Controversial, anyone?

Oh, Facebook, you're good for so much: I can share photos and info for my far flung family and friends; they can share photos for me (not specifically, but you get the gist); I can catch up on current events; I can share what I believe to be the injustices and failings of the world and you can tear me a new one over it. It's a beautiful thing, really.

It seems there is a new hot topic to rage over every day. A new cause to support. A new soapbox to climb. It just so happens the topic that has me blogging today is not a new one but a decades old one. Only a couple of decades, sure, but it pre-dates Facebook and that makes it ancient, no?  But Facebook has given it new life (more so the Internet and social media as a whole but let's just stick to my frame of reference, m'kay?). I've always been fairly liberal. A "you have the right to fill-in-your-blank-here kind of girl", unless your fill-in-your-blank is harmful to yourself or others and/or based on ignorance.  And while that is not always as black as white as it looks on paper, it has served me well. Don't be mean and at least try to have an educated opinion about whatever it is you've taken up.

"What is it that's got you so up in arms you've decided to blow the dust off ye ol' blog, Eyvi?" you ask. Vaccines, that's what. I heard that sharp intake of breath, I know what you're thinking. It's a loaded topic. One people feel very strongly about. Well, me too, gosh darn it. And I've got something I'd like to say about it. I'd like to direct you to the title of the blog if you feel that I should keep my opinions to myself, thankyouverymuch.

In 1998, Dr Wakefield released research that suggested a link between the measles, mumps, and rubella vaccine and autism and bowel disease (Ha! Never heard about the bowel disease correlation, had ya?). No one else could support his findings. NO ONE. Eventually he admitted that he falsified his findings. So, if you're one of the parents that believes your kids going to catch autism from the MMR vaccine, or all vaccines because, again, bet you didn't know he focused on that one, than stop it. The doc you've put your faith in and entrusted the health of your children to LIED. For money. The Lancet retracted the original article and most of the other supporting doctors have withdrawn their support.

Are the additives in vaccines your concern? Formaldehyde? Removed before packaging.  Thimerosal or mercury. Despite not being able to find convincing evidence of harm the CDC ordered it removed or used sparingly in vaccines in 1999. It is currently only used in Flu vaccines.

There also appears to be some asinine idea that they don't even work. I can't even with that.

Let me tell you why I feel strongly about having your kids vaccinated. Because if you don't you put other kids at risk. Not mine, because mine have been vaccinated (and neither of them is autistic nor did they die on the spot or sprout a second head). There are people who can't, for one reason or another, receive a vaccination and because you've decided you know better than your medical professional, you are putting that person and others like them at risk. You've decided that the info you found on the internet or heard some zealous actor tweet about was enough to warrant putting others in danger.

Congrats on being selfish.

My kids had the chicken pox when they were little. My doctor had offered the vaccine but it wasn't yet covered by our insurance at the time and at $100 a pop, I couldn't afford it. If I had my time back I would have made sure we could have afforded it. Miss Sprite spent 4 days in bed. She had a fever of 104 degrees that piggybacking Tylenol and Motrin couldn't break. She had blisters everywhere: her eyelids, nostrils, throat, EVERYWHERE. I have never seen anyone so miserably uncomfortable. Calamine lotion and Aveeno oatmeal baths did diddly to relieve her. She couldn't eat. She could barely suck on the freezies I kept offering and or swallow the Pedialyte I insisted on. It was heartbreaking. I would have given anything to be able to help her. And you are willfully saying you are okay with putting your kids at that kind of risk.

Smallpox is gone. Polio is all but gone. Measles have been popping up and spreading fast. Who do you think is to blame for that? Vaccines work. If you aren't vaccinating your kids you ARE putting other people at risk, including your children. Trust me, if they have to go through what my daughter went through, you'll wish you had vaccinated them.

What Was I Thinking?!?

I did it! I signed up for National Novel Writing Month. Fifty thousand words in the month of November. You know me, I have the gift for gab. Until I need it. Then I shut right up tighter than a vault. My lips are sealed. I'm great when I don't have to be.

I must be insane.

Also, I have an intense fear of rejection. What if by some grace of god I manage to write these
50, 000 words and then upload them and I am ridiculed, laughed at. What if the real writers take their toys and move to the other sand box? Obviously, I am an imposter. Ugh! 

I have talent. At least I think I do. And whether I do or I don't, I adore writing. I am at peace when I write. I feel like I am doing exactly what I am supposed to be doing when I am laying out words. It almost doesn't even matter what; a letter, a story, a poem; you name it and I love to write it. It is heaven. But I have absolutely no training. Some days I am hard pressed to remember the difference between a verb and an adverb. I suck at punctuation. And my sentence structure would probably make a grade 6 English teacher weep. Seriously, I was not concerned with how words worked when those lessons were being taught only that they did and I loved them.

Clearly, I am insane.

