse this entire time.

Anyway, have you heard of “rebound congestion?” I took Afrin yesterday because the pressure building up in my face was making my eyeballs feel like they were about to pop out of my face and run away only to never return. It’s a very annoying feeling. That, coupled with sinuses that are so inflamed that I can’t get any air in or out of them (probably the worst part for me), has made me so tense which is thereby making me even more tense at being tense in the first place. So, I lapsed and took some snorts in desperation. For four whole hours I could breathe through my nose. We swam in the ocean, rode the crashing waves, slept on the beach, walked the streets of Old Vallarta, and hiked up to where the money homes are – you know, the ones owned by rich foreigners.

Come the fifth hour I could actually feel my tissues closing up again with each inhalation. I felt like Cinderella at midnight. It was so deflating and it happened so fast, too. I spent last night feeling even more congested than I ever had thus far – if that was even possible. The only way I can properly illustrate the condition is exactly like this (those are corks):

(don’t you love how my hairstyle keeps changing? I think I look like a backup singer for Bon Jovi here)

Anyway, tomorrow is v-day. The day when I’m supposed to feel pretty, romantic and smell nice as Nick and I celebrate our romance. I wish I could feel a little more fancy, and Valentine-y, but I think I’ll be feeling more Frankenstein-y than anything. Oh well, thankfully Nick’s in it for the long haul, eh?!

Alright, I don’t want to be the vacationing blogger, especially when I don’t have many lifelines left while my condition seems to worsen with every character I enter.

I’ll leave you on this sick note. Olé!

*This is honestly in the most extreme of cases and the only time I’ll classify anything as extreme is when it has to do with my sinuses. Like, I could lose an arm in a shark attack and reject the painkillers; THAT’S how resilient I am.

(I’m angry and it will be obvious.)
(I’m sorry if you’re a big fan of this book.)
(Maybe don’t read any further.)

I gave in to the hype of Fifty Shades of Grey in June. It is abominable.

Poor Nick was around me more often than he may have liked while I was reading and had to suffer through my agitated and fanatical grievances over, what seemed like an endless and alarming amount of, bullshit erotica crap. This book certainly did not champion, nor bring new meaning to, our sex life. If anything, Nick was looking for a complaints department. It’s like I’d be reading in bed gripped by the wrath of rage that it was conjuring in me and Nick would be all “Mmmm, let’s make out.” And I’d be all, “Mmm, no, wait, don’t touch me. Ana’s inner goddess just pole-vaulted over the fifteen foot bar, I think I’m going to be sick.” So he’d roll over defeated and grumble something like, “What does that even mean? Fucking book.”

I never read Twilight or watched any of the movies. Apparently the author, a big fan of the Twilight series, thought the only thing the main characters were lacking between each other was sex, so she took it upon herself to satisfy her need for dark, Twilight sex between her favouriteist characters and wrote the Fifty Shades trilogy. I honestly bought this book because I was expecting to be seduced by it. I wanted something juicy that was going to make me wanna just a little more than I already wanna. But noooooo. It made me wanna barf up pancakes at every page turn.

First of all, this book is written in such a puerile and shoddy way, it actually alarmed me. No, actually, at first it made me laugh, then as it wore on it actually made me furious. I started to question the motivations of every single, damn person involved in this book. From writer (I use that term very loosely) to publisher to promoter to whoever the braniac is who decided it should be a Hollywood movie. Second of all, I nearly screamed my tonsils back into my throat when I read that her research for this book came from none other than the internet. Or wait, sorry, not only that but she also contacted various “experts” whom she also found on the internet. Wai.. wai.. wait.. what?? The internet? Not from reading Anaïs Nin or Anne Desclos? Maybe Clan of the Cave Bear? Or from watching 9 1/2 Weeks, at least? Not even a nebulous, lust-filled past? A memoir? A roll in the hay with nipple clamps? Not even that? The internet? This bugs me even more because I think, if the stupid internet didn’t exist then Fifty Shades of Grey wouldn’t either.

I know by this point, some of you are not feeling sorry for me and thinking, “Then why the hell did you keep reading it?” Okay, well it’d be like this: Think back to the last time you had a glorious moment of shameless gluttony. Pick your poison-maybe a 43 g bag of sour cream and onion chips? Maybe a tub of ice cream? A huge Toblerone bar? A bag of Oreo cookies? You’ve started eating away and five mouthfulls in you know it’s going to be ugly, you know that damage will be done to your organs if you continue at that pace, and yet, there is no way you’ll be able to stop. So, you go through these transitions:

optimism and hope
apprehension
retreat! retreat!
defeat
unglued
retreat?
…defeat
recoil
weaken
re…
……treee
defeat
resign.

It was similar to that.

Okay, we’ve got 22-year old Anastasia Steele (first of all…). She’s portrayed as a virginous, naïve, doe-eyed, clumsy, stunned, sassy whippersnapper; who is also described as intelligent and academic, otherwise known as a complete mess of an oxymoron.  She’s like Barbie: fun to play with but, turn her into a real-life woman and you’d be terrified.

At least, I HOPE you’d be terrified.

I guess part of her problem is that she’s almost too cliché. Like, of course she’s a virgin, of course she’s beautiful, of course she’s naïve, of course she wears Converse, of course she wears her hair in pigtails (Christian Grey thinks these are cute? What?!?! Pfft, they’re just pig tails), of course she drives a classic VW Beetle, of course finds herself so unimpressive even though the rest of her social network thinks she’s Eva Peron. Of course she has never owned a laptop or had an email address. Of course this is all meant to be unassuming but reeks to the high heavens of manipulative predictable banalities.  Oh and, of course she’s able to abate a devastatingly gorgeous, mysterious, grossly rich, aristocratic, elusive, stoic, troubled, control freak who is, {of course} into kinky, dominating sex. There really is zero depth to her and she’s about as flat as a paper doll. Betsy here is probably more interesting…

McCall’s July, 1905

For most of the book Ana is obtuse, clenching the muscles deep in her belly, biting her lower lip, rolling her eyes, talking/arguing/discussing with her inner goddess and subconscious, flushing, moaning, whispering, orienting her vagina “down there,” watching Christian remove “foil packets” from his jeans pocket/jacket pocket/night table (gag); either fawning over Christian, cowering from him, or dancing around his kitchen listening to her iPod (Oops, he caught me. OMG I’m like, so embarrassed!), orgasaming, and crying.

-snore-

Christian is of course astonishingly rich and gorgeous to the point of it almost being illegal. He wears jogging pants just off his hips and plays piano like a melancholic Rachmaninov. He’s aloof, arrogant, elusive, “fifty shades of fucked up” (yawn), a control freak and a stalker who gets turned on by virgins. He doesn’t make love, he “fucks…. hard.” He’s threatening, impatient, aggressive, jackhammers through Ana’s virginity and pulls out her tampons.

But, “he’s sooooo freaking hot!”
“Wow, just… wow.”

Christian spends a lot of time growling, scolding, lecturing, despondent, moping around, moody, and stroking his index finger against his lower lip.

The writing reads like something I would have put together when I was fourteen and I didn’t yet have the maturity and vocabulary to write a story with metaphors and alliteration. Actually, even at fourteen I might have written better than this. Of alllllll the ways, is this really the way it had to be?

“…and my very small inner goddess sways in a gentle victorious samba.”
What the fuck does a ”gentle victorious samba” look like anyway?!!

