Sunday, May 31, 2009

It happened. As I feared it would. I started writing out the post on my nifty version of associative thinking. It's like oatmeal people, it's better hot. I let it get cold. And while it held together well, it wasn't smooth. There was an internal dialogue between my whiner self and the bitch (another part of myself, I have many, we will all be well acquainted one day, promise). It was fairly awesome -you have no idea how hard it is for me to be conceited in this regard, but I figure if you fake confidence long enough it becomes natural- but it was the only portion of the whole thing I was impressed with and out of context it was useless. So, to the back burner it has been relegated, one day I may revisit it.

I have discovered a nasty little side effect of blogging. I feel obligated to post often. There are two reasons for this, 1)because I promised myself I would and if you can't keep a promise to yourself...yadda yadda and 2) because I wouldn't want to disappoint the people who read my blog. I started this blog so that I could flex my writer's muscle, which is more or less working, some days are better than others. I told a few people I know whose opinions I trust and asked them to read and give me feedback. Aside from incessantly harassing those whose opinions are most important, I also find my self obsessively hoping someone I don't know has commented . I view my own profile regularly to see how many visits I have had. I mention this only because I read a post this evening by a blogger I have kind of, sort of been following because I am impressed by her writing and she mentioned behaving in the same manner. I guess what I am trying to say is it's nice to know there are other bloggers who have the same need for validation, even those who have been at this longer. I don't feel quite as lame anymore. Aaaaand that's enough sharing.

Just in case you didn't come here tonight for Confessions with Eyvi, I will leave you with a poem I have written. First poem in a long time. Be gentle.

My Mind Mirrors The Aging Season

My thoughts, heavy and grey.
Dark, dreary, always falling.
I become introspective, fold in
Wrap myself in my imagination
My selfishness.
Reality is an intruder
A fact I cannot escape.
I dream and sleep becomes my salvation.
Like a drug that promises,
But only masks.
And it becomes harder.
Harder to face my unwelcomed guest,
To make my clean escape.
And I hate it, slumber and waking.
For false promises of freedom
For reminders of chains, anchors.
I embrace the anchors, the reminders
And find strength at the bottom of this body of water,
That caresses me, tempts me.
But there is always light behind the clouds.
And I hold my anchor, cling to it.
Praying the clouds in my mind, above the water,
Part before I have to draw breath again.

Wednesday, May 27, 2009

Do I think? I Think I Do.

A member of my extended family, once told me he believed the majority of the population doesn't think. A small percentage think they think and a smaller percentage still actually do. There were actual percentages quoted, I have forgotten them unfortunately but I am sure you get the gist. Alternatively, my husband believes there is no such thing as original thought. If that's so, doesn't that drop those poor buggers who're out there rackin' their brains into the group of "Think they're thinkin'" thinkers? This particular thought process is causing my brain to hold up it's hands, palms out, in an 'I am unarmed' gesture. I am too tired to even think about thinking I am thinking tonight. I've digressed here and you didn't even know it. I'm sorry. I don't want you to leave me tonight with a 'What the...?' aftertaste.

I'll try to keep this short. Just a bit of an introduction to my version of associative thought, because I am tired and I can guarantee I will not be able to articulate my thoughts adequately.

I drove my daughter into the city on Sunday. She will be thirteen in about a week and seeing as we live just outside of Nowheresville, I thought it would be a treat to drive into the city and let her shop at the stores she rarely gets to shop at. So I am driving along at a good clip and in the space of 10 km I have to avoid the messy results of an unsuspecting raccoon and an unidentified animal trying to cross the highway sometime before I got there and not making it to the other side.

Riddle me this; Why did the raccoon cross the road? Because we put the fucking road in the way!

The wheels started turning folks, the cogs were.....well, whatever cogs do. I started thinking. Or did I? Just kidding! Anyway, for the rest of my drive I pondered the plague that is the human race and what we have done and continue to do to both our cohabitants and our habitat. Ladies and Gentlemen, I have solved all of our problems! I will cure famine! I can end global warming! The cure for the economy is within my grasp! I can and will prevent any future wars! I am all knowing! And what brought about my epiphany? My profound understanding of the queries the minds of men have struggled with? Why, Roadkill, of course.

No, I really don't have all of the answers. In fact, I have more questions now than before my roadkill catalyst. But they are questions I have never asked myself before. You know what happens when you start asking yourself questions you've never asked yourself before? You answer with thoughts and opinions or even more questions you didn't know you had. Here I sit, with thoughts and ideas I've never had floating around up there and the best way to work this shit out is to put it to paper. But now my brain is dragging out the white flag and waving it, pleading me to give it a rest tonight. I'm trying to convince myself to keep going because I've been hanging on to this since Sunday and I don't want to lose it, even if the result is me looking like a big ol' hypocrite, then so be it, because the ride will be fun. It's gotta wait though, I just don't have the juice tonight. Tomorrow night, maybe. But for now, G'nite.

Thursday, May 21, 2009

Where The Music Takes Me.

Pajiba posted an article concerning the relationship between ones musical tastes and ones tendency toward racism, homophobia, age, etc. I began the article immediately infuriated by the ridiculousness of the idea. Because my musical collection does not contain a high enough number of artists of colour, or the majority of my selections are too 'white', could a person suppose I am racist? Balderdash (that word is fun, say it out loud, g'head, tell me you can do it without cracking a smile)! I am glad I continued reading though. A portion of the way through the comment thread the author of the article defended his position as tongue-in-cheek. Ok, I can understand that (I submit my blog title as evidence), but still, I call bad taste.

I started thinking about musical preferences and what they reveal of the listener (which may have been the real point of the article). Specifically, what does the music I listen to tell a friend or a colleague about me?

As with many children, I was influenced first by my parents selections. Essentially, my father held greatest sway over my ear. I cut my teeth on Dylan, The Stones, and The Beatles. I learned to walk to the likes of Hank Snow and Hank Williams Sr & Jr. I believed for an eternity that Joe Cocker's Beautiful was written just for me, my father sang it to me so often. I have made mud patties to a Led Zepplin soundtrack, my Barbies danced to the ballads of John Prine and David Alan Coe. I could sing verbatim: Alice's Restaurant, Freakin' at the Freakers Ball and Patricia the Stripper at far to young an age. School's Out For Summer was played at the end of nearly every school year when my Dad was there. I think I saw Good To See You Again before my tenth birthday. My favourite song of all time, hands down, second to none is Meatloaf's For Crying Out Loud.

