Friday, October 8, 2010
Aliens are stalking my parents
“A UFO?” I mutter. “As in aliens?”
“Yes,” she exclaims. “As in aliens!”
Now my mother is kind of wonky (this is the woman who came to my father and I at the breakfast table one morning and claimed that there were eggs popping out of her head… we later figured out that it was the beads on the ends of the bristles on her hairbrush that were coming off and not eggs, as she had originally suspected.) but she has never gone on about aliens or UFOs. This was a first!
We had been at a family function the night before and I thought the “UFO” might be alcohol induced so I asked her to describe it. She told me in great detail the shape; oval with multiple sides, the colour; glowing orange, and the speed it was travelling at; a slow but steady hover. Also, my aunt and her neighbour were backing up the story. They all saw the same thing! I had to rule out drug induced hallucination because all of them weren’t drinking the same Kool-Aid.
My mom was so convinced that I started to believe her story to be true. Maybe she had seen something out of this world! Maybe… the aliens were trying to contact us?
“OMG!” I thought. “I’m totally going to introduce them to Gossip Girl. It’s like totally going to revolutionize their world!” (jokes).
It wasn’t until later, after I had told most of my interested friends that my mom had seen a UFO, that my cousin called to inform us that they had identified the U in UFO. Turns out the alien spacecraft was just a toy that you could buy at the local general store. It’s kind of like a Frisbee, but lighter, so that it hovers for longer periods of time. My mom and I laughed. Of course! Alcohol + flying toy ÷ trailer park = spaceship. It all makes perfect sense now.
I thought that was the end of aliens with my family. WRONG! The very next weekend we were all up at the cottage. The night was clear, the stars were bright, the bon fire was warm and the beer was cold. My mom and dad went to bed earlier then the rest of us so I don’t know how it happened, but the next morning my mom says “Amanda, your dad saw a UFO last night!”
“You’ve got to be kidding!” I said.
Apparently they weren’t. My mom and dad tell me that in the middle of the night, when my dad got up to take his nightly pee, he saw an object flying over the lake. It was bright, oval in shape and flew over the lake and off into the distance. This incident is yet to be explained *cue X Files theme song*.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Shaking hands with a killer
They were warm and rough, nothing extraordinary or unusual about them. They were your average hands, except they had killed a man.
I met a murderer on a Greyhound to Owen Sound. I learned his name; Aaron, where his people were from; Cape Croker and his preferred brand of beer; Kokanee, but I never learned what made him snap and take the life of a friend. He said it happened in a fight and things “got out of hand”. A life was done in by his hands during a situation that he deemed out of hand.
Haven’t you ever imagined killing someone? I bet you have.
I caught the Greyhound in Toronto with my boyfriend; we were headed to the North Country to spend the long weekend with family, friends and beer in hand by the lake. As we watched out the window, city streets made way for rural fields, and the city bound passengers were replaced with more rural folk heading north. It was in the countrified city of Guelph where the most interesting characters came aboard. Two of them ambled down to the very back of the bus and sat right behind me and Scott. As the bus turned out of the station they started up a conversation. Pleasantries about the weather and the long weekend soon turned into more serious talks about where they were from and past shared experiences. It turns out they had more in common then they thought; both had done time in prison.
Stories were swapped as they drank the booze they’d hidden in their carry-ons. Chris, a middle aged white guy who was heading to Sauble Beach to meet a girl he found on the internet, had done five months in the slammer for drunk driving. Now he has to blow into his car to make it start; I guess that’s why he was taking the bus.
Aaron, the fellow convict, said “that’s nothing.”
Chris countered with “oh yeah, what were you in for?” His pride had been wounded.
“I just got done serving 10 years down below,” said Aaron in a beer soaked whisper.
The surprise was evident in Chris’ voice when he repeated his question. “But what were you in for?”
“I killed a guy,” replied Aaron. “I took his life.”
Chris didn’t need to respond. Aaron told him that he had gotten into a fight with his friend at the bar. The fight got out of hand and he ended up killing the man. He had been sent to prison, or “down below” as he called it. He had missed watching his son grow up over the murder of a friend. They started to talk about how prison changes you and about their families; both of them are fathers. They continued to drink as they talked and eventually Aaron leaned over our seat and offered Scott a beer. Scott accepted it which drew us into their conversation. As the bus continued driving into the night we talked about the weekend ahead. Scott told them we were headed to my cottage and Aaron was interested to know where it was. I told him Wiarton, which made him very pleased. He knew the town well and wanted to know who we knew in common, his people had always lived on the reserves near Wiarton. This place gave him a kinship to me and he continued to ask me about my people and how long we’d been in the area. Scott and he got into philosophical discussions about life and the choices we make. He freely admitted that killing someone had been a choice and that prison had changed him. I think that in his round about way he was trying to tell us that he’d learned his lesson.