“My inner goddess has her pom poms in hand – she’s in cheerleading mode.”
I want to punch her inner goddess for this.

“My subconscious is frantically fanning herself, and my inner goddess is swaying and writhing to some primal carnal rhythm.”
Come on.

“Of course. Silly me. Such a sad, exciting score, which no doubt you can play? So many accomplishments, Mr. Grey.”
“And the greatest one is you, Miss Steele.”
Noooooooooooo.

“Laters baby.”
I don’t care how hot he is…

“So you’ve just slept with him, given him your virginity, a man who doesn’t love you. In fact, he has odd ideas about you, wants to make you some sort of kinky sex slave.”
Yep, now just take it one step further and FUCKING RUN, dumb bitch!
(Sorry that might have been out of line).

“I ignore the unwelcome stab of disappointment. Why do I want to spend every single minute with this controlling sex god? Oh yes, I’ve fallen in love with him, and he can fly.”
Wendy, clearly, you’re not listening.

I really could go on, and on, but don’t want to give this book any more of my time and attention. E.L. should be thankful that I devoted 1271 words to writing about her precious book.

So, long story probably very long, I went to my family doctor a couple of weeks ago with two issues. I try to visit him with more than one because his practice is so far away but I think he’s amazing and refuse to see anyone else out of convenience. He also allows me to go to him with more than one issue and doesn’t limit me to one in less than 5 minutes, “okayherearesomeantibioticstakethemuntilthey’refinished,takecare,bye.” like the walk-in clinics do.

I like sharing so here are the reasons why I saw my doctor:

1) I’ve pretty well lost my sense of taste and smell. It comes and goes but never regains fully, which is incredibly annoying. It’s also confusing from a sensory perspective because I’ve got the appetite, but when I’m eating, I don’t get that satisfaction from salivating over what I’m smelling and tasting. The only satisfaction comes from knowing that I was hungry, and now I’ve eaten, and now I’m not hungry. Believe me, losing my sense of smell does have its benefits living in a house with three males, but other than that, I want to be able to smell the body cream I’m taking the time to slather myself in. I want to smell my potted Jasmine plant when it’s in bloom.

This all started about six months ago when I had a gross cold that was entirely in my face. Normally, this is where most of my colds set up shop, but this time around my face was actually throbbing from the congestion. It was almost like I had grown a second heart in my cheek. Needless to say I was either not sleeping at all, or I was sleeping hopped up on a multitude of drugs, including, but not limited to: Ibuprofen, Acetaminophen, decongestant pills, nasal spray (which I use as backup in the event the decongestant pills don’t work). Each time I feel a cold approaching I quickly devise a plan over whether or not I’m going to just let it run its course while I remain sleepless at night and tired during the day or if I’m going to drug myself so I can at least sleep at night and increase the chances of fighting it sooner.

What was I talking about again?
Oh ya, the cold I had six months ago.

So, I got the cold. Then it went away more or less in a relatively expedient fashion, however, about a week into returning to normalcy I had this horrible pain somewhere in my top left molar. I am thirty-five and have never had a cavity so this was deeply upsetting to me on various disappointing levels. It hurt like a mother and boy was I mad! < potential for TMI> The next night I had this urgency to blow my nose (the minimal symptoms were still there on and off). I like to make my nose blowing as productive as possible so I hung my body over the bed and just practiced my nose-blowing-technique-for-optimal-results procedure that my gp in Ottawa once taught me. You can even ask Nick this because he almost got the timer out, but I actually blew my nose, hanging over my bed, for about forty-five minutes straight, taking breaks only to breathe. I felt like I was draining the fluid from my spine after a while. Not only did it feel like I was blowing my nose on behalf of past, present, and future colds but I actually became very fascinated over where it was all coming from. It didn’t look like an infection either because it was clear as water and I was not tired and/or feverish, so that didn’t explain it. </ potential for TMI>

Sure enough, where I had become used to the throbbing cavity I was sure I had, by morning that pain was gone. I know from looking at anatomy books when I was probably too young to be looking at them, that there are things called maxillary sinuses which are behind our cheeks. I put two and two together and figured that the pain I felt in my molar was actually due to a problem with my maxillary sinuses! I rejoiced in not having a cavity, but wondered whether or not I actually had a problem with my sinuses now given last night’s episode and that my senses of smell and taste had waned.

About a month later yours truly got sick… again. This time, like a weather vane, I had that familiar pain in my molar and knew that my face was going to be attacked again within days. I prepared myself this time by steaming broccoli and my face simultaneously (I can be efficient when I put my mind to it) which probably looked something like this if I had crazy highlights:

(author’s illustration of self)

You’re probably like, Uh, remind me to never have dinner at Andrea’s house.

I chased breakfast, lunch, snupper™ (Nick and his son, Tom, made up that word. It’s a portmanteau for snack + supper. I think they’d be really happy to see it used here) and supper with drops of oil of oregano. Then, I draped a hot facecloth infused with a couple drops of eucalyptus oil over my face right before bed. Oh and ate no cheese as cheese can contribute to nasal congestion. I made it through the ordeal like a real champion but still came out of it with a decreased sense of smell and taste which, I was pretty sure, was actually getting worse. Every shower I’d do a smell test where I would see how far away my body wash could be from my nose before I could smell it. It’s pretty fragrant stuff, citrussy deliciousness. I’d start with it at my chest and squeeze the bottle a bit to get bursts of citrus smell out. Nothing. I’d bring it up six inches and repeat. Again, nothing. It wasn’t until my nostril was actually resting on the opening that I could smell any hint of it. Very frustrating.

I explained most of this to my doctor who ordered me an x-ray of my head just to be on the safe side.

Off I went…

Now, I know x-ray technicians see people all day long and I know they’re trained to just x-ray. We’re not supposed to have relationships with our x-ray technicians like we do with our physicians but still, this lady was like Gumby’s mother where I play the part of Gumby.

She was small, her demeanor abrupt, but her voice gentle. She made no sense. She guided me to a white board that had what looked like electrical tape formed into a pattern that resembled an easy maze. She tapped the top of a stool and told me to sit, facing the white board. It was a tight squeeze so I pushed the stool back a little bit so I could sit properly. The next thing I knew her knee was resting on the seat but also against my tail bone, her hands on my shoulders, and she pushed my face against the white board in the kind of position I remember doing when I was a kid on a school bus to passing cars. It would have been nice if she told me that my face and the white board were going to have a brief, almost intimate, encounter with each other. There were three more positions after that, none of which felt respectful or natural, but whatever, it’s all in the name of my sinuses.

Exactly a week later I got a call from my doctor’s office asking me to come in that afternoon. This told me they found something and must deal with it like, yesterday.

When he entered the room, the first thing he said was, “Oh my you’re a mess.” I was like, “I am?” He was like, “Yes, it’s bad. Your face is a mess.” He read the diagnosis to me: Complete, bilateral opacification of the maxillary sinus. Um, ew. Opacification… opacity… opaque… “See, normally in an x-ray, healthy sinuses are indicated as a dark grey, yours showed up completely opaque which tells me you’re not using your maxillary sinuses at all and are completely relying on your frontal sinus (which are the ones behind our eyebrows).”

It looked something similar to this:

You know, although brutal and tremendously unsexy, I felt vindicated in a way because I knew something was wrong.

