Wedding Bells...

I submitted a pitch to a local magazine about marriage and getting married at a young age and they like it, so I got the green light on Friday of last week.

Since I've been (and will continue to be until my deadline) super busy with returning emails, making phone calls, typing, typing, editing, typing and conducting interviews, this may be my last blog post before Christmas.

Tonight I just wanted a break from trying to write an unbiased point of view towards the 'married before I've been alive a quarter of a century' thing and just let out my opinion. Since this is my blog, and I'm not getting paid to do it, I'm allowed.

My first serious boyfriend was a cute little towhead named Nick. Nick was a dead ringer for dreamy Nick Carter from the Backstreet Boys and he made me swoon, too, even if he was a fumbling socially inept dork most of the time. He was a romantic though. He'd write me letters if our parents were banning us for talking to each other (again) telling me how much he loved me, how he worshipped me, waxing romantic about how one day we'd finally make love and that he couldn't wait and that one day he was going to make me the happiest woman alive, and we'd elope somewhere and have the greatest wedding ever. He even bought me a little vending machine ring and told me one day he'd put a beautiful white gold one on in it's place.

He didn't though. One day his mom stopped letting him call me, and stopped letting me talk to him, and it got really boring trying to maintain a relationship solely at high school, among the prying eyes of all our friends and classmates. We broke up, and I was hurt, but considering the roller-coaster 10 month relationship we had, I got over him pretty quick. Plus, I was in grade 10, I was 14 and the world was my oyster. The sea was full of fish, and I intended to catch one who wasn't so tied to their mom's apron strings.

I did. A month later I hooked up with a guy who was his polar opposite. I'm not even sure Ryan knew his mom existed unless she snored too loud in the next room or wasn't using her car. That didn't last either, and he didn't give me any hope to believe it ever really would anyway.

Several years later I met a man in a small little resort town that I was living in after high school. He was all whirlwind-y -- swept me off my feet and made me forget that we'd only known each other for a few months. He was romantic, sweet and for some odd reason - really into me. We'd only been seeing each other for a little over a month when one day he mentioned that maybe I should move in with him, y'know, to save money. That made literally no sense looking at it from that line of reasoning, because I lived in staff accommodations where they deducted a mere $200 a month for my little apartment, heat, water and power. Plus, our cats hated each other, I reasoned. I declined but told him I'd think about it soon.

One day we were out hiking along Maligne Lake with our picnic lunch. He had mentioned that he wanted to show me the most beautiful place in the world, and as we rounded a bend, he pointed through the trees at this beautiful picturesque scene of the lake, capped by a mountain whose mirror image glistened on the lake's surface. It was pretty, but it wasn't really the MOST beautiful place in the world and as I turned around to tell him that, he had bent down on one knee and asked me the very question that almost every girly girl dreams of hearing -- her name, followed by the words 'Will you marry me?'. Caught up in the romance and the heady sensation of it all, I said yes. I forgot that I didn't even know his middle name, how to spell his last name, what his favorite movie of all time was or even that I didn't love him at all.

Less than a week later he revealed a secret to me while we were getting pleasantly buzzed on homemade red wine. The kind of secret you admit to someone you want to spend the rest of your life with before you propose.

He was on steroids, and had been for quite some time.

Now, I don't claim to be ridiculously clean living. I had my 'sowing my wild oats' phase, I smoke like a chimney, I'm from BC where we're proud of our world glass 'green' and like to hotbox to show how patriotic we are, and I've been known to drink 7 too many rye and ginger ales and not notice my boob is hanging out of my shirt, but drugs like steroids scare the crap out of me.

At that point I had been attempting to quit smoking since the day before he proposed. His admission, the large amounts of alcohol and a nicotine deprived body and mind told him I needed some time and wandered off to the hotel I worked to find someone to bum a smoke off of.

I got back to his place an hour later, and immediately he started tearing me to shreds for not having the willpower enough not to smoke when the going got tough.