My first album purchase was actually two: True Blue - Madonna, and Thriller - Michael Jackson. My Dad's heart may have died a little that day, but hey, I was testing the waters. Experimenting. I listened to pop for awhile, I thought Cyndi Lauper's style was rad! It didn't take me long to find my way back to something a little closer to home, although I hadn't strayed far in the first place. I was still listening to Dad's albums: CCR, The Steve Miller Band, Graham Parsons. The first two tapes I ever bought were Appetite for Destruction - Guns N Roses and Back in Black -AC/DC. I loved screaming lyrics and banging my head. My metalhead never fully matured though, Metallica was as hard as it got and only a few songs at that. I couldn't handle it, the likes of Iron Maiden, Megadeth, they scared me a little, they all seemed so angry. The music they made sounded like so much noise to me. But I revelled in the hair bands; Bon Jovi, Poison, Cinderella, Whitesnake, the list is so long. I dreamed like every other 12 year old girl and bands were pumping out anthems for my dreams like candy.

Around about '89 or '90 I got my hands on a tape. I don't remember where I found it, if it was given to me or by who. It was all rap and I loved it. I had no idea what it was because everyone I knew listened to hair bands, but it made both of my parents cringe and that made it a-okay in my books. I mostly can't remember what was on it exactly, some Ice-T (if you are under the age of, say 25, you may not know this but Ice-T was one of the O.G.'s and he was cool!), a little Public Enemy, maybe some NWA, and various other early thug types. What I do remember for certain was the song by Grand Master Flash and the Furious Five. I also remember thinking my parents wouldn't get my 'new' music, I remember thinking how archaic their tastes were. I was in my room listening to the song on my ghetto blaster, singin' along and my Dad walks in. "C'mere' he says, "I want to play something for you". I rolled my eyes and thought this was another desperate attempt to bring Daddy's Girl back to Daddy's music. But I was Daddy's Girl and couldn't say no, so I followed him to the living room and watched him put the vinyl disc on the turntable (so antiquated), then place the needle ever so gently at the beginning of the song he wanted. What happened? I got schooled, that's what happened. I got a whole silver platter full of my own smug handed right back to me. My Dad was playing Steppenwolf's Magic Carpet Ride. My new found rap stars had sampled, no, covered a Steppenwolf song! World's collided! I had thought I was blazin' a musical trail. I was going to be one of the first in my world to embrace rap. At the tender age of twelve I was certain my fathers music was dead (we should all reserve a little of that cocky, that absolute surety for later in life), I was assisting in the ushering in of a new age (yet, it never crossed my mind that my hair bands were trying to replicate the greatness of bands before them). I didn't realize it all at once but my father was the catalyst to the realization that the new music could not be without riding the coat tails a little of the music before them.

My tastes continued to evolve (or not, you decide). I spent 2 years listening to groups like Jodeci, Shai, Boyz II Men almost exclusively. I discovered the joys of reggae and my love for dancing (which I don't do well, but do anyway, much like my singing, come to think of it). My future husband introduced me to a little more of the 80's (what I hadn't heard while listening to my hair bands), I still didn't like much of it but I could stomach it. He dared me to listen to rap for a better reason than rebellion and I discovered intelligent lyricists. He challenged me with music in another language. I reeled at the idea at first. What was the point?! My deepest enjoyments in music often resulted from lyrics, rap was the only exception until my hubby. Honestly, the music could be all kinds of horrible, but if the lyrics caught my attention, I was hooked. So what was I supposed to do with something I had no way of understanding? Fall irrevocably in love with the feeling a song can summon. That's what. There aren't many, I still find it difficult to dig a song I can't understand, but if it gets it's hooks into me, I'm a goner. Alternatively, I taught him to get past Bob Dylan's drone and appreciate the poet (which he can do once in awhile). I have introduced him to Rock and Country songs he had never been in a position to hear or appreciate and he does (Mr. Sprite likes when his music elicits one of two reactions: happiness or hyperness, he hates all of the stuff that makes him angry and/or sad).

I learned to play the violin a little a few years ago and that experience taught me to appreciate a very small amount of Classical. Up until then, I found it insufferable. It's best quiet, in the background when the task at hand requires concentration. Blues also ranks high in the insufferable's (g'head, lynch me!), but there are exceptions to every rule. Except dance (house, techno, trance, whatever your brand of poison, it's all the same to me), dance makes me want to hurt the source. Really heavy metal (I don't even know what it's called anymore) makes my ears bleed. I try being more open, because I have discerned effects from music that I wouldn't traditionally listen to. Case in point: Men of the Deep, a group from Cape Breton who sing about mining. I don't like it all, but the harmony is beautiful and a friend is giving me a cd this weekend based entirley on the love of one Portishead song. It may be hit or miss but I think the hits will be hard ones.

So what does all of this say about me (besides that I enjoy talking about myself)? I've touched on the more frequently played portions of my rotation but the songs and bands mentioned above are by no means an exhaustive list. In fact, one could draw entirely different conclusions if you were to spy my differing play lists from one day to the next. Today my choices may include Neil Young and Allanis Morissette. You may say I am patriotic and outspoken. Tomorrow, Lupe Fiasco. They have little more in common then their joy in telling the industry they will not fit the mold. The next day, however, I may be listening to the top 40. Not exactly fighting the system. I don't stick to a particular era, I am just as likely to be caught belting out with Patsy Cline as Beyonce. I don't prefer black to white or vice versa, but the representation of the world population is thin. I'm not trying to make a statement, my ear candy may be political right now and ridiculous later. I cannot be defined by genre, I am genre-less.