So far, I have written just over three thousand words. Every time I sit down to write, I read the whole thing from the beginning. I agonize over my choice of words. I have a dictionary and thesaurus open all the time. I have no idea how to build character or set the scene or form a plot. I let the words bleed from my brain through my fingertips and into the keyboard. I am flying by the seat of my pants. And I am loving every minute of it. But I am terrified.

Wish me luck.

I Will Not Give Up!

He-ey! I'm still here, my dearest reader. I think about you often but waste far more of my time on facebook than anywhere else. My IQ may have suffered slightly.

In truth, I've been on a bit of an emotional roller coaster. I was taking an anti-depressant/anti-anxiety that was doing diddly-squat for me and my life is always full of exciting things! I arm-wrestled my GP for a new prescription, I was going for Wellbutrin, he wanted a clear diagnoses -Was it anxiety or depression? Or both and which was worse?- (with a husband in the military and the best procrastination, my medical records are scattered all over the damn country) and so sent me back to Kelly, a therapist I had begun seeing some time ago to manage my anxiety and then fell out of touch with, and referred me to a psychiatrist for a full psych evaluation. I had a panic attack at the mention of psych eval because my family's mental health history reads like a who's who of the madhouse. I finally accepted that I wasn't going to get anywhere with my new doctor -did I mention he was new? Yup, live in a semi-isolated locale and you tend to get a new doctor on the regular. If you can get one at all.-until I co-operated. And so I've begun therapy to manage my anxiety again. I plan to stick with it this time. My doctor relented a little and changed my prescription after I wrote down all of my symptoms and personal history and had a session with Kelly. He still wants the psych eval. My next post may come to you from the Ward.

 Is there anywhere else in the world where a patient can research a drug and then suggest it to their doctor other than North America? I find the practice odd. Not odd enough to not do it, obviously, but odd nonetheless.

Have I told you that my daughter is a lesbian? Yup. Wouldn't otherwise be important really, unless you are trying to date her, but it has a car in my roller coaster and so I'm telling you. We've known for years. The "coming out" to us was difficult for her. After a difficult conversation in which I thought I had said all the right things when she was around 13 she began to pull away from her family. I've never thought of homosexuality as anything other than normal. It was a part of my life when I was a child, several of my nearest and dearest are, and so I never questioned whether it was right or wrong. It just was. And so it was a non-issue for me. It was a bit more of an adjustment for her Dad but honestly, it took him a hot minute to accept it. And all before she willingly came out.

After a number of very difficult, rebellious years, our relationships are nearly normal ones again. I think this is as normal as I'm gonna get. Hell, this is a normal I had imagined as a kid but never dared hope for, so I'm good.

Like I said, homosexuality is a non-issue for me but I have become hyper-sensitive to the reactions and opinions of others. I become rage-y when I hear ignorant thoughts voiced, I'm damn near murderous when I read the uneducated and small-minded opinions of people I am related to or acquainted with, and I am sad and tired of seeing my little girl affected by it. I've already had to wipe away tears caused by young ladies who wanted to partake in the bi-curious trend and have managed to break my girls heart. I want to gouge out eye-balls when she gets stared at in the women's washroom. She attended her first Pride Parade a few weekends ago and remarked on how liberating it was to be able to walk into a public washroom without judgement. Let me repeat that: She felt liberated walking into the fucking toilet! I was at once ecstatic for her and bone-weary at the ignorance and idiocy.

And here I am, at my point: I am worried sick that, at the graduation she has worked damn hard to attend next weekend, some bigoted asshole is going to say something regarding her suit. Because she is not wearing a dress. It wouldn't be her. She is wearing a light grey suit, fuchsia pink shirt (to match her date's dress) and pink and cream striped tie. I won't go ghetto. I won't even give in to a severe tongue-lashing because I don't want to embarrass her. I will teach her discretion is the better part of valour, dignity is worth way more than a few seconds, or even minutes, of satisfaction.

But I fucking hate that I have to worry about my daughter's night being ruined because we live in a world where hate is still more prevalent than acceptance. 

This blog? I'm not even going to bother trying to make promises to you! We know each other well enough now, don't we? I want to write, I love to write! I've just lost the motivation to write anything more complicated than a facebook status.

You may be right!

In a scant 8 days I will write the exam that allows me to officially call myself an Ophthalmic Medical Assistant. Despite having worked in the eye care field for nearly three years, the rapidly approaching exam is freaking my shit out, giving my anti-anxiety/depression medication a run for it's money. I am Exorcist levels of scared.

So, what am I doing? You mean instead of studying like I should be? Procrastinating like a champion! Come on now, it isn't all bad! My inability to prioritize is giving you something to read.