He called me names, told me to get out and threw me into a wall when I tried to reason with him.

I moved on quickly from him. Mostly because I didn't love him, even if I promised that one day I'd vow to forever, and moved on with my life. I was 18.

Years later, I met another man.

He was again, sweet and romantic and into me. He took me out, wined and dined me, promised me the world and when I finally slept with him, the fireworks were almost tangible. The biggest problem?

He was separated from his wife and had 2 kids. Granted, I wasn't into having a family of my own, so a ready made was probably the best bet for me in case of any sudden biological urges, but it was difficult at first. His youngest, a slightly effeminate mama's boy of 3 would happily crawl into my lap for a snuggle and enjoyed his stuffed animals more than his action figures. His oldest was quite a lot more withdrawn and used to say things that cut me to the bone -- even if he was only 5.

We spent a blissful spring together and come summer, he talked me into moving in with him at his friend's until we could find a place on our own. The cat and I packed up all our worldly possessions and moved into the bedroom he was renting.

That summer was tough for me. I was having a hard time finding work. I felt aimless and useless. And I worried that maybe my boss, my mom, and all my friends were right when they said it was simply too soon to be co-habitating. I went through a 2 month period of insomnia. As he slept soundly in the bed to my back, I chatted to all the other night owls I knew and wrote novels that had no plot. Finally I got a job, and we plunged into looking for a place to live -- together.

By this point, the boys had warmed up to me. The youngest enjoying our stuffed animal tea parties and the oldest happy to finally have someone challenging to play tag with in the park. He had custody of them every second weekend so we knew we needed a place with at least 2 bedrooms so that they could have their area and we could have our own. The summer was difficult when you have 2 kids bouncing on you at 6 in the morning every weekend morning wanting to watch a movie or play with their toys.

We looked at apartments and basement suites, but the whole time I was really holding out for a rental that would allow me to bring my dog from my parent's place to the city.

Finally we stumbled upon one, which is actually the house I still live in.

We wrangled up the damage deposit, signed the contracts and 3 years ago in October, we moved in.

Shortly after we moved in the trouble started. In one bedroom together I made certain exceptions -- we didn't really have a closet, so there were clothes everywhere. His stuff and the boy's toys would always be underfoot, but in a small space, you can't expect much else. I hadn't worked for much of the summer so I usually cooked before he got home and we had supper together. We couldn't really clean, we really just 'straightened up' because it would never really be 'clean'.

Suddenly these things were happening again in our big beautiful new house. Supper was never cooked, even if he got home hours before me. His clothes laid on the floor, on the bed, beside the laundry basket, anywhere but where they should be. Toys were scattered across every square inch of the living room. The floor wasn't swept, dishes weren't done and I started going nuts.

Especially when my coworker confronted me and told me that he had approached her about buying a ring.

A ring?

Those dirty socks on the bedroom floor weren't just socks on the bedroom floor now. They were there now potentially for the rest of my life!

I panicked. If he was serious about us and wanted to marry me, something had to change or I'd kill him or me or both of us before our 1st anniversary.

So I did what every other woman under stress and time constraints does when their S.O. doesn't help pick up the slack. I nagged.

And nagged. And nagged.

The point was, I was so bloody unhappy with our living situation and the state of our house all the time that I needed him to help me out, and he wasn't doing it willingly.

Things started disintegrating between the 2 of us, because the more I nagged, the less he did and the less he did, the more I nagged. It was a vicious circle. I didn't even want to talk to him anymore because he was so utterly disinterested in making me happy.

Then he started cheating. And cheating. And cheating. One woman was for a 2 month stretch. Another may have only been an isolated incidence. The third was never confirmed but I have my suspicions.

We broke up and got back together a dozen times in half as many months. I asked him to leave and there were a hundred different excuses on why he couldn't. Every time I wanted him out, he tripled his efforts at becoming the world's best boyfriend and I took him back almost every time because I hoped things would be different.