As we pulled into our final stop Aaron was asking us if we wanted to go out for drinks with him and even offered us a ride home after. We politely declined. Chris was the first to get picked up and we wished him good luck with his internet lady. Aaron continued to try and convince us to head to the bar, he’d had such a good time on the bus with us he said and kept shaking our hands. Even when his ride appeared and was calling his name he continued telling us how he always meets the most interesting people on the bus and that he hoped to see us soon. He turned to get his ride and then came back to shake our hands… twice.
I shook hands with a murderer. Whose hands have you touched?
Friday, March 19, 2010
What do you mean by “abnormality”?
I said “okay”…. because that’s all I could manage at the time.
Last month I went in for my first official pap test. It was surprisingly easy! It left me feeling slightly uncomfortable for a couple hours, but other then that it was easy peasy lemon squeezy. The doctors at the clinic said that I really didn’t need a pap test because they’ve now started doing them only for women who have been sexually active for three years. I insisted that I wanted one… just in case. And I’m glad I did.
This morning I got the call with my test results. The woman from the clinic said the test had discovered some “abnormalities” in my cervix.
“It could be nothing,” she said. “Or it could be an early indicator of cervical cancer, we’re not sure yet.”
She told me that I needed to make an appointment for a second pap test in 6 months; if they find the same anomalies again they will then send me to a gynecologist to do more extensive testing. If I do indeed have cancer they will pursue treatment. This was the procedure, she assured me, and not to worry… it could be nothing.
Clearly she doesn’t know me! If you’ve read my last blog post you will know that “worry” is my middle name! I’ve now been sitting here pondering the fact that I have to wait 6 months to find out if I’m fine or that I might, possibly, maybe have cervical cancer. Should I spend the next 6 months doing all the things I’ve always wanted to do bucket list style? Or should I just start planning my funeral? Will my birthday next month be the last one I celebrate?
I know this may seem like an overreaction, but hearing the word “abnormality” and “cancer” used in the same sentence to describe your body is a little scary.
Along with my usual worrying I’ve been weighing the pros and cons. Pros: I’m young and strong enough to fight this if it turns out to be cancer. Cancer treatment has improved over the years and more people survive everyday. Like the doctor said “it could be nothing”. Cons: my dad had cancer, which doesn’t bode well in my favour. I could have cancer, a disease that they don’t technically have a cure for. Treatment for this cancer (in extreme cases removing the uterus) could ruin my dreams of becoming a mother.
It’s a lot to think about and something I wish I didn’t have to consider on such a lovely spring day. However, knowing what I know now I want to initiate some awareness. If you are a lady and haven’t had a pap test, go get one. They’re free and could save your life. Also, if you have the funds, consider getting the vaccination for HPV (which can cause cervical cancer). If you are a man and have a lady that you care about encourage her to get tested like I did… just in case. This is all I can really do as of now. In July I’ll have my second test and will be able to tell you more.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Worry Warts Anonymous
“Hi Amanda.”
“I had my last worry at 11:30 this morning. I started worrying when I was young, just a kid really. Back then I’d worry about never seeing my parents again after they left for work. I always had daymares that they would get killed in a car accident and never come home. Nowadays I worry about pretty much everything, even things that don’t technically exist. I blame three things for my worrying ways: 1) my over active imagination, 2) my (undiagnosed) separation anxiety from my family fostered in me as a child by two busy parents and 3) my mother’s extreme love for me giving her the tendency to worry which I then learned to copy. These three factors, mixed together, make a vicious cocktail of worry wart syndrome.”
“Testify!”
