In which I am very, very bored and sort of poor ('Dear Kraft')

When I am bored, which happens more than I like to admit, I like to write letters to companies. Usually I like to nitpick on some small issue that, for me, isn't important but for a company that is constantly focusing on customer service, is absolutely the worst. thing. ever.

These aren't complaints. I am trying to find the most mundane point I can and make it into a very silly, silly point, just to see what sort of response I will get from the company.

Today's episode is brought to you by Velveeta Cheese. Velveeta, when you don't have real cheese.

Dear Kraft,

I am a big supporter of Velveeta cheese. It is the cheese of my childhood. Both those large bricks of wibbly-wobbly Velveeta, and the individually packaged Kraft-esque slices. Recently, upon moving out of my parental units humble abode, I decided to revisit my childhood and purchase a small package of 24 individual cheese slices to recreate the grilled cheeses that I recalled from my previous time.

Unfortunately, upon reaching the second stack of 12 cheese slices within the pack, I came across a slight issue. Apparently I am either incompetent (according to the internet, who coached me on what I was doing wrong, as apparently there are many ways to lift up a plastic flap and pull it off a slice of processed cheese), or your cheese product and/or plastic wrapping contains a grievous fault in production.  I present exhibit A) The link to the 'First World Problem' Meme I created to express my frustration:

Please note that while I called it a Kraft cheese slice, and obviously Velveeta is owned by Kraft, this was in fact packaged as Velveeta and not the aforementioned Kraft.

Exhibit B) five of the seven cheese slice packages following cheese consumption (I would have made the sandwich, but realized I was both lazy and did not wish to use an end piece of bread in my sandwich. I'm sure you understand.)

Note the similar rip in each of the slices. I have never before experienced such a strange phenomenon with my processed cheese products. As I am a veteran of the processed cheese consumption world, I trust you will take my concerns my issues and ensure that a higher level of quality control is applied to further Velveeta Kraft Cheese Slice Products.

Yours sincerely,
Kathleen Sawisky, Esq.

An Open Letter to Premier Alison Redford and the Conservative Party of Alberta

Dear Ms. Redford,

Some time ago I ran into a bit of an issue. You see, I applied for AISH, and as with all things in life, found that what I had hoped would be a simple matter of filling out roughly 2/3 of a JK Rowling novel and ensuring that I crossed my T's and dotted my I's, turned into a bit of, shall we say, a feces festival.

Let me offer you a tiny bit of a background on myself, seeing as how the individuals in your offices undoubtedly censored all of the letters and emails I sent your way some time ago.

When I was eleven I was diagnosed with scoliosis. By the time I was thirteen, my curvature was at 75 and 30 degrees. At 50 degrees a surgery is considered a necessity, at 75 degrees, your lung capacity can be compromised by the curve. The movement was quick and unexpected, and my surgery was basically considered an immediate need, lest I lose use of my right lung all together.  I was fused from T1 to L4, which medically, translates to "a flipping large portion of ones spine."  For a thirteen year old, to be fused with bone  and surgical steel... Well, let's just say it was an intense procedure that has altered the course of my life completely.

But the story doesn't end there! Because when you are thirteen, you aren't done growing, and when you're still growing any medical treatment is basically at the mercy of the power of your body. Ultimately, I have four more surgeries to correct problems that have resulted from having my spine fused as such an early age. You see this picture below? Guess what it is. Go on, guess.

Those are just a handful of the pieces of surgical instrumentation that were removed over the course of the last four surgeries. The bottom piece, the one with the distinct curve in it? That is a Harrington Rod. It wasn't curved when they wired it next to my spine at the age of 13. If it was, I would have to question the point of the whole operation.

Let's jump ahead to modern days. I am suffering from severe and chronic back pain thanks to my surgeries. My remaining lumbar vertebrae are a twisted mess and I have degenerative arthritis in them. I am have frequent bouts of sciatic pain thanks to the nerves that are caught up in the whole mess, and when my back cracks and the sciatic pain starts I can literally not move.

