tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-27264113164206526432024-03-05T23:32:19.997-06:00...and sometimes why(but mostly who, what, where, when, and cats)Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.comBlogger108125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-88781480911211878002010-02-28T20:02:00.002-06:002010-02-28T20:06:06.584-06:00With glowing heartsFor some strange reason [*cough - Olympics - cough*], I'm feeling ridiculously patriotic.<br /><br /><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/XjiwBwBL4Qo&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/XjiwBwBL4Qo&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-55180746228919259792010-02-14T00:00:00.008-06:002010-02-14T10:41:37.164-06:00They didn't just say it, they made it beLast night I hunkered down with a blanket and a bowl of popcorn and watched the opening ceremonies of the Olympics. I certainly hadn't intended to. The Olympics hold little interest for me, but I was in Edmonton staying with a friend and she wanted to watch them. <br /><br />I was amazed by how much I enjoyed the production. The music selections were fabulous. I loved the inclusion of First Nations and Inuit people and cultures. I teared up at the beautiful segment about my home, the prairies. I even felt a swell of pride seeing the Canadian athletes. <br /><br />There were two highlights for me. <a href="http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/2698007/kd_lang_hallelujah_rendition_uplifts.html?cat=14" target="_blank">The first</a> was k.d. lang singing "Hallelujah." A. Mazing.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/P_NpxTWbovE&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/P_NpxTWbovE&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />I wish the International Olympic Committee was allowing the sharing of videos because, although this is great, it doesn't come <i>close</i> to her performance in Vancouver.<br /><br />The <a href="http://www.ctvolympics.ca/news-centre/newsid=40765.html" target ="_blank">second highlight</a> was Shane Koyczan performing "We Are More."<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/BQbQGn_rqTw&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/BQbQGn_rqTw&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /><br />Again, there isn't the same energy in this recording as there was in BC Place, but you can maybe understand why by the end of the poem I had tears in my eyes. <br /><br />Mostly? It was great seeing two people who don't look like Megan Fox or Brad Pitt completely fucking rock. Score one for the lesbians and one for the big people!Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-91053141356685412512010-02-08T19:50:00.014-06:002010-02-08T20:32:45.513-06:00Still livesThe days and nights are still. It's cold outside. Really damn cold. People do not go outside if they can help it. Cats sleep pressed up against the radiator. Orange extension cords snake from car to electrical outlet. <br /><br />What do I do? I grab my camera, a white table cloth, and a bunch of things from around my apartment.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMUamyey7n9WzWT41-fMTc9iPe8mxrmRSz368GxxPADJ8VAeBFCHll5cU2QiTv_kBqmiC9nEyOqo-JcUtcgy2bfNdyX0wVR9el_I7trwTFcAIa-Y8E4uqVkQjjuYV2oSFh5xS18XtUvcKd/s1600-h/StillLifeElephant.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMUamyey7n9WzWT41-fMTc9iPe8mxrmRSz368GxxPADJ8VAeBFCHll5cU2QiTv_kBqmiC9nEyOqo-JcUtcgy2bfNdyX0wVR9el_I7trwTFcAIa-Y8E4uqVkQjjuYV2oSFh5xS18XtUvcKd/s400/StillLifeElephant.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436056239812105810" /></a><center><small><i>Still Life with Elephant</i></small></center><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWyB9Rvvt1zf5PEhgYes6d20eKPftTBoVgqEIn5GV94pPnEfLtjzO4T3AOSpqAKvPjvltP2bchztNaasHcfK9igj7kF1Tl2j_C5cRI6k9TrCvb2HEKPtFx6YsKVrWYQm2FI00G0eljDqAE/s1600-h/StillLifeMatches.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWyB9Rvvt1zf5PEhgYes6d20eKPftTBoVgqEIn5GV94pPnEfLtjzO4T3AOSpqAKvPjvltP2bchztNaasHcfK9igj7kF1Tl2j_C5cRI6k9TrCvb2HEKPtFx6YsKVrWYQm2FI00G0eljDqAE/s400/StillLifeMatches.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436056700320089362" /></a><center><small><i>Sea Dog Matches</i></small></center><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_t7vfF9s4YHoDJXJnkrwTcYZzhWVgA0SBqWfjIYSer9uOo_2q9S9m3ZkIajIJil0kio1CtyAkEH3r81kEL8htSAM_3N83LAAhv8FxN6vYFZpbtwJSUxJY5Q8kTcESQCyJsIyBHR41DtUx/s1600-h/StillLifeDolls.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_t7vfF9s4YHoDJXJnkrwTcYZzhWVgA0SBqWfjIYSer9uOo_2q9S9m3ZkIajIJil0kio1CtyAkEH3r81kEL8htSAM_3N83LAAhv8FxN6vYFZpbtwJSUxJY5Q8kTcESQCyJsIyBHR41DtUx/s400/StillLifeDolls.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436058050706892434" /></a><center><small><i>Still Life on Mars</i></small></center><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BbmT_DC34hxp-VFprqYoAP_6nywpyC59ONCQrtjNSlNcAJq-fCGReH3rPN-pwZEIDhB0B0EmzgolDric8_qHni_fmJocrEEREWN71CPF8lBV-bq6KoUrrbLOQRTAqxD0yAMdLmj3k2AN/s1600-h/TwoSolitudes.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8BbmT_DC34hxp-VFprqYoAP_6nywpyC59ONCQrtjNSlNcAJq-fCGReH3rPN-pwZEIDhB0B0EmzgolDric8_qHni_fmJocrEEREWN71CPF8lBV-bq6KoUrrbLOQRTAqxD0yAMdLmj3k2AN/s400/TwoSolitudes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436060209608252434" /></a><center><small><i>Two Solitudes</i></small></center><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-iURx0azWE61AdRr-qAm0QNHXLEnP2Redxx7bc-n2brubmbP5l_Dklc-v2iS4HC40slqfnEybRVDYfiSKrxIfddZTQX9WIlvTL7KOXCer25S8qDj_MTdhRubi74z2gV-NYM62zt6yYW1P/s1600-h/StillLifeCameras.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-iURx0azWE61AdRr-qAm0QNHXLEnP2Redxx7bc-n2brubmbP5l_Dklc-v2iS4HC40slqfnEybRVDYfiSKrxIfddZTQX9WIlvTL7KOXCer25S8qDj_MTdhRubi74z2gV-NYM62zt6yYW1P/s400/StillLifeCameras.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436058369474301938" /></a><center><small><i>My Grandpa's Cameras</i></small></center><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfOjdzaV9AlLAAxumCZe-JTkCeCh4Y0CuVCi0kJKKaC3blC4rLomhu_uOH8ZwngYwHHTfH1-hXgIfyaY-JlLxGkVsTZsUnQcycamcKO899xj1xNuK8gIHZY40cLz4e7fXafttIG4rVFuAb/s1600-h/StillLifeCameraDetail.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfOjdzaV9AlLAAxumCZe-JTkCeCh4Y0CuVCi0kJKKaC3blC4rLomhu_uOH8ZwngYwHHTfH1-hXgIfyaY-JlLxGkVsTZsUnQcycamcKO899xj1xNuK8gIHZY40cLz4e7fXafttIG4rVFuAb/s400/StillLifeCameraDetail.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436058755723978546" /></a><center><small><i>Camera Detail 1</i></small></center><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2MK2cYOIvE2oXN4RgTEUDLo0TXokwkMgJ7ui2ql88xUeVm1oigd2my0PVs2umuyblRydqtFkdqwxR2-9jCcjfWVLQwizAEZylXQzKN9yUYgdDiuSsWuFhKagJy6DF_cwGmjYnNkhO6Nzp/s1600-h/StillLifeCameraDetail2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2MK2cYOIvE2oXN4RgTEUDLo0TXokwkMgJ7ui2ql88xUeVm1oigd2my0PVs2umuyblRydqtFkdqwxR2-9jCcjfWVLQwizAEZylXQzKN9yUYgdDiuSsWuFhKagJy6DF_cwGmjYnNkhO6Nzp/s400/StillLifeCameraDetail2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436059700097903410" /></a><center><small><i>Camera Detail 2</i></small></center><br /><br />The final photo I took was of two precious objects, both given to me recently for finishing all my cancer treatments. A friend gave me the figure and my mom had the pendant made for me. I'm DONE!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUavwYHvSeWdMbHo33isvIjjd-r60Ei4QHLgtDG0crkE8oM9tcivN3GnYxn7d5gy8FR7QUJdmA566vGn18V7gNyyBHWxQI3XpgqIojVFtulOPSoFQfnnqCWOstKdbM1RctzD49bqqoT5c-/s1600-h/StillLifeCourage.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUavwYHvSeWdMbHo33isvIjjd-r60Ei4QHLgtDG0crkE8oM9tcivN3GnYxn7d5gy8FR7QUJdmA566vGn18V7gNyyBHWxQI3XpgqIojVFtulOPSoFQfnnqCWOstKdbM1RctzD49bqqoT5c-/s400/StillLifeCourage.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436061168424733970" /></a><center><small><i>Still Celebration</i></small></center>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-67944262043327228362010-01-28T21:34:00.009-06:002010-01-28T23:22:57.744-06:00Mama always saidThis morning I was lounging around in my PJs, playing on the internet, when my step-sister called to see if I wanted to meet her for lunch. Of course her lunch was in 1/2 an hour, so I had to race around to get ready before she picked me up. I'll spare you the details but there are three important points to note: <br /><ul><li>I decided not to wear my long underwear even though it was -25ºC <br /><li>I'm not completely silly, though, and wore my warm winter coat<br /><li>In all the rush, I left the house without going to the bathroom even though I had to pee</ul><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimyVV6Punx7C_AE35Gv-gTyt-ji6eVRLuU4ixM7FKWeKBeowBS0RZ9xFwaEYkevg85YH9zC8pTMETq0oFVZD1j7imGpN9JKzZdCk8fmli5HuP_xnxaH1dPUQa0sMItl1v1GWHRI_uzW6dF/s1600-h/Cold.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimyVV6Punx7C_AE35Gv-gTyt-ji6eVRLuU4ixM7FKWeKBeowBS0RZ9xFwaEYkevg85YH9zC8pTMETq0oFVZD1j7imGpN9JKzZdCk8fmli5HuP_xnxaH1dPUQa0sMItl1v1GWHRI_uzW6dF/s400/Cold.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432024943649629698" /></a><br />We had a lovely lunch with much chatting and eating of Vietnamese noodles. After we were done, I decided to take the bus to a nearby Extra Foods. I needed to pick up ingredients for a dinner party I'm attending on Saturday. (I'm making 2 things - prosciutto-wrapped stuffed shrimp and tiramisu - that I've never made before. Eep!) I wanted to run to the washroom before I left the restaurant, but a quick glance at the schedule told me there was not enough time. <br /><br />I went to the grocery store, picked up what I needed plus a few extras, and then rushed back to the bus stop with seconds to spare. I did NOT want to have to hang around another half an hour for the next bus. The ride home was uneventful, if a bit awkward as I struggled to keep the bags from spilling their contents on the bus floor. I gathered all my things, got off at my stop, and started the 2 block walk to my apartment.<br /><br />Well, I gathered <i>most</i> of my things. When I was half a block away from my door I discovered I didn't have my purse with me. My stomach sank as I realized I had left it on the bus. <br /><br /><b>Instinct #1:</b> I have to call the transit office and ask if the driver found a purse. <br /><br />Oops. Cell phone is in my purse.<br /><br /><b>Instinct #2:</b> Okay, I'll go home, drop off my increasingly heavy groceries, and call from there.<br /><br />Oops. Keys are in my purse.<br /><br /><b>Instinct #3:</b> I'll wait around until another bus comes my way, ride it downtown to the transit office, and sort things out there.<br /><br />Oops. Bus pas and wallet are in my purse.<br /><br />I decided that contacting the transit office should come first, so I walked back to the 7-11 that is near the bus stop. I told the woman behind the counter what had happened and asked if I could use their phone. She said that was not a problem, but she had to dial for me. That's when the following conversation took place:<br /><br /><i>Woman:</i> What is the number.<br /><i>Me:</i> It's 777-RIDE.<br /><i>Woman:</i> 7...7...7...what?<br /><i>Me:</i> R-I-D-E. <br /><i>Woman:</i> What?