My Mom

I love my mom. She is 84 years young. She has survived the second world war, my father, and 10 kids.

I asked her once what the secret was to her longevity. She told me it was 3 things:

A stiff shot of gin.

A sturdy handbag.

Spite.

She tells a story of how she beat the Russian army all the way back to Moscow, but had to beat a hasty retreat back to Germany when the strap on her purse broke.

You would think that beating the Russian army would have been the end of her troubles. Her troubles only just began when she met my father here in Canada. Some 50 years later, they are still slugging it out.

She lives in a small bungalow on a corner lot, with her cat, dog, my 45 year old scrub of a brother, and her arch nemesis, my father. After many children and many hard won battles with my father, her psyche is worse for wear.

Combine that with her age and being over medicated, she tends to do some questionable things.

She saves everything. She thinks that we are still at war.

One hot summer day, after being asked to mow her lawn, I showed up over dressed and under hydrated.

I went to the back yard and wrestled with her antique lawn mower. After much coaxing, the museum piece coughed to life.

I proceeded to mow her lawn, with the sun beating down on me, and wearing a heavy sweater.

I nearly succumbed to the heat,and decided that I needed to take a break.

I shut off the lawn mower, and went inside to quench my thirst with a refreshing drink.

Opening the fridge door, I found two frosted, opaque plastic containers - the kind that orange juice is kept in.

One was orange juice, and the other one was, what I thought was iced tea.

Not being a big fan of oj, I opted for the second choice.

I grabbed the jug, put it to my parched lips, tilted it back, anticipating the sweet, delicious taste of iced tea.

To my horror, the cool liquid was not iced tea, but the less than refreshing, oily foul flavour of weeks old french fry grease.

As thirsty as I was, I didn't react until I had finished a good quarter of the putrid contents.

For weeks afterwards, I walked around with a greasy sheen to my face not to mention the havoc that it played with my gastro-intestinal system.

I have come to the sad realization that her age is affecting her.

This became painfully apparent when Biddie and I stopped by her house one day. We found her making soup in the sink. She claimed that she was just thawing the meat. Mind you, there were vegetables and spices floating in the stainless steel sink. I'm sure that it would have been a lovely meal had it been cooking on the stove and not in the sink.

When we questioned her, she told us to SHUT UP and she went out to rake the cement driveway.

I'm going to miss the person that my mom once was, but I'm sure the Russian army is breathing a sigh of relief.

Tagged

I have been tagged by Biddie to do the Middle Name MeMe. This is what you have to do:

1. Post the rules before you give your answers

2. List one fact about yourself beginning with each letter of your middle name. If you don't have a middle name, use your maiden name or your mother's maiden name.

3. At the end of your blog post, tag one person (or blogger of another species) for each letter of your middle name. Be sure to leave them a comment telling them they've been tagged.

T is for Trainwreck. I am one and I like watching 'em.

H is for House Arrest. Those ankle braclets suck.

O is for OMG

M is for Make Out King, cuz I am ooh so sexy!

A is for Active. As in overACTIVE imagination.

S is for Salami. I love that stuff!

I don't have too many people to tag, being new at this blogging adventure, but I tag

Katy, and anyone else that wants to join in!

Mental Ilness and ME, a guest post by Biddie

I read something recently about a 'friend' that suffers from mental illness that refers to herself as 'crazy,' and having 'the crazies.' I wonder who this person is talking about???



Holy transparent, Batman.



Does she really think that I am THAT stupid? I really shouldn't even respond, I know, but I feel as though I have to.



Firstly, I AM bi polar. I AM mentally ill.



Am I crazy? Probably not. I read somewhere that truly crazy people never question their sanity. I question mine all of the time.



I am NOT some poster girl for bi polar disorder. That is the LAST thing that I ever want to be. What I am is a mom, wife, friend, & sister that struggles with this debilitating illness everyday, every minute, every nano second that I am awake. If I choose to refer to myself as crazy, then that is my perogative. It is much easier for me to call myself crazy than to say



I spent all in bed thinking about ways to kill myself today. OR.. I cried all day today, and then had a panic attack because somebody knocked on the door when I was home alone.



See, that is what I deal with. Nobody needs to hear that day after day. It becomes boring, and tiresome, and even I get sick of that. I would much rather make light of my situation. That's what I do. I use humour.



Just because I use that term, it certainly does not mean that I think of other mentally ill people that way. I would hate to think that anyone would be small minded enough to take my comments and think I am representing ALL bi polar people in the world. How sad for that person. I do not represent that percentage of the population anymore than my daughter represents all Diabetics.



Some people look at me, and think because I am not doing things on their schedule, that I am not helping myself. On the contrary. Everyday that I make it out of bed, that I post a blog, that I do laundry, make dinner, I am helping myself. My illness cripples me most days. That is MY reality.



I fought long and hard to get my disability benefits, and to get a shrink. I DID not give up, even when I was denied the first time. The only people that do not take me seriously are the people that are pompous enough to think that they know all there is to know about mental illness. My shrink, my therapist, my close friends have all taken me seriously.



I have NO responsibility to be politically correct. This is MY blog, MY opinions, and MY thoughts. If I offend you, then DON'T READ MY BLOG. It's not rocket science people. How I deal with my condition is my business. Whether I use dark humour, sarcasm (Shawn doesn't call me Sarcastro for nothing), or I am cynical, that is up to me. I don't dictate how other people deal with their issues.



Isn't this what blogging is all about? I think that this person has missed the bus when it comes to blogging. This is my therapy. This pseudo intellectual over analyzing persons comments take the healing aspect out of blogging and reduces it. Maybe people like this should take a look at themselves and what they are blogging about before they comment on anyone else. We all have our own opinions and somebody out there will find a reason to take offence.

This is my illness. I will deal with it my way.

Hi, I am Why? After months and months of being badgered into blogging by my spouse and friend (Biddie and Heidi), I have decided to try my hand at this blogging thing.

I hope that the views and info found here will prove to be helpful and/or entertaining. We like to joke around and have fun, but I feel that my first blog should be about something that I feel is of the utmost importance and rarely gets the attention that it deserves.

You would have to be blind not see the troubles in the world - places like Darfur, and the Middle East, but we have our own problems right here at home.


Did you know that everyday right here in Canada, countless children are born with great columns of cheddar in place of their legs.











Now, you may stop and say "Big deal. How bad could it be, having cheddar for legs?"

Stop to think of the challenges of walking on hot days. As you know, the melting point of cheddar is 25 degrees. Temperatures can well exceed that during the summer months.

Not to mention the hardships faced during the winter months. We all know how cheddar gets when the temperature drops. It becomes brittle and unpliable.

Let me tell you a story of a young boy that I work with. We'll call him Billy. Whose only dream was to see Young Street in Toronto. I had to look down at that childs innocent, greasy face and tell him 'NO' due to the high levels of rodents and homeless people.















We simply did not have the money in our budget to provide security for Billy to thwart off the throngs of rodents and hungry homeless.


You can help young people like Billy. Send your donations to
:Slice Me Off A Chunk, Huh?
c/o Great Big Columns Of Cheddar For Legs
555 Brie Ave,
Curdville, Ontario











Please check your childrens legs regularly. Together, we CAN make a difference.