Living where I do - approximately a ten minute drive from the North Pole (I may be exaggerating) - we already have snow! Yay! Not. I should be grateful it hadn't snowed before Halloween, as it had last year. But I'm not. Wanna know why? Because winter was eight long months last year and I am just not ready to deal with it again just yet. I, apparently, don't get a vote cause we got two inches of powder. I'm a Canadian and don't normally mind a little snow but here it's a little different. They don't salt the roads here because it's too cold. Yes, you read that right. Too cold! Salt doesn't melt the snow and ice when it's too cold. So there is a quarter inch of hard packed ice on all the road surfaces.

There is a handy little indicator on my dash that tells me when I've lost traction. Because what I need is an eye catching, flashing light to distract me from spinning out of control (literally and metaphorically). Thank you, Captain Obvious.

I was just about finished my makeup application the other morning when the cat did something that resulted in a pretty impressive crash. Immediately following the crash a sound like a beating heart. My first thought, because I am crazy and have and uncontrollable imagination, was "Great! Luna's woken the house". Then I realized that was a wee bit crazy and laughed a little nervously. Then I remembered my daughter was in the living room downstairs and she was watching Ellen. So I figured what I had heard was the bass line of whatever song whatever group was singing on the show. I breathed a little easier.  I asked who it was when I made it downstairs and my daughter told me that there hadn't been any music on the show. I'm back to thinking my house has a beating heart and my psychotic kitty has woken it. It's alright, you can laugh, I get it. But who's gonna laugh when my family disappears inexplicably?

I'm running out of steam here folks so I will have to cut it short. I hope to talk to you again soon! Can you water the plants while I'm gone?

The Summer Sun Has Set

I know I said I was going to post more but I have had a busy summer, yo! It was an awesome summer but busy, busy. The are a million things I want to share with you but I'm hard pressed to know where to begin.

We took a road trip! 2500 kms in ten days, give or take. Given the blistering pace, it was impressive we didn't kill one another. Given the presence of my mother-in-law, it's a bonafide miracle. But that's a story best not told, I guess, if you have nothing nice to say and all that.

We rarely have the opportunity to go sight seeing. Our vacations usually end up being staycations or we've gone to visit family where one or the other is wound tighter than a spring. So this time we vowed to see the sights and have fun if we died in the attempt! It was difficult to remain relaxed at times (see earlier note about mother-in-laws presence) and there were a couple of times that someone or another actually lost their shit (I may have stood on the street corner in Banff and cried, though I'm pretty sure it wasn't photodocumented, so I will deny it if I have to.) But it was, all in all, a success.

The idea was to see as many landmarks and friends as possible. Not all the landmarks, mind you, but the ones we thought important. And not all the friends...you get the gist. We may have missed a thing or two, a friend here or there, or rushed a visit. Something we will correct when planning such a grande dios trip again.

In Jasper, Alberta we visited the Columbia Icefields and took a guided hiking tour of The Athabasca Glacier. It was very informative but labour intesive.  And our guide was a bit of a stickler for rules, God forbid any of us broke the single file formation, the glacier is a dangerous place! And I'm certain she she thought us all to be young, agile athletic types based on the near jog she had us doing at the start or she saw us for the sedentary slobs we are and made it her mission to bring us to task. At the ripe old age of thirty five, I was convinced I was going to have a heart attack. But my mother-in-law begged her mercy. I don't know if it was the thought of a possible law suit or the Aussie accent but our guide took pity on us and slowed the pace. I was prepared to throw myself at her feet and weep, if it  became necessary. Or push her into a Mill Well, those dangerous little holes in the glacier, created by melt, she kept warning us about. If I could've spared the energy.

A glacier is quite a sight and the hike was manageable once the pace was slowed. If you live near one, I would recommend a visit. Dress in layers, though. In August, on a twenty degree day the temperature dropped dramatically, the higher we went. Also, be prepared to be brow beaten for being a callous, uncaring human who is killing this beautiful planet and causing global warming to melt the polar ice caps and eventually there will be no fresh water and the earth may implode or go rocketing into the sun. I don't know, I glazed over. I recycle, I'm doing my part.

Did I mention that we tented the whole time? Oh yes! We spent an average of two nights at each of our destinations and so we have become expert camp setter-uppers and tearer-downers. We did spend four nights under a roof, our plans had us stopping for the evening to break up the drive, in one location. A friends house for two nights and finally a hotel for a single night at the end. It tends to get cold at night in the Rockies and not all of us were keen on that.

Our friend is an awesome gal and she showed us a super time. Honestly, she should be a tour guide for the Kelowna area. We spent one afternoon floating lazily down a canal on tubes we strung together. It was fantastic. Though, my annoyingly small bladder and my inability to pee anywhere other than a toilet made for a mildly uncomfortable hour or so toward the end of the ride. Perhaps that was TMI? Oh well, I'm leaving it.

The next day we spent a gloriously warm afternoon on a beach on the Okanogan. Basking in the sun and drinking wobbly pops. Don't worry, I had my sunscreen on. We had intended to celebrate Mr. Sprite's birthday that evening with drinks, music and cake but once we ate our cake, we were sleepy from all the fun and sun at the beach and ended up going to bed at a reasonable hour. We should all have our party cards revoked.