It is, you might say, a bit of a bummer. I am jumping from medication to medication, intense narcotics for my age. Long acting morphine, Lyrica, Cymbalta, short acting morphine, Baclofen, BuTrans... The list goes on. You can always take a bit of this and a bit of that for the major things, but there are flare ups where no medication in the world can stop the pain from forcing you to the couch. There are moments when the pain is so deep inside your bones that you feel hollow, like the skeleton of a bird, but heavy all at the same time. There are these moments when your body starts to rebel and spasm against you, and in those awful, terrible moments you can feel your bones being wrenched to one side, out of position, all because the power of your disease is stronger than the power of medical science.

Those times blow major chunks.

To deal with this pain, you need medication, and to pay for medication you need money (or access to an excellent black market source, I suppose. It's not as if Alberta is renowned for it's back alley operations.) And about a year and a half ago, I no longer had the money. I didn't have coverage either, not that it made a difference, because at the time my medications wouldn't have been covered by any insurance plans. Not Blue Cross, not Manulife, none of them. Well, that's a lie, one of them would, but only up to $500 a year, which would have amounted to exactly a month and a half worth of that medication. It was hardly worth the premiums.

I hear about AISH, and how the incoming new Premiere (that's you, Alison) was increasing the monthly AISH allowance. Bonus! I think. I only need about $300 a month to cover all my medical expenses. The rest I am fortunate enough to have my mom for (Keep in mind, this is a woman practically bed-ridden with debt of her own. I wasn't about to ask her to pay for my medication; and my absent father didn't have any money to spare, even if he wanted to offer it up.) So I fill out the AISH paperwork, get the information from my acting family doctor (the previous GP I had been dealing with was away on maternity leave and then started at a new clinic. At the time, I had yet to reconnect with her.)

Somehow I manage to cram my defense into the minute boxes on the AISH application, and away it goes into the mail. I must have waited six, maybe even eight months to get my rejection from AISH. Let's see, 8 months times $300... I spent roughly $2400 on medication in that time. I wasn't employed for a solid portion of it, being unable to find a job that didn't require me to be on my feet for eight hours (one of the cruel realities I've had to face. If I was able to stand and walk no problem, I could easily get a serving job. Unfortunately, that's not in the cards for me.) September rolls around, as does the rejection, and what does it say?

AISH doesn't believe that my condition is severe nor permanent.

Right. Okay. Well, first off let me try to explain this... You can't unfuse a spine. We don't currently have the technology for it, so unfortunately, no, my condition is permanent. And as you might gather from the pain that has been increasing over the last ten years, it is not about to get better any time soon. When you are paralyzed on the couch from pain, it is severe. When you are missing post-secondary classes for vital doctors appointments and to try different treatments on the off chance that something might work, it is severe. When the pain bring you to tears, makes you difficult to deal with (thank you, patient loved ones), forces you to stop your favorite activities that don't even involve aggravating your condition (such as writing), cuts off some air flow to your lung, forces you into the ICU after a surgery, causes you to have a surgery far too early, is described as a highly unusual case of scoliosis, and becomes the driving factor of your existence, your condition is severe.

So tell me, Alison, how anyone within the government, within social services or the medical community, has the gall to tell me that my pain is not good enough for a bit of help? If the pain I have now, at almost 24 years of age, isn't 'good enough' (for lack of a better term), what do I have to do? How much pain for I have to be in? Do you want to break it down on a scale of one to ten, because I have filled out more than enough of those scales in my life time and can tell you without hesitation that my average pain is at a 9. What's your pain level at today, Alison? Feeling okay, are we? Feeling perky I bet!

Of course I was going to appeal the decision, and damn it all if I wasn't going to make the case of a lifetime in front of a panel that would essentially decide my ability to access basic health case.

In case you haven't looked at the AISH act recently, there are a few things you ought to realize. AISH support is to be used in the support of the necessities of human life. Well, Alison, without my medication I will not be in any particularly state of 'living'. In fact, one might argue I would be as close to the living un-dead as I could possibly be while still having blood circulate my veins. Your government makes wild claims about who and what AISH is meant to support, and yet there seems to be no consistency in the release of AISH funds. One of the AISH workers even had the gall to tell me that it was not up to them to monitor how funds were spent.

