It happens maybe twice a year.

Kathy thinks the pregnancy of Bristol Palin makes the Palin’s look low class. I know where she’s coming from. Kathy’s family background is very similar to mine. My family was rife with unplanned pregnancies. Some led to adoptions. Some led to tacky welfare families. None led to abortions (to my knowledge).

Like Kathy, my family wasn’t wealthy. They weren’t even middle class. They were poor. I think had they been of the middle and upper classes, they could have supported unplanned babies. It would have been a lot easier to have them enveloped into a tighter-knit family, as opposed to a squabbling one.

I would rather see Bristol Palin pregnant, about to be married to the father, than see a poor teen whose mom is already on welfare bringing another baby into the mix. Which was why so many of my aunties gave their babies up for adoption. In fact, as it turned out through a stroke of fate, so did my own mother. Somewhere out in the great big world, I have a half sister. My mother was broke as broke could be, working a factory job, and didn’t want to have her baby in that life. She saved that for later on, when she was married and settled. That was her choice. This is Bristol’s. At least she has a strong family and a few $$ behind her to help the young couple along. We should all be so lucky.

This is my last weekend at Argghhh! and it rather saddens me. I’m sad that this is my last Saturday. I’m sad that Wednesday will be my last market day. Can’t believe how quick these five weeks have gone by. Markets, goat wrastling, tons and tons of feces, baby chicks (including one we couldn’t save)… I have adapted to this life with ease. I love it here, and when I think of the dreadful Toronto subway, I cringe knowing I have to go back. Today we had “traffic”, a tractor in the middle of the road… Not like the 5 million people in the Greater Toronto Area! Yes, I like pedicures, but I really prefer straw and chicken feed. Who knew?

The sky, my room, my legs beneath the covers… everything is silver. It reminds me of the nights at the Cottage, sleeping in the upstairs room - the one with the pineapple bed - the moon shining in through the window. This place is like that, with its dark sky showing everything that shines within it.

A feathered hat.

A goat in a tree.

A slutty conversation with an ex-boss.

An angry conversation with an ex-boyfriend.

Cousins falling out of the woodwork like termites.

An 8lb dog chasing an 80lb dog.

Omar Sharif.

Getting into a leaky boat.

Some of these things happened yesterday, some were part of a mashup of dream sequences last night. Even I’m not sure which was which at this point!

Being here in rural Kansas, America’s heartland, has stirred up a lot of emotions for me.

Childhood crap: 1) My mother’s home in the backwoods of New Brunswick. I was never close with her family, and did my best as I grew to distance myself from them. They shamed me, for reasons I still can’t make clear. The women shamed me the most - they were low and common. They had terrible taste in spouses. They made me feel dirty, just for being related to them. Yet, still I was drawn to the place. I’m sure that if the situation were different, family-wise, I would have spent a lot more time there. Perhaps I would even make my home there. I was drawn to the serenity, and to a calling from the soil itself - much like I was with my long lost Cottage. This farm, this expanse of nothing and no one, for mile upon mile, is what I sought in those backwoods. 2) As most of you know, I thought was American till I was 5 years old. My father burst that bubble on the day of Reagan’s inauguration, when he explained that Canada was not only not a State - it was a whole separate country! I have felt robbed of a birthright ever since.

The Heather Years: And the family that wasn’t really mine. I was treated like one of their own, right up until… I wasn’t. Some things can’t be forgiven I suppose. Nor forgotten, in my case. Grudges get held on all sides, and they create walls that can never be broken. Walls that will live on in history, like the one in China. Just a part of the landscape, visible on Google Earth. I see a lot of similarities here at Argghhh!, and I wonder if perhaps it’s a chance to do it right this time. Or maybe it’s just another broken heart on the distant horizon. I hope not. I’ve lost far too much family as it is. I’ve been orphaned on more than one occasion, as impossible as that may seem.