Our final touristy activity was a horse ride up the mountain with a steak fry. I was nervous, to say the least. I had been on a horse twice before and one of those times was not an enjoyable experience. But our family believes in facing your fears head on (when it suits us) and so I was intent on riding that damned horse. Probably not well, but I was willing to call staying on the horse a win. And so, when they introduced me to Sulphur, I told myself that the horse's namesake being the primary mineral in Hell was simply a coincidence and not prophetic. I mounted up and with nary an instruction given, we set off. Shortly after beginning we were asked to stand in our stirrups if the horse stopped to releive himself. This being the only bit of advice offered, I was at a loss to lessen the teeth shattering jostling when my horse did anything other that walk. One of my fellow tourists tried to offer her help by telling me to either lift when the horses front legs came up our stay in the saddle. I forgot almost immediately what she said when I discovered that looking down at the horses legs while he was in motion was a monumentally bad idea. And so I continued to get jostled. My derriere was a wee bit tender for the following day or so. But I managed to stay on the horse and I didn't need to be rescued because my horse sensed my ineptitude and tried to take full advantage by riding off into the sunset. Win!

Despite all our adventures, home was a welcome sight when we finally pulled into our drive. Our beds even more so.

I cleaned the SUV yesterday and found the remains of our vacation littered beneath the seats and tucked into doors. The remnants of summer fun brought happy memories but I was sad to see them just the same. Here at 55° N summer ends too quickly. Just a week into fall and the nights are already frosty, all the leaves have changed and many have fallen. What I wouldn't give for a few more weeks to make another warm and sunny memory or two.

Something Witty Goes Here

I was going to write a post about my depressingly dysfunctional relationship with my mother but I changed my mind. I don't think I'm capable of putting a humorous spin on it, it's too depressing.

So, what to write, what to write....?

Oh, this is going to be good.

*finger tapping*

*thoughtful looks*

*several false starts*

Eureka!

This isn't going to win the pulitzer or anything, but I'm trying to flex a muscle here, folks, bear with me!

Earlier this spring I suffered a bout of temporary insanity and volunteered to be the team manager of my daughter's soccer team.

I know, I should just check myself into an institution for the soft minded.

Mr. Sprite was volunteering as Head Coach and I was having visions of famous super hero duos and parent of the year awards and undying gratitude from players and parents alike. Ha! Fat chance.

First off, this was an under eighteen girls team. Twenty four girls with decision making power and zero regard for anyone but themselves. Secondly, parents are idiots. Why do the vast majority of us lose all ability to manage ourselves when there is a team manager involved? And finally, I don't think I'm much of a team player.

Let's begin with my last point, shall we? I originally offered to do it temporarily, until some other, more experienced and organized mother stepped in to take charge. I created an email list, I drafted and sent emails covering the various points that needed covering, including the need for a team manager.

My call to arms went unanswered. I rallied and decided to man the post myself.  My husband went to a meeting of the minds and returned to tell me that I now had two Co-team managers.

Despite having told him that I would do it, he assumed he was doing me a favour. He just didn't understand that this was my calling and I was prepared to answer it with gusto! I had created an email group in Gmail! Were my dedication and skill not apparent? Apparently not. But I am nothing if not accommodating and so I accepted my new colleagues with open arms.

It seems I do not play will with others.

It has come to my attention that I am woefully intolerant of incoherent text messages and emails lacking punctuation and grammar. I am also unwilling to be subjected to aggressive ignorance. But really, my expectations are exceedingly high.

When it dawned on me that, while two ladies that were foisted upon me were no doubt lovely, I was not on the same page as them. And rather than exert my dominance, I attempted to resign my position and leave the managing to them. They begged me to stay. The position was such that three ladies would serve far better than one. I caved. Not one for confrontation, am I.

Three was definitely a crowd.

Parents! A word of advice? If you have enrolled your child in an extra curricular activity, please read any and all, in its entirety,communications sent to you regarding that extra curricular activity. To ask for contact numbers that were sent to you three times makes you look like an idiot. It is a pity that LMGTFY is not an acceptable response to a query regarding the name and locations of hotels sent to you two weeks ago for the tournament this weekend. On Thursday. And finally, please don't make me send a repo man to your home because you still have not paid your dues. I feel qualified to offer such advice because I have been guilty of all of these as a parent and now know the special kind of torture it is as a team manager.

Finally, Ladies. You will one day soon venture out on your own. You are a short step from adulthood. It shouldn't be too much to ask for you to arrange your own transportation. It isn't difficult to notify your coaches if you plan to be absent. Your jersey is not too tight and yours is. Yes, your Pro-Wrap is fine, even though it doesn't match. Do we really need to wear two different coloured socks? This is soccer, not Americas Next Top Model.