Are you freaking kidding me? Are you absolutely kidding me? Where are the checks and balances? Where was the little box on the initial form that said "Please indicate how much support you expect to receive from AISH" in order to show those red-stamping my form that, hey, I'm not after a free ride, just a bit of help with my medication!

So we have no checks and balances, differing definitions of 'severe' and 'permanent', and then there is the use of the term 'co-habitating partner'.

Let's be clear here. The province of Alberta does not use the term 'common law' (which is generally looked at to be six months of living together consistently.)  Instead, we use 'co-habitating partner' which requires three years of living under the same roof.  Three years. Very important.  So according to AISH, if you are married or have a co-habitating partner, their annual income must be included in your application.

Why then, when I am just moving in with my boyfriend at the time, am I told that his income needs to be included in my reassessment form before I can appeal the initial decision? Because, as your people told me, we will be living together and thus are 'co-habitating partners'. Interesting that despite the fact that we hadn't even moved in together at the time, we were already deemed co-habitating partners according to Alberta laws.

So you must understand my confusion. Is it three years? Six months? Or are is AISH and the Alberta Government predicting my living situation for me with some sort of crystal ball? If that's the case then I have a crystal ball of my own that says 50% of all marriages end in divorce, so maybe you could just give me some support now, and then we'll cross the other bridge when we get to it? What's that? It doesn't work that way? You're outside of the law, are you? Outside of lawful definitions that have been put in place to protect residents of Alberta?

Oh sure, you might be all of those things, but you aren't outside the reach of Alberta citizens, and in case you didn't notice, your little stunt this Spring with the slashes in education and healthcare haven't made you the most popular group in the Province. I almost wish I had voted Wild Rose.

Let me make this clear, Alison. You can prevent me from getting the medical support I need. You can pass me off to one of your underlings to deal with. You can even choose to ignore me, but I will not be forgotten. I have pain, and I will live with it every day for the rest of my life, and because of the inability to apply checks and balances by your government, and the incompetence of AISH in general, my pain is not and will not be properly dealt with because I can't afford the medication I need.

You can silence my words, you can ignore my points, but dammit all if your bureaucracy doesn't do a thing to shut up the pain I live with with every day of my life.

That's on you now, and it will be until you make the changes that are needed.

Sincerely,
Kathleen Sawisky

In which I will literally eat your face if you don't give me what I want

Turns out some of the most popular things I have ever said involve threats of violence. Not just violence, but extreme and, perhaps, over-the-top violence that isn't actually merited given the crime that I hold against the individual.

But this, this is different, and I will literally eat the face of the woman involved if I am not given what I was guaranteed.

See, here's the thing. I'm getting married, see? And my lovely fiance and I found the perfect location. It had everything we wanted, a beautiful garden, possibility of inside or outside, the whole house (which is a historical site) would be rented out for us, plus it's the location for the reception. The place is a block away from my fiances' father's hotel, so easy access for out of town guests. Really, the whole place looks magical.

And I want it. I want it bad. And Last week I told the event planner and 'acting' GM that we wanted it. Today, what do we get? An email saying that this day a couple has placed a tentative hold on it for that date.

Um, what?

No, no I will eat your face. I will devour your young like Cronus and use their bones for candle holders. I will destroy you. I will also write a scathing review on Yelp, and as it is on the internet, everyone will read it and instantly believe it.

I'm not bitter or anything. Disappointed? Absolutely. Pissed off that someone else's failure to communicate has led us to having to pick a different day, and that said individual has not expressed any responsibility for it? Sure. I mean, I could probably take or leave the fact that we might have to find a new venue. We've still got time. What annoys me is the lack of maturity in taking responsibility for her actions. And because of said failure, I will eat her face. (Note for all law enforcement officials: I am not a cannibal, nor do I wish to eat her or anyone else's face. I am also not a violent person by nature expect when someone is going for the same last bottle of Koala juice that I was clearly eyeing up first.)

Why people cannot take responsibility for their mistakes is beyond me? I don't want to be 'that person', but the minute I see someone refusing to acknowledge their own inadequacies, or failing to make amends for their mistake, I feel instantly as if I have to give them a hard time. Ergo, why I will be getting a discount from our venue (if we even decide to go with said venue, as they can only guarantee us a September date now.) Because, if you're not going to woman up about this, admit that you dropped the ball and yeah, it caused some issues, why should I just roll over and accept the consequences? They weren't my doing, thank you very much.

