Dec 19

Stupidity Runs Deep

 

I don’t really know where to begin because I’ve seen, endured, been a part of and, believe it or not, perpetrated my share of stupidity. For reasons of possible self incrimination, I’ll just relay some of my observations and leave my own indiscretions for another day.

I like to think that there are only two types of stupid, avoidable and un-avoidable. The avoidable strain tends to have mitigating factors such as alcohol, money and horny, those three factors can usually be grouped into one on any given weekend. The un-avoidable brand of stupid is the result of genetic roulette.

Might be the stupid...or possibly the syphillis

The Bird mentioned in one of his posts that someone got kicked out of camp(skidded) for smoking in the dorm. That falls into the avoidable column.  Ya…you may be thinking that it is a failure in the intelligence area and should be listed as un-avoidable we have to go deeper into the story.
A couple weeks ago on a Monday(everyday is Monday here) I was talking to Pipeline Val during dinner. She told me that a guy who just got to camp met her and another lass in the hallway of our dorm and he was hammered. Apparently he took a shine to one of the lasses and tried some Romeo moves with no success. He got skidded immediately and everybody’s comment was along the line of “how stupid can you be”. Everybody here knows there is no booze, drugs or smoking in the dorms. The next night, Monday, security knocks on my door just after I crawl into the fart sac because they are trying to find out who is smoking in their room.  The search was unsuccessful. I guess the culprit felt invincible because the next night, Monday, they decided to light up in their room again….BUSTED! Barnaby Jones was hot on the trail and made the collar. The lady was immediately told she was no longer welcome here. Now for the un-avoidable stupidity. Good ole Pipeline go to the other lasses room to get the lowdown on events, and after hearing the story thinks to herself “since she already got caught and is being skidded, I guess it’s safe for me to light one up in her room  while she’s packing”. Although I’m not a fan, I think Jeff Foxworthy sums it up pretty good…Here’s Your Sign! Barnaby Jones swoops in and it’s adios to Pipeline Val too. For me, the funniest part of it was hearing that on the way out both of the women tried to blame the other one. Ultimately they are both out over ten grand a month for stupidity.

Not really...

I can think of many more cases of stupidity but right now I have better things to talk about. So far it’s been a great time out here, it would be better if the Bird and I were on the same shift, but that would mean he has to work nights or I would have to work with different people. Neither one of us want to do that. As good as it has been here, I want to go home! I miss my girls! The closer it gets to going home, the more I miss them. Kind of a cruel juxtaposition. I’m told there should be enough room on the Flint charter to Calgary tomorrow and I’m hoping I can cajole Air Canada into putting me on a red eye a day earlier than my scheduled flight. If things work out I’ll make it to Toronto a day early and surprise the princesses, or I’ll be stuck in Fort Nelson because Andrew’s math was wrong and the charter is full. Should be an adventure either way.
The Bird will be busy driving for the next couple days so I will do my best to keep you updated on my whereabouts. If all goes well, I’ll be on a bus to Fort Nelson at 9am, then fly to Fort St. John, then fly to Grand Prairie, then fly to Edmonton, then fly to Calgary, then whine my way onto a flight to Toronto and find my way to Cobourg. It’s a simple as that. If my foolproof plan falls apart, I’ll be home around 1am Wednesday morning.

It’s a small world….but I wouldn’t want to paint it!
Love Chin

Dec 18

I got some things I need to say

I just don’t know where to start. I guess the positive is a good place to start.

The positive (sort of)

I was just chatting with an old pal of mine, and he recently had a baby girl. He’s one of those really good guys, that’s nice to everyone, he’s funny, smart, and loves life (No, it’s not me). He’s the kind of guy that deserves to have a little bundle of love waiting for him when he gets to his days off. Yeah, he doesn’t get to live with his daughter, or even near her, but as soon as he’s done work, he’s trekking across the province to see his little girl. You know why he does that? Because he loves her and that’s what you do. Just because you and the child’s mother aren’t together anymore, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t spend every possible moment with your kid. I know quite a few people that barely make the time to see their kids on their scheduled visitation days, and they live in the same town. This guy drives probably 15 hours to spend as much time as he can with her. He’s a proud daddy, and he knows that his daughter’s life is more important than anything else. I liked him a lot before I heard this story, and now I’m almost in love with the dude. Seriously, can you find a better reason to be proud to know someone? Anyhow, I just thought that all of you girls that say there aren’t any good guys left, can rest assured that there are. I’ve said it a million times, just to get told that all of those guys are all taken. Hey, open your eyes, they are right in front of you, but because there’s nothing for you to change about them, you aren’t interested.