<br /><i>Me:</i> I don't remember the actual numbers but it spells out R-I-D-E.<br /><i>Woman:</i> (eying me suspiciously) Is this long distance?<br /><br />Despite the communication failure, I managed to contact the transit office and receive the good news that the driver had found my purse. They had it in their office, which was a 15 minute walk away. No problem. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7X-ihSnUXW6EP1MKxr1jWKnqYGfFZBGnqNpEFTjs-7WrrmXEnxntFkprS36x1gCIwUl265SvRztsqVdH2aS3F6iAA2wDF7_O6_2rUFjqdeo2aDLkM2v_jKml-u26P81iPmW7M2_PFerj/s1600-h/Downtown.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiS7X-ihSnUXW6EP1MKxr1jWKnqYGfFZBGnqNpEFTjs-7WrrmXEnxntFkprS36x1gCIwUl265SvRztsqVdH2aS3F6iAA2wDF7_O6_2rUFjqdeo2aDLkM2v_jKml-u26P81iPmW7M2_PFerj/s400/Downtown.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432025448905124034" /></a><br />I realized, however, that my groceries had quadrupled in weight since I got off the bus and I needed to do something with them. I remembered that the front door to my building hadn't been closing properly lately and that I should be able to open it without my key. To my immense relief that proved true. I left the dry goods hanging off my apartment door and stuck the perishables out on the shared balcony. I was pretty sure no one in my building would take my groceries.<br /><br />As I was leaving I discovered another problem. The trip home had tricked my bladder into thinking that relief was forthcoming. I had needed to go to the bathroom since before lunch and there was no way I was going to make even the short walk downtown to the transit office. There was no other option but to go across the back alley to the hospital and use the washroom there. I felt a bit goofy walking in, using the facilities, and then leaving, but I was desperate.<br /><br />Thusly relieved, I walked downtown. I was thankful for my good sense to wear my warm coat but wished I had also worn my long underwear. The reunion with my purse was a joyful one and I discovered that, thanks to the good people that take Regina Transit, nothing was missing. Not my over-the-limit credit card, nor my six-year-old cell phone with the almost-dead battery, nor my favourite ballpoint pen. Treasures, all of them! And no one took a thing.<br /><br />When I returned home I discovered all of my groceries exactly where I had left them, and the perishables weren't even frozen yet. I let myself into my apartment and scolded my cat Lucy for being a very useless kind of housemate in situations like this. She barely opened her eyes, meowed, licked her paw, and resumed her nap. <br /><br />The moral the whole story is this: Your mother was right. Always go to the bathroom before you leave the house, because otherwise you might end up in the hospital. Or something like that.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpVW9ljTRZdgeBhdJlroIrr9nYKxbJ2inQbViT2zi1A9-GmSRJKdsVZu_K1Cp1C8_et1J6d4guMKriKjCBOSSJ2mBNVglUpzV_R9rCecmbMD8FrpYTFBcIOxu0SkW-lJ_-ynDFP6O8wzK/s1600-h/Stretch.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJpVW9ljTRZdgeBhdJlroIrr9nYKxbJ2inQbViT2zi1A9-GmSRJKdsVZu_K1Cp1C8_et1J6d4guMKriKjCBOSSJ2mBNVglUpzV_R9rCecmbMD8FrpYTFBcIOxu0SkW-lJ_-ynDFP6O8wzK/s400/Stretch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5432024487073196194" /></a>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-34299385260428592672010-01-26T17:31:00.006-06:002010-01-27T16:36:47.366-06:00There's no money in journalismClark Kent brings the bus to a stop and opens the door. A man dressed in rags steps up, his pungent aroma rushing in ahead of him.<br /><br />"I, uh, lost my wallet," the man says, narrowing his eyes as if daring Clark to contradict him.<br /><br />"Sorry, sir," replies Clark. "I can't let you ride for free."<br /><br />"But I got no money!"<br /><br />Clark resists the urge to correct his grammar and instead says, "I'm sorry, but you're going to have to get off the bus, sir." His resolve is already weakening.<br /><br />"C'mon, man. It's minus thirty out there!" says the man.<br /><br />Clark heaves a sympathetic sigh and motions the man onto the bus with an almost imperceptible nod of his head.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm6rq5fJRqiRE2sHkVOnwZuD4Je5GOoIBxFa-Kb2AEy77ewpXvQI3wnrEflNZBdWf_uGmzl6SStOewiRTTTBTeJGoNgh-T4PcPG-DsSdBtFs4A_bRQim3ozw6ldxnO-sWhPpb1pQ1aCfi7/s1600-h/Snow.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgm6rq5fJRqiRE2sHkVOnwZuD4Je5GOoIBxFa-Kb2AEy77ewpXvQI3wnrEflNZBdWf_uGmzl6SStOewiRTTTBTeJGoNgh-T4PcPG-DsSdBtFs4A_bRQim3ozw6ldxnO-sWhPpb1pQ1aCfi7/s400/Snow.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431260934332579618" /></a><br />As he pulls the Regina Transit bus back into traffic, Clark tries to remember how he ended up here. It all started when Lois took the job with that bank. No. Earlier. It started when he got laid off from the Daily Planet. Times were tough and they were cutting back on "superfluous costs." <br /><br />Is it ironic that Superman is superfluous? He thinks it might be, but can't quite remember the definition of irony.<br /><br />Yes, that's where this all began. He got laid off and money was tight. Lois was still working at the Planet - she escaped the hatchet, probably because of her gender (not that he's bitter). But rent kept increasing and bills piled up. He would call it pathetic and cliché if it wasn't his life. <br /><br />Lois thought Clark should use his abilities to get them some extra cash, but he felt awkward asking the police for money when he helped them with a case, and he refused to do anything illegal.<br /><br />That's when Lois took the job with the bank. "There's more money in PR and communications than journalism," she had insisted. She was right - she usually is - but it still wasn't enough. He tried to get other work but, because of the recession, no one in Metropolis seemed to be hiring. He kept up with the crime-fighting thing, but mostly just to keep in shape. His heart wasn't in it any more, and he spent most of his days eating Doritos and watching Dr. Phil and Oprah.<br /><br />When the bank bought a small Canadian credit card company with headquarters in the middle of the prairies, they needed someone to head up Canadian communications. Lois jumped at the opportunity.<br /><br />"Think of how great it will be to go somewhere that hasn't been hit as hard by all this crap!" Lois had said. "Rent will be cheaper, businesses will be hiring - we'll finally be able to stop living like this!"<br /><br />And, again, she was right. Things are a lot better. They have a huge apartment downtown and pay one third what they payed Metropolis. He tried to get a job with the local daily, the Leader Post, but they weren't hiring. He writes a column in the Prairie Dog, but it's just a bi-weekly so he had to find something else. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-OvlxCN1yFfW9pd89W05JuwzS-EDDxzr9un08rtU5S8q90InFqbXLAW8B_t-Ltb4D4oyvFq6uo6edAnefnYGh21b1_ndDlQE1YWd6GMBrYzj-SWeOwYd_RmtGw85l_ji-MNJ6U0YPRAq/s1600-h/En+Route.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7-OvlxCN1yFfW9pd89W05JuwzS-EDDxzr9un08rtU5S8q90InFqbXLAW8B_t-Ltb4D4oyvFq6uo6edAnefnYGh21b1_ndDlQE1YWd6GMBrYzj-SWeOwYd_RmtGw85l_ji-MNJ6U0YPRAq/s400/En+Route.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431195527713340834" /></a><br />That's how it ended up that Superman (well really Clark Kent) drives the #3 bus route in Regina in the middle of the Canadian prairies. He doesn't mind it. The wide open spaces take him back to when he was a boy growing up in Kansas. The people have that same friendliness, something that was missing in Metropolis, and he doesn't seem to feel the cold like Lois does. Sure, his crime-fighting has suffered a bit. After all, Regina isn't exactly seething with murderers and evil masterminds. However, he has stopped a number of robberies and has recently started tackling the inner-city gang problem. Yes, he likes it here just fine.<br /><br />"Hey driver!" a woman shouts from the back, yanking him out of his reverie. "You missed my stop!"<br /><br />"Sorry about that, ma'am," Clark says, his cheeks hot. He stops the bus and lets her off. Looking around, he tries to get his bearings and determine where he is on his route. He realizes he had been driving on autopilot for several miles. Kilometres, he corrects himself.<br /><br />He spots Tim Horton's a block ahead and a smile spreads on his face. That is his favourite stop. If he arrives early enough, he gets to run in, pee, and grab a double-double and maple glazed for the road.<br /><br />Clark hums tunelessly, pulls back into traffic, and forges on ahead.Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-61337028533070264512010-01-13T10:24:00.002-06:002010-01-13T10:26:46.869-06:00Hey, JoshSometimes we all need a reminder that people are wonderful. <br /><br />On January 3, 2010, Josh Wilson decided to make a security lockdown in an airport a little less stressful for everyone.<br /><br /><object width="320" height="265"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/HQeG1kaddsw&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/HQeG1kaddsw&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="320" height="265"></embed></object>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-50368229768851165422010-01-02T22:50:00.006-06:002010-01-03T00:01:39.770-06:00My yearForget 2009 being the Year of the Ox - for me it was the year of cancer. My first appointment with my first doctor was in April and the very last day of the year was my 12th radiation treatment. But it was not all doom and gloom! I went on a few fun trips, saw some great shows, discovered I look alright with no hair, and reaffirmed that I have the best friends and family I could ever hope for.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWv1pNSx5Fh_4fYgrN36MOYtMz3AkgnmhMvEf00CUWrRnQnsPdNqgQ67ax14QY00bJJnLsRlzk0MFIOUztGxgKjcpLyZxr6GXaMVtMpnsaUxzMJDjDSwN40EqOEKFzcrQQ4DLNlSNPF6e/s1600-h/mosaic00d9369b4ceb783dac0d8a648f7f6db494c21612.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWv1pNSx5Fh_4fYgrN36MOYtMz3AkgnmhMvEf00CUWrRnQnsPdNqgQ67ax14QY00bJJnLsRlzk0MFIOUztGxgKjcpLyZxr6GXaMVtMpnsaUxzMJDjDSwN40EqOEKFzcrQQ4DLNlSNPF6e/s400/mosaic00d9369b4ceb783dac0d8a648f7f6db494c21612.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422371850143451554" /></a><center><small><i>Thanks to <a href="http://www.madamemeow.com/" target="_blank">Madame Meow</a> for this photo idea!</i></small></center><br /><b>January</b>: A trip to Winnipeg with shopping, beer, and visiting.<br /><b>February</b>: Layoffs at work mean lots of empty cubicles.<br /><b>March</b>: A trip to Calgary included a delicious sushi supper.<br /><b>April</b>: Sitting and waiting - in doctors' offices, at home, in shoe racks.<br /><b>May</b>: My lumpectomy.<br /><b>June</b>: The Canadian Cancer Society's Relay for Life, this time as a survivor. <br /><b>July</b>: Far too much fun on a houseboat trip on Shuswap Lake, BC.<br /><b>August</b>: The Regina Folk Festival.<br /><b>September</b>: Losing my <s>religion</s> hair.<br /><b>October</b>: The first snowfall.<br /><b>November</b>: Done chemo! <br /><b>December</b>: Radiation. Every. Day.