Finally when our bickering turned into yelling and yelling turned into violence, I called the police and after they left, I asked him one more time to leave.

A few weeks later he did.

That relationship took a long time to get over.

It was so toxic that it drained me and it took every ounce of my strength just to keep going most days. I wondered what I'd done wrong, and then turned defensive on myself and decided that nothing I ever could have done would have fixed it. It took me awhile, but I finally realized that it was as not meant to be as Romeo and Juliet.


I still had a hard time though. I wondered what might have been if we actually had got married. Would we have been signing our divorce papers before our first anniversary? Would one of us be in jail for voluntary manslaughter?

I was so in love, and so blind to his many obvious faults, and I am truly the worst kind of romantic, that I'm pretty sure I still would have said yes if he had asked, and figured all our problems would just sort themselves out. I was a lot more optimistic then.

I'm not nearly that naive now. Now the concept of marriage scares me a bit. I love a good wedding, because there's truly nothing more fun than all your nearest and dearest around to celebrate you and the concept of true love, but I think I'm a lot more realistic about it now.

That doesn't mean I don't get a little jealous when a close friend announces their engagement, or that I don't sometimes gaze wistfully at a wedding dress display, it just means that when I finally do it, I want to be sure. I want it to stick and be for life -- for better and for worse.


As for all of you who may be reading this and who recently sent me your answers to my questions on marriage and are now worried that I'm going to demonize the young and married -- your fears are unfounded. I would never cast anyone in a bad light unless they deserved it, and none of you do. I will be as unbiased when I write this piece as I possibly can be. I truly hope you all went into it with your eyes open, and that you and your current (or future) Mr. or Mrs. will be able to talk and compromise through anything and have a life of happiness and health and arguments you can laugh about afterwards.

Because that's what I want, too.

Censorship

Y'know it occurred to me that having a blog is a very strange thing indeed. Especially if it becomes your own little online journal. In one way it's kind of thrilling to know that everyone can read about your life, and in another way, it's very unnerving.

I'm sure anyone who has been reading my blog for some time knows that I've become less open, less candid and forthcoming with details about my life. At one point I didn't care that everyone I knew could read all about my life, private details and all, but I've found something I'm less inclined to share with the world now.

I feel a little censored sometimes. Like I can't tell the entire world how I really feel, or what I'm really doing because someone is going to judge or feel superior to me or get their own little kicks out of seeing how truly not-charmed my life can be some days.

I miss the life I used to have, sometimes. I miss having something to talk about and having stories that made people laugh. I miss having plans on weekends and funny pictures to show afterwards. I miss having a friend around that I could always talk to, and that knew the best and worst parts of me and that didn't judge because they knew I knew those parts of them, too.

I miss feeling like I was special and important and that sometimes I felt like I had it made, more than any other person out there. The sky was the limit and there was nothing I couldn't do if I just tried hard enough and had enough faith in myself. That's another sad part about growing up. You start to realize that there are always limits and that faith in yourself only goes so far. And a lot of times it means you've placed so much faith in yourself and your abilities that you make bad decisions that initially look like great ones just because you think the world owed you one and finally came through.

I miss the optimism that caused me to do that, even if it was the wrong decision. I miss not giving a shit about ridiculous things like how it will look on my resume or how much the government will gouge me in income tax.

Tomorrow I'm going to do something that terrifies me. Something I've never really done before. I'm not just going to talk about standing up for myself, I'm going to do it, because I want the things I used to have back.

Cross your fingers for me.

PETA = Bullshit

I found a video today that made me laugh.

I guess I'm not the only one who is sick of PETA and their childish, hypocritical ways.

Animal Rights Activists Make me Sick

As anyone who knows me well can attest to, I am absolutely animal crazy. I've had dogs almost my entire life, as well as rabbits, cats, chickens, ponies, horses, guinea pigs, fish and as of recent, mice (the domesticated variety, I'd much rather they be my spoiled pets than potential fodder for a hungry pet snake, although I understand that snakes need to eat, too). There's almost nothing I wouldn't do for an animal, and I would rather go hungry than see my animals go without their food. They are my kids, and although they all tend to drive me batty on occasion, I love them dearly.