Sorry for getting all high and mighty there. I just thought I should turn a really nice story into a rant about women liking “bad boys”; it’s sad, but you all know it’s true. I really am happy for my friend, and I’m happy for his daughter for having parents that will work together to make her life wonderful. I also have some other happy news. HOME IN THREE DAYS!!!

That Chin guy is going to get to work the night shift, then get a free flight to Calgary. Awesome, right? Not for me. I have to drive the water truck to FSJ (8-9 hours), then the Green Goblin to Calgary (9-10 hours) to make a six o’clock flight to the homeland, where my sweet baby will be waiting for us at the airport. I just remembered that at 9:00 the next morning, I have a dentist appointment to get this hideous bastard fixed.

…and that, son, is how not to open a beer with your teeth.

That should be fun; Mrs. Birdman will get me home by 2 AM, and I’m sure we will go right to sleep, so I’ll get six hours sleep, right? Not bloody likely. I don’t care though, I just want to kiss her lips, and hold her again. It’s been way too long for this cowboy. The stolen hugs by the mandaid and the security guard just don’t cut it; I need me some cocoon time, and I’ll give up being awake while my toof gets bilt to get some.

Now for the negative

An old work friend passed away, and his funeral is tomorrow. Sadly, I won’t be able to make it, but I would like to pay my respects anyhow. Aaron and I worked with Jim on different jobs, and he was just a good, funny, easy going guy. When I was trying to learn to run cat, he was very patient, never getting upset if I screwed things up, and always giving me hints that he had learned in his years of  working in the patch. I’m embarrassed to say that I sucked as an operator, and no amount of teaching or hints would make me passable, so it wasn’t Jim’s fault that I never was any good. Anyhow, get some rest, buddy. It was a pleasure knowing you, and break up is just around the corner.

Okay now, why the fuck does anyone give two shits about whether or not someone says Happy Holidays? Get a grip on something, folks. Not everyone celebrates the birth of Christ, or the whole commercial aspect of Christmas. I would rather celebrate Neil Young’s birthday than Jesus’. At least I know that Neil Young has brought me great happiness, and that he exists in the flesh. I know Jesus exists in your hearts, but please don’t cram it down our throats. Yeah, I celebrate Christmas reluctantly, but I always try to use “xmas”, because then I don’t have to capitalize it or recognize that it has anything to do with Jesus. Not everyone in the public school system, the civil service, or the major corporations buys into your horseshit religion, because they have their own horseshit religions. They aren’t yelling Happy Diwali, or Happy Hanukkah at you angrily, so why the big deal about Christmas? No one is saying that you can’t say it, but why do you expect a Chinese or Indian greeter at Walmart to say it because it’s your belief? What’s wrong with Happy Holidays anyhow? Everyone gets their statutory holidays, and I’m sure they’re happy about that; maybe not happy enough to believe in Jesus, but happy nonetheless. So why not just smile and say “Thank you. You enjoy yours as well.”? I don’t know, maybe I’m not running with the pack here, but those are my two cents, anyways.

Also, I got ripped off today. It was supposed to be steak night, and instead, it turned out to be prime rib night. Awesome, right? No, no it’s exactly the opposite of awesome. I got the end piece, which was the equivalent of eating a dried out piece of boot leather. I looked around at everyone enjoying their beautiful, pink slabs of delicious, while I had to take a drink with each bite, just to get it down. Oh well, one more supper here, then it’s homeward bound.

Last but definitely not least is to state that I hate dogfuckers. People who try to dawdle and have it timed out so that they won’t be able to get another load after 6 PM. It’s unbelievable, really. We make very good money, to do very little work, and then you have guys that need to pilfer that last thirty minutes out of the oil company’s hands. Whatever. They pay us very well to work for them, and they treat us quite decently as well. Why do people feel the need to dog fuck every little bit they can? You aren’t doing anything but waiting around anyhow, grab half a load and spread it on the way out. Make them want to hire you back, because if I notice it, others do too, and the next job that they need trucks for, could be when you happen to need a job as well. I don’t know where everybody’s work ethic went, or maybe I’m just getting old, but I think that if you hate your job enough to steal from your boss, you should go find something you like better. Oh, and good luck getting a letter of recommendation, you lazy douchebag.