I will however tell you, my music is a great indication of my mood. If I am listening to something because I can sing along, look out, I am on a mission. When I am done I will be hoarse and the object of my mission will be complete. If ballads are my choice, I am working through something. I am singing along but standing still, all the motion happening in my grey matter. If I am rockin' out, head bangin', I am excited, I have energy to burn and have apparently forgotten my last session and the subsequent whip lash. If I am butchering a Caribbean accent and dancing to old school reggae, I am feeling pretty confident and just want to have a bit of fun. If I am listening to my father's music, and yes, in my world that is a genre, then I am usually feeling nostalgic, pensive. Occasionally, I will be listening because I have heard something new and am just learning to appreciate it, which leaves me feeling giddy. A phone call to Daddy will soon follow, much to be discussed. If hip hop beats are resetting the rhythm of my heart, I am all cocky and rebellious today (cliche or not). Country and Western, I am both nostalgic and badass (obviously, while I don't shun it, CMT's pop country need not apply). Certain songs will elicit immediate results; it is nearly impossible to control myself when Hells Bells starts, Sam Stone almost always makes me cry even though I know it word for word. Other songs will never garner a response and therefore are paid little heed.

No, music can not tell you who I am, Hell! I can't do that most of the time! But if you are listening to my music, it offers an indication of my frame of mind. And if you have time for a story, music will be my soundtrack, it will set my stage, lend weight to my tale and wind it's way through my history.

Edit- I won't change it in the actual post, but I will tell you here; I have been corrected. My Father: The Musical Erudite tells me Mr. Parson's name was not Graham (as I have recorded it), but Gram. And yes, my Daddy reads my blog. Wanna make sumthin' of it?

Monday, May 18, 2009

Why I Do The Things I Do, I Don't Know.

Have I mentioned that I quit smoking? I have, I quit smoking. It's been a month. I was assisted by that lovely little drug, Champix. Apparently, it tricks the brain into thinking it's receiving what you're addicted to without allowing you to become addicted to the drug. That's ok with me. I run a severe deficit in the will department, so I was happy to take all of the help I could get. Also, I would have Richter measuring mood swings when I had previously attempted. One of the side effects is sleeplessness or very vivid (very, very vivid) dreams. I was determined to see the treatment through to the end (3 months), because I always think I am doing ok, I've kicked the habit, I am born again, only to promptly fall right back into my old filthy ways. But I was having a hard time with the sleep deprivation, and when I was sleeping; my dreams were in IMAX. Intense, techni-colour, Dolby surround sound dreams. Hardly the stuff rest is made of. So I stopped taking the drugs. So far so good. It's been about a week and I haven't thought about having a smoke (well, not really). You know what always catches me by surprise? What is the equivalent to a swift kick in the gut? I'll tell you; every once in awhile when I'm least expecting it, when I am not thinking about smoking I will exhale and it will taste like a cigarette. I call this the Phantom Smoke. This may be the perfect deterrent for some. I am not one of those people. I enjoyed smoking. I enjoyed the taste of it. I enjoyed the seven or so minutes of peace while I smoked my cigarette. My idea of the perfect activity is a warm, sunny afternoon, on my deck or my swing, a good strong cup of coffee, a good book and a cigarette. That right there is my own personal nirvana. But it stinks, it's expensive ($10/pack in the lovely Nova Scotia), I am setting a bad example for my kids, it's gonna kill me, and I am getting sick and fucking tired of being a slave to my vices.

Coffee is another of my vices. I drink a lot of coffee. I can't give it up yet though! I have to be sure I have kicked the nicotine, before I face on the caffeine. I am saying this because I have had nothing but coffee to drink today. Seeing as the human body is, what, 70% water, and coffee is a diuretic, I probably could have added a little water to my drink menu. But I didn't, I didn't even think about it until a few minutes ago. See what I am saying? Slave.

Ugh! I am depressing myself. I'm going to change the subject.

I like to read and I like to write (I may have told you once or twice already). I like to think I will one day write something that will get published. Somewhere along the way, however, I have convinced myself that my lack of formal education makes getting published an impossibility. I know that an education does not a writer make, but I've convinced myself nonetheless. Ok, fine. What to do to improve my confidence? I'll read what I imagine would be required reading should I attend an institute of higher learning (I didn't go to university straight out of high school because of a few poor decisions and general poorness, finances are what keep me from attending now). I have scanned required reading for a few universities and decided I would do okay to stick to the classics. Which I didn't mind, because I love to read, I will read almost anything once and I was interested in understanding the influences of classic literature on today's literature, music, anything really. Also, if I do happen to be lucky enough to become a student again, perhaps I will be a step ahead of the reading game.

Years ago I began reading Dante's The Divine Comedy. I say 'years' because I am embarrassed by the actual number. Equally embarrassing was the number of times I had to start over. I'd get so far and realize I was completely oblivious as to what was going on. I was reading the words but I wasn't understanding them. I was nowhere near a point where I would be privy to a deeper meaning. It might as well have still been in Italian (I have a translated version). I refused to give up though. I started paying attention to the notes in the margin. I made sure my computer was booted and ready to Google if I came across something that required Googling (lots and lots of stuff). Eventually it began to mean something. I began to see the point. I made it all of the way through Inferno. I have begun Purgatory. I don't know that I have begun to understand the deeper meaning, but I certainly get the story. I think. Ha!

In an attempt to further my 'classics quest', I have also read; Jane Austen, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (I love, love, love Sherlock Holmes); Tolkien, some Oscar Wilde although I will have to revisit him, and others. My latest? Geoffrey Chaucer. I bought The Canterbury Tales at the used book store the other day. I haven't gotten past the introduction. Already I'm disheartened. From what I understand (keep in mind I have read, maybe, 6 pages), even though Chaucer was born and raised a Brit, he decided, oh I don't know, for shits and giggles, to make up his own language!


For when thy labour doon al is,
And haast maad alle they rekenynges,
In stede of reste and newe thynges,
Thou goost hom to thy hous anoon,
And, also domb as any stoon,
Thou sittest at another book
Til fully daswed is thy look.

The book I have picked up is a 'Selection Edited with Introduction and Notes by Daniel Cook', who is of the belief, it seems, that 'it is a needless deprivation of pleasure to be obliged to read Chaucer in a translation'. What?! Does this mean the whole book is written like the above passage? Oh good heavens, what have I gotten myself into? He goes on to assure me he is going to teach me the language Chaucer uses with relatively small effort on my part. Apparently, he doesn't know his student. If the length of time it has taken me to read as much as I have of Dante is any indication, I should be able to tell you what The Canterbury Tales are all about in a decade or so.