No, no it will be 16 different flavours of homestyle vengeance, Kathleen style. Because dammit, I want a summer garden in my photos. I want to be chasing after the junior bridesmaids like a dinosaur wearing a wedding gown in a green garden, with bright flowers all around me. No brown grass, no dead garden. It will not suffice!

I'm not going to lie. I don't want to be an angry bride (I think 'Bridezilla' is demeaning, especially given no one has been able to provide me with a male equivalent as of yet.) And I'm not really that girly. Yet part of me was excited to see the location. It was fairy-taleesque. A beautiful old house that was ours for the day, elegant reception area, garden. Okay, yeah, I want to be a princess for a day, so shoot me. It's not like I wan a fluffy bridal gown.

And I don't care if there is this sort of champagne or that, or if the cake is .03 millimetres to tall, and that the groomsmen's green hankies don't match the green dresses of the bridesmaids. Hell, we're all going to be smashed by the end of it, isn't that right? So here I am, pretending to be the most unobtrusive bride-to-be of all time. All I want is a little humility and a big fat apology.

And maybe some fava beans and a nice Chianti.

In Which Cocaine was Smoked (Allegedly)

I'm Canadian. I like my country. We've had our bad moments (Treatment of Natives, Government, etc.) and we've had our good moments (Are you all ready for some HOOOCKEEEEY?) We have a rich history as a culture that is a mosaic as opposed to the more common melting pot of the United States of Freedom Fighting Obesity. We're not the land of opportunity, we're the land of 'You like your culture? We've got you covered in whatever major city you move to!'. We've got rocks and trees and trees and rocks and rocks and trees and trees and rocks and water. We also have bands like The Arrogant Worms, who have taught us both geography (Canada is Really Big) and history (The War of 1812).  All in all, Canada is pretty awesome.

But we have our difficulties right now, both on a municipal and National scale. For instance, a friend of mine recently posted on Facebook "Boy, sens sucks right now." To which I replied

You see, there's been a bit of a rumble regarding Senator housing expenses, and why it isn't fair for them to (allegedly) claim they are living outside of the Ottawa region during Senate time (Senate Season? The Time of the Senate?) when they are, in fact, living just across from Parliament Hill (allegedly).  So much rumbling, actually, that some of the senators have excused themselves from the Conservative caucus while the matter is looked into by whoever's job it is to make sure this doesn't happen in the first place. I can only assume that said individual was fired years ago for doing a crappy job, which is why the senators got away with it in the first place.

This, in turn, led to another scandal where a senator was (allegedly) given 90k to pay off his (alleged) expenses. Then someone had to resign, our Prime Minister ran away with his (alleged) tail between his legs, and as Canadians we all shook our heads in unison and sighed. "Oh, Prime Minister..."

But now even more scandal is brewing in the mystical land of Toronto. Drug Dealers have come forth stating that they (allegedly) have a video of Mayor and Toronto Local Laughing Stock Rob Ford smoking crack cocaine (allegedly). Ford has, of course, rejected these allegations, but for the rest of us we can't help but wonder. Ford is notorious for his antis, including walking into camera, placing magnets on cars, and falling over. He falls over a lot (allegedly). Just this passed year there was a court case to determine whether or not he had used his position as Mayor to seek funding for a local football team that he coached (a position which he lost two days ago. I can't imagine why) or something like that. Honestly, it's nearly impossible to keep up with Rob Ford's antics. You can't make up this sort of stuff, it's outrageous.

All the denial of this and the refusal of that from the members of our political force gives rise to not only speculation, but imagination. What would happen if Rob Ford was a drug addict? What would happen if the Conservative Party fell apart because of this expense scandal? How far can our imaginations take the downfalls of others? How can we use these pieces of alleged speculation to our benefit as writers? It wouldn't take much effort to turn even a pinch of one of these scandals into a story about the downfall of a government, but then again, I don't think anyone would believe you. After all, who would honestly believe that a man was capable of running face first into a camera?