There, I’ve said all that needs to be said at this particular juncture. I wish everybody, safe travels, and please make it home in one piece, if you aren’t home already. Your loved ones don’t need to be IDing a body for their holidays, so drive safe, and do it sober. If you need a ride, call a cab, a friend, or if none of those work, call me, but please don’t drink and drive. Now please enjoy the greatest thing in the world.

Who’s gonna drive you home, tonight?

Birdman

 

Dec 14

Piss and Moan with Pike Pole

Well, just to shut the Birdman’s beak, here’s another glorious rant from yours truly, Pike Pole.

Ya know what burns my ass? Ya know what winds my crank? Ya know what sticks in my craw? Ya know what really pisses me off? I’ll tell ya what. Smokers, that’s what. Cigarettes. Let the fuckin’ debate begin! Now, first of all I should preface the fact that I used to smoke. I quit about 25 years ago. Cold turkey. Set ‘em down and never picked ‘em up again. What did it for me was when I opened a pack of butts on my way to work and during my eight hour shift, I opened another. That was my eye opener.

My brand of choice

Man, there was nothing better than peeling off that cellophane wrapper, grasping the deck in my left hand – then lightly with the right, using both thumbs to push the bottom to reveal the paper backed silver foil wrappers up top, then removing the left side of the foil (if you start your deck on the right side, you’re fucked in the head) with the right hand and finally grasping that filter tipped paper tube of glorious tobacco goodness. This ballet of the hands could be performed without thought, in the dark of night, in the light of day, blistering heat or freezing cold; it didn’t matter. Then to put that filter to your lips, strike a match or flick a Bic, put the flame to the opened tip of that glorious paper tube of tobacco goodness, and like sucking on the straw of a McDonald’s milkshake in the dead cold of February, the mouth is full and finally the larynx opens, chest heaves forth and the glorious grey goodness enters the lungs and releases a euphoria of delight throughout the body… heaven, pure heaven.

Just fucking do it.

Then, enough was enough. I quit. That was it; the end. It wasn’t all that hard either. Sure, there were moments when I would’ve chopped off a finger for a weedstick, but I made it. The hardest times for me were after a meal or when I was out having a few drinks. Let me tell you, even when I smoked, I absolutely hated cigarette smoke around when I ate. I used to work with a guy that could eat his lunch and smoke at the same time. Take a bite of his sandwich and then a drag off his smoke. That used to fuckin’ near make me vomit! For all I know, he’s pushing up daisies now.

Simultaneously smoking and eating is just fucking sick!

So, back to the debate and the fact that you smokers piss me off. I think we’ve established that I was a fairly hard core smoker once upon a time. But, I was always respectable towards those folks that didn’t smoke, and when I became a non-smoker I expected that same treatment to reciprocate. Holy shit, was I in a delusional state of mind or what! Surely I wasn’t that bad? Was I? Of course not, give your gawd damned head a shake! So we’ve gone from having smoking areas indoors, to banishing you stinky fuckers out to where you belong out in the wild outdoors. I mean really, where else could a smoking area be other than outdoors. The imaginary line on the floor sure as hell did sweet fuck all. I remember one time when me and Mrs. Pike Pole went out for dinner. “Smoking or Non?” we were asked. I said Non. We were seated at a table beside a three foot wall that separated us from an adjoining table. No biggie, right? Then a family gets seated at the table beside us and out come the smokes.

“Um, excuse me my dear waitress, I asked for a non-smoking table; could you please sit us at a non-smoking table?”

” This is the non-smoking area, sir.”

“Is that table right beside us in the smoking area?”

“Yes sir, it is.”

Needless to say, we left. That just boggled my mind. I still can’t comprehend that whole concept of an imaginary line that was supposed to have magical like powers at smoke blockage. Or maybe the smokers just didn’t give a shit. So now you’re banished outdoors.

