Your Argument is Invalid

I was on Facebook the other day (five times that day and every day since, damn addiction) and a friend had shared a picture from the I Fucking Love Atheism page. The picture was of a Bible (ha! Blogger so generously capitalized 'Bible' for me (it was actually Android that capitalized it, as I started this post on my phone and finished it on my desktop. Hmm, very interesting. Or not. Whatevs!)) and a Spiderman comic. Beneath the Bible is an arrow pointing to the book and a line of text that reads "proof that God exists" and beneath the comic the same arrow and text that says "proof that Spiderman exists". Above both it says "Your logic is flawed". Or something similar. I don't remember exactly, it was a couple of days ago and Blogger didn't like the picture format and I can't find the damn picture on the Internet.

Normally, I agree with the things on the I Fucking Love Atheism page. Not always, of course. And this is one of those times.

Before I gave up on religion, the belief in God, spirituality, the whole bag, I tried very hard to hold onto the things I had been taught were true as a child. I read the Bible. That did nothing to secure my beliefs, in fact it raised more doubts. I tried praying but felt increasingly silly. I spoke to various believers including Men of the Cloth.

I know there are zealots out there who believe the existence of a higher being is proved by every flower that ever grew, every animal that ever lived, every child ever born. But they're zealots and even their fellow believers often give them a wide berth. Then there are those that have never even thought about it and when you ask them, they repeat the well rehearsed script they've used since time out of mind and their father spouted and their eight-times-great-grandfather penned. Because they were all told to believe, the notion to question never occurred. Mix a little mean in with some of them and you end up with a very dangerous sort of individual. The sort that'll strap a bomb to his own chest and happily light the fuse in the midst of a crowd of stockbrokers. All the while believing he is right and just.

But they are few and far between. One bad apple and all that. It's unfortunate that all believers are painted with the same brush.

It's been my experience, in the circles that I travel, that modern believers believe the Bible to be nothing more than a book of fables meant to guide. Not the actual word of God. They accept it's a book written by man and is not without fault. In fact, I don't think anyone I know has ever offered the Bible as proof there is a God.

I think the answer most often given, the one that resonated most with me, is faith. There isn't anything on earth with the express purpose of proving there is a God. Believers don't need proof, they have faith. If their faith is ever questioned, they either resolve it within themselves or they don't. They don't need proof, they just believe. Against all odds, they do not doubt.

I don't know what the church's official position on the Bible is or whether they have one at all. I'm not overly concerned. I may not be nearly as well informed as I think I am. In fact, I may be way off my mark, the regular Joe may be very happy to point to proof around every corner for me. But the regular Joe is not the one I sought out for advice or an opinion. And the ones I did go to never felt it necessary to provide me with any proof or convince me of anything. I was simply told to have faith.

Sadly, it's something I just don't have. And yes, I do say "sadly". Religious folk seem genuinely at peace. Their faith that God has their back seems to relieve a good amount of tension. I know the arguments against faith, I have made many of them myself, but it doesn't change the envy I have for their apparent lack of inner turmoil.

I don't know if I've done a good job of making my point. Religion is such a touchy subject and I've tried not to tread on too many toes too hard because I appreciate how personal it is. I just didn't like the idea that anyone who believes is incapable of rational thought or applying logic. I found it offensive and felt the need to speak up despite my own beliefs. I'm sure I'll get raked over the coals and you know what? I don't mind at all. Perhaps I'll learn something. 

Checkin' In

I'm sick. The stomach flu made the rounds in my house last week and I dodged that bullet. One of co-workers had been feeling under the weather, sore throat, achey. Guess what I got? Blech!

We've been in Northern Alberta for 9 months. Seven of that it has been winter. I kid you not. I understand the rest of the country also suffers from a tardy spring but our winter started on Oct 10th. Yes, you read that right. When you're expecting amber leaves, crisp mornings, fog and golden sun, we got snow. A couple inches, if I remember correctly. It appears that the interim seasons -supposing and autumn - last one hot little minute. That's it. If I get my hands on my Mother Nature I'm gonna wring her little neck.

Well, that's it for tonight folks. I wanted to try blogging from my phone ( a first generation Galaxy Note) and it was surprisingly easy. But alas, my battery, it is dying! So I must away!