<br /><br />I resolve to not get attacked by cancer in 2010.<br /><br />Happy New Year, everyone!Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-55912716080382218472009-12-25T01:22:00.005-06:002009-12-25T10:15:29.964-06:00Can you feel the love?<i>The scene: Nat and her family have just finished eating a delicious Ukrainian Christmas Eve dinner, complete with almost all <a href="http://pages.prodigy.net/l.hodges/xmas.htm" target="_blank">twelve meatless dishes</a>, each one made by either her mom or her grandma. Everyone is happy and stuffed and the table is cleared for games.</i><br /><br /><b>Mom:</b> Let's play that card game <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Asshole_(card_game)" target="_blank">Asshole</a>!<br /><br /><b>Nat:</b> Which card game, bitch? <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FDMbMCG6ixl8K-gqrMqvcOJf_K5OxFo8WyL6D8C0-_4AqdWd-ge5jDjOaVYTOPFFEEphEUcBYqitJ8aphE9kRqS7X9YTjJ05sAF3qC3ZBPIdTDZHq0Qsgqxc1awOtD3KwdHxOspeHkNF/s1600-h/Branches.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7FDMbMCG6ixl8K-gqrMqvcOJf_K5OxFo8WyL6D8C0-_4AqdWd-ge5jDjOaVYTOPFFEEphEUcBYqitJ8aphE9kRqS7X9YTjJ05sAF3qC3ZBPIdTDZHq0Qsgqxc1awOtD3KwdHxOspeHkNF/s400/Branches.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419073489408232658" /></a><br />I hope you have a fantastic Christmas filled with happy chaos or peaceful rest, whichever tickles your fancy.Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-73003528763964249742009-12-20T22:16:00.003-06:002009-12-20T22:18:20.926-06:00I'm sorry, tooMy popcorn is judging me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh67JcI-ZDRxhbJi1tjpgwlNFeGsdQA2wodg8OkqQSHe4HVMFrcpzftKikQcX78e3mmgbJv97SWJOZEHP2Kwq4a3UMw96t1wKWcIj5BI2pwDlSzyqHUguDym6vtP2D0_ZCb_viDsJFe3PGI/s1600-h/Popcorn.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh67JcI-ZDRxhbJi1tjpgwlNFeGsdQA2wodg8OkqQSHe4HVMFrcpzftKikQcX78e3mmgbJv97SWJOZEHP2Kwq4a3UMw96t1wKWcIj5BI2pwDlSzyqHUguDym6vtP2D0_ZCb_viDsJFe3PGI/s400/Popcorn.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417538957633069570" /></a>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-26791919895448341552009-11-30T10:33:00.002-06:002009-11-30T10:34:32.083-06:00My fuzzy moment of the dayThis made me smile. (And made me a bit teary, if we're being honest.)<br /><br /><object width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/OEdVfyt-mLw&hl=en_US&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/OEdVfyt-mLw&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"></embed></object>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-43692695897390836612009-11-19T00:00:00.003-06:002009-11-19T00:18:07.168-06:00Some people's childrenI can't believe I said that my mom has a mustache. In front of a bunch of strangers. Strangers that included <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Member_of_the_Legislative_Assembly" target="_blank">MLAs</a> and the <i>mayor</i>! Oy. Some days I shouldn't be allowed out of my apartment.<br /><br />My mom, stepdad, and I were at a banquet where my stepdad was one of the keynote speakers. As a result, we sat at a table with the other speaker, two MLAs, the mayor, and his wife. At one point the mayor addressed the room and, as part of his speech, talked about how November is <a href="http://www.movember.com/" target="_blank">Movember</a>. He explained this meant that some men were growing mustaches for the month to raise money for prostate cancer.<br /><br />When the mayor returned to our table, my stepdad complimented him on his speech and told him that I had just finished chemotherapy for breast cancer. The mayor asked how I was feeling and I told him I was feeling fine. <br /><br />Unfortunately, I then went on to say that my mom had just shaved off the mustache she had grown to support me.<br /><br />Sorry, Mom. Though...c'mon. That was <i>funny</i>.<br /><br />How long can I blame stuff like this on chemo?Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-88184867176869390972009-11-09T13:22:00.001-06:002009-11-09T13:24:12.970-06:00Health tipI apologize, but the boredom has set in and this site helped me pass several enjoyable minutes.<br /><br /><a href="http://icanhascheezburger.com/2009/11/07/funny-pictures-prevent-swine-flu/"><img title="funny-pictures-cat-washes-paws" src="http://icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/files/2009/11/funny-pictures-cat-washes-paws.jpg" alt="funny pictures of cats with captions" /></a><br />see more <a href="http://icanhascheezburger.com">Lolcats and funny pictures</a>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-14682866797718685702009-11-03T19:43:00.012-06:002009-11-04T10:13:00.292-06:00Individual results may varyI've told you <a href ="http://andsometimeswhy75.blogspot.com/2009/09/under-pressure.html" target="_blank">briefly</a> about my chemo experience, but I've received a few e-mails from people who are curious for more details. So here is, for better or worse, a blow-by-blow description of what I've been through. <br /><br />I start preparing for chemo the day before. By that time it's the very end of my previous cycle and I'm feeling pretty damn good. It start the day with my pre-chemo doctor's visit. I take the bus down to the cancer centre and meet with my chemo oncologist. Actually, before I meet with her, a nurse takes me over to a station where she asks me my first and last name and my date of birth. She weighs me, takes my blood pressure, and then she ushers me into the doctors office where I wait. <br /><br />When the doctor arrives, she asks how the previous cycle went. Did I experience anything new? Was anything worse? Do I have any questions? I go over how I felt and any concerns I have. This time around I asked her when I should get the H1N1 vaccine and she advised to wait at least 2 weeks after my treatment so that my white blood cells have a chance to normalize. (And before you yell at me, yes I'm getting the vaccination. I've done A LOT of reading and this is my decision.) The oncologist also gives me my blood work requisition form. It indicates all the things she wants tested before my treatment the next day. The whole consultation rarely takes longer than 15 minutes. Then I'm off to tackle the rest of the day.<br /><br />I spend the day doing everything I'm not going to want to do for the next two weeks - washing dishes, cleaning the bathroom, vacuuming, doing laundry, getting groceries and other must-haves. I go to the lab to have my blood withdrawn (yay! another needle poke!) and I also try to fit in lunch or coffee with friends and a trip to the gym. AND I do it all while getting to bed at a decent time. I accomplished all of that yesterday. Go me! (Well, if I'm being totally honest, I didn't make it to the gym. But still, go me!)<br /><br />I also have to start one of my drugs the day before chemo. It's an anti-nausea drug called dexamethasone and I have to take 2 tablets twice daily for three days (day before, day of, and day after). These pills make me hyper and super hungry, which might explain all the energy I seem to have to accomplish all my tasks. Also? One of the side effects of my anti-nausea drug is...nausea. <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dexamethasone#Side_effects" target="_blank">No, really.</a><br /><br />The next day I get up early enough so that I have time for a healthy breakfast. This morning I had an apple and instant quinoa with cinnamon, ground flax, hemp hearts, and rice milk. Way tastier than it sounds. Then my mom picks me up and we head to the hospital. With chemo, there is no urgency to get there early. As long as you arrive within a minute or two of your start time, it's all good. I check in the reception and they send me over to the chemo waiting area. There are regular chairs and recliners to sit on. Usually there are magazines to peruse but this morning the tables were empty, save for a note explaining that, due to H1N1, all magazines and pamphlets have been removed. <br /><br />Within a few minutes Mom and I are called into the chemo area. Mostly it's a big room with a row of about 25 stations, each with it's own reclining chair, IV stand, cart, blood pressure machine, and other medical paraphernalia. There are also a couple of other hidden corners with 2 or 3 stations and some private room stations. I've been in the big room once, the hidden corners twice, and today I was in a private room. I think I like the big room the best - more to see and hear to keep me occupied. <br /><br />After waiting at my station for anywhere between 5 and 15 minutes, a nurse walks over and tells me about my blood work. Mostly they've told me that my neutrophils are higher than normal and that indicates I've been fighting infection. They then take my temperature and blood pressure to make sure everything's fine, which, after that first time when I was sent home, it has been. So despite the high count we proceed. The first thing they do is insert the IV. This is my least favourite part. I have lousy veins that don't stick up above skin level. They have to heat these two bags of green liquid that looks suspiciously like lime Kool-Aid and then put the bags on my hands to get the veins to pop. <br /><br />I should mention here that I always have to have needles and blood pressure done on my left arm. This is because of my lymph node surgery and the need to prevent <a href="http://www.breastcancer.org/tips/lymphedema/" target="_blank">lymphedema</a>. So each time I've been poked for blood work and an IV insertion or been squeezed by the blood pressure cuff, it's always been on the left side. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi40TB6Moe3JcFC7VZjb52_FtwcHG9IuIXOZ6ptUF0XK0tZmYVrlzwoIiGJcFUVfRD-A-mT3K6mVUoTEbTxJzruz0J671NZe_sNqmrAajIULDlmdhLOuwfvLdeHUHIrJbG51aDrCc9aUO-r/s1600-h/IV.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi40TB6Moe3JcFC7VZjb52_FtwcHG9IuIXOZ6ptUF0XK0tZmYVrlzwoIiGJcFUVfRD-A-mT3K6mVUoTEbTxJzruz0J671NZe_sNqmrAajIULDlmdhLOuwfvLdeHUHIrJbG51aDrCc9aUO-r/s400/IV.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400083102130432818" /></a><center><small><i>This is what hangs out in my hand for 4 hours or so</i></small></center><br />Finally after 10 minutes of hand-heating and tapping, my bad veins are ready to be poked and prodded for the IV. The first time it took the nurse two tries but every time after that they've got it in one try. Thank goodness. Then they hook up my 2 pre-meds. These have names which I've forgotten but have the delightful function of helping the dexamethasone in the quest to make me not barf. The nurse also gives me the small white sedative to slip under my tongue and let dissolve like it's supposed to dissolve all my irrational white coat phobias.