So get the fuck out already!

Then we heard the collective cough and wheeze from the smokers that they have rights. Fuck ‘em. You think you got rights? What about your responsibilities? You know, like not poisoning your fellow man for starters. Then we can discuss the burden you are to the health care system and consequently the entire society. Get the fuck outside and stay there! Then, because you stinky assed, narcissistic, self righteous fuckers wouldn’t conform to the ever increasing majority of non-smokers, the government had to enact laws to make you get out where you belong, so you and your “habit” didn’t poison the rest of us. And you know what, the law says that you have to be 9 metres from the entrance to a building. That means get the fuck away from the doors! Geezus, how many times do us non-smokers have to run the gauntlet of cigarette heaters and obnoxious smoke just to come and go from a building. I don’t give a shit if it’s 3000 degrees below zero and sixteen feet of fucking snow in a gawd damn rain storm with wind gusts of a hundred miles an hour; get away from the doors, OK! Then we hear the whine; oh my gawd the fucking whine. I’m addicted. I can’t quit. Bull fucking shit! You made a choice to start smoking, didn’t ya? Now make a choice to quit smoking. It takes 21 days to start a habit. It’s time to get busy.

Now I think I’ll go have a cigar, because cigars don’t count.

…she’s a healthy dose of heaven for a man hooked on sin…

Pike Pole

(editor’s note: I think Pike may have gone a little overboard this time. I’m not saying this because I’m afraid of backlash from the smoker demographic, because I already know I can outrun your wheezing asses.)

Nov 27

The Naked Truth

or Why I Go Crazy When You Grab The Covers

 

When I read yesterdays blog post, I was reminded again of what an incredible man I am going to marry.  I wonder how I got so lucky to find someone who loves me this much, and who never lets an opportunity go by to remind me of that.

I also read the comments with great interest.  Gadget and Scotty P have raised some interesting questions.  I started to think about why women behave the way they do when it comes to being naked and sharing our bodies with our partners.  It’s no great secret that not too many of us are strutting our stuff regularly in our homes, regardless of the time of day or the amount of light directly or indirectly hitting our naked selves.  The truth is, we don’t like being naked.  Well, that’s not entirely true.  We like being naked…we just don’t like you to see it.

This leads us to the obvious question of: Why?

What has turned us in to an army of cover-clutching, darkness-loving paramours?  We can revel in our bodies and our pleasure, but only if we are completely shrouded in blackness and your eyes have been gouged out.  Men, being the somewhat straight-thinking creatures they are, seem baffled by our bizarre behaviour.  They don’t understand that they are fighting a lifetime of not-so-mixed messages telling us that we are not achieving the ideal image of what a man wants to see in his bed.

It starts early on, in the toys we play with, and the shows we watch.  Barbie had a waist so tiny, and breasts so large, it would be nearly impossible for her to walk upright if she was a real woman.  As we grew up, we watched shows with lead characters with perfect, thin bodies, and clear, smooth skin.  Girls whose biggest problem was which boy would take her to the school dance.  Meanwhile back in reality, most of us were spending the 7 long minutes of ‘Stairway To Heaven’ holding up the gymnasium wall, diverting eye-contact and watching the early-bloomers getting hastily felt up on the dance floor.

We are assaulted daily with images of perfection from every corner, and we have been all of our lives.  Nearly all of the images we see in the media portray the very small minority of women who have the ‘ideal’ proportions.  According to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, the average U.S. woman is 5’4″ and weighs 152 pounds.   The average working model is 5′ 10″ tall and weighs no more than 115lbs.   You do the math.  Someone has been fucking with our heads, and in the process, has sold us a boatload of garbage.

This got me thinking:  Why do we hate ourselves so damn much?

