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.

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!

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)!

The Scent of A...

I went in to the house from the deck the other weekend and the smell of the spaghetti sauce I had been cooking and the laundry I had been washing hit me. I had a second to think how homey it all smelled when I was transported approximately 18 years into the past. Suddenly I was in my mother's kitchen on a Sunday afternoon. The memory was so strong I heard the voices of friends I hadn't spoken to in ages; the pale green walls of my own kitchen morphed into the forest green of the apartment in Toronto all those years ago and the ceramic tiles beneath my feet became linoleum. The emotional stew that bubbled during my entire teenage life accompanied the other sensory memories as well, but this post isn't about those.

The relationship between scent and memory is fascinating. So fascinating, in fact, I went hunting for a scientific explanation. About 10 minutes into my research (which was about 7 1/2 minutes longer than I remained interested), I was easily led astray by thoughts of scents that evoke strong memories. For lack of a better idea for a post (and God knows, I am severely lacking of late), I thought I'd share some with you.

Oscar de la Renta perfume unfailingly brings back the time my Mom spent every morning painstakingly curling her hair and applying mascara before going to work at the restaurant. A routine that often included an entire pot of coffee and several phone calls (all to the same three or four people. Everyday.) but no less meticulous for the time it took. My mother had the most mesmerizing eyelashes of anyone I had ever known. Icy blue-grey eyes set in the creamy, freckled face with the startling long black lashes framing them.

For a couple of short years in my life I lived on the island of Newfoundland. While there, it was fashionable for young ladies to wear their hair in such a way that paid tribute to the biggest of '80's hairdos. I'd spend hours curling my then bone-straight, nearly waist length hair, then teasing it all so that it often stood just shy of a foot off my head and fixing it in place with at least a half of a can of Salon Selectives hairspray, Extreme Hold. To this day, a whiff of the previously mentioned hair product brings me back to my bedroom in the drafty old house; arms burning with the strain of an hour spent holding the curling iron in my hair.

My Dad is a denim and leather kind of guy. So much so, that I was convinced I would never see him wear anything but (except for those little blue shorts with the white stripes down the side that were the cause for much embarrassment during my childhood, but they are a story of their own). For the first twenty or so years of my life my Father's daily uniform consisted of a pair of blue jeans (sometimes black ones, but not often) a brown leather belt with a huge brass buckle, a t-shirt and a black leather vest, adorned with buttons collected along the way (he had plenty of flair). As a result, the scent of worn leather fills me with images of my Dad when I was little. They are usually accompanied with the sense of awe I felt over just about everything he did or said (have I mentioned I'm a 'Daddy's Girl'?).

Finally, jet fuel. It's not the only scent that reminds me of my husband, there is also Joop cologne; shoe polish; and orange air freshener, but jet fuel is one of the strongest. As an airplane mechanic, he regularly brings the scents of his trade home with him but that is one that leaves a lasting impression. One day, very early in his career, he arrived home from work, I went to give him a kiss and was brought up short. The stench of him was breathtaking. I swore and asked him what he'd been doing and why did he stink so bad. He laughed and told me he'd been crawling around inside the wing of a plane, which is where the fuel is stored. It was empty at the time, but, you know. He was probably highly flammable, he was going to shower and could I please wash his uniform in cold water and line dry it instead of use the dryer. Just in case.

How 'bout y'all? Does the smell of chocolate chip cookies remind you of your Grandma's lovingly made cookies as a kid? Does the smell of stale beer and cigarettes remind you of that night you've tried so hard to forget? You spill the memory beans and I'll work on flexing my writing muscle and maybe I'll write more often.

Almost There

Well, my other half has been gone for two months. Tomorrow, he returns. I'm here to tell you, it's a good thing.

I'm not an incompetent person. Military life is what it is and I have adjusted accordingly. I'd be lying if I didn't say that the deployments are, on occasion, a relief. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that. I wish I could say that simply missing my husband and the comfort of a complete family unit are my chief complaints when he is away. It's not the case, though. And this particular deployment has been trying in the extreme. It wasn't all bad, I can't say that. There were some definite high points, but my limits have been tested. When life shows her teeth, I withdraw. It may not be healthy, but it's a fact.

And that's my excuse. The reason for my absence. I'm not quite comfortable enough to relay the events that have been so cataclysmic, but they were such that even my need for social interaction was severely crippled. I have however, in my way, dealt. Am dealing. And tomorrow, Mr. Sprite will return. The world is once again tilted at approximately 23.5 degrees and has resumed orbiting the sun. Tad bit melodramatic, aren't I?

Let me tell you about the good stuff.