<br /><br />After about 30 or 45 minutes of pre-med dripping, the machine beeps. This means that these bags are done and it's time for the next. Every time I hear the beep, whether mine or a neighbour's, all I can think of is "Fries are done. Better take them out." Flashbacks to my <a href="http://andsometimeswhy75.blogspot.com/2007/10/jobs-i-have-known.html" target="_blank">Burger King job</a>, I guess. So the machine beeps until a nurse notices and he or she comes over and switches bags. <br /><br />Before I'm given the first chemo drug, docetaxel, the nurse asks me my first and last name and my date of birth. If I pass that test, she hooks up the bag and I wait. And wait. The docetaxel takes about an hour and half to finish. During that time I have to have the blood pressure cuff hooked up to my left calf and the machine takes my blood pressure every 15 minutes. (It has to be hooked up to my leg. They can't use my right arm due to lymphedema, and they can't use my left arm or they'll cut off the flow of the drug up my arm. It's all very annoying.) Docetaxel has a tendency to raise blood pressure and create other nasty reactions. I've managed to escape with nothing out of the normal every time. <br /><br />Then my fries are done and a nurse comes over to flush the line with a saline solution. That takes 5 minutes. About this time I really have to pee, so the nurse takes off my blood pressure cuff and unplugs my IV machine and I trundle off to the bathroom. I attempt to pee elegantly and gracefully while using only one arm and then I trundle back to my recliner. <br /><br />Next, What's your first name? What's your last name? What's your date of birth? Phew, I pass. Then they hook up the cyclophosphamide. It only takes a mere 65 minutes to drip in, but by this time I'm feeling incredibly antsy. Remember a few paragraphs ago when I said the IV was my least favourite part? I lied. It's the waiting. The IV hurts for a bit but then it's done. Each time I went in, the treatment seemed to take longer and longer. But because of my small white sedative friend, I couldn't really concentrate on anything - I couldn't seem to read or do sudoku, and even having my mom read to me got sort of annoying. This last time the nurse could see I was getting restless, so she came over to turn the timer towards me - only 6 more minutes! Whew. <br /><br />Then my fries are done again and the nurse comes in and flushes the line. Another 5 minutes. And then I'm free! The nurse removes the IV, presses a bandage on my hand, and provides me with a print-out of my next pre-chemo doc visit and my next chemo visit. She also hands me containers of ondansetron (anti-nausea), prochlorperazine (anti-nausea), and ranitidine (anti-heartburn) drugs. <br /><br />Mom and I are finally free to leave for lunch or shopping or both because the day of chemo I feel fine. The truck doesn't hit until day 2 or (more often) day 3. Then comes the achiness. I've never felt anything like this before. It hurts to move. It hurts to not move. It hurst to breathe and blink. Ibuprofen makes it so that I can mostly sleep through the night, which is nice, but it's still close to unbearable. I also have a sore throat, a mouth that feels like I ate too many salt and vinegar chips, extreme exhaustion, and the most painful and annoying diarrhea I've had to endure. Too much information? Hey, you wanted to know. (Or at least a handful of you wanted to know.) All the nasty stuff lasts a week to a week and a half but the tiredness lingers. How much it lingers has increased with the treatments, so much so that it seems like I'm almost always tired. <br /><br />(You may notice that nowhere in there did I mention barfing. That's because all those wonderful drugs they gave me through the process actually did their job with me and voila, no barfing. I still haven't broken my haven't-barfed-since-I-was-eight-or-nine-years-old streak!)<br /><br />But enough about the bad stuff. Why am I telling you all this now? BECAUSE I'M DONE! I had my last treatment today and now chemo, she is no more! I must go do my happy dance and not think at all of the 5 weeks of radiation coming up.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilQ2oyoyJiRgwUuiFWDBByRK9A17oZypcn8h447CZMpx1l3MjuD3KsnOmWvO8ET70KOFgaQOcffRWoqoAYPdtvL-6MmBFGx9vl6bvgnhE5hoXtOKt2yEanOLLbuKN0UzEuV2LJHpXpftiI/s1600-h/Happyface.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilQ2oyoyJiRgwUuiFWDBByRK9A17oZypcn8h447CZMpx1l3MjuD3KsnOmWvO8ET70KOFgaQOcffRWoqoAYPdtvL-6MmBFGx9vl6bvgnhE5hoXtOKt2yEanOLLbuKN0UzEuV2LJHpXpftiI/s400/Happyface.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5400083605476777474" /></a><center><small><i>The happy face the nurse gave me in honour of my last treatment</i></small></center>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-42795772209108115972009-10-13T19:55:00.005-05:002009-10-14T18:38:20.629-05:00Two roads divergedWhen I was in university I wrote a paper comparing ideas from T.S. Eliot's <a href="http://bartelby.net/201/1.html" target="_blank">"The Waste Land"</a> and W.B. Yeats' <a href="http://www.potw.org/archive/potw351.html" target="_blank">"The Second Coming"</a>. I has studied and enjoyed both poems in my Literature of the 20th Century class and wanted to share my excitement with the world...or at least with the professor. I'm not entirely sure what I wrote about, but the paper had something to do with Yeat's lines<br /><br /><small><i>The best lack all conviction, while the worst<br />Are full of passionate intensity</i></small><br /><br />I was ridiculously proud of my essay. It wasn't one of the suggestions from the professor, and possibly nothing anyone had thought of before in the history of humankind! (Or at least I couldn't find any books or articles written on the topic at the U of R library during the 5 minutes I looked. Hey, back then that was considered serious research!)<br /><br />When I received my paper back, written on the crisp, white cover page in dark red ink was this: "Very well done. You are a interesting and divergent thinker." Of course, I immediately had to go look up what "divergent" meant and was much pleased by what I read ("Using a variety of premises, esp. unfamiliar premises, as bases for inference, and avoiding common limiting assumptions in making deductions"). <br /><br />Later I excelled at comparing Holden Caulfied (from Catcher in the Rye) to Huckleberry Finn, and green policy in North America and Europe. I struggled through the close reading we had to do in my New Criticism class, and completely wrote off the need for accuracy in my chemistry lab. 14 mL? 16mL? Close enough.<br /><br />One of my favourite projects from my education degree came from the Philosophy of Education class I took. I chose to present on a South American educator who believed everything in schools is political - from the language we use to the topics and books we study. As I researched my presentation, I learned that because females tend to be more "people pleasing" and males tend to be more "self centered," much of what we study is chosen because it will hold boys' attention. <br /><br />We want children to learn how to classify things and so we study dinosaurs. Why not flowers or cats? Because we'd lose the boys. In high school we read books like <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=b-o_K_AFJiUC&dq=fahrenheit+451&printsec=frontcover&source=bn&hl=en&ei=oCvVSovEAY3AlAeRsvScCQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=10&ved=0CCsQ6AEwCQ" target="_blank">Fahrenheit 451</a>, <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=3KRdJZbAN_sC&dq=lord+of+the+flies&printsec=frontcover&source=bn&hl=en&ei=oyzVSpebCc29lAe5oKCdCQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=5&ved=0CCIQ6AEwBA#v=onepage&q=&f=false" target="_blank">Lord of the Flies</a>, <a href="http://books.google.com/books?id=SGAZdjNfruYC&dq=animal+farm&printsec=frontcover&source=bl&ots=vsL8-kjORF&sig=y5ABgWe9N2cvq9RQOd0_g1OMw0w&hl=en&ei=DS3VSt3WKc67lAeiw-WcCQ&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=result&resnum=15&ved=0CD0Q6AEwDg#v=onepage&q=&f=false" target="_blank">Animal Farm</a>, <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flowers_for_Algernon" target="_blank">Flowers for Algernon</a>...well, I could go on. Yes, these are all fabulous books, but they're also all very male-centric. You know, to keep the boys' interest. <br /><br />Making these sorts of discoveries and connections and then sharing them with other people made me feel alive. <br /><br />Since university I haven't had much chance to think. My job is one that forces me to focus on details and minutia, which is possibly why I'm so dissatisfied doing what I'm doing. The other night, though, I got the chance to dust off those old skills again. I was at a pub, enjoying some tasty beer with friends and I managed to piss everyone off. <br /><br />My friends were oozing superlatives about the TV show <i>True Blood</i> (especially the 2nd season) and the movie <i>Fight Club</i>. I offered up the extremely unpopular opinion that the former ended up being about nothing more than a pathetic, deluded woman searching for a husband, and the latter? Oy. Don't even get me started! They make this cool, anti-consumer, screw the man movie and then they make the character spewing these beliefs <i>bat-shit crazy</i>. And what does he do to make his big statement? He blows up CREDIT CARD COMPANIES! Oh great - now all of us who racked up our cards uncontrollably can go out and do it AGAIN! You can bet that if all of a sudden my credit card debt was at $0, I'd be out there buying a bed - one that had never been owned by anyone else before. Can you imagine how luxurious that would be?<br /><br />Anyway, I digress. It felt great to use the ol' noggin and piss people off again. I felt that familiar tingle of coming alive. Now if I could just find a job that allowed me to do this.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfcUS47gKepzMGluEH13gYxYfcHZc0fhHt5aXBIbkw-7dnnhYTlW8GuCHTDTPq1L9z88JheccdpYwWF0bKGEC5FmR_vOkOFSF-pEuXKHKtVUAH70nMt2GnzBNrrawY4mJR2q-yGLJtc88/s1600-h/CubicleFarm.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 296px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfcUS47gKepzMGluEH13gYxYfcHZc0fhHt5aXBIbkw-7dnnhYTlW8GuCHTDTPq1L9z88JheccdpYwWF0bKGEC5FmR_vOkOFSF-pEuXKHKtVUAH70nMt2GnzBNrrawY4mJR2q-yGLJtc88/s400/CubicleFarm.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392275339868284658" /></a><center><small><i>Cubicle farm</i></small></center>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-90366980824767247062009-10-12T20:51:00.003-05:002009-10-12T22:14:23.140-05:00Foxy thoughts, pt 2Happy Thanksgiving, fellow Canadians! I know that I should wax poetic about all the wonderful things in my life, but I'm <i>always</i> going on and on here about how grateful I am for absolutely everything. It's sickening, really. So I'm going to make it opposite day today and give you miscellaneous foxy rants.<br /><br />(See <a href="http://andsometimeswhy75.blogspot.com/2009/09/foxy-thoughts.html" target="_blank">here</a> for an explanation of what makes these foxy.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGxWOCMNGmnR2fKDly_r9GO94h27JoqqeVoG2AH13lVBl-gxH-l8m3re2XfqYjt57O7_Qnf52PxjSb5O23DREN6YcuSrEoSBENerTAy5g2PwaeqKri9JhpHpLFYB9xHkV3VjQx-LnOYi6g/s1600-h/QueenoftheParkingLot.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGxWOCMNGmnR2fKDly_r9GO94h27JoqqeVoG2AH13lVBl-gxH-l8m3re2XfqYjt57O7_Qnf52PxjSb5O23DREN6YcuSrEoSBENerTAy5g2PwaeqKri9JhpHpLFYB9xHkV3VjQx-LnOYi6g/s400/QueenoftheParkingLot.