P.S Ha! I just did a spell check, 'cause I am done for the evening, and I think the program had an aneurysm after trying to spell check that god damn passage!

Sunday, May 17, 2009

I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

My parents are divorced. Which is ok with me. Maybe in another lifetime, another universe, another dimension, their marriage may have succeeded. Not this one though. There were just too many things going against them, including each other. Don't get me wrong, I believe once they loved each other passionately, but all of that passion did a severe about face and they began to despise each other passionately. Their fights left destruction zones of nuclear proportions, they measured on the Richter scale. It was brutal. Which is why it's surprising when I say I think divorce is an option far too easily exercised in today's day and age.

Before you start screaming at me through ground teeth and spitting all over you monitor, hear me out. There are exceptions, of course. There always are. Physical abuse, chronic infidelity (yes, I said chronic), a permanent and drastic deviance from the person that was, these are a few. I'm here to talk about the reasons that are being used that really amount to nothing more than "I'm looking for an easy way out" (Oh Boy! I am going to take a shit kickin' for that one!).

Call me a little old fashioned, but I kind of took the "for better or for worse, through richer and poorer, etc" to heart. Sure, you started it all full of the warm and fuzzies, but then you both got comfy. Maybe she put on a couple pounds. Maybe he goes to work and comes home and sits his butt on the couch and doesn't move it again until 11pm and then crawls into bed, farts and goes to sleep without so much as a "G'nite". Nowadays, people start thinking back to the chant their parents relied on during child rearing years "You can have anything, you can be anything". You look at your significant other and you start comparing her to the new receptionist at the office or him to that hot guy on Grey's Anatomy. You're thinking you could do better. You are thinking that maybe someone else would be more fun or marriage just isn't your bag, single is what you need.

Your marriage is not like your cell phone, your computer, your whatever is broken or you have grown bored of. You cannot replace it. Suck it up, buttercup. You signed on for the long haul. Before your go dipping your stick in someone else's tank or picturing yourself in another mans button-down shirt, take a long hard look at your spouse. It may seem like a cliche but it works, ask yourself why you fell in love with the person across the breakfast table? Why did you marry the person who's hogging all the blankets.

If your answer falls anywhere near the territory of; I thought he/she would change, it never hurts to try, if it'll make you happy, etc. You were doomed from the beginning. This is your stop, my friend, you were on the wrong train to begin with. You just better hope you haven't left too many casualties in your wake.

Then there is the ever popular "She was pregnant". Let me put a nasty little rumour to bed. For good. It will not, I repeat, not be better for your child to witness the loveless marriage that is a result of someones misguided attempt at being responsible. And for the women out there that think a man should marry them because you are hosting his offspring; you are mistaken and both of you deserve better. As I have already said, there will be no benefit to your child nor will there be either of you. It is perfectly acceptable to choose to raise a child separately. In fact, if you are not compatible, it is down right responsible to decide to raise the child as a team of parents rather than a husband and wife. Also, I will say it just in case there is someone reading that thinks I may be, I am not condoning having children all willy nilly, with whomever, whenever. I'm a big advocate of birth control, but if an accident happens, I don't believe it's a death sentence...ahem...marriage license (Oh, good golly! Take it easy, would ya? I am trying to be funny!) The only saving grace in these scenarios is that they happen less and less often.

Back to the blanket hogger and the other occupant of the breakfast table. For the sake of argument, your marriage was never a sham. You didn't do it for some ridiculous reason, but the only good one; Love. You look at your spouse and remember a time when you hung on their every word. When you couldn't wait to spend more time with them. When the sun rose and set on your partner. When the thought of causing the object of your affection even the slightest discomfort, let alone pain, was unheard of! Now, you're here, looking at your marriage and wondering what the fuck happened. Well, let me ask you another question; did you think it was an eternal flame? To burn forever without the even the tiniest of stoking? I've got news for you. Any flame, left unattended long enough, will go out.

If you find yourself with a smoldering pile of ashes; you have work to do. Getting started will most likely be the hardest part. Communicate. I know, I'm freaking Confucius. It's true, though. Tell your other half how you're feeling. Sometimes, the other half is completely oblivious, for whatever reason, kids, work, selfishness. Sometimes, your significant other was starting to feel the divide as well and didn't know how to close the gap and is intensely relieved that you have. Whatever the problem, talk about it. No sex? Talk about it. Boring sex? Talk about it. Working too much? Talk about it. Not helping out around the house? Talk about it. Not doing enough together? Talk about it! Not talking to each other anymore? TALK, damnit! Don't forget to listen too. For this to work, you are both going to have to hear what the other has to say. Don't sit there thinking that everything you're hearing is an attack on you, cause you aren't really listening then, are you?

Look, I don't have all the answers. I'm not naive enough to think that every marriage can be saved. Like I said, there are situations where divorce is the only option. Marriages die. Sometimes they are loud, painful deaths and other times they just slip away quietly. And occasionally, they were never meant to be in the first place. But it seems to me, that so many relationships end because we are taught we can always do better. So, when the going gets tough, we go looking for better. I have known a number of relationships to end this way. More still that almost did, but for one partner being the screaming voice of reason. Everyone has doubts, everyone has a wondering eye, everyone wonders if the grass is greener on the other side, everyone gets a little lazy, everyone forgets to fan the flame. The real test is whether you recognize the relationship has gone stale, and try to revive it or you simply walk away and look for a replacement.

Friday, May 15, 2009

TGIF and Other Things I Will Use to Take Up Space.

If the title is any indication, this is not going to be one of my critically acclaimed posts. It's been a long week cut a girl some slack.

First, there was work. Not overly horrible. Intensely boring this week. I think my brain is turning into a grey goopy mess in my head cavity and I would blame my current stint as a receptionist with a little mortgage consultant thrown in for taste. I did realize a little something about myself. I don't like people. Most of them suck. I used to tell anyone who would listen I loved helping people. It was soooo satisfying! Hah! Nope. I may become a recluse. Well, not really. I like my kids and hubby and the people I choose to surround myself with. I shared my new thought pattern on the shortcomings of the majority of the human race with a co-worker. I don't know what she thought about it. She seemed a little taken aback. I hope not too taken aback.