Sweet Dreams

I've told you that I recently began taking an anti-depressant/anxiety medication. I've struggled with both for the better part of my life. I had, for a long time, some semblance of control over it. But the last couple of years were particularly difficult and a move nearly clear across the country was the straw that broke the camel's back, I think. After sitting on my stairs, crying uncontrollably after an argument with my husband - not even a bad one- that was reasonably resolved, I thought perhaps it was time to talk to my doctor about medication. I talked to her about my previous coping methods, the stressful events in recent memory, the increasing number of panic attacks and my tendency toward rage and uncontrollable sobbing and she agreed. That was a lot of info leading up to the point of my post. A fun side effect of this particular medication is crazy dreams. And if dreams are your subconscious' way of cleaning house than mine is a dark and dirty little place.

Dystopia, torture, abandonment, power are all recurring themes. If my dreams are any inclination I have some serious issues. The shit happening behind the scenes is depressing! But don't get me wrong, even with such dismal themes, my dreams aren't all bad. I'm often in a position of some power or I'm self-reliant and successful. Others turn to me for support, protection or advice. Or I'm torturing people. Very satisfying, on occasion.

Then there are the rom-com dreams. These are the scariest of all and the ones I refuse to look at too closely. I'm afraid I'll discover I'm a pathetic, shallow shell of a woman whose every problem can be solved by the discovery and acquisition of a good-ish man. Gag.

And all of it happens in incredible, amazing, techno-colour, 1080p, hi-def detail. They are beautiful to watch.

Also, much to my displeasure, I am no longer a lucid dreamer. It's completely gone. I am still often aware that I am dreaming but helpless to control the turn of events. Which is really annoying. But I must admit that my subconscious is far more imaginative than my conscious. Fun fact: I Googled lucid dreaming to ensure I was using the correct term and there is a 16 step guide to lucid dreaming. I didn't read it. I may have to. I was under the impression this was something you can or can't do. It wasn't an acquired skill. It seems I was wrong and am but a how-to away from being in control once more.


Sometimes, the crazy dreams make for something less than a restful night and in the morning I`m often compelled to share the night's feature with the family (more than one interesting conversation has begun this way). My daughter, my musings biggest fan, insists I commit my dreams to paper. She knows my biggest wish to be a published writer and is always trying to get me to write. I adore her constant devotion and encouragement. And she's not wrong, a successful writer must do a lot of two things; read and write. One of which I do more than the other but not enough of both, really. Perhaps she's right and my dreams are the place to start. My muse in disguise? Perhaps. Stranger things have been known to happen.

Where Was I going With This?

It may be time to retire this here blog. I can't say I really want to, I don't. I love to write. I love the feedback in the comments. I love having a place on the internet to call my own. But a lot has happened and I wonder if trying to keep this up is beating a dead horse.

A few of the things on my mind:

1. Many of the thoughts I've had lately, that I've deemed worth sharing seem to fit perfectly into a Facebook status. Are my thoughts so shallow or have I weeded them out on my own or have I talked myself out of sharing the complexities of my deeper thoughts? Dunno. A little of everything, I think.

2. I am the queen of procrastination. I can procrastinate harder than the hardest and often do. Avoiding the important things with the mundane, pushing aside the things I wish to do in the name of the important stuff I'm avoiding. A guilt trip like no other. "I cannot blog if I have not studied, so I'll watch repeats of Storage Wars!"

3. I have developed an apathy I haven't fully defined. It doesn't seem to apply to any one thing in particular and never the same thing twice. So, today I may not give a fuck about world peace but tomorrow I'm the biggest advocate. While the book I couldn't put down yesterday holds no interest today. I've recently started taking an anti-depressant which has been a life-saver in so many ways. I had no idea how down I was before that precious little pill but I can't help but wonder if this is a nasty little side effect. I'm working on how I'll overcome.

Like I said, I'm undecided. I like it here and writing tonight felt good. I don't think I'm ready to let it go just yet. We'll see.

Change Is In The Air

Well, Hello there! I have missed you. Now is not the most opportune time to begin blogging again but I have the need. Mine has been a crazy life for the past year or so and it isn't likely to calm down anytime soon. Writing, however, is cathartic. And I need something, anything to clear my head space.

