Dinner Squadron

Lately, I have been reading an awful lot of blogs by women who were abused as children. A lot of them are roughly my age.

They say things like, "I remember when I thought everyone was X" or "Now I know Y isn't true about me" or "I used to think everyone panicked when they talked too loud, because sometimes I got hit for that and didn't know it's okay to be loud as a Real Adult."

And I say: Really? For seriousness? That's not normal?

It makes me feel like an alien. When you were a kid and you were hungry, did you really just ask for food and get it? Were you really never scared to be caught typing too loudly? Did you really never stay up late because mom was playing Solitare and if she lost, you'd be in for it? Did your parents really never steal your money because you were nine-years-old and a slut who didn't deserve to have her own money? Really really?

And while I have this vague idea that my family really was worst than most, how bad is that, really? Mostly I'm just whiney... right?

The internet tells me that is actually pretty bad.

I don't know. What do I have to compare it to? Maybe I'm actually terrified of people for a good reason, though.

mood: thoughtful
music: OOIOO - IOA

Watching Stargate Universe, which I'm enjoying as sci-fi if not as Stargate.

Hey, that guy looks familiar. Hey... HEY! LITTLE MOSQUE ON THE PRAIRIE! On Stargate!

My mind, it is blown. Actually, it is my lungs that are blown. It startled me right into an asthma attack.

This is bigger than when Little Mosque collided with Warehouse 13.

PS: I am completely in love with Amaar Little Mosque on the Prairie.

I was going to post something meaningful, but then I got drunk.

I started a very good arguement about the order in which one should decline Latin nouns, however. Look, when you're first learning, it just makes sense to do nominative-accusative. You're going to need accusivative before genitive.

These sorts of things are the sorts of things that matter to me when drunk. Also, punctuation. For the record, I do not eat, shoot, and leave, and neither do I eat shoots and leaves.

Now is the point where I start to quote Bomb the Music Industry! lyrics, so I am going to go sober up with ANTM. But first, a convo regarding spelling.


possibilities
ME NEITHRE
That's the Canadian way to spell neithre
so that it's like metre, fibre, etc

Un-LJ'ed Best Friend
I don't believe you

possibilities
You're only not believing me because I"m drunk!

Un-LJ'ed Best Friend
no, I wouldn't believe you if you were sober either

possibilities
In Canadian, we are sobre.
In Soviet Canuckistan, time sobres you.

Un-LJ'ed Best Friend
I heart Soviet Canuckistan, but I refuse to spell things -re

possibilities
But... the theatre!
Litres of vodka!
do you not love them?
You do not love them
WELL VODKA DOESN"T LOVE YOU EITHER
And ice?
well, in Soviet Canuckistan, Ice cubes you.

mood: drunk
music: Bomb the Music Industry! - Showerbeers!

Thieved from ariake

( Stick in the mud bad-influence meme )
If You Have more than 70.. [I should be dead]

mood: amused

So I'm on the board for this housing co-op that's just starting up. I got railroaded into being on the board, from general membership, twice now. I go to all the meetings, I type the minutes usually on time. I go in more often than ANY other board member, including the president, to sign paperwork.

Basically, because I am secretary, I have already spent at least twice as much time on things as anyone else, because the position's workload is twice as much.

I never, ever ask for special considerations. When they decide meeting dates, I say, "Give me a day and time, and I will be here." When they call and say, "We need something signed... can you come quickly?" I leave work early to go.

Today, I said, "Can we please have our next meeting at the earliest possible time that works for people? Earlier than 7pm would be great, if it's do-able for everyone else."

Well, someone made a big fuss about how that's way too early and just asking way too much. It isn't fair to assume everyone has my schedule, you know! She can't possibly be expected to come before 7.

So I said, "What's a good start time for you?" And we decided on that time, because I said, "If that's the earliest that's okay for you, then of course I'm fine with it. I'd like to do it earlier, but I'd rather not someone to miss out."

And really, I am fine with it. But I hated her attitude. I haven't asked anything of this co-op before, and all the other Board members have had meetings moved to fit their schedule. Every single one. Except me.