I finished reading the second book in the Dark Tower series: The Drawing of the Three. Fantastic, of course. Again, there was so much I had forgotten (does this make me a horrible fan? I worry real fans are obsessive and commit to memory entire passages, glean information at the slightest hint, know the back story of even the most minor character, where I don't have that kind of commitment. But I want to be a fan!) I love Eddie Dean and all his pop-culture referencing. Odetta/Detta/Susannah .....what to say.....The way King conveys the version of....what?....Ebonics or Patois Detta Walker speaks is awesome. I never once thought "What in the hell is that supposed to say?" But (I remembered this yucky little side-effect) it left me with a severe case of cotton mouth. In case you are not familiar with this particular affliction, picture the day you had your wisdom teeth removed (if you haven't, I'm sorry, I'm not nearly clever enough this evening to think up an anecdote for you as well). The dentist shoves an endless supply of cotton balls into the back of your mouth where the offending 4 teeth previously resided. The purpose of this is unclear to me (I am notoriously awesome at not really hearing the things I'm told when I'm not really interested in hearing them), but the result is crystal clear. It feels like your mouth is full of cotton! Dry and crowded. And that is what Detta's speech always made my mouth feel like. Dry and crowded.

When I went to retrieve my copy of The Wastelands from the bookshelf to put in my bag for work the next day (bored silly, remember), it was not there! I vaguely remember something happening to it. I cursed my self for being the Queen of Procrastination Island (All Bow To Me!) and not replacing my copy when whatever event I had forgotten first occurred, and high-tailed it to a local second hand book store (how people get rid of books, I'll never understand) and bought another copy. Which I have not started reading yet because I have the garden from hell.

I own a beautiful home. It really is the home of my dreams. My dreams are modest in this regard and this home fulfills them perfectly. The yard is fantastic. When all of the various plant life is in full bloom, it is a sight to behold. Sweet Mother Mary of Gawd, it sure is a lot of work. A lot of bendy, back breakin', fingernail breakin', bug bitin', work. It sucks ass. So I have been trying to restore my beautiful garden to even a measure of last Spring's majesty. I will be at it for awhile. So the weeds don't get the opportunity to really grab hold and choke the living life outta everything else in the garden. I will surely be near dead when I am done (don't laugh, gardening is hard stuff! *pouts*) . K, gotta say g'nite folks, kinda falling asleep sitting up here. Which will conveniently explain the following: spelling mistakes, poor sentence structure and grammar, incomplete/incoherent thoughts.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

It's (almost) Manic Monday

Another weekend gone. Too quickly, in my opinion. Not a bad one though. Mr. Sprite was on his Facebook account today and followed a link to what has to be one of the coolest things I've seen in awhile, so I donned my explorer apparel and braved the wilds of until I found my prize (an excuse to embed a video). I am so glad beatboxing hasn't died.
Check it out-

Nathan "Flutebox" Lee

Cool, right?

While I am on the topic of things that are amusing me this weekend; there was quite the war between two of the regular commenter's over at Pajiba regarding the merits/worth of the new Star Trek. For a time is was pretty entertaining. Then I got tired of reading that because I liked the movie, I was a victim of group think, that my tastes and intelligence were questionable, I took a break from reading the comments. My big mouth has already gotten me into trouble this weekend so I chose to stay out of it and just enjoy the back and forth.

I've also discovered the man responsible for Star Trek (also Alias, Lost and Fringe) is the very same man threatening to turn my beloved Dark Tower books into a movie. I may have to rethink my absolute disdain at the idea. It seems JJ Abrams is familiar with either creating or catering to a neurotic fan base. I'm tentatively admitting he may be the man who can do it justice. Very tentatively.

That's all for now. I am not very exciting today and glad for it (I am incredibly impressed with my ability to add a video. I know the host makes it idiot proof, but still).

Saturday, May 9, 2009

To Boldly Go Where No Man Has Gone Before.

And that my friends, is exactly what JJ Abrams has done. He's taken a franchise that has a devout (dare I say, fanatic) following, re-worked it using his own artistic license without completely flipping the bird to those fans and directors that have gone before him. In my opinion, he has in fact, schooled some of those who have gone before him.

I would not be classed as a Trekkie and especially not a Trekker (I've actually only just learned that a Trekker classification of fan exists and from what I can glean, because it seems the word is too new for even Wiki to have a definition, they take devotion to a whole new level). I have only seen a handful of the original series, although I am very familiar with the main players. Really, you'd have to live under a rock not to be. In a cave. On an, as yet, undiscovered island. I am unfamiliar with anything in between Star Trek and The Next Generation. I may have seen a movie or two as a youngster, but I have forgotten them if I did. I tried very hard to watch as much of TNG as humanly possible, I dabbled in DS9, was not overly impressed, gave it up. I've seen Generations, First Contact, and Insurrection and enjoyed them all. I also watched a good deal of Voyager and was pleased for the most part. If I left anything out, it's because I don't know it exists or don't deem it important. Now that I have given you my Star Trek resume, you may decide whether or not you think me fit to have an opinion worth considering. If you've come to the conclusion that I am not nearly experienced enough to pass an opinion on the empire that is the Star Trek Franchise, fine, you are entitled, as am I. See you next time.

I was excited about this movie. Even though the rule of thumb would have me believe that reboots, remakes, prequels, sequels and whatever else you call 'em, usually suck hard. I wanted so much for this movie not to suck hard. I even avoided reading the review on my favourite site for such things (Pajiba!, only ever Pajiba!) for fear they would tell me it was a waste of time and money and an abomination to all things Star Trek. So I went into the theatre praying to whatever gods are responsible for good Star Trek movies and they answered my prayers!