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391048180928785394" /></a><center><small><i>Queen of the Parking Lot</i></small></center><ul><li>In <i>Captain Corelli's Mandolin</i> when Nicolas Cage kisses Penélope Cruz, it looks disturbingly like he's going to EAT HER FACE OFF. He's kissing her with such enthusiasm and she's just so freaking little that I thought for a moment it had turned into <i>Captain Corelli's Zombie Musical War Movie</i>. No, really! Watch it again (if you can stand it). Braaaaaaaaaiiiiiins...</ul><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqwVDhM1DIyiiJI_-vvEs6wFviSExQVFKTuQk9dBK7UmK3y6EPEdMZyaR4P6Wp1p5vi4uV-pGYtC5GwckPbRsALMLSSAWbTiLcRz3TSAoSUUd7yBk_3sqPH86Q17iVZR7AIxLweWeEMOyz/s1600-h/Wasp.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqwVDhM1DIyiiJI_-vvEs6wFviSExQVFKTuQk9dBK7UmK3y6EPEdMZyaR4P6Wp1p5vi4uV-pGYtC5GwckPbRsALMLSSAWbTiLcRz3TSAoSUUd7yBk_3sqPH86Q17iVZR7AIxLweWeEMOyz/s400/Wasp.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391048510756130034" /></a><center><small><i>The only good wasp is a dead wasp</i></small></center><br /><ul><li>Girls that kiss other girls and like it generally don't then go on to sing those exact words. Usually those are the girls who are just doing it to make their boyfriends all hot and bothered. The rest of us are too busy trying to get to second base. </ul><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6IiJRPn5mQGJ6suyVjWHCC6mY7hEYdCUodYzlhPWnnQxxPHZ-FyxEE7YShnuxiHnffgBRiyvs7kPyQ2k2E9xiR5J7qxrjQYqJpdC6sA2uIJ9Y3t6cozSxy16QJ3gpIhHChZW_IwqKUig4/s1600-h/Alley.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6IiJRPn5mQGJ6suyVjWHCC6mY7hEYdCUodYzlhPWnnQxxPHZ-FyxEE7YShnuxiHnffgBRiyvs7kPyQ2k2E9xiR5J7qxrjQYqJpdC6sA2uIJ9Y3t6cozSxy16QJ3gpIhHChZW_IwqKUig4/s400/Alley.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391050397791592322" /></a><center><small><i>Back alley treasures</i></small></center><br /><ul><li>I know that democracy is the best form of government that we can come up with and blah blah blah, but does it seem to anyone else like a giant high school popularity contest? I mean, the guy that the majority of the people like gets to run the place because he's so popular that he got the most votes, and then he gives cushy jobs to all his buddies. <i>High school</i> is the pinnacle of society? Am I still asleep? This seems an awful lot like that nightmare I keep having.</ul><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIKBeB7uX5xna8fqjXiKZQnAZO45nr0bhDW89JQfAyAab9GpUKZ6z0JJwnh_sJaLq19h5ocozTW9PP_XThzPn5s2xL5tY6NeriOGnCKvk6cwk4Clvx1fyPTeexE7eS9aG_jgVs1ZRVeAc3/s1600-h/Autumnprairie.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIKBeB7uX5xna8fqjXiKZQnAZO45nr0bhDW89JQfAyAab9GpUKZ6z0JJwnh_sJaLq19h5ocozTW9PP_XThzPn5s2xL5tY6NeriOGnCKvk6cwk4Clvx1fyPTeexE7eS9aG_jgVs1ZRVeAc3/s400/Autumnprairie.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391049219169527874" /></a><center><small><i>Autumn on the prairies</i></small></center><br /><ul><li>I hate when I go to a restaurant with friends and we go up to pay the bill and the server looks at me and asks, "All together?" I feel like if I answer "No, separate," everyone will think I'm cheap. And I AM! I just don't want others to know. So I end up feeling guilted into saying "Yep, together" and paying for everyone. Sometimes I'm awfully silly.</ul><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlvblmQwh4uxQ2alLa49JYq0V1LTAuLbAQA1u80FknDRpwvQbjOQAFR56OVsyZAdny1FnyirIxU5f9qksdxccXVhiHR5Nkn9NHWQCSyO5_fSIY2T02DRhmoi-8u3mx5xOBYTzjUMRhFdWd/s1600-h/Rooftopsunrise.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlvblmQwh4uxQ2alLa49JYq0V1LTAuLbAQA1u80FknDRpwvQbjOQAFR56OVsyZAdny1FnyirIxU5f9qksdxccXVhiHR5Nkn9NHWQCSyO5_fSIY2T02DRhmoi-8u3mx5xOBYTzjUMRhFdWd/s400/Rooftopsunrise.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391049822438591794" /></a><center><small><i>Sunrise on the rooftops</i></small></center><br /><ul><li>Why oh why are people here so surprised by winter every year? Everywhere I go I hear griping: "I can't believe it's so cold already!" or "Why is it snowing?" or "I'm not ready for this weather yet! Bring back the 30°C!" People, it's October and it's Saskatchewan. It gets cold and the snow starts. It's been this way since before I can remember and it'll stay this way until after I'm gone, even <i>with</i> global warming. If you hate it that much, please move.<br /></ul><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnsMVMeqIgV_LEXeGmzZZellTkZ7EMcZD8OiQgD0_kgIHCG_A7qJkMku4modRyVi8mgQukgF9HYH2um_IsoHG8yANpqdId0getskxL8tGrPqHW-UfvGXPY1rwe_a1O6nyfDwYrlGnncle/s1600-h/Deadflowers.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNnsMVMeqIgV_LEXeGmzZZellTkZ7EMcZD8OiQgD0_kgIHCG_A7qJkMku4modRyVi8mgQukgF9HYH2um_IsoHG8yANpqdId0getskxL8tGrPqHW-UfvGXPY1rwe_a1O6nyfDwYrlGnncle/s400/Deadflowers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391909663844539538" /></a><center><small><i>Dead flowers in the snow</i></small></center>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-78335784816568482492009-10-01T11:11:00.001-05:002009-10-01T11:12:41.512-05:00BroodingI'm going to see these guys tonight. I CAN'T! FREAKING! WAIT!<br /><br /><object width="500" height="315"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vfjq4F5nTWc&hl=en&fs=1&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vfjq4F5nTWc&hl=en&fs=1&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="500" height="315"></embed></object>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-66605963702364955112009-09-27T00:53:00.006-05:002009-09-27T12:34:17.278-05:00Games people play<u>The scene</u>: A small coffee shop/art gallery. There is a 60th birthday bash being thrown for Nat's stepdad. He knows the owners, who have shut down the place for the party. Nat's sister, the sister's boyfriend, Uncle Steve, and Nat have snuck away to the coffee shop's kitchen area to play some cribbage on a makeshift table while the party rages on. Uncle Steve arrived from Winnipeg earlier in the day just for the party.<br /><br />A woman no one knows enters the kitchen.<br /><br />---------------------------------<br /><br /><b>Woman:</b> Ah, so this is where the real party is!<br /><br /><b>Uncle Steve:</b> Absolutely. It's the kitchen party.<br /><br /><b>Woman:</b> Do you use the coffee shop kitchen as your own kitchen, too?<br /><br /><b>Uncle Steve:</b> [<i>looking around to see if she's talking to him</i>] Um...yes?<br /><br /><b>Woman:</b> Must be nice to have such a big space to use for your own cooking.<br /><br /><b>Uncle Steve:</b> [<i>getting into it now</i>] It's great! One of the benefits of owning this place.<br /><br /><b>Woman:</b> I bet!<br /><br /><b>Uncle Steve:</b> [<i>gesturing wildly</i>] Have you gone out back yet? We're expanding. We're building up, we're building down. We're building out and around and in.<br /><br /><b>Woman:</b> [<i>eyes wide</i>] That sounds WONDERFUL!<br /><br /><b>Uncle Steve:</b> You should see in the winter. Beautiful.<br /><br /><b>Woman:</b> Oooh, I just bet! But I should let you get back to your game. Nice chatting with you.<br /><br /><b>Uncle Steve:</b> [<i>to her retreating back</i>] Make sure you try the cheesecake!<br /><br />---------------------------------<br /><br />I sure hope that poor woman was far enough away before the four of us dissolved into laughter.Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-25829572261634716912009-09-24T09:42:00.010-05:002009-09-24T14:07:31.320-05:00Hair today, gone tomorrowWhen I was ten years old, my then-step-grandma gave me a <i>home perm</i>. Please imagine horror movie strings screeching in the background when reading those terrible words: <i>home perm</i>. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCZT6lfpFws25vAkORVaVkixUPGMG12Gbbo8lz477W3fMpu2x954uB5IjlVwhjcCFaICQdnWVTTTzG2JT3BtJhd5G7HtDVH0_vx0NKRJWIs7Svk7qG3XMNkRuC6XDBiVW2qC4BaFkHx_r/s1600-h/Frog.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZCZT6lfpFws25vAkORVaVkixUPGMG12Gbbo8lz477W3fMpu2x954uB5IjlVwhjcCFaICQdnWVTTTzG2JT3BtJhd5G7HtDVH0_vx0NKRJWIs7Svk7qG3XMNkRuC6XDBiVW2qC4BaFkHx_r/s400/Frog.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385087922036687586" /></a><center><small><i>Frog watching the sunset</i></small></center><br />I had been begging my mom for months to allow me to get a perm. She got them regularly - why couldn't I? Finally she relented after my step-grandma offered to give me one herself. I had high hopes for my first perm ever. I imagined myself walking into class with gorgeous wavy locks and all the kids collectively inhaling in awe at my new look. <br /><br />Finally, after much burning and waiting and rinsing and drying, the unveiling occurred. It was HIDEOUS! I looked like a brunette <a href="http://theboxset.com/images/reviewcaptures/2236capture_annieSE09.jpg" target="_blank">Lil' Orphan Annie</a>! I didn't know whether I wanted to to cry or shave my head first. Instead, I mustered up a shaky grin for my step-grandma and thanked her. <i>Then</i> I went into my room and cried. <br /><br />The next day at school I tried to keep my touque on in class, but my teacher (heartless witch that she was) made me take it off. In front of everyone! The snickers and snorts still haunt my dreams.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir1Ue-PXR2ijaVjYwZU-3NFg8RkZwPtnTwoY62T9z4h9-Nib2ad44CoMo5cNIWDrhWpX64qg-7gn0vJCNrHwvsiESy8jCFMITsNlSLOW-Rus6XoY-oaCoaDOaC1jXxFU293mQzyU9KQOvJ/s1600-h/Construction.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEir1Ue-PXR2ijaVjYwZU-3NFg8RkZwPtnTwoY62T9z4h9-Nib2ad44CoMo5cNIWDrhWpX64qg-7gn0vJCNrHwvsiESy8jCFMITsNlSLOW-Rus6XoY-oaCoaDOaC1jXxFU293mQzyU9KQOvJ/s400/Construction.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385088358327621186" /></a><center><small><i>Bridge construction</i></small></center><br />Since the <i>home perm </i>, I've struggled to find a hair style I liked. I cut it short, I grew it out. I dyed it red, I bleached it with Sun-In and lemon juice. I got real, <b>salon</b> perms. And through it all I uttered my all-too-familiar mantra: I hate my hair!<br /><br />About four years ago I gathered up all my courage and had a friend give me a haircut I'd been aching to try. Short in the back, long at the sides, bangs - <a href="http://andsometimeswhy75.blogspot.com/2008/08/due-to-popular-demand.html" target="_blank">you know the one</a>. I immediately fell in love with the style. It was quick and simple (two MUSTS for me) and I received compliments on it daily.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhXp9VjlBqibbAWEal8x7F-FnXRuHiMtkIfmbIF-e5HbkLxYqiQ6vp_nDVuM_WDf-XjwR37r8fS3ibZR0fOUXRqmgc61SB05aHiCxwsHnHu5rLjNkkboDX9RfyAfXxx7jHZ3SKWdjcVT33/s1600-h/Gulls.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhXp9VjlBqibbAWEal8x7F-FnXRuHiMtkIfmbIF-e5HbkLxYqiQ6vp_nDVuM_WDf-XjwR37r8fS3ibZR0fOUXRqmgc61SB05aHiCxwsHnHu5rLjNkkboDX9RfyAfXxx7jHZ3SKWdjcVT33/s400/Gulls.