I am no longer in the employ of Narcissus. I was recommended for a position (something that has never happened to me before and was an incredible boost to my ego) at a local ophthalmologist's office. I emailed a resume, met with the office manager and the HR manager and was hired in short order. So now, I am officially a Ophthalmologists Medical Assistant (in training). This job is awesome! My co-workers are, so far, fantastic.

My daughter plays hockey. Her team this year was not a good one. They won only one game and tied another. The end of the season tournament was designed in such a way that even my daughters team could win a medal. I'm not sure how that works, haven't tried to figure it out. It's not the sport I enjoy, it's watching my kid have a blast doing it. Anyway, after putting a little more than 800 kilometers on my car over 3 days of the Easter weekend with my son and my father (who visited for a week, one of the highlights) in tow, the last game was a welcome sight. Strangely, our girls were to play a team that had beat us 15-0 at the beginning of the year. We took our seats in the stands to bear witness to the trouncing that was about to take place. But our girls rallied! 3 periods passed and no one scored. Everyone played well, but our goalie and defense played their asses off (my daughter plays defense. Surprised? I think not). Officials decided the two teams would play a 3 on 3, 10 minute overtime period. My daughters defense duo was chosen to play the second lineup (is that what it's called? I'm not concerned enough to research it; you get what I'm saying). I was proud. And so they played the overtime period and still no one scored! The officials then decided a shootout was in order. Each team picked 5 girls with the best shot and my little girl (not so little, she'll be 14 in a month) was chosen! I was bubbling over with pride at this point. And my father, who was happy just to be able to see her play, had a perma-grin from ear to ear. I should also point out that the tension in the arena was palpable. Our team, a team that had done so poorly all season, played hard that day. Harder than they'd ever played and the cheers in the stands for our girls was deafening. The game they had played so far was vindication enough, victory wasn't even necessary. But our hope was renewed and we shouted every encouragement we could. Ten girls were lined up against the boards waiting for their turn to shoot the winning goal. The opposing team got the first shot. It was evident that the players knew the stakes; formerly sure footed and quick skaters looked like it was their first time on skates; the best puck handlers were rarely able to control the puck (one of best forwards took a shot that went about 10 foot wide of her mark). Our third shooter scored! The crowd literally went wild! But the other team still had a chance. Then, with my daughter at center ice and them with one more shot, my daughter pushed off. I will be honest and say the following description contains it's fair share of parental pride, but it doesn't make it any less accurate. She handled the stick and puck like they were God given appendages, she skated like she had been born to do it. She took the shot and I marveled at how picturesque she looked with one foot slightly off the ice and the stick held out in front of her. I looked at the net. Did it go in? The force of the puck hitting the back of the net over the goalies right shoulder told me it had! My girl skated around the back of the net and came out with her stick high above her head, cheering when her team mates piled on top of her. The weight of 16 girls confirming she had just secured the bronze metal for them. And in the stands I was surrounded by parents who were jumping and hugging. I screamed cheers so loud I could barely talk the next day. My father looked like the cat that caught the canary. Even my son, who abhors hockey, jumped and shouted. It was truly amazing.

Like I said there were some high points.

My Dark Little Corner

My, that sounds uplifting don't it?

I'm back from vacation and my vacation had only one shortcoming; it was too damned short! I hung out with my cousin and her wacky boyfriend. It's often been said that she and I are the light and dark versions of one another. She's light (blond hair, blue eyes) and I'm dark (Brown hair, brown eyes). Are personalities are similar as well. Not in the way that mirrors every fault you have causing you to despise the person for acting as a constant reminder that you are less than perfect and may be something worse but in the comfortable, chummy way. I can be goofy and honest, two things I have a hard time being, and she can be the same. We mesh well. We have a lot in common. More than I knew.

A conversation began and evolved into another thing entirely. From aspirations, then literature, on to religion and finally ghosts. Yes, I believe in ghosts. And yes I am painfully aware of how that belief contrasts the lack of faith I have discussed previously. Hypocrite, who me? Here's the thing, and maybe you'll laugh but I can live with that, I have experienced something called Old Hag Syndrome. And apparently my cousin has also.

Occasionally I'll awake from sleep and not be able to move, not a finger or a toe. It's damn near impossible to draw breath because there's something on my chest. Something holding me down and sucking the life out of me. It's fucking scary. Occasionally, when I have finally been able to draw breath, I let it out in a scream of sheer terror. When I told my cousin and her wacky boyfriend this (Ha! look who's calling who wacky!), my cousin very simply stated "That's the Old Hag". Who....what...huh?

Old Hag was described as a witch that rides the chest of her sleeping victim and sends him/her nightmares (oh yes, the nightmares). When the victim awoke, they would be unable to move or breathe. That's the Coles notes. You can skip around Wiki for hours finding all sorts of interesting variations (I did) but that's the gist. Science explains that when a person is sleeping, a function of the brain paralyzes them so they don't act on their dreams (mine's broken, I sleepwalk all the damned time, there's nothing like waking up in the middle of the night in the middle of the living room). If a person wakes before that function has been turned off completely they experience a moment of sleep paralysis. The modern explanation. A likely story.