He ordered a CT scan for me, which I had this past Saturday at 8:AM. Not exactly the way I wanted to launch into my extra-long, long weekend but okay. The CT scan guy was nice and very approachable. Not like Gumby’s mum up there. He also placed a puppy pee mat on the head rest which I called him on right away. It was good though, because it was blue bordered with a white absorbent pad which is perfectly matched for medical colours.

Or, maybe the puppy pee mats are actually medical padssss…

The results of this will be in in seven to ten days. I’m also on the waiting list for a referral to an ENT. How precious. Something about a camera in my sinuses. Oh, and I was also prescribed 15-days-worth of antibiotics which have caused my stomach nothing but grief in addition to making my mouth taste like I’m sucking on a handful of pennies from the 1970s. I can taste! Party.

Do I paint a pretty picture, or what?

2) A few months ago, one evening my arms felt flabby so I decided to do the triceps exercises that my Kettlebell’s information sheet recommended. I worked so hard at those exercises and kept telling myself no pain no gain… it’s allll for the bikini arms. Well, the next morning I went to reach for the glass of water on my night table and couldn’t lift it for the life of me. Actually, come to think of it, I could barely even grip it. I figured I probably over did it a bit the day before, popped an Advil (druggie) and went on with my day which was spent lifting everything with my left arm because my right arm was useless. “This sucks major,” I thought to myself. “stupid Kettlebell!” Fast forward three months and I’m discussing this very topic with my doctor which immediately followed my sinus discussion. “Is it tender here?” “Gah!” “What about here?” “Fffffu.” “You’ve got lateral epicondylitis which is otherwise known as tennis elbow.” “Otherwise known as stupid, frigging Kettlebell elbow…” I thought to myself. “Take extra-strength Ibuprofen every four hours even if you’re not in pain. Ice it. Massage it. You can also buy a tennis elbow strap. This will last a while.”

I don’t even play tennis!

You’re thinking, didn’t her post title say something about kitchens?

Here’s where the kitchen part comes in!

Women reading this will know that antibiotics can cause a YI. Those fun little adventures all in the name of killing infections, thereby also causing one, but in a different area. Please. This is not funny. So anyway, once was enough for me when I was a little girl and thank goats I have a mother who was on the up and up about naturopathy. Dr. Weil was our resident guru. The trick, she’d say, is you need to load up your guts with probiotics because the antibiotics kill all the bacteria, even the good stuff. I was put on a strict regime of nothing but yogurt, Kefir and acidophilus.

Yogurt, Balkan-style straight up, has forever been a part of my regular diet. I don’t buy the flavoured stuff, or the stuff that needs commercials to market their benefit. If prepared Kefir weren’t so frigging expensive (between $5 and $6 for a measly 454 ml container) I’d be eating it regularly, too.

Until…

I got the idea that I’m going to make the damn stuff myself. I’ve been seeing the Kefir kits at Choices Marketplace so I knew it was possible to make it but was so hard and fast with my Balkan that I never thought to take it on. This time, though, since I’m on a long, 15-day course of antibiotics it entered my head to hunker down and figure out how to make it. I did some research and found that the kits don’t make endless batches; they’re more or less a temporary gimmick you spend money for. You basically make one or two batches and that’s it. What you really need are the live, milk Kefir grains. And, they really are live bacteria – more on this in a moment. The thing is, none of the grocery stores sell it for some reason. Just as well though, they’d probably mark it up exorbitantly. Instead, the live milk grains are available via a type of underground market thing, only they’re legal. Most of the DIY forums advised of Googling “distributors” although by “distributors” I mean they are just ordinary people who give away their colonies. The reason they can do this is because the live bacteria will continue to multiply. So, the mass actually grows. All they need is milk fat to feed off. Within a month your colony could very well double in size. And, as long as you keep it well fed, you can make Kefir from it until the end of time.

I Craigslisted for my distributor and found a nice lady nearby who sold me 2-tbsp for $20. She admitted it was a bit of a hefty starter price but, I guess if you can sell it, might as well sell it. I knew that in the long run, this $20 investment would save me major on the cost for the already processed, grocery store Kefir. Only four of those and my $20 is paid off.

The fantastic thing about it is it’s ready in less than 24-hours where the longer it ferments, the more tangy it is. So, every evening I prepare my Kefir and, by the next evening, it’s ready to be added to the big jar I have going in the fridge. I swear, I don’t know why every Kefir drinker doesn’t do this! Not only that, but it feels like an elementary school science project entry without a hypothesis, which is entirely fun. Well, at least for me it is.

Tania wanted me to document my first batch in photos so I will post them here for all to see. If you’re close by, and you’d like some of my Kefir grains to try your own then leave a comment and we’ll discuss business. My readers get a special deal though because I won’t charge you a penny. Just have to wait a few more weeks though while my colony develops into an entire family tree.

Here’s my precious first batch in photos:

So, that’s my colony in the jar to which I will add milk. That special lump of live bacteria is what will cause the milk to ferment, thereby creating trillions of live probiotics in about 24 hours. The rule of thumb is 2 cups of milk for 2 tablespoons of Kefir grains. I have a bit more than 2 tablespoons of Kefir so I’ve readied 2 1/2 cups of milk.

Once the milk’s combined with the Kefir the job is done. The thing is it needs to be covered with something that will let it breathe as gasses will produce during the fermentation process. I just use paper towel secured with an elastic band.

The warmer the temperature, the better, and the faster the fermentation process. Cooler temperatures will also result in a thicker Kefir. Keep the mix in a dark, dry place and check on it in 24 hours.

Same time, next day and the fermentation process is complete. Place a sieve over a bowl and strain the liquid through gently pushing the colony around until all the liquid is through. A sieve is better than cheesecloth, I’ve found, because the liquid is viscous from the live bacteria and you don’t want to leave any of that behind. What ends up in the bowl is your Kefir! I take that and pour it into a big, canning jar which I keep in my fridge.

(367 because this year was a leap year and I’m one day late).

I never planned on getting a dog. I was able to crawl around petfinder.ca on my lunch breaks and close the window with restraint and civility and walk away from the faces waiting for adoption.

That was until one lunch break during the last week of April, last year. There, at the top of the page was the featured pet of the week. This is what I saw:

He was called “Kilo” and he was a 10-year old, 3-pound chihuahua who was relinquished by his owner when he stopped eating and was basically starving himself to death. From what I understand, his previous owner’s sister and her toddler children had moved in and he was tormented the way most naive toddlers would – chasing him around and rough housing with his little body. His owner gave him up to the Dhana Metta Rescue Society one day, I figure for his own health and safety. But, by then he was quite underweight.

That photo of his little, peaking face with that furled brow just devastated me. There was no amount of strength I could muster to not try to rescue him from the shelter life. What did shelter life look like to a 3-pound chihuahua? Probably pretty terrifying. He needed me.

I received a response to my application in the next couple of days and a home visit was scheduled. It went amazingly as Marshall and Otis just lay in my wingback passed out in a sunbeam and me and the shelter girl talked for a long time. I was subsequently approved as the adopter (obvs, toot!).

After a few emails back and forth, April 29th, 2011 was to be the day that I met “Kilo” for the first time. Tania had offered to come with me which was nice because the drive was a little long and included a four-minute (yes, four) rickety ferry ride to Barnston Island, which really is an island in Surrey.