Also: these people get to live in the co-op when it's built. I was accepted, despite the fact I didn't meet their requirements. So even though I have done more work than any other board memeber, they all get houses out of the deal and me? I get kicked out of the co-op the day the first person moves in.

So if I'd rather meet at 6:30 than 7:00, why is it so offensive to say so?

mood: cranky

about 1/3 cup of dried black chickpeas
2 tbsp olive oil
2 tbsp prepared mustard
1/8 tsp cayenne powder
1.5 tbsp minced garlic
500mL broth of some sort

Soak the chickpeas overnight and through the day, with about double their amount in water. (Soaking isn't necessarily required, but will make them cook a lot quicker. You can also toss unsoaked beans into the slow cooker in the morning, and they'll be great by night.) When you're ready to use them, pour out the soaking water and rinse them off.

Heat on high the olive oil in a pot, and add the caynne and garlic. Stir them around till the garlic starts to look a little browned.
Turn the heat down to around mid-way, and add the mustard. Stir some more.
Add the chickpeas. Stir until they are coated completely. This is the point where I mixed up my broth from a powder mix.
Add the broth. Bring to boil, then turn heat down to just below boiling and cover the pot.

The chickpeas will be cooked in about 45-60 minutes, depending on how long they were soaked beforehand.

I served it with mashed potatoes and mixed veggies.

You could used canned chickpeas, but I've never seen canned black ones. You could use normal white chickpeas, but I think the mustard-y taste is even better with the black.

( It almost tasted like ham with Grandma's mustard sauce )

mood: full

Wednesday night I saw Gogol Bordello. It was am amazing show. Tied with Reel Big Fish -- my favourite band -- for sheer awesome, and I hear that they've played better shows.

In meatspace, I have a pretty strict no-touching rule. (Most people can't deal with "ask permission/ give warning", which is what I actually like, so I say no touch at all for simplicity's sake.)

But I love the smashing, packed floor of a good show. I like touch, and in 5 minutes, my OMG DANGER sense is overwhelmed and I can just have fun. (Why a room of strangers is the only place i'm comfy letting that guard down is a mystery to me.)

So I jump and scream and dance and mosh and am touched and sometimes punched, and if the music is great too, it's a bonus.


Gogol Bordello: I highly recommend them. Even if you stay off the floor, or just listen at home.

Even if I'm pretty sure I broke a knuckle in the mosh pit.

(At least I didn't get bit on the head as at Social Distortion.)

mood: chipper

Last night was suspiciously quiet. No Mexican Polka, no barking dogs... not even squeaky pipes. Today, both of Noisy Neighbours' vans were gone, and the dog's stuff was absent from the yard.

My neighbours moved without telling me.

My neighbours who have the gas account for the house I live in moved without telling me.

I only worked a half day, then came home to Deal With Shit.

I called the landlord and confirmed: I have to get a gas account ($200 deposit = probably not buying food this month).

I called Noisy Neighbour's cell and left a message that he'd better get me the money on his share of power and water, and I of course would give him any left owing from me to his gas account.

I called Direct Energy and set up the account to start Monday (please god, gas, stay turned on till then).

I called Epcor and pestered them about when my $300 deposit from them is returned. (Probably the October 5 bill; otherwise, the November bill; but I will definitely be recieving it.)

I called the City and had them refund my fee for a yoga class I was going to take -- it was cancelled.

Then I cleaned -- just a little! -- and cooked a little -- half of the meal has been completed, at least.

Now, I need to take a quick nap, then go buy Pretty Princess supplies for tonight's theme at bowling.

(My actual bowling league doesn't do themes, unless you count Tolerance of That One Annoying Team That Does Themes. Last week was Moustaches, before that was Pirates.)

My co-workers seem to often walk the line of inappropriate in the office: lots of conversations about politics and religion. And I like it that way. We are adults; we should be able to talk about this stuff. Today's topic: Roman Polanski.

There is this coworker who I used to think was pretty cool. He's good at his job, he's smart, he's funny, and when his work lands on my desk, it's well done ( = less work for me).