I have an incredible group of friends.   All of them are beautiful, interesting and intelligent.  I say that without exception, by the way.  Each of them has gifts and talents that impress me and make me proud to know them.  And ALL of them fight with similar feelings of body shame.   I wanted to get some more opinions on the subject, so I sent many of them a message asking them to share their thoughts on the subjects.  Every one of them that sent me a reply did so without the veil of anonymity.  I am assigning random initials to protect their identity, but here are some of their replies:

 

“When i look in the mirror, I truly hate what I see.  I see the rolls, lumps, cellulite that have accumulated since the birth of my child, and honestly, before that even.  I can’t imagine how anyone would find that acceptable, let alone attractive.  It physically repulses me to look at my naked body.”  ~E.E

 

“As someone who is transgender, body image is huge for me. It feels like I have parts I shouldn’t and parts I should have. My mind doesn’t match my body. And I know, from talking to other women, this is a common thing among all women. Not just transgendered. I am not ashamed of how my body looks. It just doesn’t match what I see in my head. I think the media is to blame for how women view themselves. A small percentage of women are held up to the world as the “norm.” When in reality, most women are, excuse my language, plus size. We as women need to ignore what the media tells. As long we are healthy and happy, what difference does it make how we look? ” ~V.A

“I know I’m not the smallest chick out there and I am a mother so yes, I have some battle scars.  I have lots of friends, so I assume I’m a likeable person. It must be my body. It must be the way I look.  All of my friends are either fit or just naturally thin, and they complain all the time about the parts of their body they hate.   I wonder, if that’s how they feel about themselves, then they must think I’m one step short of having handlers. Compared to them, I’m the size of a Macy’s parade float! “ E.L

“Media. Be it- in print, or on the big screen.. Porn included.. For this I am affected. The typically man-pleasing porn often has “girls” and I mean girls that haven’t been blessed with child bearing hips, stretch marks and or c-section scars. This, when used for arousal, makes me feel somewhat inferior, as my breasts have not been inflated to work as a chin rest, nor can you count my ribs. However I am healthy.  I work on my eating and exercise choices every day. The fact that men often resort to pleasing themselves with porn, or just using it as a means of warming up, makes me feel as though,  “Okay…if that’s turning your crank, what in the world could you see in my curves, natural breasts and my collection of cellulite?” ~T.W.

 

I saw from their replies that I was not alone in my own struggle with poor body image.  Every one of us has been raised in a different set of circumstances, and yet we all emerged into adulthood with the same general mindset:  “My body is not good enough”.  How incredibly sad is that?

Even the media that claims it is trying to change the terrible body image women have isn’t doing much better.

Really? *THIS* is average?

The women pictured have perfect proportions.  There isn’t any visible cellulite and their skin is as smooth and inviting as any other fashion magazine model.  Yes, they are physically heavier, but their proportions are perfection, and they also do not represent the ‘average’ woman.  Even in trying to set the standard back to something more realistic, the result only further reinforces the ideal that my body, and most of the bodies of my friends, are not ‘up to snuff’ in the eyes of the collective public.

Luckily something magical happens in a woman’s life when she gets a bit older.  She just stops giving a fuck.

 

You tell ’em, Julie…

It’s true…we really start to get it later in life.  After spending a lifetime thinking that everyone else hates us as much as we do, we start to realize that we aren’t that bad.  I’m not saying it’s an overnight transformation, but it happens.  It starts slow.  Maybe the soft lights get left on at bedtime, just to test the waters.  If our mate doesn’t throw up at the sight of us, it’s a good sign.  Maybe the things he’s been saying all these years might actually be true.

It has taken the unconditional love of another human being to help me start to see that much of my own problem with body image is largely ridiculous.  It’s true that I love him with all of my heart, and every inch of him is dear to me.  There is not one part of his body that I find repulsive or unattractive, so why should it be any different for him?  I believe it is best said in the reply I received from one of my longest friends :

“Really, i think its WE women who make it something separate. Why should foreplay and sex be any different than holding hands in the car or hugging one another fully clothed?  It’s an expression of love. When he holds my hand in the car I don’t wonder if he thinks my fingers are too chubby or too bony, or if my nails are too long or too short or ugly without polish.  I don’t wonder if he is judging the dryness or texture of my hand… I don’t THINK about it!   I don’t analyze it!!! I just enjoy that he likes holding my hand.  I enjoy the masculine-ness of his hands and the sense of comfort, security, and being loved that comes with him reaching over to hold my hand, even on short drives, even after 22 years together. SO, why on earth should I feel ANY different about sex, foreplay or after play?  I’m the same woman in the same body when I’m having sexual relations as when I’m in the car feeling so securely loved because my husband holds my hand. ”  

So here’s the deal, boys.