Barnston Island is a teeny little spot on the map. 2001 Census data shows its land area is 0.43 km2 and total population at that time was 46; just to put it into perspective. I don’t believe it has grown much since then. Henyway… on Barnston Island is the Dhana Metta Rescue Society which is founded by a nice lady named Yuana. 20 or so chihuahuas greeted us the moment we stepped into the kitchen. Her specialty is rescuing chihuahuas, particularly the ones she finds for sale on Craigslist some being offered up as studs or bitches so their owners can make money off the litters over and over again. Bah to those people. Luckily, Franco was no stud.

I was told that “Kilo” was upstairs in a room to himself because he is “so small; smaller than every dog you see here.” I couldn’t imagine. I was looking down at little chihuahuas! How on earth could he be smaller than “that one?” “Yes.” “That one??” “Yes!” Tania and I sat in the middle of the kitchen floor for a while while a swarm of doggies vied for our affection. In the middle of it all was an old cat that sat on a little bench with its face stuffed between the coils of a stand-up, electric heater. It was his “thing” and I wish I got a photo of it because it was the one of the most bizarre “things” I’ve seen a cat do. He just sat there, face inserted, eyes closed, and breathed in the heat.

Upstairs we went and into the room where “Kilo” stayed. I must say it was a nice, large room with a big, bright window. The three of us tiptoed in and there was movement under some blankets in a pet bed. Out he came. Tania and I both let out an “Oooooh.” He really was THAT small. It was almost shocking. Not only is he small for a chihuahua in frame, but you could also see his ribcage which was good evidence of just how starved he had let himself become.

The three of us sat down on the floor. I am not lying when I say this next thing -you can even ask Tania- but of the three laps for him to choose from, he came to mine and sat right in it and stared up at me. It was remarkable and the minute I looked into his sad eyes I felt this instant need to just take him away from all this and give him stability and quiet again. T and I left shortly after that with him in tow. It was getting dark by this time and “Kilo” stayed snuggled in Tania’s arms inside his orange blanket. The only muscles he moved were his eyeballs as he took in the inside of the car as well as streetlights and trees floating by outside.

We dropped Tania off at home and he immediately nestled himself into my lap where he fell asleep. It was so obvious how much he craves contact.

For the next two full days he never came out of his little nest inside his pet bed. Not even to eat, drink, or go to the bathroom. I put his dish of food and water inside the blanket and would hear him nibbling late at night as I was getting ready for bed. Finally on the third day it was especially sunny in my living room and he emerged very cautiously to lay in a patch of sun on my living room floor. Over the next week or so I think he became used to the smell and permanency of his surroundings and started to stay outside of his blankets a bit more. Still though, the steps to his food and water was grueling for him. His entire body would shake so much he could barely control his legs to move them to the dishes. His ears were just peeled back and his eyes darted. I figured there was some connection between the children moving in and his eating disorder because boy was he ever terrified of getting to his food.

Slowly but surely his personality emerged. I didn’t like the name Kilo either so I spent some time trying to figure out a two-syllable name that I thought suited him better. I came up with James Joplin Franco (after James Franco and Janis Joplin) and he became Franco for short and for obvious simplicity. He started to be more comfortable around me as long as I moved slowly. Although at first our business was slightly peculiar when he would paws up on the sofa cushion and whine to get up but once I would bend down to lift him he would run away. And repeat. Over. And over. Again.

There came a moment when I believe he decided to just muster the strength to eat a meal in one shot. I realised the moment had come when he removed a food piece from his dish, brought it to my feet, and proceeded to … scold it? Attack it? Kill it? I’m not entirely sure what it was he was doing but it was demonstrative of real pack-animal behaviour. The first three or four bites would be brought right to my feet, commence routine of barking and swatting at food, and then return to dish to eat rest of food. When I watched this interesting eating ritual I figured it must have been really exciting and hilarious for little kids to watch and I’m sure they must have involved themselves in the process in a way that probably felt intrusive and confusing for him. It is a ritual he is quite serious about and I don’t think any kind of distraction from it would be of any benefit to him.

He also now respectfully waits until I am home to eat. I always put food in his dish first thing in the morning and he won’t touch it all day until I come home. In addition, he also seems to hold his number ones and twos until I’m home, which is a real treasure. The moment I walk in the door he rises from the sofa, makes sure it’s me, and before I even have the chance to put his harness on to take him outside, he scurries to his pee mat in the bathroom, pees, then takes a few steps to the side of the toilet and poos then comes running at me with his tail wagging all proud of himself. He is the most darling thing.

I look at how loving, comfortable, playful, curious, and calm he is and compare it to the terrified little chihuahua I didn’t see for two whole days because he was buried under a nest of blankets. Even after he came out, it took him quite some time to feel safe and comfortable and I marvel at how far he’s come.

If there’s one thing I want to stress to people who are thinking about adopting a chihuahua it’s that I have learned that the reason they are notorious for being yappy, skittish, nervous dogs seems to largely be due to their specific emotional and environmental needs not being respected or met. First of all, they are not a dog for small children. I think, because of their size, they are instinctively in a state of hyper-alertness and the large, loud world around them can be overwhelming. I think constant stimulation from curious toddlers takes a toll on their fragile nervous system and they spend much of their time in a state of anxiousness and defensiveness. I also think that because they’re so cute and small that it’s easy for strangers to want to touch them, hold them, talk to them… the thing is they’re not big enough to feel powerful in their own bodies. And, I believe this almost feels harrassing for them because the touching is rarely on their terms. I look at how Franco reacts when strangers see him and want to hold him or pet him. He kind of just freezes right where he is and almost looks like he’s anticipating something that he won’t have the power to stop, then keeps his eyes on me the entire time as if to ask, “Is this okay? Am I okay?” And thus, chihuahuas are passed off as overly nervous, anxious maniacs.

Chihuahuas need to feel safe and underwhelmed in a way, and really need to have their personal space respected which I know can be hard with a family pet. However, if they do have that from the begining then I think most people would be surprised at how peaceful, playful, and affectionate they truly are. And, Franco’s a perfect testament to that, even despite the few months when his life turned upside-down.

Look at my little Franco now…

Here he was supposed to be ET for Halloween, but ended up looking more like Mary Magdalene; especially in this pose and with that facial expression.

Franco Claus and then in the Christmas sweater Tania crocheted for him:

Literally lap dog

This past Saturday morning, around 8:45 AM… then at 9:50 AM… then at 10:15 AM… and finally at 10:45 AM I woke up for good; but not happily. I pretty well forced myself out of bed because I knew if I had given in to my exhaustion, I could easily have slept in well into the afternoon. The degree to which I was tired surprised me. I actually contemplated whether I had taken a Gravol in my sleep or something. I had taken one out of the blister pack a couple of nights earlier when I felt like ass, but thought against it because I knew I wouldn’t have more than seven hours of sleep and that’s not enough time for a Gravol to wear off. But, then I looked for it on Saturday morning figuring that if I couldn’t find it, that maybe I did take it in my sleep; but I found it. My next thought was that perhaps I was getting sick. Either way I honestly felt paralysed on Saturday morning. Even opening my eyelids felt like there were dumbbells sitting on them.