“I have suffered. Worrying is not fun, nor is it easy! It takes dedication and a good dosage of crazy to make a true worrier and I have dedication and crazy in spades! I have spent long, sleepless nights worrying about imaginary scenarios. I have broken out into hives over a worry that has started out small and then grown to consume me (like most of them do). I have tried many techniques to try and suppress my worrying: deep breathing, finding my happy place, mantras and alcohol! None of these worked. Why? Probably because my worry wart tendencies are so deeply rooted that they have become part of who I am. They are what makes me tick (sometimes twitch) and the only real thing I can do about it is to accept it! This morning I had a worry that got so big I started to sweat. My boyfriend was supposed to go pick up a painting that we had received as a gift from a friend. I called him to remind him of this fact, but every time I called his phone would say “we’re sorry, the person you are trying to reach is unavailable at this time.” My boyfriend never turns off his phone, so this was cause for concern. I tried texting him; nothing. I tried messaging him on Gtalk; nothing. I tried calling our friend to see if she’d seen him yet; nothing! This is when my over active imagination starts to wiggle. I imagined him getting mugged on the street and thrown in a gutter while the robbers made away with his phone. I pictured him going into a store to grab a drink on his way to the subway, when the store suddenly gets held up and he’s shot by a masked gunman! I also thought of train derailments, car accidents, gang warfare and abduction. Finally, boyfriend shows up on Gtalk and casually messages me a ‘good morning’… he’d been sleeping the entire time! The reason his phone wasn’t working was because it had disconnected randomly from the cell network(my phone does that too sometimes, damn Rogers). Sleeping in + disconnected phone = one frazzled Amanda. With apologies, soothing words and promises of pampering me during the weekend, boyfriend was able to get me to stop worrying. I then apologized for my spastic behaviour; he said it was okay and that he understands. Understands! That’s what I’ve needed from myself this entire time, some fucking understanding. Hi, my name is Amanda, I am a worry wart and I understand this. I accept it and am attempting to move on!”
*slow clap*
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Ennui: I have it. Do you?
I just haven’t been writing because I’ve been lazy.
In fact, I’ve been lazy about everything lately: Making dinner, going swimming, reading… all things I love that I haven’t been doing because I just don’t feel like I have the energy anymore. I just want to sit on the couch and watch The Wire.
Has anyone else felt this disenchanted, ennui-filled, lazy attitude lately? Or is it just me?
I am tempted to blame the weather, but I’m too lazy to go outside, point at the sky and say “this is all your fault!”
I am tempted to blame my job, but I’m too lazy to get into an argument with myself over my direction in life because then I would have to admit to myself how seriously lazy I am… even thinking about being lazy is exhausting and is making me more lazy… if that’s even possible.
I keep waiting for something to happen to drag me out of this funk, but nothing has happened yet. And quite frankly, waiting is making me want to be lazy some more. Before, I was in a creative funk, but this blog dragged me out of it. Now I’m in an “ennui” funk and I’m not sure what to do about it… I’ve never had ennui before; I’ve been disenchanted often, but never ennui! Like all questions in life I turn to the great giver of information… I Googled it. And for once in my life Google has failed me. There is no real cure for ennui… the best suggestion was to exercise *rolls eyes*. Like I said before, even swimming doesn’t interest me, and that’s like my favourite thing in the whole world! I write this blog post, not as a documentation of my lazy ennui (because that would be boring), but as a cry for help. Anyone with suggestions on how to make my ennui go away would be greatly appreciated. All suggestions must be submitted in writing for posterity’s sake. Thank you.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Wrong Numbers, How I Adore Thee!
I love being on the receiving line of wrong numbers, mostly because I love reveling in peoples social awkwardness, but also because it’s just fun to get a sneak peek into other people’s lives. There are three types of wrong numbers: 1) the “ask and hang up”: wrong number calls and asks for so-and-so, you have to tell them that you don’t know so-and-so and they hang up because they have the wrong number. The second type is the “disbeliever”: wrong number calls, asks for so-and-so. You tell them that they have the wrong number and then they respond with “are you sure”? Of course you’re fucking sure! This is your phone, you answered, and you are not so-and-so! Duh! And number three is my favourite…three is the conversationalist: these people don’t even ask to speak to so-and-so. They just assume that they’ve got the right number so they just jump right into their convo, telling you things and asking you questions along the way. I love three the most because it has the highest risk of social awkwardness.
Today’s wrong number was brought to you by the number three!
“Hello,” I say when I pick up my phone.
“Ugh, so I’m late and I’m on my way to St. Paul’s,” says the girl on the other line.
I have no clue who this is!
“Okay…” I say.
“Is this Sandy’s cell phone?” says the wrong number.
“Noooooo,” I respond, trying not to giggle.
She starts to laugh and goes on a two minute rant about how she just got a new phone and spent all of last night updating her phone numbers and how she must have put Sandy’s (which she thinks is my phone) cell number under her home listing and that she must be calling Sandy’s home line by mistake…. “Are you Sandy’s mom?” she asks.
“No, I don’t even know a Sandy,” I say, laughing.
“Oh! Is this the wrong number? Oh, man, I am so sorry!”
I kept laughing and told Sandy’s friend to have a nice day.