Hallowe'en

After three hundred and sixty four days of telling the children never to take candy from strangers, we dress em up and let em loose, often in strange neighbourhoods to beg for candy from... strangers.

And then we're surprised when they get a little older and start calling us hypocrites.

Hmmmmm.

That's Why They Pay Me the Big Bucks

Let's start with a simple truth. They don't pay me the big bucks by any stretch of the imagination. When I tell people what I do for a living there is usually a short silence and then a comment like, "Wow, you must be a good person", or, "that must be very rewarding", neither of which are particularly true.

While my specific job has changed over the years, I suppose the category is "Human Services". For me, that has meant everything from working with disturbed teens in a residential setting to counselling rape victims to facilitating courses and back again. Currently, I work in a transitional housing program for people who were homeless.

But what I do is something else altogether. Something that is incredibly difficult to place a monetary value on. I see the good in people. I work to help them see their own worth; to value what they have to offer; to recognize that they are skilled and capable human beings and that if they spent half the time and energy working on improving their education and training that they spend fucking the system, they'd be so much better off.

It's a hot commodity around the world right now. Hubby does youth work exclusively; has for some fifteen years. Luckily, our skill sets have afforded us a chance to see the world, a gift we both feel strongly that we should give to our children. So, I suppose in a lot of ways, we're very rich. Thanks for asking.

The Grass is Always Greener...

in Australia?

Today I went to a migration expo with my Scottish pal, Wee Susan. We call her wee, not because she is a little person, but because when we met her first, it was the word she said constantly. The wee cows. The wee shop down the wee road. Everything was wee. She's been in Ireland the same length of time as we have; she was recruited in our hire group. She, like myself, had the good sense to get the hell out of that job and get something better.

In the last three years, however, everything has gone from being wee to being dead. Dead gorgeous. Dead sexy. Dead cool. It's a good thing we're not just getting to know her now; we'd have to call her Dead Susan.

So, it looks like we may be heading Down Under in the next little while. Apparently Tasmania is recruiting. I don't know much about Tasmania, other than it is home to that cartoon character from Bugs Bunny, but it seems like a good place to base ourselves while we explore that part of the world.

The recruiter I spoke to seemed very interested in us so I guess we'll have to wait and see what she comes up with. I'm not sure I'm ready to leave Ireland yet, but as another recruiter pointed out, time's a ticking and I'm not getting any younger. Urgh!

Panic Stations

I tend not to panic. I am generally pretty level headed. In fact,I pride myself on keeping my head when those around me are losing theirs and blaming it on me. Which is not to say I can't predict that the shit will hit the fan. I usually know when that's coming and often tell someone. Unfortunately, they usually don't believe me so we have to go through it anyway, but I digress.

Yesterday, our girl woke up covered in spots. My first thought was chicken pox. She's already had them once, but there are different strains and we are in a different country, so I thought it possible. Big red watery hives is what they turned out to be on closer inspection. We went through everything she'd eaten, worn and slept in for the past few days and couldn't figure out the cause. She didn't feel sick nor was she running a fever; she was just covered in these horrible itchy hives. Even her pretty little eyelid was sporting one.

I went for the antihistamine only to discover it was out of date. On the basis of this alone, we decided to take her to the doctor. It's a good thing we did. You see, our girl had a chest infection a couple of weeks ago. She'd been prescribed amoxicillin, which she's had before, so we didn't consider that it could be the culprit. Apparently, that's the difference between those of us who know a little something and your average paid professional.

According to our doctor, you can take penicillin twelve times but have an allergic reaction on the thirteenth. A first reaction is generally mild, like the hives our girl is trying not to scratch. A second reaction however, could be deadly.

Which made me think; what if the antihistamine had been in date? Would we have just treated her and not taken her to the doc? The consequences of that could have been fatal. So, I'm having a little post incident panic.

Excuse me while I go cuddle our girl.

Shan's Philisophical Question of the Day

If an atheist is damned by a submissive...

who cares?

Fall Fowl

In Canada, Thanksgiving is celebrated on the Monday after the harvest moon. It fell on the tenth of October this year. Due to the fact that getting a turkey "off-season" here is like trying to buy alcohol during the prohibition, we had to put the date of our celebration off until today.

As (my) luck would have it, the butcher wasn't able to get a whole turkey; instead of letting me know, he went ahead and ordered the equivalent amount of turkey breast. And then cooked it. Now, I'm not a huge fan of turkey breast at the best of times. I'm a dark meat kinda girl. So, you can imagine how I felt when I was presented with this lump of meat which, by the time I'm done reheating it is going to be the texture of an eraser. Delighted.