Enter Sunday. I cough once and it’s enough of a cough to register that yes, I’m getting sick. It just had that unique kind of feel. Different from a cough that might come suddenly if you inhale weird or choke on a poppyseed. This was less than ideal timing because I had my 2nd mid-term coming up that Wednesday (as in yesterday… as in last week – since it’s been four days since I wrote the above). I was so annoyed. I rummaged through our drug cabinet and begrudged my life. Here I am, in the middle of a University-level sociology course, not an academic by any stretch of the word, and I am studying while on drugs. Who does that? I’m the biggest sick wussy on this planet, too. Although it’s really only the symptom of congestion I cannot handle. I have a huge tolerance for pain, in fact I will hysterically laugh when I’m in pain vs actually cry out in agony (ask my brother how annoying that was when we were physically assaulting each other as kids); but, if the pain of a cold comes in the form of congestion then I will honestly behave as though there is no symptom on earth that could be worse. Keeping in mind that my congestion can sometimes be so awful that it feels like my sinuses are impacted with boulders and I can actually sometimes feel the throbbing of my heart in my face – that is unacceptable and intolerable for me. It is a severe injustice for me. I would even prefer a sore throat. So, when I’m congested, you can be sure that for the duration, I am also high or coming down from a high.

I’m high on Tylenol for the analgesic, then there’s the Advil for the aches and pains, then there’s not one, but two, extra-strength decongestants, on stand-by is actual nasal decongestant spray – which I usually try to avoid because once you ween yourself from it, your sinus tissue inflammation comes back with a vengeance and then the cycle of drug-use can repeat itself. I chase all the above with four Milk Thistles to protect my liver. After all this, and within the hour, I can breathe and I’m in a state of total bliss and ambivalence toward my sickness and only then can I sleep. See, during the day I will allow myself to feel the full effects of a cold and use little to no medication, if possible. I figure I can use this for willpower and as an inner-strength-building exercise. Extreme congestion (and I’m talking the kind where not even 0.00000001 kg/s of air flow will get into my lungs through my nose; where if I had no mouth I would surely suffocate to death) is probably the one symptom that actually causes me to physically respond to my frustration. My legs get the heebie jeebies and no position, not even one where I may find myself surrounded by memory foam, a lavender air diffuser, essential oil candles, a dark room, and jazz in the background, will ever be comfortable enough. This, as you can imagine, would greatly impede my chances of a restful sleep and thus further extending the length of this cold because if I don’t sleep then I don’t heal.

(I’ve spent a lot of time thinking this through).

On top of all this I have to time my nighttime drug use perfectly during the week, because if I don’t allow myself enough sleep during the night, then by the time my alarm goes off at 7:00 the next morning I may as well have been dead for, say, six hours, revived, then be so irritated at the idea of being revived under such ill-timing that I demand to be put back to sleep. Add to this the fact that I had another sociology mid-term that same week which meant that that particular Wednesday would be an extra long day of waking hours since I don’t get home from my class until 10:00 at night. Oh, and I also had a three-panel interview that morning complete with an on-the-fly mock client interaction. My cold would have got the award if there was a competition for worst timing.

Despite all these stupid monumental handicaps, I made it through the interview, worked, went to class for my midterm that night and actually felt okay coming out of it. However, I will admit that should there have been drug testing pre-exam I likely would have failed. But, if I do as well as I felt I may have, then I would consider them to have been not only of the cold relief variety but also of the performance-enhancing kind. The true answer will come on Wednesday night though for that is when I will receive my mark. For those of you who remember my post about my last mid-term, I was less than impressed with her furtive exam style and came out of this last one thinking no more of myself than had I just tied my own shoe. In other words, no big deal. Whatever.

I do like the studying part though you know. Even if I come out of it as a complete failure. I accept that I am not an academic. I am a day-dreaming, multi-tasking thinker who has problems with absorbing information that I will later be quizzed on. I accept that all of the things I have learned and understood through the years have all occurred at a time when I am not “told” to learn. So, this is out of my comfort zone a little, which is fine. I like to have my limits tested. This just means that when I do absorb material that I have been told to study then I feel extra proud of myself for having accomplished that. I was due for a sense of accomplishment, I think.

Here’s my study table that I felt really happy to be around. It’s exactly the way I’ve ever learned anything crucial. That is, in a more shit everywhere type of environment.

Disclaimer: After reading this post you may be all… Um, this girl is really weird.

I really am a nut. But, it comes from a very good place; although a crazy-making place.

There are animal lovers, advocates, PETA, veterinarians etc., … then there’s weirdo me. And, I know I can’t really automatically separate myself from the aforementioned types as if I stand out or am different from their feelings but I just wonder sometimes if I actually need to see a therapist about this because I think I have a real problem. Er, problem probably isn’t the right word. It’s more of an … issue, maybe.

For example, I could never be in any kind of position where I may come across an animal in fear and/or suffering, even if I’d be in that position to help them. I will go the long way around live fish tanks in grocery stores because if I see them crammed in there I start to get this very subtle sense of claustrophobia or anxiousness. I fantasize sometimes about Super Andrea (!!) raiding a puppymill… guns a blazin’! And… and… rescue all those poor, suffering puppies and mama and papa dogs. Instead, I avoid walking by butchers with chickens hanging in the display window because I can’t get past the fact they may very well not be actual chickens. If I hear dogs barking or cats meowing around alleyways where there are several back entrances of restaurants I wonder if they’re trapped in crates in the basements.

I can only wish to be strong enough to just get a frigging grip. But, like any humanitarian who could never be a surgeon – even if it meant saving lives – because they can’t stand the sight of blood, I cannot get right in there and save these suffering animals with my bare hands. The sentiment is the same. Or, in discussion with my fellow humans, I know that my cat/dog/restaurant wonderment is akin to them passing by forested areas and wondering if there are dead bodies from murders that have been thrown there.

What? You don’t think that way? Don’t tell me they’re the only ones…

We.Are.All.A.Bit.Morose.

This is all coming from an email my dad sent me over the weekend with a YouTube link to the Battle at Kruger.  The body of the email describes the video like this:

Wow, this is truly incredible. A group of lions attack a baby buffalo, then engage in and win a tug-of-war with a crocodile over the buffalo, only to lose in the end to a herd of buffalo who return to defend the baby. And, the baby walks away having lived through it.

Now, I know my dad knows how sensitive I am to animals so I was a little confused over why he’d send his video to me, so before watching it I emailed him to ask:

Dad, are you SURE I should be watching this? I can’t even handle seeing lobsters and crabs in grocery store tanks.

To which he responded:

This is a happy ending… but it is a little rough. I like how the buffaloes decided to protect their baby against all these lions.

So I sat on it. Then, I read up on it. What goes down in this amateur video was so monumental that Time Magazine actually featured an article about it and National Geographic produced a documentary about it. I certainly read enough to intrigue me and bring me really close to wanting to watch it. But, my fear was around what kind of post-symptom I would suffer after it was all over. That’s where things get complicated for me.

I’ve learned that I cannot bear seeing animals in any kind of panicked, pained, or defenseless state. That if I can see their faces of fear, or hear their grunts of panic and distress, or see their bodies writhing to escape, that it most definitely will affect me for days later, sometimes even months. I know this, I’ve learned this. This could even be a snapshot on an animal cruelty ad. I used to hate logging into my Hotmail because of that image of the bear in chains behind bars. I know that was the intent of the campaign; to be impacting and affecting, but for me, I see the face and the eyes and I almost feel its fear and helplessness and then it might as well be me in that position. It can debilitate me.

Sometimes the image is enough to actually make me feel stomach sick and I will often transition into feelings of anger toward the image, or whoever is behind posting the image, especially when it catches me off guard or I am not prepared for it because I know that now I’m going to hang on to it for longer than was probably intended. It wouldn’t be uncommon for me to have nightmares of animals in states of pain and suffering for a few days afterward which makes for pretty awful and distressing sleeps.