Gah! I'm sure I have new grey hair and I expect compensation for my troubles and I have a new found respect for those who volunteer their time to support our kids and I believe they all need their heads read.

Where do I sign up for next year?

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!

Reasons I Love Supernatural

Sometime before Christmas I got it in my head that I should watch Supernatural. I don't remember if someone suggested it or if I read something or saw an ad and decided it would be up my alley. Which is funny because from what I had gathered it's about ghosts/urban legends/scary stuff in general and 1) I am nyctophobic (afraid of the dark), which leads to 2) I am weary of all things that go bump in the night. Just go ahead and try to tell a ghost story around me and see how fast I shove my sock in your gob! But you all know me and once I get my teeth into something I'm a little like a pitbull; I'm not letting go until I'm damn good and ready. So I asked the hubby to get the series for me for Christmas. He didn't. So, seeing as he was away for the whole month of January; I got it myself and started watching. And now I am hopelessly addicted.

Beyond here there may be spoilers.

Supernatural is a show about two brothers, Dean and Sam Winchester, who travel the country hunting and ridding the world of the things nightmares are made of. Their relationship is not an easy one. Hunting is a family business and Dean accepts the family legacy, balls to the wall. Sam, on the other hand, has almost succeeded in escaping the family business and the family, for that matter. He's off at college, has a girlfriend and is resolutely ignoring anything that reminds him of his past, white picket fence in sight. Until he's awoken by a bump in the night. He investigates, discovers someone lurking and ass kicking ensues. The lurker turns out to be Sam's big brother, Dean. Dean tells Sam their father has gone on a hunting trip, hasn't returned and he needs Sam's help to find him. Sam reluctantly agrees as long as he's back in time for the interview of a lifetime. They go, they search, they hunt, they rid a town of "A Woman in White"(the pilots creepy du jour). Sam returns home in time for his big interview only to find his girlfriend draped to the ceiling, her midsection sliced open. The ceiling catches fire and Sam's girlfriend is consumed. This is the exact same way Dean and Sam's mother died 22 years earlier. Sammy has the carrot he needed to begin hunting again and Dean has his brother.

Eric Kripke, the shows creator, has said he wanted each show to be "a different horror movie every week". For the most part he succeeded. There were many a night the bathroom light was left on. Initially, I could have started watching anytime and would have had no problem following along. There's a backstory, of course, but I didn't need to know it to enjoy. It quickly evolved though and it became necessary to know the backstory to understand what was going on much of the time. Which is fine by me, because I watched the entire series in about 3 weeks (plenty of late nights and bleary eyed mornings), so I'm in the know.

Let me tell you about the things that got me hooked. Besides the actual story, because that's pretty good but I think if you took any of the following away, I wouldn't enjoy Supernatural nearly as much as I do. More or less in order of importance.

The Soundtrack
The soundtrack kicks all kinds of classic rock ass! Zepplin, AC/DC, Cream, Nazareth and so, so many more. My Dad would love it. It's the soundtrack to my childhood and my informative years. Every once in awhile I'll hear a song on the show I had completely forgotten about. I have stopped the show to YouTube whatever has caught my fancy. Fanfreakintastic! Season 6 is coming up a little short, though. The ear candy has diminished and that makes me sad. For your listening pleasure (also, the Ginger in the video? Oh God, The hair! Wow! And the lead singer? Does he remind you of this guy?)




Jeffrey Dean Morgan
I know, I know! He's already gone. And that is tragic. Jeffrey Dean Morgan is talented, adorable and oozes charisma. On the show he played Dean and Sam's Dad, John Winchester. John's idea of parenting makes me quiver. The therapy bills that would be the result of being reared up by him would make a wealthy man weep. In his single minded determination to find the demon responsible for his wife's death he's used one son's unquestioning devotion to turn him into an obedient little soldier (Dean says Yes, Sir, more times that I'd like, and I cringe, every time). The other son, he's alienated all to hell (heh). Sadly, the powers that be felt the need to have his character bite the dust. And I know why. Javier Bardem. Jeffrey Dean Morgan got a job Javier Bardem didn't and Señor Bardem couldn't have that, so he hired a hit and Jeffrey Dean Morgan is hiding out. <--- The previous statement is not in the least factual.

Misha Collins

Misha Collins plays Castiel, the angel that pulled Dean out of hell and occasionally divinely intervenes. His character amuses me greatly. As an angel, he's often ignorant/envious of the ways of humans or "hairless apes" as humans are endearingly called by the majority of the celestial inhabitants. His deadpan is fantastic. One problem and it has nothing to do with the show. When I was "doing research" for this post I checked out the actors I wanted to write about. Sometimes, I find it difficult to separate the person from the talent. Misha Collins played Paul Bernardo in a movie called "Karla". That strikes a chord. I was born and raised in Toronto. I was a teeny-bopper during Paul Bernardo's reign of terror. I remember the fear The Scarborough Rapist incited. I remember watching or reading the words of the parents of Kristen French and Leslie Mahaffy. I'm not sure a movie about Karla Homolka needed to be made. And I'm having a hard time reconciling an actor I like with a role. But he Tweets. A lot. So, that's something.