To add that special touch, hubby decided he didn't want to invite people to join us this year. In fairness, the past two Thanksgivings have turned out to be huge parties and I wasn't really up for that this year either. But, I did think we'd have a few people over; I envisioned a dinner party type of affair, perhaps two other couples and their children. Uh..No.

So, here I am with enough eraser to feed about 24 people and nobody to feed it to on my favourite holiday.

I am thankful. Truly I am. It's just caught in my throat at the moment. I'm sure the wine will help.

Salsa Dip

I love to dance; always have. Ever since I can remember, music has moved me to move my body.

A few weeks ago, in a drunk moment and because there is no such thing as better judgment in my world, I agreed to join a Salsa dancing class with a couple of neighbours. I figured what the hell, what was the worst that could happen? That tends to be my attitude toward most things,(which gets amplified exponentially in direct proportion to how much I've had to drink). What I didn't ask myself, however, was what was the best that could happen?

Well, okay, so I haven't yet been headhunted for Riverdance, but it could still happen...I'm only... fuck me, I'm 38! How the hell did THAT happen???

Anyway, never mind all that; here's what is happening: I'm loving it! I'm exercising for an hour and not even noticing. I'm working my body and sweating and laughing and generally having a good time without the aid of alcohol or men. Imagine that! For those of you who don't know me, I resent any sweating that doesn't lead directly to orgasm. I just don't like the way it feels.

Somehow, this is different. Dancing is fun; sensual and sexy. It's a lot like sex actually; especially in that doing it makes me happy to be alive. We salsa, mambo, samba and generally shake our asses to such hip tunes as Mac the Knife and Time of my Life. We take turns being "the man". We laugh at each other and ourselves and our incredibly neurotic instructor (who tells us EVERY week that SHE's the TEACHER and Joan is the HELPER). As they say here, it's great gas altogether.

Best fifty euros I've spent in a long time.

Since I posted last I've taken some steps in the right direction... I've quit eating nearly everything that's any fun; stopped drinking caffeine and have reduced my intake of wine (although, not enough). And guess what? I feel better. Imagine that!

The guy who does my hair told me he had the perfect diet advice. He said, "if it tastes good at all, just spit it out!"

I took that advice with me when we went to visit my parents this past summer. After this lovely turkey dinner, my mom put a tray laden with homemade baking on the table. I worked my way through the tray, picking up squares and cookies, cakes and sweets, taking one bite of each and passing the rest to hubby or one of the kids to eat. I'm not sure which was more fun; tasting all that great baking or watching my mother's face as she tried to deal with the fact that I wasn't eating "properly". Of course, she then got sloshed and attacked on another front...

She emailed recently; a few paragraphs of news I'd already received from other sources with a large helping of attempted guilt thrown in. I didn't bite. Of course, I haven't responded either, so maybe that's a form of biting in its own right. It's interesting to hear other people's perspectives on mothers. The Irish people that I've discussed it with seem to think that mothers are exempt from any rules governing behaviour. Of course, they are all daughters with mothers similar to my own... it does seem to work for them, though.

Well, it's 4am and my virus scanner wants to go to work. Guess I'll try to post this and find my pillow.

Automatic for the Autumn

When the day is long and the night, the night is yours alone,
when you´re sure you´ve had enough of this life, well hang on.
Don´t let yourself go, everybody cries and everybody hurts sometimes.
Sometimes everything is wrong. Now it´s time to sing along.
When your day is night alone, (hold on, hold on)
if you feel like letting go, (hold on)
when you think you´ve had too much of this life, well hang on.

Everybody hurts. Take comfort in your friends.
Everybody hurts. Don´t throw your hand. Oh, no. Don´t throw your hand.
If you feel like you´re alone, no, no, no, you are not alone

If you´re on your own in this life, the days and nights are long,
when you think you´ve had too much of this life to hang on.

Well, everybody hurts sometimes,
everybody cries. And everybody hurts sometimes.
And everybody hurts sometimes. So, hold on, hold on.
Hold on, hold on. Hold on, hold on. Hold on, hold on. (repeat & fade)
(Everybody hurts. You are not alone.)

-REM

Dayam but I'm quiet when I'm only discussing the positive things in my life, aren't I? Makes me think that humans are meant to be negative, energy-sucking depressive types...it's much more natural.

Even humour, which feels great when you get it, is based on negativity. I saw a comedian the other night. And laughed heartily when he described neuturing his dog with a set of pliers. And of stalking Paddy Casey - ok, that really was funny.

In fairness though, I haven't been quiet only because I haven't found the words to describe all the happy things that have occurred since my birthday...