I know that if I see a video like the one my dad sent me - in as powerful, beautiful, amazing, and interesting as I know it is - the only thing that could very well stay with me after it is the terrified, helpless animal in pain. Especially with this particular type of terror. The buffalo calf, completely defenseless, with a pack of lions all over it then a crocodile, then back to the lions. Even though I know the video ends with it getting up and walking into the herd of adult buffalo, the only part that concerns me is the part where it endures fear and pain. Then, even though it gets up, I will convince myself that it will bleed to death anyway.

I mean, how depressing, eh? The thing is, I can’t think myself out of it. I’ve tried. So, I just wait for the sadness to subside and the image to leave my head.

I’m pretty sure it would be categorised under some of the signs of PTSD.

Back to the video… I asked Nick to preview it for me. I think he’s getting a better sense of just how serious my animal sensitivities are so he watched it for me first. He said it was a bit grim during the attack but fascinating and that ultimately the buffalo calf manages to get up and walk away. All well and good, but I also need to know if there is a writhing struggle, can you see the look of fear in the calf’s eyes, can you hear its terrified screaming? He answered my questions honestly and I made the decision to watch it. This was not without the volume turned way down and my mouse on the FF button in the event I catch glimpse of a moment that may traumatise me later.

I admit I FF’d through the attack and subsequent tug-of-war with a crocodile. I watched pretty well the first five minutes in broken groupings of seconds, but when that buffalo herd came to the rescue of one of their own I got that kind of relief I rarely see, and that is of someone or something coming to the immediate aid of a defenseless animal while the attack is actually taking place.

I have analysed the possible reasons for this extreme hypersensitivity toward animals and have my own, personal ideas. But with respect to how my mind interprets the information, why is it specifically the terrifying emotions that I seem to take on. Like, why can’t I watch a video like this and not see the beauty and fascination of nature at work and appreciate it for what it is?

I used to joke with people that I could never go on a safari ride because I’d be the one jumping out of the Jeep to run and rescue the gazelle before the lion gets it. That everyone who stayed behind would have photos of me running through the tall grass, arms flailing and not of the captured power and agility behind the lion or how beautiful a gazelle looks when it’s running for its life.

When people first meet me, their first introduction to my animal sensitivity might come when they begin to tell a story about an animal and I actually have to stop them mid-sentence, just as the story is meant to become interesting and I need them to tell me whether or not the animal gets hurt, suffers, or dies. If they say yes, then I say “I’m sorry, but I can’t hear your story.” This usually gives them a terrible first impression of me because I will no longer allow the story to continue to be told to me, but over time they seem to become quite endeared this weirdness and I take comfort in that. Love you guyssss.

Some people’s reactions will be to remind me that this is life, that the predators need to eat, too. This is of very little consequence to me because I know that. I would be just as upset over an emaciated lion who is too injured to hunt and is just waiting out its last days alone in a state of helpless starvation. It really boils right down to me absorbing the feeling of doom, fear, terror, suffering of the animal. I wish I could get through an entire episode of The Nature of Things, for example, but I’ve learned to listen for queues in changes in the mood of the music or in David Suzuki’s tone. I know that the style of shows like this are to illustrate and portray the beauty of the animal, its biology, how it survives and lives in the wild, so by the time the part of the show comes where we get a sense of what kind of predators it has to protect itself from, I’ve already fallen deeply in love with this beautiful animal that I have to now face the fact that it is going to be hunted and maybe even killed by the end of the episode, so I change the channel.

I once watched this documentary called “The Little Prince” which followed the birth of a male fawn up to the first year of his life. I was so captivated by how beautiful they are against nature and the relationship between doe and her fawn. Her attentiveness, her attunement, and her instinct, it was all so remarkably portrayed until…

The producers just had to get into how fragile their lives are against mother nature’s wrath. Enter the winter season, almost a year after The Little Prince was born. The doe is pregnant again, however, she and her Little Prince maintain their connection. The tone of the narrator’s voice is now deliberate and concerned. The doe and her fawn traipse along the frozen terrain, all the nourishment that the warm, summer ground offered is now frozen over, they must survive by walking for miles a day eating shoots of dry grass that pop from the frozen earth. The doe is dehydrated, weak, and with very little energy as all the nourishment she must ingest is absorbed by the developing foetus inside her. She walks very slowly and carefully as the ground is frozen and slippery. Oh how unforgiving the harsh winter is upon the doe and her Little Prince.

I watch on…

We see a shot of the doe and Little Prince grazing and nibbling the frozen shoots. The camera view changes to a young family snowshoeing through the back country off in the distance. They are laughing, joyous, binoculars swing from dad’s neck. The doe jerks her head up immediately and her ears twist. Her fight or flight instinct kicks in as she immediately recognises that she, Little Prince, and the unborn fawn are in danger. She darts, Little Prince follows close behind… the ground is slippery, mom is weak, every stride she makes sends pain through her weakened body, but her instinct to protect her babies takes over and they run, run, run, until she skids, and trips and there’s a hill and…

I changed the channel at that very moment and went back to it after about 180 Mississippis and the doe has died. The fall was too much for her to bear and her foetus has subsequently also perished. The Little Prince is now grazing in a field all alone after having witnessed the fall of his mother. He was still too young to have been integrated into the herd independent of his mother, however, now his very survival depends on whether they will accept or banish him. Banishing him will be certain death. By this time, I am basically rocking myself like a lump of the sofa with the sleeves of my sweater pulled over my hands. One for wiping my tears, the other for my snotty nose. I felt as though I had lost my own darn mother!

I’m sure I sound completely nuts. I mean I must. Even serious animal lovers have been known to look at me strangely.

I don’t know what it is with faces, especially the eyes and body language, and it’s not only animals… I can be this way toward humans, too, if I pick up on certain energies or moods; but, for the most part I think my ache is channeled mostly toward animals. Why I pick up on this kind of energy, I’m not sure really. It’s not like I saw horrible things done to animals when I was a child. For as long as I remember I just had this connection toward anything I felt was vulnerable – human or animal. Old men eating alone in McDonald’s would make me feel like crying.

I’d be lying if I said I didn’t used to unstick the struggling flies from the sticky tape and used Q-tips to get the goo off their wings and send them on their way. Does anyone else do things like that? There must be someone!

I found an abandoned Canada Goose nest once after the mother had been scared away by a mower, I knew that those eggs need to be rotated and kept at a certain temperature for the embryos to survive and had witnessed the nest unattended for hours too long. Would you believe me if I told you I collected all six eggs and turned my walk-in closet into an incubator complete with heat lamps, humidifiers, and a timer to remind me when to turn the eggs? I never knew what happened to them though because I brought them to the wild bird sanctuary after the weekend was over. I think in one way, I never followed up because I didn’t want to know that they turned out not to be viable. When I was a kid, I used to keep cages in my bedroom closet in the event that I came across a rodent that had survived a cat attack with minor injuries. It was basically a little infirmary I had created and I did actually have a few “patient” success stories. I even had a little mole once.