Path of Thorns: Once upon a time, some words were said. Some sentiments exchanged. And some promises got broken. Many of those promises revolved around this very place, here in the heartland. A great place to raise a family that will never exist. And as I pass the little roadside churches and see the families at the market, it strikes me once more how faith in another human being will always lead to disappointment - faith exists for God alone. Two days ago I sat in a restaurant, forcing myself to swallow the food that had become stuck in my throat as I watched a man in uniform escort his wife and daughter out of the establishment. Her curls - it hurt to look at them. It was all I could do not to cry in front of Beth, who insists I’ve already cried enough. I know she’s right. Instead the goats saw me cry! They probably won’t tell… I hope.

This place is bittersweet, as most things are that one puts one’s heart into. Life is an imperfect adventure. I am trying to live every joyful moment and every heartbreak to the very fullest. When my time here ends - both in Kansas and on earth - I will leave behind some great stories and many clever anecdotes. People will know I have been here. And maybe, they will remember that I cried a little, too.

It’s rather a pity that Fox already made a show about a bored city girl and her Chihuahua heading off to frolic uselessly on a farm while trying desperately not to break a nail. If Fox hadn’t already done this, I swear I would be pitching the idea to them. You see, on Tuesday I will be heading down to Kansas, to stay at Castle Arrgghhh! with Beth and John Donovan. And my little dog, too! Beth has been kind enough to offer me her spare room in exchange for indentured servitude - I will be her White Mexican at the farm. Maybe I’ll start a trend of white, English-speaking “Mexicans” who don’t steal the silverware - everyone will want one!

I imagine my main tasks will include getting dirty, dealing with all things related to poop, and picking ticks out of my dog. And possibly out of her dogs, too. For all I know it will turn into some sort of Marilyn “Simian Rights Now!” Churley fantasy with all of us picking ticks out of each other! So long as John is making his world-famous margaritas, I really won’t complain! I suppose the hardest part will be having to wake before I normally go to bed. Farm life is well beyond the comprehension of this city slicker. Hence the Paris comparison.

In all reality, it’s not indentured servitude. As you all know, June was an ass-kicker of a month for me, rendering me crippled with debt and personal loss. I have had to downsize my life considerably, though I have also made wonderful contacts and picked up plenty of writing work as a result. Thanks! There was originally a plan in place for me to spend the first week of August with Beth, but due to circumstances, I felt there was no harm - in fact there was much benefit to be had - in spending more time far from the filth and din of the city. I’m using this as an opportunity to escape, yet still get things accomplished. I have a stack of assignments to take with me, which means I’ll have a bit of an income while I’m there. My body looks forward to the opportunity of heavy farm work - it’s like the gym, but with added Vitamin D! So with the Donovans’ blessing, I am taking over the spare room for five weeks. Yup - five weeks!

On Tuesday morning I will pack up the freshly-immunized Bug and board a plane to Kansas City. Back in the old days, before air travel was the norm, I guess I would have had to click my heels and hope for the best.

Fear not, readers and listeners, for the hot pink laptop (which matches my boots) will be accompanying me, meaning Girl on the Right and Brass Balls Radio will continue live on location in Kansas. You’ll get to hear all about my exploits in rural farming, and with any luck, Beth will take a video or two to prove my ineptitude, which will be posted for your delight and delectation. I see disaster involving goats… and my poor little Bug being beat up by chickens. Then of course, there is John’s significant gun collection. Well, it’s more of an arsenal, actually! I’m looking forward to more lessons from him. He’s a great teacher, and will tell you the whole history of the gun, where it was used, and who he bought it from. Stay tuned!

This time last year I was just getting back to Toronto from my brief, refreshing stay at [UNDISCLOSED]. I had taken some time out to sit on the beach and figure things out.

It was on that trip that I decided to make sweeping changes in my life, including in my marriage and career. None of the changes I made though have worked out for the better. Not yet, anyway. I still hold out hope.