Jim Beaver
Mr. Beaver plays Bobby Singer, fellow hunter and father-figure to Dean and Sammy. You know why I like him so much? His character is the shit. He's all full of wisdom and snark and love. Awww. Need some info on some obscure demon? Call Bobby. Need to be ripped a new one? Bobby will do what needs doin'. Need to be reminded why you're fighting the good fight. Bobby knows and he's got no problem bringin' your ass up to speed. Mr. Beaver seems like he's pretty fantastic in real life too. Father, author, actor and he still seems like the kind of guy you could invite into the backyard for a beer and shoot the shit for an hour or so. And he Tweets, too. Also, he's wearing a Sturgis hat.



Jared Padalecki
Jared Padalecki is a cutie-patootie. And he has a gorgeous smile. And he's possibly half-giant. He's 6'4, fercryinoutloud! That's an inch shy of a foot taller than I am. Geez. Jared plays one half of our dynamic duo, Sammy. The little brother. He's a sweet boy, the rational one, the one with the conscience. The one that was fed demon blood as an infant (about a minute and a half later the demon doing the feeding pins Mommy to the ceiling, rips her open and sets her ablaze) and so, he has a freak streak a mile wide. And he is just tormented because of it. Which is my chief complaint with Jared's character. Sometimes, I wanna slap him he's so whiny. And then he went and lost his soul for a little while and he was kind of fun (what? I got a bad boy thing, alright?). And then he got his soul back and he's whiny again. And maybe it's just me, because I've been around the military so long now, but he ALWAYS has his hands in his pockets. And he slouches. Lots of tall dudes do, a bad habit formed when they were taller than everyone else in 7th or 8th grade, (and I imagine he is still taller than everyone else) but still. I wanna ask him if his hands are cold? And tell him "Take your damn hands out your pockets and stand up straight, son" (and now, I'm my mother). I didn't get the sex symbol thing either. I mean he's adorable, but that's just it, he's got a baby face. And then I saw this on an episode not long ago and I did a spit-take. Coffee everywhere. Cause the last thing I was expecting was for him to invoke anything other than "Awwww". You see the hips? You see the grooves? What are they called? I only know the dirtiest name for that portion of a fit mans anatomy and I'm feeling a little like a prude (a very little) just now so, I won't write it. But SWEET JESUS. Have some bloody mercy, would ya? It's not so easy to get coffee off a monitor and outta the keyboard. The keys stick.
Oh and just for fun, Sammy's last words are going to be "Dean, I get it. I do. But..."


And last but most definitely not the least,

Jensen Ackles
Jensen Ackles is a whole lotta pretty. Distractingly so. But I'll get to that. Jensen plays Dean. And Dean is a bit of a badass. He drives the hottest car since The General Lee (no, The General Lee didn't do it for you? How 'bout Nic Cage's Eleanor?)He's kicking ass and taking names. He's getting down to business. He's lovin' 'em and leavin' 'em (well, mostly). And he's dripping with sarcasm the whole time. But he's got a soft spot (mostly for Sam, don't get me started on the co-dependance/unintentional homoeroticism. The show actually makes fun of itself, regularly). I adore him. Lately, he's softening up a little more, which I can dig because you know, he's been through a lot, but if he turns into Sam, I am going to cut someone. Be warned. Back to the pretty. There are a dozen or so parts of this mans anatomy that I could sing the praises of. The eyes, the lips, the teeth, to name a few. But the sexiest thing he possesses? His voice. Oh. My. God. It's aural orgasm. Seriously. Move over Sean Connery, you've been replaced as the man with the sexiest voice alive. It's that good (my husband disagrees, to which I say; Oh reeeeeally?). So, um, I got a birthday coming up (I'll be 33 on Thursday *pout*) and if anyone knows how to get this boy to call me, I'm all ears. I don't even want to talk to him. I want him to leave me a message. A long one, but that's it. And then, I can listen to it whenever.... um, later. I can listen to it later. And as many times as I want. And now I've said too much. A girl can dream, right? Here, have a listen. It's not all Jensen, but it's fun anyway.


Friday's a new episode folks! The boys will be in an alternate reality where they are Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki. Too meta? Jumping the shark? Or, pretty freakin' funny? I think y'all know where I stand.

I almost forgot. Jensen Ackles should play Eddie Dean in The Gunslinger. He's essentially got all the character traits down. But can he play a strung-out heroin addict? I have faith. From my lips to Ron Howard's ears or Stephen King's. Whatever gets the job done. Also, I don't think Javier Bardem should play Roland. Not because I'm Team Jeffrey or anything, I don't think either of them should. I don't think either is right for the part. I'm going to go with the majority on this one and throw my vote in for Viggo Mortensen. I'll get back to you with my opinion on who should play the balance of the characters in My Favourite Book Series.