I recently joined the Causes application on Facebook. Specifically to join a group vowing to help Stop Puppy Mills. In case you're unaware of what a puppy mill is, they're an absolutely abbhorent commercial dog breeding facilities for the purpose of supplying puppies for resale to pet stores and animal testing facilities. Check out the actual Stop Puppy Mills website for more information. I do have to forewarn you -- some of the pictures are extremely graphic and quite disturbing. Some of the videos are worse.

Anyway, I pointed out on the group that People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals, often known as PETA, is actually a horrible group for anyone caring about the welfare of our domesticated animals. Ingrid Newkirk, their national director, has stated several times that pet ownership is simply oppressing our animals and that it is cruel and wrong and needs to be stopped altogether. I can't knowingly support an organization that would like the entire idea of owning domesticated animals for the purpose of companionship abolished.

What is PETA's true hidden agenda here? Would they like us all to release our domesticated animals into the wild to have nature take it's course? Perhaps we should follow PETA's lead and destroy most animals entrusted in our care to spare them our oppressive ways?

If you don't believe me, please check out this website, or this one.

According to PeTA's own filings, in 2004 PeTA killed 86.3 percent of the animals entrusted to its care -- a number that's rising. Meanwhile, the SPCA in PeTA's home town (Norfolk, Va.) was able to find loving homes for 73 percent of the animals put in its care.

It makes me a little angry knowing that my $25 cheque each year -- entitling me to free address labels and a jazzy little quarterly newsletter -- was really going towards killing the very animals I was trying to help save.

The information above wasn't what made me stop sending them the money though. I've only recently found out about that.

What really got to me was their adamant stance on the 'cruel' sport of dogsledding.

Cruel? If only I could bound and gag Ms. Newkirk and stick her in a snowbank to watch me harness up a team of my Siberians before a run. If only she could see the way they dreaded the cruelty. It shows in the way their tails wag, the way they scream out their enthusiasm in a chorus, the way they jump into their harnesses, scratch at the gate to be let out and lunge at the end of their gangline ready to let loose and run. If you don't believe me, just come home with me one day and watch me unlace my sled from it's place in the shed. Bring earplugs though. There's a reason I'm one of the only prematurely hearing impaired 24 year olds I know.

The disappointment in my dogs' faces when I put it back in it's storage place will break your heart. So of course we'll go for a run. We have to. The dogs will plot our deaths if we don't.

But cruel?

If letting a dog do what they love to do the best; have the most fun they've had all day; do what it is imprinted in their genetics to want to do, is cruel, then tell the dogs -- I'm sure they'll understand. Before they plot your death of course.

These dogs love their 'job'. They live for it. We couldn't force them to do anything they don't want to do. Trust me. I've tried my dad's Goldens in harness. Dogs won't do what they don't want to do. And 120 lbs. worth of a Golden duo IS enough to hold up 250 lbs. of husky muscle. Just for your information.

As three time Iditarod champion Jeff King has said, you can't push a rope, and if the dogs decide not to pull, well, that musher isn't going anywhere. Just ask DeeDee Jonrowe, whose hopes were crushed in the 1999 race when her veteran team of dogs stopped and made it clear they'd had enough. The same thing happened to others in Iditarod 2000, with several teams simply stopping and declining to move one step closer to Nome, despite the musher's best entreaties, a rebellion that earned the dogs a plane ride home, not sudden death.

I'm on a tangent though.

The point of this was that I posted my views on this group and my anti-PETA remarks apparently offended some ignorant little moron who felt the need to call me some choice names and tell me that by showing dogs, I am oppressing the very animals I claim to love.