The movie stays true enough to the original premise to do it justice but it doesn't pander to the purists. The main plot comes over slightly weak, but it is more than made up for. The action scenes are edge of your seat exciting. The camera work was a little shaky and at points left me a little motion sick, but I get sick on a swing set so I'm hardly credible. The character development was fantastic and the actors have paid homage to the icons that were while managing to set the stage for the icons that will be. And they will be icons. Chris Pine has played James T. Kirk to perfection (and I promise you, there is none of that infuriating stop start talking William Shatner coined). He's cocky, he's charming and he's cute. Kirk was the badass of the Federation, he played by a set of rules all his own. Chris Pine's Kirk insists you follow his badassery and rule breakin' and you do, without ever questioning him. Zachary Quinto nails Spock. The purists would argue he's too emotional. I disagree. As half human/half vulcan, Spock surely struggled with keeping his emotions in check. What you are getting here is not a mature, fully in control Spock, but one who is still trying to find that fine line between emotion and logic. Personally, it made me identify with him a little more. I will be happy to follow this Spock to the full fledged Spock to come. I should warn you, Zachary Quinto gives Spock something you are not expecting; all kinds of sex appeal. I was a little skeptical when I realized Eomer (Karl Urban) was playing the doctor. He seemed a little too, well, masculine. I don't know as much about Bones as I do some of the other characters, but he never struck me as overly manly and Karl Urban exudes testosterone. He reigns in the mans man enough to be Dr. McCoy, but lets just enough loose to make Dr. McCoy manly. Like I said, I don't know much about my Mom's Dr. McCoy, but this one I can get behind. Oh and Sean of the Dead! Mr. Simon Pegg plays Scotty. Do I really need to say anything else? His part wasn't as big as I would've liked, but he played it well. Rest assured Scotty can be counted on to get the ship moving and beam the crew in and out of her while keeping a smile on your face. And just to keep the corny fans out there happy (and I count myself amoung your numbers) every phrase the original coined is mentioned here in all of their cheesy glory! I giggled each time the respective actor uttered his required line.

JJ abrams Star Trek is one for this generation and with a bit of an open mind, one for William Shatner and Patrick Stewart's generation as well. A new love affair with a familiar lover, if you will. Will they be able to stay true to Gene Roddenberry's original vision with the new actors, story and audience? I can't say. I think that may be a tall glass to fill. Will they be able to honour the legacy that Star Trek has become? I, for one, cannot wait to see what is in store.

Friday, May 8, 2009

Blood is thicker than water. You have a point?

This is my second time writing this post. The first attempt was verbose. Apparently I have opened Pandora's box and well, I should have seen it coming but I let my pride get the better of me. I have been guilty of this particular offense in the past.

I have a cousin who, on Facebook of all places, informed me that she doesn't think I am paying enough attention to her. And because she can think of nothing she could possibly have done wrong (I can name a dozen, one is exponentially more offensive than the rest, but I chose to deal with it moderately long ago and so my chance has come and gone) is therefore deserving and entitled to my attention. Now, maybe I should be flattered because my attention is of value to her. If I thought this was in anyway about her wishing to have more involvement in my life because she values my friendship, I would indeed be flattered. I know better though. This is simply a woman who has gotten just about anything she has wanted and when she hasn't, regardless of the reason, proceeds to terrorize the object of her interest until a) the desired result is achieved or b) she loses interest.

After reading the message that all but demands I pay her more attention because she deserves it, I responded. Did I respond without thinking? Oh no, I thought very hard about exactly how I would tell her she can take her self-importance and shove it up her ass. I just didn't think about the repercussions. If you can believe this, she called my mother to ask what my problem was? After informing the world of Facebook that she "IS FUCKING PISSED!"

Aside from conducting herself in an unbelievably immature fashion (I know, I'm the last one who should be spouting off about maturity at this particular moment, pot calling the kettle black and all that jazz), her tirade begs the question: Why do we feel obligated to our relations? Does being a product of the same gene pool entitle a person to a limitless supply of your time, an unearned respect? I think not.

Let's just say you meet a person on the street, at a friends party, or a work event and find them to be absolutely insufferable, not at all the type of person you would befriend. Perhaps you are even revolted by this person, their actions are offensive in your opinion. After you have definitively decided you dislike this person, you discover they are a long lost relation.

Regardless of what relation, brother, mother, son, cousin, aunt, or grandparent, they all hold the same weight for the sake of argument. Would you revisit your original assessment of their character? Would you completely renege your opinion in the name of family? Would you even go so far as to back peddle and find endearing qualities and valuable characteristics? This person is still a complete stranger and minutes ago repulsed you. Doesn't this make you a hypocrite?

Why then, do we afford our relations this luxury? Anyone with a healthy sense of self-respect would end a relationship for acts far less offensive than those we allow our family to commit against us. But we endure unspeakable behaviour and excuse displays of disrespect. We forgive and forget in the name of family. We write numerous blank cheques, give away get out of jail free cards hand over fist as long as the recipients are related.

I realize the topic is not nearly as black and white as I have made it here. I understand there is a vast grey area. For my part, I am done swimming in the ocean of grey, searching for or being given another reason to tolerate an event or abuse at the hands of a family member. Other than sharing an ancestry, we may very well have nothing in common. If the only thing you have given me is the opportunity to make excuses for your behaviour, than I owe you nothing. I don't care how thick blood is.

Believe it or not, the first one was building up to be much, much longer.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Hump Day

I am glad I am closer to the end of the work week than the beginning for two reasons:

1. I am going to see Star Trek with my hubby Friday night. I hope he won't mind me totally drooling over this Chris Pine fellow, he is rather cute. I don't think I have seen anything else he has been in but he looks promising in this (and by promising I mean hawt, if he can act its an added bonus). I'm excited about the movie too. C'mon! A new Star Trek!? Any reason to start saying "Make it so!" or "Beam me up, Scottie" and the ever popular "Engage!" Oops! I let my geek show!

2. The mother of all clusterfucks that has been this week will be at an end. And I swear, if the chaos spills into next week, I will need to be heavily medicated in order to cope. I believe a little Bailey's Irish Cream in my coffee will do the trick and no one will be the wiser. I can pass it off as some pretentious Grande Carmel Machiwhatthefuckever from an equally pretentious cafe (is it sad that I had to look up a Starbucks menu to come up with my clever (not so clever) little coffee name? It is, isn't it). Oh well, I can join the "I think I am the absolute shiznit and everyone else is an underling" club at the office. Oh wait. No, on second thought, I don't think I will.