Maybe your girl is still hiding in a shroud of covers at bedtime.  Maybe you are still trying to convince her that what you see is as beautiful as you can imagine.  Be patient, and keep it up.  Only time, trust and tenderness will help her undo a lifetime of messages that have been making her feel less than perfect.  What she wants is to be the most beautiful woman you have ever held.  If you keep reminding her that she is, you will be paving over a road of insecurity with love and reassurance.  Beauty is in our hearts and our minds as much as it is in our physical bodies.  When love and trust mate, beautiful things can happen.

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.
I’m not cute or built to suit a fashion model’s size
But when I start to tell them,
They think I’m telling lies.
I say,
It’s in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips,
The stride of my step,
The curl of my lips.
I’m a woman
Phenomenally.
Phenomenal woman,
That’s me.       

(excerpt from ‘Phenomenal Woman’ by Maya Angelou)

It might seem as if women need to be hand-held and coddled like a child in this respect.  Unfortunately that is the case.  The strong, independent career woman you know and love, who can handle a full time job, children, the responsibilities of home and still manage to be ready to hit the sheets after a long day, has a huge achilles heel.   She is afraid if you get a good look at her naked body, you will laugh, tease or even leave for someone ‘better’.   We have come a long way, baby.  By being a nurturing, loving partner in the bedroom, you can help us soar to heights we never dreamed of emotionally, as well as sexually.

Just grab a hold of my body and mind,

Mrs. B

Nov 01

My last day of city driving

I’m officially finished as a local truck driver, or camionneur for Sebastard and any other Francophones that happen to peruse this little piece of heaven that we have going on here. I guess I’m happy about it, but it might take a day or two for that to set in. I know that I don’t have to get up tomorrow, but I probably will. What the hell else am I supposed to do? I should go get a shed and put it together, or maybe I’ll try to figure out where the sonotubes are going for the deck, and start digging the holes. The shed is probably the better answer, then the deck. We are going to be needing somewhere to put all of the shit in the yard. Maybe I can build a shed out of the hot tub, and the roof rack thing. I love the way that I plan all of this shit, but what will probably happen, is I’ll spend nine hours jumping back and forth between trying to find a new format for the blog, looking at porn, and smearing my DNA all over the mouse and keyboard. Ah, fuck it. Can someone remind me to go get a shed in the morning? You might need to tell me a few times, thanks a bunch.

Maybe I’ll go visit Mom and Paul for a while. He got fixed up today, so he can eat and drink again. I could maybe see if they need the grass cut one last time before the snow flies. There’s nothing worse than having to cut matted down, long grass and rotting leaves in the spring. Well, I guess there are some worse things, like anal rape, getting beat up by a twelve year old, or finding out your wife is your half-sister that was given up for adoption when your mom was fourteen. I love when people say that. “There’s nothing worse than…” Every time they say it, you can think of thousands of things that are worse. Nothing worse than a head cold. Really? Try AIDS, asshole. Nothing worse than a chick dragging her teeth. No? How about getting gut shot.

Another one I love is “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.

“Wow, I had kidney stones. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

I fucking would. I’d wish it on all of my enemies and I’d also make them shit razor blades and fart out of their mouths. I hate my enemies, that’s why they are enemies. I’m pretty sure that it’s law to want your enemy’s head on a pike. If you don’t want them dead, they are just someone you don’t care for. Hell, I want people who mildly piss me off to get their arms broken as a voice enters their head, saying “This is for being a douchy twat yesterday.”

Another thing I want to rant about. Teach your fucking cats and dogs to speak and type properly, or don’t let them on the computer. I am getting so sick of these internet signs with horrible grammar, spelling and punctuation. Don’t pretend that there is nothing you can do. You were there taking their picture, so why not correct their spelling and syntax while you’re at it? Have = have, not haz. I feel like learning how to track on the internet, just so I could find these pieces of shit and beat them into unconsciousness with a God damned dictionary.

I’m going to go to bed now, and hope my hostility dwindles while I cry myself to sleep in the bosom of my true love. I have to keep telling myself that there is no alarm going off in the morning. I can sleep in, if I want to, but I rarely do. I think you just get used to waking up at a certain time. Oh well, I guess I’d better hit the fart sack.

Put another log on the fire,

Birdman