His contribution: "Well... It isn't fair that they arrested him, really. He's made so many great films! You have to think about that. And, even so, his wife was killed by Charles Manson, and the films still have really advanced film-making." [Not a direct quotation: I removed several interruptions by others, and mostly concentrated on retaining his message.]

Excuse me? The fact that he drugged and raped a child is forgivable because he made good movies? And he shouldn't be punished because he lost something? As if the CHILD he raped didn't suffer a lose.

And furthermore, you would say that in public? In front of women? 1 in 3 women in Canada -- one-third mind you -- have been sexually abused before they turn 18. And you would say this in front of them? I can't even touch how wrong it is to think that, but to say it is tangible enough for me to be angry.

And I was angry. I was so angry.

I don't know what happened to my rapist. I was 9, and I don't know what happened to him. Did he turn out to make fantastic movies that frightened people? Did he make powerful music that made them cry? Did he stop drinking and drugs, and become an inspiration that saved the lives of dozens on his reserve?

Does it matter if he did?

Raping someone doesn't take away your accomplishments, done before or after the crime. Raping someone doesn't mean you don't feel horrible when someone you love dies.

It does mean you committed a crime. It's the sort of crime where you can't put things right with the victim, ever. And if the lawful punishment means the criminal suffers greatly and loses out on the chance to make more "beautiful" things, then OH WELL.

To me, it doesn't matter if the man who raped me turned out to do great things, or if he turned out to do terrible things. He did a terrible thing. He didn't suffer for it. He was never punished, because people who should have known better excused him, and being a kid, I couldn't get it done on my own.*

You shouldn't get to fuck kids and get away with it.

People like my coworkers are the reason why people can fuck kids and get away with it.

And the saddest thing: my coworker probably doesn't even realize this.


* I never expected to make a post that said these things about myself, and I'm not quite sure why I'm doing it now. I'm leaving comments on, but don't plan on having them emailed to myself. I would very much like comments to this entry, if you're inclined to leave them. But I don't want hugs or such expressions of sympathy towards myself, here or other places, until/unless I ask for that. And I will or won't respond to comments as time/emotional energy/my desire allows. Just a pre-emptive FYI.


I've been building towards a cracking point since the start of the month. My Licorice was the touchpoint, the cornerstone, in my life that was there and unchanged and good before I was 9 and after I was 9.

And today was the cracking point. When I heard my coworker say what he did, I was furious. It was unspeakable rage. I held in a while, but left work early and with several items half-done (a big no-no). I didn't care. I was too angry to stay.

On the bus home, I realized something: I don't remember a single point in the last 15 years where I wouldn't have responded by huddling under my desk and crying.

I came home. I drank a beer (thank you, Alexander Keith). I chopped an onion and a bunch of tomatoes and made a delicious curry. And while I was doing dishes, this post decided I was going to write it.

And... it feels... okay. Not good. Not bad.

I have alternated between bouncy and nauseated all night, and right now, about to hit "Post", I am both.

After this, there is TV to watch, and maybe a blog to read*, dishes to finish drying, and bedtime. And maybe, just maybe, being brave and checking comments.


* Reasons You Shouldn't Fuck Kids is a current favourite.

music: Less Than Jake - Look What Happened

I have a temperature of 37.5. Normally I run about 36 in the evenings, so combined with my incoming ear infection, I think I am sick. I'm unsure if I want to still have a fever, a proper fever, in the morning, or not.

Today was a pretty good day, by which I mean I read and made decent supper. I did a load of laundry, and dropped alcohol on it (sorry, clothes!)

I watched an ep of "Defying Gravity". I have an absolute crush on Maxim Roy. So purdy! Also, I want her hair, either from ReGenesis or this series.

I just put forth that 7 people have 140 toes while participating in an orgy and should therefore wear socks.

I am going to bed before participating in a PG-13 community starts sounding like a good idea.

Halifax, speaking of it yet again, is wonder of bookstores. I left with just over 20 pounds in my checked luggage, and came back with 51 pounds.

I'm not kidding.