Allegedly.

In which the rain falls, falls, falls

I love the rain. Who in their right mind wouldn't (to which you answer, people with a paralyzing fear of water, Kathleen.) I love the rain because of the sounds that come along with it. All the swishes from cars barreling through the puddles that collect in overflowing gutters. The smack! of boots along the sidewalk as they hit the puddles with satisfying force. There are drips and drops and dribbles. The sounds of water as it spills from the gutters and through the eaves troughs, into the grass at the bottom of the garden. The squish of the flooded earth as you walk barefoot through grass. And worms. Squishy worms between your toes. All gooey and... Sorry, what was I saying?

And the puddle jumping. Oh lord, how I love puddle jumping! My now-fiance thought I was mad when we were in the early days of our courtship, spring in Southern Alberta, we would walk to McDonald's to get a thing of fries and an Oreo McFlurry. There were always puddles along the pathway and despite my shoes, open-toed or full of holes, I had to splash in them. Keep in mind, I was already nearly 22 at the time. I still love puddle jumping. The best part is that every so often he lets go and puddle jumps with me like a boss.

There's something wonderful about the rain. I've always loved it. Even when I was a little girl, I was all over escaping out into the rain when the weather was miserable. Our home was tucked in a mountain, so the heavy cloud layer created this mist all throughout the woods that we would play in as kids. It was magical in the rain. The smell of the damp earth and pine needles is still the single greatest thing I can breathe in. In so many ways,  feel closer to the earth. It's a spiritual feeling that the rain brings out in you.

And then, and then your imagination takes over. And while you're breathing deep and feeling your body become one with nature, you remember that urban legend about the kid that inhaled the pine needle and then six months later developed a serious chest infection and when they took the x-ray the doctor discovered a small pine tree sprouting out of their lung tissue.

That might ruin the mood a bit, but let's face it, the beauty of the rain, melded with the awesomeness of having a pine tree growing in your lung would certainly more than make up for the intensive hospital stay and weeks of rehabilitation.

Ghosts come out in the rain. Ghosts of little girls and boys who puddle splashed in better days. Ghosts of gumboots and yellow rain jackets. Ghosts love the rain as much as I do, because in the rain they take shape; they find place in the mist and fill the voids left by the living. The living don't go out in the rain and the mist. There is no place for them, being so close to god and earth. The living can't handle the pressure of it all.

And in the days of rain, where there are no breaks in clouds or wind, and the gutters spill forth the contents of their bowels, all discarded Big Gulp cups and old straws, that is when the ghosts retreat. They see the way they flood the world with their memories. Memories are better left to the early days of rain, paper boats instead of arks; raincoats instead of life jackets.  There is no room for ghosts in the storms, even if they love the clouds and puddles.

No room for ghosts here.

In which I learn how to Internet with Social Media

I came to a very important conclusion the other day. I want to self-publish. Maybe I'm lazy, or tired of waiting, or maybe my education in the Communication field has just made me that much more aware of the limits and difficulties of traditional publishing. Whatever the case, there are a few things I have to be aware of.

1) If you're going to self-publish, you can't self-edit. 

2) If you're going to self-publish, you need to be contract smart.

3) If you're going to self-publish, you're going to self-market.

Hiring an editor takes money and a complete manuscript that you're relatively happy with. Okay, I can deal with that. My manuscript isn't close to being ready, ergo I have lots of time to raise the pennies (oh for the day when some young Canadian asks me what a penny is...) needed for hiring an editor. 

Contracts are another matter, and it always helps to have someone in the industry you can turn to who can break down the complicated rhetoric that can appear in various contracts.

But Social Media, oh, Social Media. My Kingdom for a witty tweet! To Facebook or not to Facebook? If Tumblr be the food of success, then subscribe on! And so on and so forth.

There is no denying it, without a strong social media presence, a self-published author is probably hooped. Sites like Youtube give professionals and amateurs alike the opportunity to speak directly to the audience. Twitter forces you to capture and contain your audience in 140 characters. Tumblr does... tumbling I assume. I'm not actually sure. Seems to me it's like a combination of all social media put together, plus a place where you can show comical pictures that you have drawn, such as a fancy giraffe trying to deal with the difficulties that arise with using an elevator. 