Today is moving day. I continue to make sweeping changes. Some of them look like steps backward, but as M says, it’s all about laying the foundation for later on. Though many days I just want to declare EPIC FAIL, it’s people like M who keep reminding me that I have actually come a long way, baby. None of the Wendys I’ve been over the years have been borne of an easy labor. Why should this one be any different? And like labor, when it’s over, you forget the very worst of it, or else you’d never be willing to go through it again.

Ok, last minute packing before the movers get here. Catch ya on the flip side.

…I hate packing. And packing is exactly what I should be doing right now. Tomorrow will be my 29th move. Twenty-nine! Good Lord, I’m only 31 years old!

You would think that by now I would be able to pack in my sleep. Instead, I actually do neither - pack not sleep.

If you were good caring readers, you’d send me emails kicking my ass into gear to finish what has to be done by 8 tomorrow morning…

A wonderful gift to perk up my spirits. Thanks.

It is very rare that I ask people - even close friends - for help. And when I do, it is because I have hit rock bottom. Last week was that bottom. Last week I was showered by God’s Holy Dysentery™, and I wasn’t really sure how I was going to get through it. The week started with an eviction notice, and ended with finding out that my baby factory is permanently closed.

While there is nothing earthly that any of you can do about the latter, I really want to thank you for assisting me with the former. My streetcar definitely derailed last week, and thanks to the kindness of strangers, you got me back on track. I cannot email you all - I would spend more time doing that than I would working or looking for work. And so I will use this space - my space - to thank you all for your kindness, your generosity, and your faith in me.

In turn, you have somewhat restored my faith in humanity. Only somewhat, though. If it was whole hog, I’d have nothing to blog about, would I?

Elizabeth Kyle, you beautiful child, with your bright blue eyes and your light brown curls. I never got to hold you; you were never even a little fish swimming the sea inside me. But I knew you. I knew your laugh. I knew the smirk upon your lips - you got that from your Daddy. I carried your image in my heart with me every day. I probably still will.

Elizabeth Kyle, in your daddy’s arms, controlling his heart. Four blue eyes radiating such intense devotion to each other. His happy, healthy Angel - I promised him that. An outsider in your circle, I just looked on. I love you both so much. A little princess, in a dirty party dress, playing with the puppy in the backyard, tiara askew. Skinned knees and loose teeth. Bad dreams and cute jokes. Knock knock. Who’s there? It’s me, Mommy. I love you. I love you, too, sweetheart.

Elizabeth Kyle, getting picked on in the school yard by some bully who pulled your curls. Don’t worry baby - that’s why you have a big brother. He’ll take care of that little problem. Don’t be scared.

Don’t cry Mommy. I can’t help it. How come you’re crying? Because I lost my beautiful baby today, honey. I knew you, Elizabeth Kyle. I can see your face before me. I loved you with my last breath, as I loved your father and brother. I never got to touch those curls, but I knew their scent. I knew the soft skin and peach fuzz on your tanned arms. You tan like your father, you know. I just burn. But be careful, my little Coppertone girl. Here, put on a hat. I knew the feel of your skin, though I never got to touch it. I knew your stubborn chin - all that Irish in you. I never taught you to count. I never taught your ABC’s. There were no bedtime stories from Daddy, where he mimicked all the voices of the animals in the forest. There never will be.

That’s why I’m crying, Elizabeth Kyle. Because you will only ever live in my heart. And eventually, even your memory will fade. This too, shall pass. The aching inside me, that place where you will never be… it will let me go.

And I must let you go, Elizabeth Kyle. But wherever you go, know that you were loved.

I need help. For any of you who know me in “meatspace” - real life - you know how hard it is for me to say those words.

I lost my job about two months ago. It was a new job, not the one I had toiled in for the last three years. It looked promising. Instead, I found out that there were no clients, no work, and no money beyond the few months I was employed. When they told me they were letting me go, I remember thinking to myself “How did I let myself get here? I would never have chosen a partner in my personal life after only one date (interview), so why did I do it in my career?” It was a stupid move, and I blamed myself for being frivolous. I just needed a change. Something new.

