Win Ben Stein's Food Stamps

Bitter? Comin' atcha.
So, some of you know a little about me, and for those who don't, feel privileged. I am not only a single mother of two, not only a volunteer in a children's drop-in center, umm.. not only a photographer and a research assistant, but I am also a full-time university student. This September is my fourth year, slated to graduate with an Honours Specialization in English Literature in June 2009.
This year is also my sixth consecutive year in post-secondary education, because I went to college for Early Childhood Education first.
Which means? Also my sixth year receiving OSAP - a Canadian program which loans people like me large amounts of money to complete my education. Its safe to say at this point, I've borrowed somewhere around the amount of $95,000. Yep. Count those zeros. Thanks to the grant program, my debts are reduced to a mere drop in the bucket, and I only owe my firstborn about half that.
But I digress.
Today? I'm UBER-pissed at the system.
As if it isn't bad enough to discourage single moms to get better educations, and therefore better jobs (in turn stimulating the economy and decreasing the strain on social programs); these wonderful women leaving the academic life with the equivalent of mortgages, but now - they are going to make me jump through hoops.
In July, I submitted EVERY form the government required, including proof of child support and child tax benefits (because, and I quote: We feel your annual income isn't enough to live on - isn't that ironic). I triple-checked, cause the government can be a bitch a stickler sometimes, and felt confident that my loan should arrive in early September as usual. Ha! Isn't complacency dangerous??
In mid-August, I got an email telling me that I didn't submit everything they needed (despite the assurances of my OSAP account online) and needed more. Which? I submitted. Four. Weeks. Ago. Today, I checked my account.. and? Still on hold.
While other students have now adjudicated their loans, and awaiting first payment of their monies at the end of this week, I am still frozen in the process somewhere.
With NO END in sight.
Today, I went to Financial Aid to request a contingency loan. For things like, I dunno, bills, textbooks, groceries... yanno. Ironically (this is becoming a theme here), despite the fact that I am a sole support parent for two young children (read: our roof is important to us), I am not eligible for any financial support until my loans are released. HUH?
Their solution?
"We'd be happy to provide you with food stamps until that time."
I repeat: HUH?!?!

Since when do food stamps pay the rent? And, why do I need to suffer that humiliation because the government hasn't yet fulfilled their obligations? UM, hello? Mister Prime Minister??

Fly

Sometimes I feel invisible, transparent.. non-existant.
Other times, I feel so full you realize me.
My charms wear off you in seconds, no matter what spell
I cast; for me there are no profits.
I know your fingers are still charred and black from
the fire that engulfed you.
The memory of that agony makes you over analytical.
Your mood changes in minutes and so do your thoughts and
reactions, so that sometimes,I feel my head is spinning.
But--I live for the days the sunshine is reflected in
your eyes, your smile so bright it warms my uncertainty
and helplessness.
I long for the nights of music and comfort with the ease
of communication spilling from your lips.
How, I wonder, can someone exist in such hot and cold
landscapes, each page swept away by the wind, never one
nailed down...how do I get a grasp on you?
I'm left feeling unresolved and invisible in the tornado
of change, emotions whipping my hair wildly, words
stinging my cheeks.
How do I get home if my ruby slippers are powerless??

DAG.

Climb

Way down deep, tasting the earthy smell of despair, I called for help.
"No," he said.
In the dark, suffocating on the past, I called again. Find somebody to help me.
"No," he said. "You don't know everything."
Swirling in the depths of terror I cry. Muddy tears mingle with lost opportunity and threaten to drown me.
"Every day for one year," he began, "if you've proven you're worthy, I will toss you one brick."
Crumpling down, bathed in the sweat of nightmares, I listen.
His voice booms. "Each brick is a step, one step closer to feeling the sunshine warm your frigid bones, kiss your skin, thaw your heart."

