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!