So, here I am.

There is so much I want to tell you. So many opinions to share, good and bad ones. So many stories. I've bottled it all up just for you. But there is no time. None. And I'll tell you why.

Right now there are boxes piled around me. My belongings, hastily wrapped by two young men with no affection whatsoever. A military move feels like that. Strangers come in and wrap everything in paper and pack it in boxes. Everything. If you aren't careful, the overly-efficient (or unbelievably careless, you decide) movers will wrap your Fisher Price people. Or pack your garbage. In the can. I made sure my garbage was safely out of reach before they could get their hands on it. They've quit for the day, in fact, the two young men were here for a whopping two and a half hours before they bailed. To be fair, today is only the pre-pack. Non-essentials. Tomorrow there will be more packers and they'll mean business, anything not tied down will be fair game. I've put the things we need to take with us in the dining room in an obvious "not for packing" pile. I've stuck post-its on the things that stay with the house. The kids have been warned to stay out of arms reach and the animals are going to the kennel.

The Sprites are moving!

At the behest of the Canadian Military we are moving to a very North, semi-isolated posting, farther west than I have ever been. We are soon (so very soon) to become residents of the rodeo-ing, cowboy hat wearing, line dancing province of Alberta. Obviously, my knowledge of Alberta is lacking. I'm sure there's more to the province than cattle ranches. I'll let you know when we get there.

Our new house in Alberta is not as big as this one. Real estate is ridiculously expensive there so we've opted for military housing for a year or so. In an effort to make this house fit into that one (we've lost a garage and a couple hundred feet of living space), I have been throwing things out left and right. "I haven't seen that in months! What in the hell do I need it for? Filed under 'G'." And into the trash it goes. While cleaning out the bathroom my husband primarily uses, I came across a number of things that caused me to ask "What in the hell does he need that for?". Namely? 4 different electric razors. Knowing him as I do and being a good little wife,  I didn't dare throw anything out without discussing it with him first. So I called him in. One razor is brand new, a no brainer, so I didn't bother with that one. But the other 3 baffled me. Especially because I know he just bought one, so why have the others still. Well, one he will use when he travels. Ugh! But okay. One is busted. Alright, this is better, let's chuck it. The last one? The last one doesn't work here, in Canada, but works really well overseas. He's keeping it just in case he goes overseas. I'm trying to be fair so I should tell you that, as a military member is isn't impossible for him to travel overseas. But because he's a Sergeant and mostly sits at a desk now he is unlikely to travel. Let alone overseas*. But God Forbid he should find himself in a foreign hotel with a mediocre razor. Or on native soil but away from home with the same razor he would use at home**. For shame! How dare I even suggest such a thing?

Alright-y folks, duty calls. I have still more things to prepare before the packers get their paws on them. Wish me luck! Did I mention we're driving? Oh no? Oh yes! Five thousand kilometers, 10 days, in my tiny car and his jalopy. With two kids. You are envious, no?

* And now, he will be deployed to the other side of the planet for ridiculous length of time.
**Do you think his 3 razors are sufficient evidence of his excess when I buy another pair of shoes?

It's Not You, It's Me.

I know, I know. Y'all are miserable without my constant Internet presence and I continue to disappoint. Well, at least in that I am consistent. Please accept my sincerest of apologies.

There's been a lot going on round these parts. Most of it centers around my 15 year old daughter. I think when I told her the fucking world didn't revolve around her she took it as a challenge. And oh boy! did she rise to the occasion. But I ain't about to air that dirty laundry here.

Here's the Cole's Notes on the goings on of one Eyvi Sprite.

On Friday night I will participate in an all night walk to raise money for cancer. Me. The girl who routinely falls asleep at house parties at 11 pm. On the couch. In the middle of the party. The girl who falls asleep on her husbands first night home after a -insert appropriate time frame here- deployment. The girl who wanted to get a tattoo with Agent Blonde and then go bar hopping and then came home and promptly fell asleep half-way through beer number one (and had absolutely no problem whatsoever blaming the tattoo artist because he told AB she couldn't wear a bra). Oh yeah, all night walk was a brilliant idea! Jeebus! Just for the record; I can and have partied/stayed up all night. I am not a stick-in-the-mud! In fact, it's all part of my master plan. Make 'em believe I'm a wet blanket and then party like a rock star!