I love that word.. oppression. What does it mean?

op·pres·sion [uh-presh-uhn]
–noun
1. the exercise of authority or power in a burdensome, cruel, or unjust manner.
2. an act or instance of oppressing.
3. the state of being oppressed.
4. the feeling of being heavily burdened, mentally or physically, by troubles, adverse conditions, anxiety, etc.

So essentially, this little ignoramus believes that my dogs (who would rather be with their people than anywhere else) are being treated cruelly by being bathed, going on a car ride (this is just one of their favorite things), visiting all the other dogs, and being petted and trotted around a show ring.

Again.. tell the dogs this. My Siberian hasn't been in a show ring in almost 3 years and she's miserable. It was our special time together, where she got more attention in one weekend than she did for months before (I'm referring to the attention from judges, fellow fanciers and spectators of course.. tell me how one person can compete with hundreds?). Although she despised bath time (what dog truly enjoys it?), it was a minor evil compared to getting to go to a dog show. Even now, 3 years later, the words 'dog show' cause her to perk up her ears in a way that only 'cookie' and 'walk' can.

You can't make a dog do anything they don't want to do. It's the biggest reason every show breeder I know has at least one 'show prospect' in their backyard who is finishable (meaning they can win enough to obtain 10 points at CKC sanctioned conformation shows, therefore obtaining the title of 'Canadian Champion' or being 'finished') but who will never see the show ring again. They didn't thrive in the hustle and bustle of our fancy, and as I've mentioned, you can't get a dog to do anything they don't want to do.

However, oppression it is not.



Extremists scare me. In any form. Animal Rights extremists are the worst of the bunch.

Organizations like PETA fund terrorist movements (the Earth Liberation Front and Animal Liberation Front both recieve generous donations from them, and are both classified as terrorist organization by the FBI), which means Animal rights extremists have no problem resorting to violence.

Even the wonderful Ms. Newkirk has publicly admitted this much.

"Our nonviolent tactics are not as effective. We ask nicely for years and get nothing. Someone makes a threat, and it works."
- Ingrid Newkirk, PeTA, US News and World Report, April 8, 2002

They have been convicted of arson, they bomb university research labs (conveniently overlooking the injurious and life-threatening hazards to first-responders, firefighters, pedestrians and motorists created when emergency vehicles dash to the conflagrations created by their "freedom fighters) , and brutally beat or threaten those who don't share their views.

They have no problem using scare tactics on children. PETA made the news in 2005 when they handed out activist comics with a scary looking man tearing the innards out of a fish on the cover. Plastered over the picture in big letters, it says, "Your Daddy Kills Animals."

They post tactless ads in the same thread every year. 3 years ago at Easter, I remember driving down the Yellowhead to see a giant billboard with the words "He Died for your Sins" and a Pig. The message -- Go Vegetarian.

Animal rights nuts have no problem coming to dog shows and letting loose our napping canine companions from the safety of their crates and x-pens, believing their work is for the greater good, namely releasing the beloved 'oppressed' pets. The result?

Disoriented dogs running amok -- dog fights, pandemonium and worse, dogs escaping from the show building or site, running onto the busy roadway, being hit by a car and dying.

How is this not the true oppression?

After all, they have the power as the opposable thumbed species to open the doors and allow the dogs to run to their fates, which are sometimes quite cruel.

Are you a pet owner? Drop the term 'animal rights' from your vocabulary right now, use the words 'animal welfare' instead. Why?

Animal rights, as a philosophical viewpoint, is fundamentally different from animal welfare, since it maintains that animals are not ours to use at all-for food, clothing, entertainment (including companionship), or experimentation.

Animal Welfare endorses the responsible use of animals to satisfy certain human needs - from companionship and sport, to uses that involve the taking of life, such as for food, clothing, and medical research. Animal welfare advocates seek to ensure that all animals used by humans have their basic needs fulfilled in terms of food, shelter, and health, and that they experience no unnecessary suffering in providing for human needs.

Oh, and the next time you see Pamela Anderson -- ask her how she likes being a dog owner.