Judgey Much?

Valentine's is a bit of a trumped up holiday, don't you think? That isn't to say that I will refuse a gift on Valentine's, no, I would never do that. But the hubby and I don't usually subscribe to the accepted methods of celebration on the holiday reserved for lovers. Which partially explains why we chose to watch Machete during the time we set aside to observe the festivities.

Have you seen Machete? Oh, you should! It is 7 different kinds of cheestastic awesome. Unless, of course you have something against gratuitous violence. Then, umm, no, you really shouldn't. Little background, hmm? Machete started life as a trailer between the two movies that were the result of the Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez union, Grindhouse. That last brilliant decided it would be a good idea to make a full length motion picture out of the trailer, paying homage to the B Movie. The result? Glorious! Click here for the trailer. Don't worry, that you reveled in that little bit of cinematic beauty will be our secret.

Did you see the naked Eva Mendes wannabe at the beginning of the trailer? The one that asks "What's this long, hard thing?" To which Danny Trejo replies "My machete." ***SPOILERY TYPE STUFF AHEAD*** Somehow, she gets the jump on Machete (Danny Trejo's character), I don't remember how, it ain't important. But she does and when she does, she takes a step back, reaches down and pulls a cell phone OUT OF HER FUCKING VAGINA!!! And then makes a phone call on it. I mean, c'mon! Really? That is nasty. It wasn't no slim wonder of technology, either. This chick yanks out something like a first generation blackberry. I was appalled, and said so. My darling dearest laughed at my discomfort.

Fast forward. Machete is in the pool making out with Lindsay Lohan and another woman. Mr. Sprite makes a favourable comment on Lindsay Lohan's bangability. When the speechlessness has passed I ask him if he's kidding. He says that he's not and wonders why I should think otherwise. "Because she's a cum guzzling, coke whore, that's why!" (Thank you, from the bottom of my heart for that bit of eloquence, Dani. There was never a more fitting description). It's his turn to look appalled. Never one to be left speechless, he just comes right out and asks me how I can take issue with a woman pulling a cell phone OUT OF HER FUCKING VAGINA!!! but I have no qualms whatsoever with uttering the above mentioned phrase.

Honestly, I don't see the comparison. Ladies don't shove cell phones up their hooha's (I don't care how convenient a hidey-hole it is!) and Lindsay Lohan is a cum guzzling, coke whore. I'm speaking truths here, people! Am I right? ***END SPOILERY TYPE STUFF***

I Have Commitment Issues

You know, in case you hadn't noticed. Seriously though, life has been one chaotic shit storm after another. And like the good little Pisces that I am, when the going gets tough, I amp up the escapism. So I have spent the past couple of months immersed in one obsession after another, doing my damnedest to avoid real life. Reading (a dozen or so books since we last met), movies (not as many of these as I'd like), TV(the latest obsession: 5 seasons of Supernatural in just under 2 weeks), music (whatever, whenever, wherever), creeping you on Facebook (no worries, my stalker is well fed). You name it, nothing really productive, just whatever it takes.

My 14 year old daughter is trying on every teenage stereotype in existence. So far, we haven't killed each other, but we've come close once or twice. My husband may run screaming, so much are the estrogen and stubborn. Or he may end up killing us both. No judge would convict him. Just in case you read that last paragraph in a literal sense instead of heaped in sarcasm, as it was meant to be read; I love my daughter dearly, but, wow! Were we all like this? Jesus, we were unbearable!

Female Rep hockey is the bane of my existence. That's all I got to say on that subject. For now.

The month of January, 2011 has done little else except convince me that it is indeed a fabulous idea to retire in a warmer location. You know what? Why wait, I say we relocate! Holy Snow, Batman!

Finally, I will be 33 in a couple of weeks. I think I may be having trouble dealing. Yeah. I hate to say it, because 30 came and went and I was a cucumber. But I'm staring down the barrel of 33 and feeling a little shit balls retarded. If I were a dude, I'd trade my new car in for an older, sportier model, like this:









Or I'd trade my hubby in for a younger, newer model. No, never mind, I don't think I would. I don't have the patience for that. Besides, younger men kind of seem like they may be a little too metro for me. I like my men, well, manly. If you've used more wax than I have since the new year or you've got your hair stylist on speed dial, you need not apply.

Aaaand, I've just proved that I am indeed old. Just shoot me now.

Anyway, Imma try to pay more attention to my little slice of Internet heaven.

A Whole Lotta Nuttin'

I was over mucking around on Crackbook, bored outta my tree, when I decided I would watch something on the idiot box. This being Saturday night, nothing's on. Wondering what to do with my ridiculously under-stimulated self, it came to me. My blog! So, what wise words have I to share? What interesting stories? What profound thoughts have I been a-pondering? Bupkis, boys and girls, that's what! I'm just going to prattle on about stuff so that I can say I have actually been on this poor, neglected blog.