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385088938951566690" /></a><center><small><i>Flock of seagulls</i></small></center><br />And then April 28, 2009 happened and I found myself sitting in a surgeon's office being told I have breast cancer. And do you know what made me cry the most during that appointment (and, in fact, for days and maybe even weeks after)? It was when he told me that I would almost certainly need chemotherapy and I would lose all my hair. In our society, hair and clothes are seen to be expressions of personality and since I'm mostly unable to do that with what I wear, my hair became the way I showed there was more to me than people first assumed. And now my wonderful hairstyle was going to fall out.<br /><br />I tried to put on a brave front for people. "I've always wanted to see what I look like bald, anyway!" or "They say it could grow back different - maybe I'll have those curly locks I've always wanted!" But that was mostly me saying things to make other people feel better. I didn't really believe it...at least at first. <br /><br />A strange thing happened as I tried to placate others - I started to really buy in to what I was saying. Shortly after my aborted attempt at my first chemo treatment, I decided to get a kicky new pre-chemo hair cut. It was short and funky and I LOVED it! It made me stop dreading the whole growing-out process. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOY0kNyMnR8PXXlA1TcNt8R29J7YzMw70tCPpskwVabkeCkE5SueZe8X1rKGtzG26IXI61Wb0otLEcxgOnn777JoDoeCkXzJV4S9GLOi5XortaWGtvkYrr0-iPM-7XjKEFVeA_0hieXfe3/s1600-h/Blackbirds.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOY0kNyMnR8PXXlA1TcNt8R29J7YzMw70tCPpskwVabkeCkE5SueZe8X1rKGtzG26IXI61Wb0otLEcxgOnn777JoDoeCkXzJV4S9GLOi5XortaWGtvkYrr0-iPM-7XjKEFVeA_0hieXfe3/s400/Blackbirds.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385089363396633010" /></a><center><small><i>How many blackbirds can you see? I see 13.</i></small></center><br />Then a week and a half ago I noticed more hair in my hairbrush than usual. I decided that rather than going through the mess and the trauma of watching my fun new style go down the drain (and in the garbage and on my pillow and on the floor), I would have my friend Cake shave me. He couldn't do it until 4 days after the initial hair loss and by then my hair was falling off in clumps. There was a small section that was sticking out and I was trying to get it to lay flat and, instead, the whole bit came off in my hands. It was at that point that I realized that I was good and ready for what I was calling my Good Ol' Fashioned Shearing Party.<br /><br />I went over to Cake's place, bottle of wine in hand. There were the obligatory before, during (complete with mohawk and fauxhauk), and after photos and to my utter delight, I didn't look terrible when he was all done! There were no weird lumps that were uncovered and my head isn't bizarrely misshapen or anything! I even walked home that evening without donning the funky head scarf I had brought with me in case of emergency. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbetfoCAHI8NBEBB1ZWgDMwkYKJSfi7IK82lQYWe6LVdySndXZ9DgXk6JQwGu0lW-LBJgSCRpD_OTyRRsPvVtvEKK35hWtpr2j0LK3UVIWwUwj1jYk2JuhGogHML0I54618oTJWIaR9Yn/s1600-h/LegislativeBuilding.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHbetfoCAHI8NBEBB1ZWgDMwkYKJSfi7IK82lQYWe6LVdySndXZ9DgXk6JQwGu0lW-LBJgSCRpD_OTyRRsPvVtvEKK35hWtpr2j0LK3UVIWwUwj1jYk2JuhGogHML0I54618oTJWIaR9Yn/s400/LegislativeBuilding.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385089831606560786" /></a><center><small><i>Autumn sunset at the legislative building</i></small></center><br />Since then I've been embracing my new 'do, walking with my head high and scaring old people. But all of this doesn't mean I'm not looking forward to my hair growing back. I haven't spoken to my ex-step-grandma in 20 years. That should be a lesson to NOT MESS WITH MY HAIR AGAIN, cancer! I don't fool around about these things!Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-40897943003709061942009-09-21T21:31:00.004-05:002009-09-21T21:59:35.149-05:00Mom: 3 Nat: 0<i>The scene: Nat's mom picks her up to go grocery shopping. Nat just had her head shaved because her hair was falling out by the handful.</i><br /><br /><b>Mom:</b> You know, if I thought I would look better bald I would shave my head, too.<br /><br /><b>Nat:</b> How do you know how you would look until you try it?<br /><br /><b>Mom:</b> It would start growing in and it would be mostly grey. I think it would look terrible.<br /><br /><b>Nat:</b> So you're not going to be one of those moms that shaves her head to support her cancer kid? <br /><br /><b>Mom:</b> Nat, you know I'm here for you to help with anything you need - but I don't love you <i>that</i> much.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5W5LzbawqQOxR_JHthfgMh9MTGFdL2X7n7_18-M2A68bTq7TDkD9Qreklw8yAwbo5kqGzxyLWdHmMV7oyeADHmfQD3v8YqjCCX3n0h913NDS5fb-pVdqFl07bdgQ_yBvQHIHrV20afM7F/s1600-h/Bald.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 215px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5W5LzbawqQOxR_JHthfgMh9MTGFdL2X7n7_18-M2A68bTq7TDkD9Qreklw8yAwbo5kqGzxyLWdHmMV7oyeADHmfQD3v8YqjCCX3n0h913NDS5fb-pVdqFl07bdgQ_yBvQHIHrV20afM7F/s400/Bald.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384120706476623138" /></a><center><small><i>How do bald people cope with the constant cold head?</i></small></center>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-22315798452262702692009-09-15T01:35:00.006-05:002009-09-21T22:00:46.654-05:00Timing is everythingSince being told I have breast cancer, I've been doing a lot of reading. I want to learn as much as I can about this gawddamned disease to help me get through treatment and ensure I never have to endure it again. One thing I've noticed over and over is that the literature urges me not to feel like I have to be superwoman. I'm advised that I shouldn't feel like I have to do it all myself, that there's no shame in asking for help. <br /><br />This confuses me. Of COURSE there's no shame in asking for help! Of COURSE I don't have to do it all my self. And besides, do <i>what</i>, exactly? There's nothing in my life so urgent that it needs to be done if I'm aching all over and can barely keep my eyes open. How silly of all these people to even suggest otherwise. <br /><br />Not all of my reading has been so serious, however. I just finished a book called <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Cancer-Vixen-Marisa-Acocella-Marchetto/dp/B0027IQB6U/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1252997151&sr=8-1" target="_blank"><i>Cancer Vixen</i></a> by Marisa Acocella Marchetto. My friend Cake gave it to me shortly after I told him about my cancer. It's fabulous. It's a graphic novel all about the author's journey through breast cancer. Even though her life is vastly different from mine (she's a high-powered career woman living a glamourous life in New York and I'm...not) there are so many similarities with our stories that it's like she's writing about <i>me</i> sometimes. <br /><br />Nevertheless, one thing about the book annoyed me throughout. She is constantly fretting that her fiance is going to wake up one day, decide that he can't take it anymore, and leave her for someone younger and healthier. She can't see how lucky she is! She's with a man who clearly adores her and wants to support her every step of the way, and she can't even see her good fortune. <br /><br />But then I realized that no one really knows how lucky she is. It's <i>never</i> a good time to have breast cancer. A woman doesn't think, "Oh thank goodness it's now when I have a caring, loving partner and children to help me get through this." No, she thinks, "What if this is too much for him to deal with and he leaves me? What if my children can't handle it? Why couldn't this have happened when I was still single?"<br /><br />Just as I don't think about how lucky I am that I'm going through this now when I only have myself to look after and worry about. Instead, I've cried myself to sleep thinking about how women with partners have it easier. They've already found someone to love them and stroke their hair and help them. They're not stuck being single, hoping that one day they'll find someone who won't shriek at the sight of their Frankenboob.<br /><br />I realized that's why the cancer literature urges us to not feel like we have to be superwomen. Many women who get diagnosed with breast cancer are wives and mothers and grandmothers. These women have people who rely on them. They have responsibilities and obligations. <br /><br />Once I had this realization, I sat down and made a list. The following are things should make me writhe around on the ground with joy:<br /><ul><li> I have a wonderful family who I know is here to help me get through everything. My mother is alive and young enough to be there beside me every step of the way.<br /><br /><li> I have more good friends in my life than I've ever had before. Probably in all my previous years combined.<br /><br /><li> I have an adorable and cuddly cat that provides me with sympathetic mews and purrs.<br /><br /><li> I have a very low housework expectation level. Not only am I able to live with myself if I don't do the dishes for 2 weeks or clean the bathroom for a month, but that's just business as usual around here.<br /><br /><li> I have no one who's relying on my for income or care.<br /><br /><li> I have a job that provides me with benefits so that I can take months off to focus on my treatments, and a boss who has encouraged me to do so.<br /><br /><li> I'm young and strong and probably in the best health of my life. <br /><br /><li> When I eventually do find someone to love me, he or she will know exactly what they're getting into - Frankenboob and all. They will love me because of what I've been through, not despite it.</ul>It turns out there really is a good time to have cancer!Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-90506380628422862962009-09-12T18:58:00.003-05:002009-09-12T19:09:13.647-05:00Insulted by the mailWhy? Why did I receive this in the mail, addressed to me and everything? How did I get on this mailing list? The woman on the envelope looks older than my <i>mom</i>. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpe6NCMzXmzHXoySQKN-tgJpCeg3yNSFwhmId-cs8fvrtVWJR-QG0iys_Mhf_N2T_s8AF8faESDL0RRtNiI0731hatLb5oLjvr6HSICOlvmWr18zHs23dOgsmi8QJnQhN0Wxt2nA0CNxM/s1600-h/Mail.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXpe6NCMzXmzHXoySQKN-tgJpCeg3yNSFwhmId-cs8fvrtVWJR-QG0iys_Mhf_N2T_s8AF8faESDL0RRtNiI0731hatLb5oLjvr6HSICOlvmWr18zHs23dOgsmi8QJnQhN0Wxt2nA0CNxM/s400/Mail.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5380736544396127986" /></a><br />Look how she's reaching for me, like she's saying, "Just a little bit closer, my pretty...muuuaaaahahahaha!"Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-85459194892439457502009-09-11T12:26:00.005-05:002009-09-22T22:51:26.182-05:00I don't love Oprah, but...Oh how I would have LOVED to have been a part of this:<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/A9CmZXSSYmc&hl=en&fs=1&"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/A9CmZXSSYmc&hl=en&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><br /><br />I'm not religious. I'm not a diehard fan of a big arena band. Hell, I don't even have a big family. These kind of collective events are rare and wonderful for me. They allow me to feel connected to people and part of something larger. This is what's missing from my day-to-day existence - I interact with a handful of people, really relate to one or two, and pass by hundreds of others like they're extras in the movie of my life. <br /><br />Feeling part of a whole is why go to folk festivals, why I adored houseboating, why I've been in a concert band or choir for most of my life, and why I love comments on my blog.Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-59435068066058638152009-09-07T10:07:00.017-05:002009-09-07T23:02:27.727-05:00Foxy thoughtsI was lounging in bed yesterday and listening to <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/wiretap/" target="_blank">Wiretap</a>, a brilliant, hilarious, and sometimes poignant show on CBC Radio 1. Jonathan Goldstein was talking about Archilochus and the difference between <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Hedgehog_and_the_Fox" target="_blank">foxes and hedgehogs</a>. Foxes know a lot of little things and hedgehogs know one big thing. <br /><br />I am definitely a fox. I don't have the patience, interest, or mental recall abilities to be a hedgehog. Hedgehogs do one degree, then a Masters, and then maybe a PhD. Foxes would take one or two classes in almost any discipline imaginable, get 3 bachelors degrees, and then do work that has nothing to do with any of them. Ahem - or so I would imagine. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-mr6jFyBaT017gCXkcBXG208PTSPxlybHtKFBFUqLowJEwDZtsXt6WX6_fXTap1ExkRxff2fWzXXl_KFk7Ual6_-4jo5VSfYNbFydG_vgzCf83ZhSxqXfNaiKB1F5T6SsUq-BIutkLyU/s1600-h/Crowd.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl-mr6jFyBaT017gCXkcBXG208PTSPxlybHtKFBFUqLowJEwDZtsXt6WX6_fXTap1ExkRxff2fWzXXl_KFk7Ual6_-4jo5VSfYNbFydG_vgzCf83ZhSxqXfNaiKB1F5T6SsUq-BIutkLyU/s400/Crowd.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378793394095635218" /></a><center><small><i>The main stage crowd at the Regina Folk Festival</i></small></center><br />I'm not sure if it's the chemo, my frequent naps, or my lack of having to do anything at all with my days that is emphasizing my fleet, scattered way of thinking, but I sat down and found it near impossible to write one cohesive blog entry. The most taxing thing I've been able to handle is deciding when to stop calling it "napping" and start calling it "in bed for the night." And so today? You get my foxy thoughts.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkZ0cycgxCWqzjvTnVsJeMoHksxjYu27sODj6vbWw65-l8MGFoic1Ufzu6fSzNd7QmKS25yfuu7_2uxNxrwYZQ2H8US659ad9BaRDNaijS9G9AXAJbo5aQb2BtGykxmGRXw77xpGeomWc/s1600-h/HDB.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUkZ0cycgxCWqzjvTnVsJeMoHksxjYu27sODj6vbWw65-l8MGFoic1Ufzu6fSzNd7QmKS25yfuu7_2uxNxrwYZQ2H8US659ad9BaRDNaijS9G9AXAJbo5aQb2BtGykxmGRXw77xpGeomWc/s400/HDB.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378793779890680738" /></a><center><small><i>At the festival, even the mannequins were Hipster Douchebags</i></small></center><br /><ul><li> Women who claim they would totally be a lesbian if only the right woman came along annoy me. I suppose that my grandma is right and the opposite is true, too. The reason I claim to be bisexual is simply because I haven't met the right guy, yet. Honey, I'm pretty sure you're not a lesbian because the thought of putting your tongue in a vagina doesn't make you all a-quiver. Not because you just haven't found Ms. Right.</ul><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZOUdJrNjZ-vPKKz16gdha2u5QudV7pDTIm-t1Nuco_e2fA76k_wsXMo0FOp2vm1tf_f1g230H2ZsHfwVl1i_cQ3nNmIUPfJREv_c2-m6NblFamucXomOB__PvtN-bt1rfoSfImtacjRQU/s1600-h/Friends.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZOUdJrNjZ-vPKKz16gdha2u5QudV7pDTIm-t1Nuco_e2fA76k_wsXMo0FOp2vm1tf_f1g230H2ZsHfwVl1i_cQ3nNmIUPfJREv_c2-m6NblFamucXomOB__PvtN-bt1rfoSfImtacjRQU/s400/Friends.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378795008124016850" /></a><center><small><i>Perhaps they're waiting for the right person</i></small></center><br /><ul><li> Also annoying? Articles written by people with glamourous jobs who try to claim their jobs aren't as glamourous as we think they are. Oh, assisting the casting director for a big budget Hollywood movie isn't all glitz? Writing for the New Yorker isn't all fabulousness? You mean it's tough, important, "nitty gritty" work? Talk to me about hard work after being a nurse or plumber for a decade. Talk to me about ordinary after your soul has been sucked dry as a receptionist at Don's Used Car Deals in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wichita_Falls,_Texas" target="_blank">Wichita Falls</a>. No one thinks their life is absolutely fantastic - it's just life and you're living it day by day - but you with your mani-pedi-spa power lunches, your all-access passes, and your expense account - just recognize what you have and appreciate it for what it is, okay?</ul><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCbhX3A8gzjOicoNEoFnyff8eHAacuxnv3_qsvr7FSyNtJnI25Es4RYGb85wMcrqQMInMXK8lrg-tYHJfcr382DoNhK-krdAigwk_eSEI_FDRaGH5S7cqelRZDB8k_4SDNI5cn4Ivx63eX/s1600-h/Sign.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCbhX3A8gzjOicoNEoFnyff8eHAacuxnv3_qsvr7FSyNtJnI25Es4RYGb85wMcrqQMInMXK8lrg-tYHJfcr382DoNhK-krdAigwk_eSEI_FDRaGH5S7cqelRZDB8k_4SDNI5cn4Ivx63eX/s400/Sign.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378794237508407826" /></a><center><small><i>Okay, curiosity officially piqued</i></small></center><br /><ul><li> I just heard an <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/wordsatlarge/blog/2008/12/salman_rushdie_speaks_with_ele.html" target="_blank">interview with Salman Rushdie</a> on CBC. (I've been doing a lot of radio listening, as you can tell.) He is fascinating to listen to and I recommend you check out the podcast. During the interview, he said how in all of us is a conflict between the dream of home and the dream of leaving. I really like that. He also said he used to wear a shirt that said, "Blasphemy is a victimless crime." I like that, too.</ul><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiV3QztakHM7lG1_IgKImqPcCGij9FB9jt5tlJlDpCz1USawkvU7Na1FnO1dijes-cKaCJ_bgUr4C58zilJSo2x0Cy53xB7m4HPIY21g2GotFRlbOtTiF4VBpYqDHF04Vi4v_FckEFgLAK/s1600-h/Scooter.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 293px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiV3QztakHM7lG1_IgKImqPcCGij9FB9jt5tlJlDpCz1USawkvU7Na1FnO1dijes-cKaCJ_bgUr4C58zilJSo2x0Cy53xB7m4HPIY21g2GotFRlbOtTiF4VBpYqDHF04Vi4v_FckEFgLAK/s400/Scooter.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378794396529716514" /></a><center><small><i>She's a woman on a mission</i></small></center><br /><ul><li> Everybody poops. No, really! Think about it. <i>Everybody</i> poops. Picture the celebrity or historical figure you idolize most. Impressive, yes? Perhaps even a bit intimidating. Now picture him or her in the can, pants around their ankles, slightly bored expression, taking a dump. Talk about the great equalizer! All of sudden Paris Hilton's a lot more human. (Why yes, she IS the person I idolize most. You mean you didn't guess?)</ul><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHu8bFfzqxc10gEg-k3Hjp__c4RHLd5EwdpE0vj5IRIdiLhoa6vrNEiH_hcmWcSAzBIeDt_sIKDqjjjLM_y0JelN2ABz2hyNyIwPMRA5CELYqXy-tpHL-e_cwXE46AeJievlO7s-a-1rWm/s1600-h/Walking.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHu8bFfzqxc10gEg-k3Hjp__c4RHLd5EwdpE0vj5IRIdiLhoa6vrNEiH_hcmWcSAzBIeDt_sIKDqjjjLM_y0JelN2ABz2hyNyIwPMRA5CELYqXy-tpHL-e_cwXE46AeJievlO7s-a-1rWm/s400/Walking.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378939221632672338" /></a><center><small><i>Wasting time in a prairie town</i></small></center><br /><ul><li> I feel there is such a huge difference between "This is a terrible movie!" and "I thought this movie was terrible!" One intimates that you're crazy for liking it, the other merely states an opinion. And if there's one judgement I'm willing to make, it's that I shouldn't judge people. That brings to mind a line from Austin Powers: <i>There's only two things I hate in this world. People who are intolerant of other people's cultures...and the Dutch.</i></ul><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjedBXzsHnpaufLgpk7oky2aNs83y195e4osgm16ULVLHFPjwd8m0kaTr34iOCjAYYQfUuLp81T26jFLSgp-FIS0c3DGJexBGRljWIhzByrqXTHk9xByDGTS4kk6zd4ejt2nBjGUB2XbQpI/s1600-h/Tulip.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjedBXzsHnpaufLgpk7oky2aNs83y195e4osgm16ULVLHFPjwd8m0kaTr34iOCjAYYQfUuLp81T26jFLSgp-FIS0c3DGJexBGRljWIhzByrqXTHk9xByDGTS4kk6zd4ejt2nBjGUB2XbQpI/s400/Tulip.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378939421769000178" /></a><center><small><i>Tulips from a friend</i></small></center>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-55602713450707111072009-09-04T20:20:00.013-05:002009-09-19T12:24:59.090-05:00Under pressure"Nat, as a registered nurse, I just want to warn you about something. It's not so much the chemotherapy or the radiation therapy, but I'm worried about the retail therapy. If you have overextended credit it could lead to some vomiting, or you might have a burning sensation in your wallet. You might want to watch that!"<br /><br />This was the message I received from my Uncle Steve after I got back to my apartment and he's not far from the truth! Good thing I only need 4 treatments or I'd be broke.<br /><br />On August 20 I was scheduled for my first chemotherapy treatment. My mom picked me up at 7:30 so we could be at the cancer centre for 8:00. I was nervous but nothing too crazy. I more wanted to just get things started so they'd be over sooner than anything else. However, my eye had been twitching for the past 2 or 3 weeks and I'd had stronger-than-usual headaches, so I knew all was not well. The first thing they did was hook me up to a blood pressure cuff. One of the chemo drugs they would give me (docetaxel) can increase blood pressure, so my readings needed to be taken every 15 minutes while it's being administered. <br /><br />"Hmm...that's pretty high," said the nurse. "You're probably nervous, aren't you? I'll give you a sedative." She gave me a tiny white pill to slip under my tongue and started the pre-chemo anti-nausea drip. She only had to poke me twice before she got the IV in.<br /><br />Of course, when people are poking me and tutting over <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blood_pressure" target="_blank">blood pressure</a>, it does nothing at all to help. My mom was being all alarmed over how high it was and the nurse kept saying she'd let me sit for 10 more minutes to see if it would come down. People (ie, mothers) <i>freaking the hell right out</i> and saying things like <i>stroke</i> and <i>heart attack</i> is not an effective way of calming someone down. (To be fair, my numbers were ridiculous. Like, 165/110 kind of ridiculous.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pxL1mlfmL0wjjjF8tE4qdJdIS85bj4-4AJsRGywGyhpTOWAV36VEoYJKsgALWQNS7hVjcfY91NdGPzYu6uHH7gud3G-I_HIBv5BWaOkII5R45l2R582w-DbPzWBO8WDGepzZUAS__FRv/s1600-h/Field.