I remember a time when my dad’s cat caught a baby Blue Jay. Oscar …

This is Oscar:

… must have grown tired of his catch and left it lying in the grass in the backyard. My dad put it in a little shoebox and called Ace Ventura (that’s me) right away. I came over and we talked in the backyard where the shoebox with the baby Jay was. It was alert but ruffled and otherwise looked okay albeit with a bit of blood around its neck. What devastated me the most from that situation was the poor, anxious mother. She chirped and circled the patio table for as long as that box was sitting on top of it with her baby inside. We even walked away for a brief moment and witnessed her perch herself right on the edge of the box and feed her baby then just sit there and they chirped at each other. It nearly brought me to my knees right then and there; I was so upset. The whole situation was upsetting for me. I felt bad that it happened in the first place, I felt terrible for the poor mother, and I felt terrible that I had to take the box away to the bird sanctuary knowing that she knew her baby was in there. I received bad news two days later when I heard that that baby hung on for a solid 48 hours but for some reason by the afternoon of the 2nd day it just lay dead in its cage. The veterinarians thought it may have had internal bleeding. That entire scene cycled through my head for a very, very long time and it was a while before it became less vivid. I’m sure the vet tech never expected herself to be actually consoling me on the phone but I couldn’t help my tears. I kept bumbling over again about the mom and she was like, “You did the best you could, you really did.”

I’ve considered that what I do is apply my own human emotion to the animal and imagine that it is suffering the way I would as a human if I found myself in the same situation. The thing is I know animals feel fear and pain. You can see it in their eyes when they’re trying to outrun a predator. Watching something like that, for example, makes me have the same types of feelings that I would have if I was running for my life. It’s really like that. It comes to me in a physical form.

I guess this is a lot to take in. And I thought about it over the weekend with the whole buffalo video. Sometimes I wish I could get a link like that and watch it with fascination even while still keeping my love for animals within. Just like a lot of people can do. I mean I don’t look at Nick and figure he doesn’t love animals just because he can watch a video like that – I just long to draw from the same kind of… I guess it’s probably a measure of indifference and accepting it for what it is. He doesn’t absorb the emotions or feelings of the animal – and that’s because he’s a human. I don’t know how to do it that way.

Maybe I was an animal in my past life.

Anyway, does anyone else relate to this kind of feeling at all? Or, am I really as alien as I sometimes feel I am.

I’ve been taking a Sociology course as part of a University transfer program in pursuits of a University degree in some sort of social science that I’m not even certain of yet. It’s only part-time (one night/week), as I can’t afford any more of a course load for the same reason I can’t afford a decrease in my salary by going part-time. Nevertheless, this course has kind of made my sleuthy, over-analytical, mistrusting, debunking, intensely curious brain quite satiated as of late! Now the world around me is accompanied by a bit more background and history. In other words, I’m starting to get a good sense of when society really went down the shitter.

Just kidding. I love you, Society!

It’s interesting in terms of my own self-understanding as well because this is really the first time I’ve been attending school classes since I finally cut myself off from all mis-directed post-secondary courses back in… what was it? 2004? Yes, I graduated high school in 1996 and was in post-secondary education for eight years. And no, I did not become a doctor. I left school educated and enlightened but still unlabeled when it came to taking courses with an end goal in mind.

For a while I wanted to be in Advertising, then it was Graphic Design, after this it was a bartender in an upscale restobar that I was going to establish, so six months of that led me into Small Business Management where lo and behold I finally obtained a 2-year diploma. However, that wasn’t enough for me because I no longer wanted to be a restobar owner and decided that computers were actually my calling so into Enterprise Networking I went. By the time I finished my post-secondary education I could create an entire advertising campaign from beginning to end, do all the graphic design work for it, while moonlighting as a bartender, and networking, configuring, and encrypting enterprise servers in my spare time.

My problem was that for my entire educational life I was so focus-and goalless that I just went through the motions of what was acceptable and expected while having very little interest in what was actually being taught to me. If I had it my way I would get through school successfully by drawing, writing stories, and reading novels of my choice. I was so indifferent toward the structure of school that I felt almost irritated by it for getting in the way of letting me learn what I really wanted to learn.

Can you imagine being my teacher? Funny though, some of them actually really liked me.

I once did a left-brain vs right-brain test… lemme see if I still have the results in an email.

Looking…
Looking…
Looking…
Yes.

Your Brain Usage Profile:
Auditory : 35%
Visual : 64%
Left : 63%
Right : 36%

Andrea, you are somewhat left-hemisphere dominant and show a preference for visual learning, although not extreme in either characteristic. You probably tend to do most things in moderation, but not always.

Your left-hemisphere dominance implies that your learning style is organized and structured, detail oriented and logical. Your visual preference, though, has you seeking stimulation and multiple data. Such an outlook can overwhelm structure and logic and create an almost continuous state of uncertainty and agitation. You may well suffer a feeling of continually trying to “catch up” with yourself.

Your tendency to be organized and logical and attend to details is reasonably well-established which should afford you success regardless of your chosen field of endeavor. You can “size up” situations and take in information rapidly. However, you must then subject that data to being classified and organized which causes you to “lose touch” with the immediacy of the problem.

Your logical and methodical nature hamper you in this regard though in the long run it may work to your advantage since you “learn from experience” and can go through the process more rapidly on subsequent occasions.

You remain predominantly functional in your orientation and practical. Abstraction and theory are secondary to application. In keeping with this, you focus on details until they manifest themselves in a unique pattern and only then work with the “larger whole.”

With regards to your career choices, you have a mentality that would be good as a scientist, coach, athlete, design consultant, or an engineering technician. You can “see where you want to go” and even be able to “tell yourself,” but find that you are “fighting yourself” at the darndest times.

I’m left-hemisphere dominant with a preference for visual learning. Yes, totally. I think up until this test I just convinced myself that all my troubles of mis-direction were explained simply because I was “right-brained.” The daydreaming, crayon loving, space-cadet that loves numbers, calculations, theories, and logic, as long as it’s all demonstrated to me in pretty little pictures and stories.

This little assessment is pretty bang-on for the most part; with the exception of the athlete as a career choice. Truth be known, my hamstrings would never allow it.

So, let’s just say this hemispherical breakdown has been a theme for most of my life, then, a sentence like this: “Such an outlook can overwhelm structure and logic and create an almost continuous state of uncertainty and agitation,” explains so much.

Moving right along…

As with every single post I’ve written over the last two years, the first half is usually initiated at least 2-3 weeks before the second half, sometimes 2-3 months (see diagnosis above). Since my very first sentence up there, I’ve written my mid-term, and received the results. 68%! Now, some of you scholarly academic types will see that mark and throw up a little. For me, I’m just proud of myself for passing! Granted this was my very first University exam, ever (remember, I’ve been college educated), I have all great intentions of surpassing 70% next time (they’re called baby steps, okay?). I studied so gall darn hard for that mid-term. And, what was different this time around was the fact that I actually enjoyed learning. I wanted to learn. I couldn’t wait to learn. These intentions are great except for the idea, as I’ve recently learned, that University professors all have a specific, and individual, way of structuring their exams. I imagine the social science professors are probably the most unique in their exam structuring, too. I know from the first five minutes of my class I was already assessing her. Watching her body language, her use of the floor space at the front of the class, her animated face, the way her nostrils flare when she talks through her smile. The way she almost flips her head in a ditsy fashion which doesn’t match the PhD title she maintains in her email signatures. How she goes bug-eyed when she says something ”hip” to the fairly young class and blinks over her bug eyes while waiting for a reaction. The thing is, the class reaction comes in this kind of hesitant, I’m snickering because it looks like you want me to snicker, but I don’t exactly think what you said is funny, however, you’re standing there, staring out at us, waiting for a reaction so here it is, now please carry on with what you were saying.

You know the type?