Let's stick with the neglected theme for a moment, shall we? Alright-y then. The Cannonball Read II. Yes, I signed up. And for awhile I did a half decent job of sharing my adventures in reading with y'all, my bloggy friends. However, my resolve quickly dissolved and the reviews fell by the wayside. But I did not quit reading. Oh no, I read my little heart out. Here is what I have read and not reviewed:

The Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter series by Laurell K. Hamilton, books 1-12
They started out solid; your average supernatural mystery type books and quickly spiraled recklessly toward pure, unadulterated porn. They were fantastic!

The Outlander Series by Diana Gabaldon, books 1-7
I believe I actually managed to review a couple of these. These books kicked some serious ass. There was a brief time during The Fiery Cross when I could put the book down, but that didn't last long. I cannot wait for the next one. Is it out YET? No? How 'bout now?

The Mortal Instruments Series by Cassandra Clare, books 1-3
I bought this set for my daughter. I try to read whatever she's reading so that I can curb any errant thought processes resulting from her reading material (see Twilight, although, she hasn't really needed any explanations from me, she's smart when she wants to be). Anyway, back to the topic at hand. These books were pretty good. There was a particular plot line that made me squick a little, but it played out alright. And yes! I am very articulate this fine evening.

The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time by Mark Haddon
I was surprised by this book. It was given to my daughter as a Christmas gift and so, naturally I expected a book for a teen. Not so much. It was alternately funny and heart-breakingly sad. A quick but good read.

Well, let's see, I'm up to 23, right? I also reread the Sookie Stackhouse novels, so that's another 11. And I think that's all of 'em.

Ahhh, True Blood, how I do love you. However, I think my husband may have been right, Mr. Ball tried to cram a little too much into this season. Also, if we're sorta, kinda, maybe, a little bit trying to stick to the books, shouldn't Eric and Sookie have spent the better portion of this season gettin' it on? I was seriously disappointed when I realized that wasn't going to happen. Anna Paquin married Stephen Moyer in real life and on screen they have zero chemistry together. Anna Paquin and Mr. Skarsgard, on the other hand, ooze chemistry. Or maybe it's just Alexander Skarsgard. You know what? It's probably that. Perhaps they will get their groove on next season. From my lips to Alan Ball's ears.

Hmmm, what else? Oooh! How about movies? I watched Valhalla Rising recently. Beautiful scenery, great acting, freaking MESSED up story. It's been along time since a movie left me dumbfounded but this one did that and then some. And the Expendables. I love me some mindless, 'splodey, action movies. And we watched The Princess Diaries and Men in Tights with the kids, which was awesome! And nothing else is coming to mind right now even though I've watched a tonne of movies this summer. I guess that says it all, don't it?

Finally, I'm crushin' on this little hottie right now, Eric Balfour. Thanks to a fun show I've been DVR'ing all summer, Haven. In case you haven't caught it, it's about an FBI agent who finds herself in a little town in Maine riddled with strange events the locals have pegged "The Troubles". It's based on the short story by Stephen King, The Colorado Kid aaaand it's filmed in the lovely Lunenburg, Nova Scotia, which I'm sure you know, is close to home.

Alright, boys and girls, I'm outta here! Hopefully, I'll be back soon!

Oh wait! Wait! Come back! Last year, my daughter and I started watching The Vampire Diaries together (anybody else notice that I seem to like my vampire stories? Yeah, me neither!). When the season ended I wanted to read the books the t.v. show is based on. Let me save anyone inclined to read the books some suffering, don't. It ain't worth it, man! They are fantastically bad. Not in a cheese-y bad way, just bad. Absolutely sucked! Seriously. And there are six of them (40!). And yes, I read them all, because I can't start a book and not finish it. Although I probably should have. Time I'll never get back, folks, time I'll never get back.

It's Here! It's Finally Here!

What? You ask. Well, my sister's blog. I've finally succeeded in harassing her enough that she started one of her own. So, I ask you as a favour between friends, go! Visit The Rantings of an Awkward Genius, I promise she will have you laughing your butt off in no time (as long as she blogs at a reasonable hour!). And if she doesn't? I cannot be held responsible. It's not like I twisted your arm or anything. Or hers. Okay, maybe I twisted hers a little. But only because I think her brand of funny should be shared. Have I built her up enough? Do you think it will hurt when she falls off that mile high pedestal I've put her on? C'mon, my expectations aren't that hard to meet! Also, writing in any form offers a reprieve that is difficult to find elsewhere and who doesn't need that once in awhile? I know all of my bloggy friends understand. So? What are you still doin' here? Go! Read! Enjoy! And be nice, or I'll beat you up (she is my little sissy, after all)!