By the end of 2007, I had changed my location, my marital status (yes, there are things I don’t blog about), I began to change my body, and so I wanted to change my career, too. Make a fresh start. Unfortunately, I am now without means. Totally flat broke. A little advertising here on GOTR, and some temp work, but it’s not paying the bills. Any bills. And the rent is well past due.

You know that I don’t normally ask for money for myself, unless you can benefit from it, i.e. sending me to CPAC or whatever else may be blog related. This isn’t blog-related. This is life or death. I need your help. Most cardboard boxes don’t have highspeed, so if you want to think of it as contributing to the blog, that’s fine. That would sit better with my stiff-necked pride, anyway!

The PayPal button is to your right. And thank you.

I used to be strongly anti-child. Mr. Right and I were happy to be DINKS. My mother was from a huge family (really, whatever number you’re imagining, her family was bigger than that), and so chose to have only one child. Both my parents are dead now, so I have no familial pressure to provide grandchildren.

But then last year, the clock began to tick. And tick. And it hasn’t ceased. I thought it was a phase that would pass; that I could just ignore it. That isn’t going to happen. There will be little Rights running around in the next few years, guaranteed.

I love the way his head nestles in the crook of my neck. I love the way his face falls into a mask of eager concentration when I help him learn the alphabet. But most of all, I simply love hearing his little voice calling: ‘Mummy, Mummy.’

It reminds me of just how blessed I am. The truth is that I very nearly missed out on becoming a mother - thanks to being brought up by a rabid feminist who thought motherhood was about the worst thing that could happen to a woman.

You see, my mum taught me that children enslave women. I grew up believing that children are millstones around your neck, and the idea that motherhood can make you blissfully happy is a complete fairytale.

In fact, having a child has been the most rewarding experience of my life. Far from ‘enslaving’ me, three-and-a-half-year-old Tenzin has opened my world. My only regret is that I discovered the joys of motherhood so late - I have been trying for a second child for two years, but so far with no luck.

Alice Walker was - and still is - a man-hating feminist who raised her child, Rebecca, in her madness. In fact, when Rebecca announced she was pregnant, her mother disowned her.

I have a feeling this is going to be a very exhausting and frustrating book to read, but there are still many emotional walls I need to break down before I consider bringing a child into my life.

It’s been a long time since I last wrote about my mother’s illness. I really didn’t see the need to make my friends and readers worried with the bad news I got a while ago, and therefore I didn’t publish any thing further. It was kind of a fear that I have had to overcome to be able to disclose this thing with any one. Unfortunately, my beloved mom is now dealing with Cancer and though some gains have been made, the huge costs of medical care and other stuff have been a huge burden on her and family. Moreover, it has been really hard for me to deal with this issue and cope with the bad news. I’d like her to be able to come here (or the US) for medical treatment and we’d like to see if we can raise enough money to do that… Plus if you’re a medical doctor and you’d like to help us, you can write me here and leave me a confidential comment with your contact details and I’ll get in touch with you as soon as possible. Any help you can provide is greatly appreciated.

Winston honey, I’m sorry. I haven’t two nickels to rub together or I would help. I really can’t. But maybe some of my readers (who are in a better position than I) can give you a hand. I lost my mother when I was half your age. I was lucky enough to be by her side. I know that you cannot return to Iran, or we will lose you, too.

My prayers are with you and your family. It’s all I can give you now.

Ten years ago I woke up to my clock radio playing Frank Sinatra. A little odd for a Top 40 station… It seemed that Mr. Sinatra had died in Los Angeles. As a huge fan, I was devastated. It hurt all the more because his death came on the 7th anniversary of my own mother’s death.

I saw this article in the Daily Mail, and it gave me flashbacks.

One secretary, Jackie Roberts, 21, of St Albans, Hertfordshire, said: “My boss is pretty good really, but he does sometimes get me to do silly things.

“Last week he got me to valet his car and then he asked me to peel an apple for him because he doesn’t like the skin.”