Sometimes she signs her emails with just her first name, other times it’s Dr. Last Name.

At any rate, I felt as though there was definitely one answer (which I got wrong) that was so misleading I asked her about it after class. In my opinion, it should have been tossed entirely (which would have brought my mark up to 72% – there’s that 70% I wanted!) but she passed it off as semantics and thanked me for pointing it out. I’ll note that for the final. Semantics? Listen sister, I went into this mid-term with a University-level approach. I know those multiple choice questions are tricky on purpose and I already have a feeling you enjoy being tricky so, when I read the question and the subsequent a), b), c), d), and e) answers I thought right away: “Ah ha! This is one of those tricks!” and answered the question accordingly. Unfortunately, the answer was e) all of the above but I completely disagree and if I were in the court of law, I’d actually represent myself; I was that confident. However, I didn’t have the energy to discuss things further (class nights make for really long days) so I Meh’ed it off and drove home feeling 3% smarter, because I knew I was right.

I enjoy class, though, if not for the fact that I was so ready to learn something new. I swear, if I would have entered grade 9 at 34 years old I would probably get straight As. ha. I’ve had 34 years of discovering, experiencing, learning, and understanding how to look at the world, how to deduce things, how to break things down. My brain is much more equipped at being able to learn things based on this kind of mental experience, or exercising. I can’t just head straight to the race track and expect to win gold. I need to train for those things! That’s how I look at school.

Other than this, life is moving along swimmingly. I’m really enjoying playing house and like the idea of having another body to wake up with in the morning and falling asleep with at night. I like how Nick makes zero noise while in slumber so that sometimes I actually touch his back to make sure he’s breathing.

Okay this is good for now. Nicole, you will happy with the relatively short timeline between this, and my last, post. See? I’m learning.

Bye bye.

You really don’t have to do that today. Or, if you do, just do the garbage bags, that would be a big help. I can still go Thurs and Fri on my own. You sounded sick and grumpy and I don’t want you to overdo it on account of me. I’m serious. Just do the garbage and drop off the vacuum and I’ll be grateful. No more though, she said.

haha. As if. I would walk around the world on broken legs for you, he said.

The over-used word of the day is: love.

I must admit how progressive this is for me to be blogging from my iPhone. I guess like with all dedicated writers (ahem) we must write the moment the material comes! And, not a moment too soon! And so, I write from my iPhone in the middle if the night. Why? Well Franco was stirring. I could hear squeaky sounds of Chihuahua distress and I could not sleep knowing that a tiny, 3.5-pound pet of mine was in such a state. Mind you, a pet of mine of any size would garner the same concerned feeling; tonight it just happens to be Mr. Franco.

If I know him at all by now, I know that his taste buds got the better of him as he must have spent time earlier meticulously eating up whatever remained of that delicious, savoury, protein-rich Halo Spot’s Stew of the Wholesome Chicken variety meal that his feline brothers chow down on. Not to offer more information than you were prepared to read, but I came across one of his distinct number twos and I knew right away someone had dipped into the wrong cookie jar.

I’ve made Nick’s sofa into a makeshift bed where Franco currently sleeps, curled into a ball in the bow of my legs. His tummy squishes and gurgles but not a peep from him vocally since I arrived. Not to sound like a crazy person but I think this little thing finds comfort in me. I’m not sure what kind of life he lived before I picked him up from the rescue shelter but if I could count the changes and transitions he’s undergone since I adopted him on April 29th last year I’d run out of fingers and toes. He’s such a darling and I am so immensely endeared to him.

Marshall and Otis are at Nick’s now as well as of this past weekend. You know how relationships go – especially the ones you actually wholeheartedly want to be in – you spend a lot of time together and it never runs the risk of feeling like too much but that means less time at your own stomping grounds, in your own bed, and pets, clothes, houseplants and creature comforts suddenly find themselves with a little less of me around. Now, before you peg me as a selfish, neglectful pet owner (although my guts tell me you would never because you’ve been following me for so long and/or you know me personally and already fully expect there to be a spot in my coffin for my pets) I will tell you that I was desperately trying my darnedest to give both human and animal the most wholeheartedest parts of me that I could actually distribute. Eventually though, I felt like I was giving Marshall and Otis visitation rights to me and on a lighter, more of a haha, I’m saying this to make light of a situation that is causing me guilty feelings, I’d often tell people that I have the luckiest cats because I’m paying $800/month for them to live in a beautiful one-bedroom apartment.

Since then my eggs, some neglected but still consumable veggies, hand soap refill, and a vacuum have also made their way here although I wasn’t facing any detachment issues with the latter list, thankfully.

Anyway ya, Nicole will like this update because she’s been hoping for a) anything and b) an update on my love life.

Hmmm. The headline would read:

It’s Friday.

I forgot my lunch at home and I can’t bring myself to spend money so luckily I have a container of plain yogurt and a bag of bulk mixed … I was going to say nuts, but they’re seeds; well 2/3 are. Pumpkin, sunflower, and sliced almonds. This is my lunch. This was also my breakfast. I put this little rodent fusion together myself and although I smack my lips over its goodness I laugh because … what a lunch. Nicole would have waited for me to say something like: “I just finished a tin of oysters in oil for lunch.”

It’s Monday.

Two weeks ago I learned one of my clients passed away. Last week, while sitting in the waiting room at my doctor’s office watching Global News, I learned that this client was a victim of murder. He was on my case load because he was confused easily and needed someone regular to keep him organized. We don’t have case loads at work anymore but I petitioned to have him on a specialized one because I wanted to help make his life a little easier. He was a gentle, sweet, simple-minded, and peaceful man. He was a breath of fresh air in a work environment that is often volatile, cranky, addicted, and desperate. His name was Ray and he is Vancouver’s second murder of the year.

I want to attend his service but to date, there is no trace of him in the obituaries. No one has placed a notice. No one has prepared a service. After the news headlines go away Ray might too. Just like that. It saddens me to think that maybe he has parents somewhere; or siblings; dear, old high school friends who would mourn his loss; who would plan a beautiful service; and who would visit his resting place often to have silent conversations with him. Maybe they already think he’s gone. But he wasn’t. He was alive as of three and a half weeks ago.

He was alive doing handy things, he was alive working odd jobs and sometimes panhandling, he was playing harmonica up and down East Hastings, he was alive visiting pubs and talking to people, and brightening their day with his simple happiness.

I emailed the reporter who put an article in The Province asking her if she knew of any funeral service for Ray. She had noted in her article that a memorial was held in the down town east side close to one of Ray’s hangouts but in her reply added it was put together very quickly by the DTES community and advised she didn’t know of any official service. Her email ended with: “It seems that Ray was really well-regarded by everyone.”

“He was a good dude, a good solid guy, not a drug addict, not even an alcoholic like me…” one acquaintance told the reporters.

Another said, “Ray would give you the shirt off his back, but he was always inviting people up to his room and I told him it wasn’t the safest thing to do.”

He was murdered and the papers called it a “brutal” one.

Typing that makes me feel like crying.

I’ve been getting Microsoft Outlook calendar popups to remind me to email Ray’s temp labour employer to get Ray’s monthly income so he can declare properly with my help. I haven’t been able to “dismiss” that notification yet.

I hope there’s someone crying for Ray. I hope he was dear to someone. Important enough to them for this news to make a sorrowful impact. To make their heart stop for a second and for them to feel troubled over his loss – for a while.

I cry for Ray.