I've been bitten. I was warned. I never take these things seriously. Eyvi, of the addictive personality. I want another tattoo. Many more. I have wee bit of a problem though. I don't mind tattoos. Obviously. I'd be a mighty big hypocrite if I said I did. But I'm gonna go ahead and be a little bit of one anyway. I want to be able to hide my tattoos. If you've seen my tattoo, it's because I chose to share (please don't spout off about my FB/twitter pics, I reiterate - it was my first, it needed to be shared!). I know, I shouldn't really give a rat's ass what everyone else thinks and I don't. Like I told the Spinster at work (yeah, she deserves a title) when she asked me why I didn't get it where every one could see it, what was the point of getting a tattoo nobody could see? I told her I got it for me, because I loved it, not because I wanted everyone else to love it. That's why. If you are permanently marking your body with the hopes that everyone else is going to love it then you need to stop it. Now. The chief consideration in the placement of your 'tat' should not be the number of people that can see it. Sorry, I'm feeling ranty it seems. So this is my solution, I'm going to ink the crap outta my torso. When I run out of room, if I still have the fever I'll have to include appendages out of necessity. Works, right?

I've been reading, of course! When am I not? I've read Wuthering Heights, loved the prose, hated the actual story. I started a series based on a friend's recommendation, Bitten or Bound or some such by Kelly Armstrong. I'm reconsidering that friendship. I bought all four books in A Song of Ice and Fire for a wicked, awesome deal. I'm almost done the second book. They're good but I kind of don't like it when a book requires an index to keep all the freakin' characters straight (seriously, there is literally an index).

I've been watching teevee! Guess what I have been watching! Sons of Anarchy. If you haven't seen this show, you need to. Right now. Seriously. Go! It is full of awesome. Who knew Peggy Bundy could be oh so much more than a ditz? And the English kid that plays Jax? Mmmm mmm, good! Ron Perlman? I can't help it, if I close my eyes, he's Hellboy.

I quit smoking. Again. More on that when I feel like success is a reality instead of wishful thinking.

Finally ( I think. Honestly, I had a lot more to say than I thought I did, and y'all are hanging off my every word, aren't ya?), since I started my job a little more than a year ago, I've lost 40lbs. I haven't really made much of an effort, to be honest. I'm no longer sitting on my ass all day refreshing Pajiba and Crackbook, my job requires that I actually move, I was smoking half a pack a day and halfheartedly trying to eat well. Now that I've actually lost some, I want to lose more! About 40 more, maybe 50. That may be a bit too much though. If I lose 50lbs I may be all hands, knees, veins and ass. Not pretty, eh? I aiming for 40, see what it looks like when I get there. So here's my plan, I'm going to wholeheartedly try to eat well and exercise regularly. I started Saturday. I woke up, got in my gear and proceeded to do a half an hour of circuit training. It was awesome! By Saturday afternoon I was walking like a sixty year old. Sunday morning I crawled out of bed and nearly cried when I tried to sit on the toilet to pee, my thighs hurt so much. Not so fucking awesome. My ridiculously out of shape ass is not giving up though. I will reach and maintain a suitable weight. And when I do, I'm gonna get a tattoo to reward myself!

Nite folks!

Birthday Bash!

About 2 months before my birthday I realized I was having a hard time dealing with the fact that I was about to turn 33. As I've said before, 30 came and went and I was not phased. But random 33 had me freaking out. So many things I've yet to do! So much procrastination! Life was happening and I was not at the helm, I was a passive-aggressive passenger watching it fly by and the list of things I must accomplish had very few items checked off. I'm starting to loathe my self-appointed rule of Procrastination Island. I have begun to seriously contemplate abdicating the throne.

My husband told me about 6 weeks before D-Day that I should take the day after my birthday, a Friday, off. He was planning a surprise. Add the surprise to my early mid-life crisis and I start losing my shit (a drama queen too!). "A surprise!" You say. "Oh, Joy! Everyone loves surprises!" Not this girl. I'm a wee bit of a control freak so surprises aren't really my bag (I hate rainbows and unicorns too ( < --a lie)). And my imagination is on steroids. Tell me there is a surprise and I will work up to an unattainable crescendo and be disappointed with the actuality. I know, no one's fault but my own.