Grinding the remnants of lost childhood castles from my eyes, I set about my task. Each day bringing a new challenge. Some days I add a brick to the mud, digging out old roots of me and creating a new path. On others, he steals those little pebbles, in hate, in punishment, in spite.
Finally, I emerge, squinting in the sun, broken fingernails caked in the dirt that was my old. I long for the breeze to chase away the gooseflesh, the sun to envelop me while the darkness of my soul slithers away. He's not here. He watched me struggle, and laughed as I stumbled. Rain. Washing clean the stains in my eyes. Cold droplets fall around, but all miss me. I'm invisible. Longing to feel the fresh - the real - along my feverish skin. Desperate to be solid. Its a cruel, cruel joke. Startled, I turn up my head. Through slitted eyes, stained and swollen, I see a ring of light. My wall is still standing, with just this one brick. His voice always mocking me. Climb.

I Enjoy Being a Girl

This morning I was browsing Deviant Art when I came across PhineasPoe's journal. This? Is just one more reason why women rock.

ScienceDaily (Sep. 2, 2008) — Researchers in Canada report discovery of unusual proteins in a small group of Kenyan sex workers that appear to be associated with resistance to infection with HIV, the virus that causes AIDS. The vaginal fluids of the HIV-resistant women had higher levels of proteins with anti-viral and anti-inflammatory actions, discoveries that may lead to more effective vaccines and drug treatment options against this deadly disease.

See? We ladies always knew the Vag has magical powers. Now? Science will prove it!

The Lone Recycler

Two months ago I was standing on my balcony getting some fresh air. It was a hot and humid night, somewhere around 11 pm. As I stood there, gulping thick air and doing my best not to take on water, I heard some tinkling down below. When I peered over the edge, I saw him. A nondescript man standing in front of recycle row. The blue bins stood in a rigid line of opposition; lids open, they appeared ready for a war of epic proportions only Mel Gibson could win. BUT, I digress. At his feet was a large black duffel bag, flap laying open, exposing the underbelly of the operation. Then, he pounced.

Cans, paper and plastic flew from the bowels of the bin, bagged bits of yesterday destined to become this winter's gortex. Like a maniac, lacking only a rebel yell, the lone recycler dove in after his booty. At this point, I'm enthralled. Sad, aren't I? He violated bin after bin, disturbing carefully placed reusables in his quest. Periodically, he emerged, triumphant, running back to the duffel bag with one thing or another, until it was full. Spent, he carefully replaced each wayward item, grabbed his duffel bag and disappeared into the night.

Last month, I stood on the balcony once more. I think this time, I was attempting to escape the thick stuffy air from inside the apartment. As I stared up at the sky and cursed my existence waxed philosophical, I heard that familiar sound of displaced refuse. I quietly leaned forward again and peered down at recycle row. There he was again, the Lone Recycler, raping and pillaging this weeks discard. The duffel bag was barren, laying in wait for the bounty to come. As I watched disbelievingly, he dismantled the pile inside, neatly placing bags of recycled goods at his feet. Then, tilting the unsuspecting bin on its side, he crawled inside. As I shivered in repulsion, he scratched and clawed his way to the bottom, then popped out, triumphant, and added his find to the waiting bag. Once all eight bins had been treated, he once more picked up the bag and faded into the night.

Tonight, I stood on the balcony just because random things seem to happen when I'm out there. And then, the tell-tale tinkling began. I looked down to see the Lone Recycler, clad in board shorts, mid-calf rise work boots and a parka. Yes, I am aware I live in Canada. But a parka? It's 30 degrees out there! Full winter regalia, hood up to shield his identity, he began his routine once more. Giggling under my breath I watched him dig, set aside, replace and resume, running back and forth to his duffel bag sidekick, resuming their quest to take over the the earth. Kickin' it Green-style.

Is it wrong that I desperately desire to dump spaghetti sauce inside the bin? Will he pull out protective gear? A haz-mat suit? I'm dying to know. I keep popping out on the balcony, hoping to catch him in the act. Each time it gets crazier and crazier. I want to know what he covets! What does he fill that bag with? What is it, on the eve of the recycling day, that he cannot let go?

Sugarpants, you may be in the country, but crazy beats hick any day. Who knows... maybe next month I'll join the hunt for a green tomorrow. Parka and all.