I honestly can't tell you which I believe. The scientific explanation sure does sound pretty and when it's daylight, it's easy to accept. But if you've ever felt the Old Hag, you know the terror is hard to logically explain away.

Old Hag isn't the only reason I lean toward the existence of the paranormal but it's a big part of the whole. In my short life I've seen and felt some creepy shit, but I'll save that for another post. So, tell me; do you? Don't you? I want all the dirty details.

You Know You Want It!

He he! I am leaving for the T-dot in 2 days! I’m a wee bit excited, in case you hadn’t noticed. My cousin, my sister and I are going to have a good time. There will be dinners at fancy-like restaurants, manicures and pedicures, visiting, and drunken debauchery. I’m sure we’ll throw some shopping in for good measure. And a little more drunkenness, just because.

The only downfall is my return. Not because I don’t want to come back, but because two days after I return, the military is sending my husband on course for two –TWO- months! So I will be up here (you can’t see me, but I’m on my tippy toes with my hand way above my head) and then I will violently fall all the way down here (now, I’m flat out on the floor). I can’t even savour the sweetness of my vacation for a few extra days. That makes me pouty.

Also, my vacation was, unbeknownst to me, well timed. It gives me the opportunity to escape from the 7th circle of hell that has become the relationship between my daughter and me. I realize she’s a teen and teens are mildly psychotic and possibly suffer from multiple personalities but that doesn’t make it any easier. But I can’t get into that here and now because I run the risk of my head exploding.

Alright, enough of that.

So, here I sit on the eve of my 32nd birthday and I am going to spend time with two of the most important women in my life. My cousin, who I was estranged from for about a decade for unfortunate reasons, but thankfully we are back and just as strong and I wonder how I managed without her, and my sister, who was possibly the bane of my existence until I turned 24, when I realized everyone’s human and she maybe realized I wasn’t the control hungry bitch she had accused me of being. In other words we both matured and became very good friends. Don’t ask us to live together again, though. We will kill each other inside of a week. So even if all we three did for 6 days was hang out and drink and talk and just generally enjoy one another’s company, it would be a memorable birthday.

My only wish is that I could bring the hubby with me. I know, it kind of ruins the girls only theme but I am fortunate to be very good friends with the man I married (and when we remember that, we knock it out of the park!) and he’s also good friends with my sister and my cousin. It would be so much awesome! But not too much, they could never be too much.

Aww, look at me gettin’ all sappy. But there it is folks – the short list of “cannot do without” people in my life. And I didn’t even know I was going to go there. I just wanted to brag about justified absence from my place of work and my impending drunkenness. A nice surprise, I must say. Blog posts that write themselves. Fancy that!

Table for One? Not On Your Life!

The following post will be written by several of my personalities. Most of whom I manage to keep in check most of the time. This week, however? This week has been a Shit storm from the onset (for the purpose of this blog post a week is a rolling 7 day period as opposed to the more traditional Sunday to Saturday definition). But maybe not as bad as all that. - See? Conflicting buggers! - So it will be both a pity party and gut churningly - Microsoft doesn’t believe ‘churningly’ is a word. You know what I got to say to Microsoft? Fuck off! It is now! – Where was I? Oh, yeah! Gut churningly cheery and optimistic. Also, it’s about to get way personal up in here!

First, the Cannonball. Yes I am still reading, albeit at a snail’s pace. Yes, snails read and yes they read slow. Poor, speed challenged molluscs (Canadian spelling, my Ameri-friends). Anyhoo, maybe if I had picked something a little smaller, I may have finished it. But I didn’t. I’m on the third book in the Outlander series and the thing is enormous. 900 + pages and while the story is fantabulous (oh! Fantabulous is a word but you underline ‘churningly’? I repeat; Fuck off, Microsoft!) I’m feeling a little overwhelmed at present. Evidence to follow. Also, because it’s a series and I’ve started the next book, I’m having trouble remembering where one ends and another begins and Dani has my book, and I am too lazy to go looking up the info I require on the World Wide Webs. A review is forthcoming. Promise.

For those of you that have the benefit of being my friend on Crackbook/Facespace, speak to me on the phone or know me in person, you already know I had my hair done for my work Christmas party on Saturday. Not an up do. I’m not an up do kinda girl, but I had it cut, coloured and highlighted. All for one low price of $75. Because my stylist is an angel and she decided about a year ago she no longer wanted to be a slave to the man, so she opened up shop in her in-laws house (read: she had a baby and the in-laws are what you call ‘built-in babysitters’). No longer having to pay astronomical chair fees equates to charging her clients less. Yay for me! Which is exactly what I was thinking when I backed my car into a tree in her driveway!