I spent the week of the surprise in a frenzy. I asked a bazillion questions. Is someone coming? Should I clean the clean you do when company's coming? Should I buy a new outfit? New shoes? Will there be a party? Do I need to pack? Will we need extra groceries? How much time do I have? WHAT IS GOING ON? My barrage of inquiries was such that I expected my husband's next response to be his rank and service number. But he did not break, the man is a vault. I intend to inform his boss that his talents are wasted as an airplane mechanic; our country's secrets should be entrusted to this man. And it's genetic! My daughter was in on the fun and equally elusive.

I vented to my cousin. I balked at the unfairness. My husband is well aware of my disdain for surprises and delights in my discomfort. My cousin sympathized, she too hates surprises. We listed all the things it could be. Was my sister coming? My Dad? I didn't even entertain the idea that it could be my cousin because her job security was in question at that particular moment and imagining her visiting cast a shadow over any other possibility. We began to concoct methods to discover the truth. Alas, my cousin is far sneakier than I and was willing to commit acts I was not (let's add wuss to the growing list of attributes). Do not underestimate the sneakiness, Sir! And so, I was still in the dark and worked up even more than before. The morning of my birthday arrived.

In anticipation of the impending event (which may or may not happen today. Grrr!) I wore real clothes to work instead of my usual uniform of scrubs (I'm allowed to wear either business casual or scrubs; usually a no brainer but there was the surprise to consider!). I spent the entire day with one half of my brain doing my job and the other alternating between allowing my imagination free reign and trying to suppress it. The effort was exhausting. During the drive home the division of my brain space changed in favour of the imagination game I had been playing all day and bare minimum attention was paid to the vehicle I was operating. I drove home, I know I did because I arrived. I just don't recall doing so. Now ask me what I imagined the surprise to be. And how hard I was squashing all the anticipation.

The walk from the garage to the back door is about 30 feet. To me, it felt like an eternity through the bowels of hell. I was so worried I was going to look into a window and see the object of the surprise and ruin the whole thing or I would be disappointed and do a horrific job of hiding my disappointment and crush my husband's heart. So I walked from the garage with my head down, eyes on my feet. I entered the house and announced my arrival, trying not to look around lest I spy some clue before the big reveal. I walked up the stairs, eyes on the stair in front me. Three steps from the top, I look up at my husband standing in the kitchen. He smiled the most infuriatingly smug smile and asked me how my day was. Fine, I said. Clipped and monotone. Because even still, knowing the surprise is about to come to pass, his smile says it all, I'm afraid to let annoyance or excitement have even a little ground or I may have lost my careful grip on the little control I did have at that point. He told me to follow him into the bedroom. I asked him why and he said to see the surprise. So, I followed him and half way down the hall he stopped and looked into our son's bedroom and made some nonsensical remark. I was about to ask him what the fuck and tell him to just get on with it already when I heard a voice behind me speak. I have no clue what the voice said because the words weren't important, it was the voice that was. My cousin! I screamed (literally) and did a little dance (one I do when I've been scared witless or when I've been incredibly surprised, apparently. Imagine Fred Flintstone's set up before he rolls the bowling ball, mix in a little spaz, some T-Rex and a hop and yeah). Then I ran over and we hugged and said something about how amazing this was and how surprised I was and then we hugged some more and maybe we even cried a little.

My 33rd birthday was perfect. A visit from my cousin, who will be known as Agent Blonde from here on out, was the best gift I could have gotten (even better than Jensen Ackles calling and leaving me a message, which he didn't do, by the way. Who was on that? You failed). And the quickest way to bring me out of my funk. We didn't do anything too crazy. We did a lot of talking, we ate, we drank, we listened to music. Oh and we got tattoos! Her fourth, my first. They're matching, cause we're nerds. But they sure are purdy!

Mr. Sprite and Agent Blonde are my favourite people. I'd like to give you both a heartfelt thanks for the best birthday ever. And a big sloppy smooch too!