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 282px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6pxL1mlfmL0wjjjF8tE4qdJdIS85bj4-4AJsRGywGyhpTOWAV36VEoYJKsgALWQNS7hVjcfY91NdGPzYu6uHH7gud3G-I_HIBv5BWaOkII5R45l2R582w-DbPzWBO8WDGepzZUAS__FRv/s400/Field.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378084838185883682" /></a><center><small><i>Think calming thoughts</i></small></center><br />They gave me 2 doses of the sedative but all it made me want to do is slip into a pulse-racingly high-thumping sleep. In addition to blood presure problems, apparently my white blood cell count was lowish as well, so after about 45 minutes of resting and waiting, they decided to send me home. They told me to go to my family doctor to get something for my high blood pressure. I know what - how about not having to go through chemo? I'd say that's an almost immediate guarantee to bring me back to normal! <br /><br />My mom and I went to my doctor and I was set up with some samples to try to bring my blood pressure down. And then we went shopping. <br /><br />Treatment #1 was rescheduled for September 1. (By the way, that's a mere 4 months after first finding out I had cancer. Does that seem fast to you? It seems fast to me.)<br /><br />I tried not to be anxious about the day as it approached. I was on blood pressure medication but it only seemed to help at home. As soon as I would go to the oncologist or my family doctor for a check, my numbers would be high again. My doctor assured me that as long as it was managed at home, I should be fine. I just happen to have a sensitive system that magnifies any sort of outside influence.<br /><br />Again, my mom picked me up and we went to the cancer centre. Again, they hooked me up to the stupid blood pressure cuff and jabbed me with a needle to hook up my IV. Again, my numbers were high and they gave me the small, white pill as a sedative. This time, though, my numbers came down enough to convince them to go ahead with the chemo drugs. I sat in the armchair for four and a half hours, successfully manipulating my chords and drips to the bathroom once. My mom read me the paper and we played sudoku. I dozed. The drugs dripped. <br /><br />And then I was done! Free! To go shopping! <br /><br />Purchases after the aborted chemo treatment:<br /><ul><li> 4 head scarves (why not be bald AND fashionable?)<br /><li> Bottle of <a href="http://www.sephora.com/browse/product.jhtml?id=P9864" target="_blank">Angel</a> by Thierry Mugler (which was totally worth it and I can't stop smelling myself when I wear it)<br /><li> A fabulous purple purse (who doesn't need a purple purse?)<br /><li> A brown purse (it was cheap and cute)<br /><li> A big bottle of pomegranate juice (complete with powerful antioxidants)</ul><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtrMkpgyWPDftLDOIIeWpBKKOjGwh7NPHMR7oMlAqwPz2Wpi-oV5YCDT-qmGD1IwLdwK_nQUwgWs4sd1DA4t5PKKxqmhN5odf8zO9dpL7YlSFdMxaDm__4KZkI03gJWz9JZHhhJqlpj0-B/s1600-h/Pomegranate.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtrMkpgyWPDftLDOIIeWpBKKOjGwh7NPHMR7oMlAqwPz2Wpi-oV5YCDT-qmGD1IwLdwK_nQUwgWs4sd1DA4t5PKKxqmhN5odf8zO9dpL7YlSFdMxaDm__4KZkI03gJWz9JZHhhJqlpj0-B/s400/Pomegranate.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378085221495447298" /></a><center><small><i>Yummy!</i></small></center><br />Purchases after the actual chemo treatment:<br /><ul><li> A <a href="http://www.boosterjuice.com/" target="_blank">Booster Juice</a> (Sonic Soy, the best one there is)<br /><li> Pair of black leather sandals (comfortable for walking)<br /><li> Pair of black leather sandals (dressier and not really good for walking)<br /><li> A white purse (it was on sale and I didn't get that colour last time!)</ul><br />I'm not sure what I'm going to buy myself next time, but I'll be sure to think of some delightful items I couldn't possibly live without. Hey, if I'm going to suffer through this light-headedness, grogginess, and surprisingly orange diarrhea (just for fun, do an internet search on that last one), I'm going to do it smelling and looking fabulous. And shopping brings down blood pressure, I'm just sure of it!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhczd2E6rqlHrK2X-a2Eu3Unmjp7fE7MyywbUsMg1x3vJjLUvw9CdbWt8gMbA31M7STzqqr__E0jQGrzsvTL4kxul6bW8rf8qkHOR1MZdmwVqPpLgCsM-xlooPl4vWkqfgXpmfLv2WbA9W7/s1600-h/Relay.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhczd2E6rqlHrK2X-a2Eu3Unmjp7fE7MyywbUsMg1x3vJjLUvw9CdbWt8gMbA31M7STzqqr__E0jQGrzsvTL4kxul6bW8rf8qkHOR1MZdmwVqPpLgCsM-xlooPl4vWkqfgXpmfLv2WbA9W7/s400/Relay.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378085376334298162" /></a><center><small><i>The yellow survivor's shirts at the 2009 Relay For Life</i></small></center>Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2726411316420652643.post-73634445209297860602009-08-24T22:55:00.008-05:002009-09-08T00:53:35.130-05:00Frankly, I'm thunderstruckEven though it is several kilometers away, I can hear the AC/DC concert from my apartment. I can hear the crowd roaring and the drums banging and good ol' Angus wailing on lead guitar. (Hark, is that "TNT" I hear? Yes, yes it is). <br /><br />I can also hear the dog in the apartment below me barking and barking. I don't think he's a metal fan.<br /><br />Truthfully, I'm not a metal fan either. I'd rather hear the Lost Fingers do "Shook Me All Night Long" than AC/DC. (If you don't know the Lost fingers, then you MUST click <a href="http://www.last.fm/music/The+Lost+Fingers/_/You+Shook+Me+All+Night+Long" target="_blank">here</a> for a snippet. They do 80s songs in a <a href="http://www.redhotjazz.com/django.html" target="_blank">Django Reinhardt</a>-type style.) Regardless of my dislike for the heavier stuff, I'm a little sad I didn't go to the show. I mean, it's <i>AC/CD</i>! My small prairie city doesn't get many huge acts and you never know which concert will be the one where an aging rock star falls and breaks a hip or something. <br /><br />Speaking of concerts, have I ever told you about the time I snuck into a Rolling Stones concert? Oh yeah. I'm hardcore. <br /><br />Like I've said, my small city doesn't get many big name acts, so 3 years ago when the Stones concert was announced I knew I had to go. I've always fallen firmly on the Beatles side of the Beatles/Stones debate, but going to a Beatles show would be a hell of a lot more difficult. The Stones were playing 2 shows here, one on the Friday and one on the Sunday. My step dad has connections and he managed to snag me 4 tickets for the second show. <br /><br />Friday came and went and I heard great things, so I was pumped to go. I was attending with my two friends Mike and Kate, and my mom's weird cousin Larry, who had driven down from Calgary for the concert. We lined up with the crowd, got our tickets scanned, and made our way to our seats. They weren't awesome but none of us minded - we were going to get to see the Stones! About 15 minutes after we sat down, four people approached us and said that we were in their seats. We checked their tickets. We checked our tickets. They were for the same section, same row, and same seats. <br /><br />We were about to raise a fuss when I noticed something different on our tickets, so I hissed to my people that we should go talk to someone about this and let these nice people sit in the seats while we straightened things out. Mike and Kate objected but I kept insisting that we needed to just go. After I got them away from the stands, I pointed out that our tickets were, indeed, for those seats but for the <i>other</i> show. The one that had happened two days earlier.<br /><br />Larry wanted to find someone in charge IMMEDIATELY so that things could be fixed. Mike, Kate, and I were pretty sure that all that would be fixed is that we would be kicked out of the stadium and miss the show. The people scanning the tickets at the gate had messed up and let us in, and we weren't going to ruin it by hoping some event manager had a heart. Our plan was to hang around the concessions until the opening band was done, and then find a row that looked like it had empty spots and sidle in. Everyone was on their feet for the concert, anyway, so we figured it would be a piece of cake. Larry didn't like our plan. He was worried that if we snuck in, the ticket police would find us and throw us in ticket jail. But he was outnumbered and begrudgingly agreed to stay. <br /><br />The opening band finished and as the Stones took the stage and the concession area emptied out, we made our move. We walked up the stairs, scanned the rows, and found one that looked perfect. There were still a lot of people milling about and as we made our way to our new seats, our group got separated. Nevertheless, we made it. Well, actually, <i>most</i> of us made it. Somehow we had lost Larry. We looked around for him but the music was starting and we figured he had just found another good spot to blend in. <br /><br />The show was great in a cheesy, big spectacle kind of way. Mike, Kate, and I searched outside the stadium for Larry for 45 minutes afterwards but we didn't see him, so we walked back to my place. That's when we finally found Larry. He had been sitting in his car for the past three hours. He got separated from us in the stands, panicked, and decided he couldn't handle the stress of sneaking in, so he went back to his car, unrolled his windows, and listened from there. He <i>drove 8 hours from Calgary to sit in his car and listen to the Rolling Stones</i>. <br /><br />So that's my badass rock 'n' roll story. Ahh, but tonight there will be no sneaking in and I will not be able to rock out with my cock out. However, this weekend has not been without it's highlights. Behold, the newest member of my household. <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOBhieUYk1R8kc-9LMFsCseFVRdNqzpF_Zj1zSO-_mGEmSgpFrYo6ITgrJPxTGiI_8wmX0P2c1awY8fPB8150Vs_1EJdswtmtjxMJwu7MwwuFXhvc_Oi4WrxRhbfnKXF0XkFCoaIHGw293/s1600-h/Wig.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOBhieUYk1R8kc-9LMFsCseFVRdNqzpF_Zj1zSO-_mGEmSgpFrYo6ITgrJPxTGiI_8wmX0P2c1awY8fPB8150Vs_1EJdswtmtjxMJwu7MwwuFXhvc_Oi4WrxRhbfnKXF0XkFCoaIHGw293/s400/Wig.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373737471897237058" /></a><center><small><i>"Swept Away" - no, really, that's the name of the style</i></small></center><br />Lucy, my cat, is enamored with her and she was ridiculously expensive ($300? are you kidding me?) but how could I resist those luscious lips? Shopping for her was considerably less fun than I anticipated, mostly because the woman who helped me at the wig store was rather humourless. Listen, lady. I'm getting chemo soon. I'm going to lose all my hair. If I want to try on the the Farrah Fawcett just for fun, let me try on the gawddamned Farrah Fawcett. I don't care that you don't think it will flatter my face shape. I don't care that you think blond will wash out my skin tone. I'm not purchasing it, I'M JUST TRYING TO HAVE SOME FUN! I sneak into rock concerts! Don't piss me off!<br /><br />Anyway, I haven't named her yet but I'm working on it. Perhaps in honour of tonight's concert I should call her Angus.Nathttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06209017684666839909noreply@blogger.com6