I picked up my first Heinleins at Seaside Book & Stamp. He is rather an important read, if for no reason other than the now-cliches everyone steals from him. But I just never read him -- I thought it was both above and below me at once.

I read Methuselah's Children travelling back from Halifax. I loved it. I'm now reading Have Spacesuit - Will Travel and loving it. They are exactly the sci-fi I would have loved as a child, hated as a teen, and apparently, love again in my twenties.


I got The First Man-Made Man by Pagan Kenney at Venus Envy. "The story of two sex changes, one love-affair, and a twentieth-century medical revolutoin." It was interesting, and very hard to put down. It was my other travelling-back-to-Edmonton book; it kept me awake, which is saying a lot because I was wiped out by then.


My most interesting loot was probably from Doull Books, which was also the most interesting store I have ever, ever been in. I actually cried a little, it was just that wonderful. I got a ton of old issues of Analog, including one from my birth month.


Right now, I'm reading, in addition to the Heinlein, "Fingersmith" from Sarah Waters. It didn't come from Halifax, but it's good anyway -- except that I felt the middle chunk of the book couldn't stand on its own, and was boring in conjunction with what came before.

I do believe I am serious about my plans to move to Halifax. It was beautiful, it was walkable, it had all the amenities and things to do that I do in Edmonton. It has my best friend. It has the university I would most like to get my Masters at (eventually).

The question that keeps coming up is: when?

The answer: when I get a job. The difficulty: the jobs are there, and I am here.

Also, let's face it: I've been spoiled by Alberta. Even when Things Were Bad and I was job searching, things were better than Halifax right now. Part of this is Alberta being OMG OIL EMPLOYMENT JOBS YAY!! land; even our dropped wages are the high end of what I could expect in Halifax. Part of that is that Edmonton is flat-out a bigger city -- and the U of A alone hires a lot more than Dalhousie, St. Mary's, and Mount St Vincent put together.*

So far, I have only applied for two or three jobs, and from the lack of interview!panic on my journal, you can tell I didn't get called.

I am really hesitant to move without a job, but I may do so in 2010 if I've still had no luck. I'm still young; I can still do this stuff.

I would love to stay in what I'm doing now -- layout design for text books, some graphics work, and some coding for our study-tool website -- but I've yet to find anything even close.


* Post-secondary jobs have this bizarre attraction to me, I don't know why.

mood: chipper

I am way more into hogwartsishome when there is beer in front of me.

St-Ambroise Apricot Wheat Ale, if you're wondering.

Lots of St-Ambroise Apricot Wheat Ale. Lots. Delicious.

mood: drunk

He was the best puppy anyone could ever love.

He was sweet and kind and loved to lick feet. He was absolutely adorable, but always funny looking -- hence, his real kennel name of Funny Face. Even when he was old and cranky, he still loved us. He never lost his appetite, and was happy for food even right at the end. He loved tofu and eggs. He attacked the TV, leaving bite marks on it once, whenever people on TV were hurting or upsetting a child. He also barked at TV animals, and even knew the difference between Dino and Bam-Bam. He hated to see his people upset more than any other dog I've known.

Gaib was very sad when we came home without his friend. Tycho doesn't seem to realize yet, but Gaib was always closer to Licorice.

I loved him, and today was the first time in over 17 years I have walked into my parents' house without him being there.

It feels impossibly wrong to know I will never snuggle him again.

I am 24 years old. I have a decent amount in the bank. I paid off all my student debt already. I never go into overdraft, I never buy something I can't pay for, and I do not pay bills late.

I can't get a credit card. President's Choice Mastercard? No. Capital One? No. My own bank's Visa? No.

If I want to buy something online, I have to use my dad's credit card. Oddly enough, there are things I want that I'd rather my dad not know about. So I simply cannot buy them.

I feel whiny and slighted. I want a goddamn credit card! I want to be able to books and clothes and plane tickets and... stuff without having to show my father.

Crankiness not helped by the fact that I went dress shopping today (EPIC FAIL) and came home to the apartment door being open while roommate was holed up in his room (EVEN FAILER).

mood: distressed
music: They Might Be Giants - Don't Let's Start