Tomorrow's Thursday folks! The end is nigh!

P.S An excuse to try to post a picture to my blog for the first time .......

......see? Hawt!

G'nite and sweet dreams.

Monday, May 4, 2009

Slowly Immerse or Dive Right In?

My husband is a gem. I am indeed a lucky woman. I woke this morning to my radio alarm clock elbowing it's way into my dreams. I stretched and discovered I was in an empty bed. I had not yet unglued my top lid from my bottom one and was still more asleep than awake (and I had hit snooze on the alarm, so the scales were tipping back toward sleep with every passing second), so I figured I had dreamt my husbands return. The fact that it was Monday and he was due to return the day before barely registered because he has been delayed before and so in a fuzzy, sleepy way I reasoned this must be the case, although I couldn't remember why. But I was sleeping and it was Monday and sleep is always sweetest Monday mornings. This is the morning when you really don't want to get out of bed because you know there are 4 more mornings just like this one to follow. And thought kind of hinders sleep, so I didn't think. Then I heard clanging pots. And I realized I had hit snooze, was almost all of the way back to dreamland and had nearly convinced myself my husband was still away.

In the kitchen my husband was well on his way to making the usually reserved for Sunday morning breakfast; bacon and eggs. This is unusual for two reasons 1) Mr. Sprite is more likely to be just heading to bed when I am getting up, therefore, not much of an early riser and 2) Mr. Sprite avoids cooking like the plague most days. His reason for this departure from the norm; he just wanted everyone to have a good breakfast before a busy day. That's it. Nothing spectacular, just good ol' fashioned kindness. Very refreshing on a Monday morn.

Next, due to a mix up in scheduling (that's Eyvi for "I forgot and got it bass ackwards"), Hubby and I were out the door by 8 am, I was off to work and he was off to do me a pretty big favour. While killing a few minutes together with conversation before we went our separate ways, I realized I had made a mistake and he didn't need to fulfill said favour until tomorrow! Which means he did not have to get up early, make everyone breakfast and head out the door today, he had to do it tomorrow (although I'm pretty sure the breakfast card is all played out). He wasn't angry, nope. He looked mildly amused, kissed me goodbye and wished me a good day. He's a saint!

Work was work. A means to an end. When it was done, I had no trouble returning to my jubilant mind set from earlier this morning.

As is my usual practice, I daydreamed the drive home away. Don't worry, I still pay attention to the road, you aren't in any danger. I began to entertain a familiar daydream I have often wanted to commit to paper but have always talked myself out of. I have always convinced myself that my brand of imagination is not one that would be accepted as fun or interesting or relevant by anyone other than myself. Years of daydreams, of spinning story webs and I never thought up anything relevant?! Isn't there a Law of Averages or something that may apply here? Can my imagination be that alien? Doubtful.

So, I played a little devil's advocate with myself. If I am as talented as I think I am, why can't I make this piece interesting and relevant? I decided that I could. I could try at least. And with precious few changes, I think I may have something. Don't get me wrong, I'm not telling you I've thought up The Next Great Canadian Novel, that's not my point. My point is that I have decided to commit this scene in my head to paper (or hard drive as the case may be). And I told my hubby about it. Not something I normally do. I am not one who readily allows visitor's into my imagination, in fact I tend to protect it fiercely, but tonight I wanted him to visit. So I told him a little, a very small vague glimpse, but I wanted to share nonetheless. Apparently with you too.

For tonight, I am only writing about writing. It's been such a long time I feel like we need to get reacquainted, writing and I. Get comfy again. Baby steps. I have all the support and encouragement I could ever want from my other half. I am gaining confidence in myself. I can almost see myself as a someone who could write without fear of rejection. Someone who could write solely for thyself, for the enjoyment (guilty pleasure perhaps, indulgence not allowed?). Almost. So what am I waiting for? Hmph. You got me.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Guilty Pleasures and Sweet Reunions

I have read Twilight. I'll admit it. It was terrible and wonderful all at once. I can comment on and understand each and everyone of it's failings. Did that make me throw all four books in the wood stove? Hardly. Try to convince a crack addict to throw away the pipe and you'll understand what I mean. While I understand the initial pull, the spell had worn off fairly quickly, so the mania and obsession that is a result of the books and the movies baffles me a little. That's why, when I saw this on Perez Hilton the other day (yes, another of my shameful indulgences), I had to laugh. Boys and Girls of Twilightdom, behold! Draw your attention to the gentleman accompanying a young Robert Pattinson in the Vintage RPatz post and you will have had a glimpse of the future. I would be willing to bet that is the teen obsessions Poppa and if I were to win that bet, I would then go all in that this is a very close facsimile of what your little hottie will look like in about 20 years. And that my friends is what tickled my funny bone.

Would you mind if I shared another of my guilty pleasures? How 'bout three? I give you; Hugh Jackman, Liev Schreiber and the home grown Ryan Reynolds. All three of which I got a healthy dose of in X-Men Origins: Wolverine today.

I went into the theatre with a good measure of trepidation; every review I bothered to read touted negativity. Shortly after the movie began I realized I was looking for crap, I was expecting cheese. And none of it in an awesome, craptastic enjoyable cheesy way. No, I was watching an X-Men movie like I was Roger fucking Ebert and this was Schindler's List. I re-evaluated the situation. Had my family and I come to the movies today to see an Oscar worthy performance? The kids were here for the cool weapons, the 'splosions and to see the superhero best the villain. Damn it! So was I! Once I set myself straight, it was golden. The movie was fantastic. Did it stay true to the comics? Don't know, couldn't care any less. Was the plot without holes? I honestly have no idea, I wasn't paying enough attention. In my defense I will again remind you that Hugh Jackman, Liev Schriber and Ryan Reynolds are in this movie. And there were 'splosions. And a guy jumped onto a moving helicopter. And Hugh Jackman was nekkid! My only complaint? There wasn't enough Ryan Reynolds.

As I am not one to resist even the mildest of temptations I began reading the Dark Tower books again. I have finished the first one; The Gunslinger. I was not disappointed. I am once again in a love/hate relationship with Roland. Although, it's mostly love.