Then there is Instagram. You too can show off your latest meal with a sepia air about it! Does your friend duck face? Duck face them in walden! On the other hand, you can also get pictures of cats that like to stretch way too much.

Or maybe even that crazy beer/cider combo you had when you were out with your friends the other night!

Wow! I feel like I interact with myself on a whole new personal level to me! I must love hanging with my friends and taking pictures of my cat!  (Okay, yes, I do like taking pictures of the cat, but that's irrelevant.)

When it comes to Twitter, you can follow all the updates of your favorite people, and on the off-chance that they reply to you, suddenly you feel super special. Like the drink pictured above. Then you link your Twitter to your Facebook and hell, that just eliminates the whole Facebook step right there. And Apparently I can link my Tumblr (God dammit, 'Tumbler'. Why the hell did you leave out the 'e'? What was the point of that? Do you tumble less when it is spelled properly? Does the 'e' somehow slow down the rest of the tumbling? Tell me!)

The point is, when you become hooked into social media as a way to create an online presence for yourself, you can't half-ass it. So the Blogger posts will also get posted on Tumbler (I won't bow to your spelling mistakes.) But, Tumbler will get comical drawings, a more personal examination of my life. Because, you know, that is fascinating to everyone around me. 

So you want to self-publish and still make a bakwillion dollars? Social Media it up. Tweet your Facebook status updates on Tumblr, then blog about the results and do a video response on Youtube. Then take a picture of your dinner and post it on Instagram. There will always be people wanting to see what you're eating for dinner.

Always.

In which the Wordy Writer is a bit of a moron

I've loved writing since I was eleven years old. There's no accounting for it really. It just gave me something to do. Now, despite that, and high English grades in middle- and high-school, I still don't know the basics.  Periods? I can handle that. Commas? Sure, why not. I can even rock a semi-colon or two.

So how, how did I miss the lecture on Point of View? Or, I don't know, dialogue tags? I'm sure I wasn't sleeping during that class (granted, I was actually probably trying to finish the daily crossword puzzle before my English teacher because, hey, that's what we did. Everyone else reads for thirty minutes. We did crossword challenges.)

Now, fortunately for me once these little issues are brought to my attention, it becomes a quick fix to ensure that they aren't repeated. But still, don't I feel like a ding-dong? It's intimidating, to say the least, to look over my writing and then consider how many conferences and classes various acquaintances have taken, helping them master these little issues throughout the years. Then there's me. I can put words in a sentence! Look! I made you a macaroni picture of my dog! Put it up on the fridge! Love it!

Okay, I have a measure of incompetence in this, I'll admit that. Did I pay attention to verbs and nouns and pronouns? Pft, no, I bullshitted my way through that. Let me tell you, if it's not a person, a place, or a thing, I'll never be able to figure it out. So yes, perhaps the technical aspects of writing continue to elude me (dialogue tags. Dialogue tags.) But with all things, such as mentally reminding yourself that 'because' is Baby-Eats-Candy-Apples-Until-She-Explodes and 'it's = it is', it becomes a matter of memorization and application. I think. I hope.

It's always a little depressing to realize that you've been creating what is, arguably, a simple mistake for so long.

But there is always a silver lining to any story, a redemption for our protagonist, who needs it at this point, let me tell you.

You see, while I take part in writing forums and communities and read blog posts and try to take away as much as I can from them, there is one things about myself that I can't get over. I don't get stuck. Or at least, I haven't so far. Every once in a while there will be a comment. Help, I am at this point and it could go like this or this and I don't know what to do. Or I hate my story, I want to stop, what do I do?

I love my story. I know which way to go. I've got a map that's revealing itself to me as I go. Maybe I don't know what step I'll take in two weeks, but the minute I get there, I'll know what I need to do. It's not meant to be a gloat (although I am proud of what I have created and how intricate it is in my mind.) It's just pure, damn luck that, while not necessarily technically-wise, at least I've got a bit of a creative leg up (maybe? Who knows. I don't. Whatever, man. I don't even...)