Another secretary, from Canterbury, said: “My boss once got me to choose a new rap CD for his son - and another time I had to go on Google to find the best way to get red wine out of a carpet.”

An employment agency manager in the town said: “Some bosses seem to have a never-ending supply of stupid jobs that have nothing to do with the office.”

One in ten secretaries surveyed admitted their paid worktime had been spent fibbing to bosses’ spouses about their whereabouts.

Other tasks included organising a 16th birthday party for a boss’s daughter, surfing a dating website to look for a suitable partner and checking for a favourite team’s football score.

In my neck of the woods, it was buying long underwear for a ski trip, talking to the insurance company about medical problems while pretending to be my boss, finding not one but five different furnished apartments over the years, and helping her move. On a workday. Using company boxes. All this in addition to being an incredible on-the-job performer, and being taken entirely for granted.

Moving swiftly along …

I read this excellent article yesterday in the G&M, which gave me a sense of validation as I looked back on a very unhappy childhood.

Was I abused? No. Was I bullied? No more than the next kid. So what was it? I was afraid.

In the waiting room at the anxiety clinic at Montreal Children’s Hospital, Cory cheerfully draws, hums and skips like any other preschooler.

But when he is led into an observation room and spots 10 strangers - a team of doctors, medical students and therapists here to assess him - he squeezes his eyes shut and ducks behind his mother, pressing his face into her back.

“It’s the beginning of, hopefully, treatment,” says veteran child psychiatrist Klaus Minde, the clinic’s director who will assess Cory and attempt to treat him with some combination of medication, therapy and family counselling. It’s help the Merciers have been seeking for almost two years.

I remember the child psychologists, the school counsellors, and the bloody art therapy. I remember the days when no amount of cajoling, threatening or even striking me would get me to leave the house. My mother the housewife would call my father to come home from work - that was the big threat. Ooohhh, was I gonna get the belt? Frankly, I didn’t care if I did. Beat the shit out of me if you want to, but don’t make me go out there, into the world.

Some can’t sleep because they are tormented by phobias. Others are carefree kids at home, but are mute outside it - too afraid to speak to teachers, other children, even grandparents.

By the time they arrive at his clinic, many will have already been “through the mill,” as Dr. Minde described it in Cory’s case -cycling through family doctors, pediatricians, psychologists and social workers in a quest for the proper diagnosis and treatment.

Assessing whether a child has an anxiety disorder is often more art than science, with professionals relying on observations, clinical guidelines and interviews with parents and caretakers to try to distinguish odd or difficult youngsters from those with debilitating problems.

The Merciers began their quest for answers the summer Cory turned 3. He had been in daycare almost a year when his caretaker revealed that he never spoke while in her care.

Then came the crippling fear. “He’s even thrown up before daycare because he doesn’t want to go,” Ms. Mercier said.

Yes, I’ve been there, too. Throwing up on the bus almost every day only made them give me Pepto every morning. My murky pink breakfast. It was horrible.

As I grew from a child into a tween into an adolescent, the problem didn’t go away. It just changed. It became something different. Instead of shyness, it was anger. Instead of fear, it became wrath. There were more and more counselors and shrinks, especially when my mother was sick and dying. Mercifully, there was no more art therapy!

But once she was gone, we stopped. It wasn’t helping. My father and I just kept the struggle to ourselves. So if I didn’t leave the house for 5 or 6 months, that was nobody’s business but ours. He helped me keep my secret, even though we didn’t know what to call it.

Things may not have to play out that way for Cory and his family. He will have something important that I did not: He will have someone telling him he’s not the only one. It’s a stupid chemical imbalance, and it really can be treated. Maybe not during the developmental phases - hormones can really mess with the best intentions - but eventually.

I grew up with a secret, because we didn’t want to tell others. We kept it to ourselves. Other families did the same. We were all individuals. I know now that we weren’t, and we didn’t have to be. Cory will grow up with others who actually understand what he’s going through.