I am surprised at how much I had forgotten. Before today, if you had of asked I would have told you with utter certainty Jake does not make his appearance until the second book. My heart rate increased ever so slightly when Roland first eyes the waystation. At the mention of the figure in the window I was sure he had caught up to the man in black. All the while something tugged at the drawers in my memory, suggesting I might be mistaken, wanting to find proof. The proof didn't come from a found memory but from the pages. With that the drawer flew open and the realization that I would have to endure the sadness I had felt at the loss of the boy so soon dawned. I thought I had another book! I wasn't ready to fall in love with Jake, to admire his inherent strength right along with the gunslinger only to have the gunslinger throw it away. I swooned over the growing bond between Roland and Jake like a mother would when her child finds a friend in a new neighborhood. And then the bastard lets him drop. And the boy says "Go then. There are other worlds than these." Jake doesn't scream, he's resigned to the fact. I wanted him to scream, blood curdling cries that would haunt the monster that let him fall for the rest of his days. But I think the silence will haunt him more (I have accepted that I don't remember, I'm excited to experience it all again). I spat expletives at the gunslinger on Jake's behalf. I cursed Roland. And then I wondered where the man in black was. Single minded.

I can't wait to start The Drawing of the Three. I have to though, I promised tonight I would write. If I let myself go, I would not eat, sleep, work or communicate with a real, live human being until I had read all 7 of books. My home, family and friends would be left grossly neglected. I am a confessed book junkie. I make no apologies.

Last, but most definitely not least; my husband came home early! He was in Greenland for work and wasn't due to return until today. We had no idea what time today, work had not given him his itinerary. We often joke the motto of the Canadian Military is "Hurry up and wait!" Although, he may have known a tad more than he was letting on. I, forever in the dark, was pleasantly surprised when the phone rang last night and it was my hubby from what call display promised was a local number. I promptly picked him up, brought him home and very happily slept with a warm body beside me last night as opposed to his carefully arranged pillows.

Sadly, when I began blogging this evening, my darling hubby was listening to a few newly acquired songs on his computer. As his computer is directly behind mine, I am also subjected to whatever selection is playing. I was distracted. I am still mildly distracted. Every time he moves, I worry he's leaving the room, dejected because I am not paying enough attention to him. I ask him how he's doing every couple of minutes to alleviate my guilt. I think he intuits my predicament and finds it amusing. I'm a terrible person, I know. He's just returned after two weeks away and I'm worried about my blog (it's the writing! The therapy of it damn it!) Now, my dog is licking his paws, unrelentingly. It's driving me out of my ever-lovin' mind. Case in point; I am writing about how easily distracted and annoyed I am by the goings on of my family (human and animal alike). I think that's it. I am apparently spent. I should call it a night before I start writing about absolutely inane shit like bathroom cleaning (which I did an outstanding job of yesterday and then spilled hot candle wax all over). Ack! I'm outta here!

Friday, May 1, 2009

Another day, another.....What? What exactly was today's product?

If you've come to measure the progress of my "Write To Be Happy" oath, leave, leave now! I don't want to mar your perfect vision of me.

I am not crotchety or anything. I am not railing against the injustices or the inhumanities. I am not going to whine over my pathetic existence. I don't feel that way. I'm just......meh. Meh sizes it up pretty well, actually. I hate that word. I hate reading, I hate writing it. But I am so meh right now I can't be bothered to look up a better word.

Hey! If I wiki'd 'meh', do you think the wiki thesaurus will give me something better since I appear to be inarticulate this evening? Lemme look......Well! Will wonders never cease? God bless Wikipedia or in this case Wikitionary.


meh - adjective

1. mediocre; lackluster; unexceptional; uninspiring.
2. apathetic; unenthusiastic.

meh - interjection

1. (slang) Expressing indifference or lack of enthusiasm
2. (slang) Used to express a mild disagreement where the person does not have either the solid foundation to actually argue a point, or does not feel the argument is worth pursuing any further. Due, in most situations, to the argument being opinion based in subject matter.

There. I am feeling mediocre, unexceptional, both uninspired and uninspiring. I am not feeling lackluster. I know the definition of the word, but I always feel as though I am saying I am not shiny enough.

Today the company that employs me relocated. The owner, my boss, moved his business from an old converted story and a half house he rented to an office building he built. Sounds like it sort of, kind of might be exciting in a by proxy sort of way right? Wrong. What a clusterfuck. I have never been involved in the relocation of a business previously, so I am completely talking out of my ass when I make the following statement; The level of disorganization and chaos involved was amazing. Very little of it was prepared in advance. The majority of it was handled by one person, who was not the owner of the company. I'm impressed she didn't quit. I should mention that this task is so far outside the territory of her job description it's pretty much another continent. Not that job descriptions hold much weight around these parts.

If the rest of us had had even an ounce of interest in aiding in the relocation of anything other than what pertained to our job descriptions and what was located in our offices it would have been tricky. Information other than that of the gossip-y kind is not readily shared among all of the staff in our office. Not a hateful kind of gossip, but a kind of Perez Hilton sort of gossip. Ok, not a good example. I mean we're not all back biting each other all of the time. So I, and I will speak for myself, was completely and totally unaware of what was going on from any given moment to the next. Even when I was abreast of a situation, it was likely to change before I had a chance to make a difference anyway.

So I did very little all day. Yup, jackshit, fuck all, bubkiss. I found little make work projects. But little they were and accomplished nothing more than wasting a bit more of my time. Very nearly could have been the most tedious eight hours of my whole 31 years.


I tried to turn the tide when I got home. I have surfed all of my fav's and then some. I have read every missed article and re-read others. I had a look at my movie collection and walked away from it again, to meh to make a decision. I wanted to tell you a fantastic story tonight, but I just don't have it in me.

I'm filled with meh. I told you to leave. I tried to warn you. I hope you didn't catch it, cause meh is contagious. I would've told you to sport one of those face masks that seem to be all the rage right now. But if you had listened, I would've wondered about your sanity and then I would've feared for mine because we all know crazy is catchy.

Ok, that's it! I've spread enough love this evening. Until next time!