Fuckin’, fuckity, fucker, fuck. My car is new. I got it in February. I have the worst luck with vehicles. Seriously, if you suspect mechanical trouble with your mode of personal transportation; please, allow me to take it for a spin around the block and I assure it will have fallen apart by the time I return. Also, I am easily distracted and my attention span is very tiny. And I’m unobservant. I pray the Ministry of Transportation never finds my blog because they will insist I hand over my license to operate a motor vehicle.

I won’t drone on too much about the work party because Dani did a wonderful job summing up the festivities and you have probably already read that. What? You haven’t?!? Whas amatta wit’ ya? –haha, I think spell check just died! - Go on, read it now! K, now that that’s fixed; The party was a big plate of Meh. I drank 7 (7!) Ceasar’s with jalapeño infused vodka (those are Bloody Marys for my Ameri-friends (damn y’all are high maintenance)). Those were yummy, mmm mmm good. I was breathing fire before the night was out but well worth it, I gotta tell ya. And one dirty gin Martini. I am a cheap drunk. Which is the reason I can say, without fear of being wrong, that shit was watered down. I walked out of there stone-cold sober. 8 alcoholic beverages and I should have been telling everyone how much I loved them, I should have been dancing like nobody was watching, I should not have had a care in the world. Not the case.

Note to the people who run the establishment that disappointed me last Saturday evening: do not water down your alcohol. Some of us depend on a little jalapeño infused lubrication when attending functions of the sort I was obligated to attend that night and are sorely let down when the expected release of tension is not forthcoming. Your only saving grace in the matter, Sirs, is that I did not pay one shiny penny for the waste of time. Thank you.

Now, a little back story; my husband is the light of my life. There are few men on the earth as wonderful as he. He is not without fault, but his strengths far outweigh his shortcomings. As a rule, I am single minded in my devotion, there isn’t anyone who will sing his praises as loudly or as zealously. As a rule. But there are exceptions to every goddamned rule, are there not?
As much as I adore my man and as much as I believe we are made for one another, ours has not been an easy road. And right now, that road is rocky. You see, the move to Nova Scotia was not enjoyable for me. I have nothing against the province itself (it is a lovely place), but moving here effected me in one negative way after another. Mostly in the employment department, but not exclusively. I had a job I loved that made good money. I worked for the same company when we moved but my hours were cut considerably. Consequently, so was my pay cheque. Stress, no? Let’s also make a few bad decisions (such as my current place of employment, where I still do not make the money I made in Ontario and my boss is well, Narci). Add to that the absence of all of the family and friends I was used to having at fingers reach. Stir in the utter lack of ability to deal with the mounting stress. Sadly, life did not stop to allow Eyvi time to recoup. Even sadder still, is that Eyvi (yes, I enjoy referring to myself in the third person) allowed this to effect not just her married life but her family life. I’ve allowed the anger, sadness and disappointment at my current lot in life to weave its way into the one place I shouldn’t have; home. In short, I felt sorry for myself and didn’t take other’s feelings into account. So it should come as no surprise to anyone (but myself of course, because I’m self-absorbed dammit) when my family started getting sick of my pity party. My kids being adorable little angels haven’t said anything, of course, because that would be insolent and I would have to beat them – I am kidding, put down the phone! There is no need to call the CAS – but my husband and I had a talk on Sunday about the unhappy. The anger. The D-word was mentioned. No, I have no qualms repeatedly typing fuck, but I will not type out that word, because if I don’t type it, it doesn’t exist. So, what’s a quick cure for a case of the” I feel sorry for me’s?” Point out the effect of that particular infliction on your loved ones. It’s been pointed out before, by the way, but apparently I need to have it beaten into my skull because subtleties are lost on me. In fact, I’m such an obtuse ass I thought “fine, maybe it’s true; maybe we’ve come to an impasse”. I took a little time to think about it though and I have to admit; I’ma have to shoulder the brunt of the blame here.

I know there are a number of you who are chomping at the bit right now and you want to point out that it takes two to tango and yadda yadda. But I accounted for that, remember? I told you how fantastic he is. Up there (I’d provide an arrow pointing up, but I don’t know how). I also mentioned that he has his faults, too. And a few of them are doozie’s. See? Totally got ya covered. But trust me when I say this – and yes, you may check if hell has frozen over or if pigs are flying – this is almost all my fault. Any differences we might have that make our road require the use of a 4X4 occasionally, are one thing. One of us moping around feeling bad for themselves for the better part of two years and taking said feelings out on those around them is another thing entirely.

So, fun new skill for me; reining in the selfish bitch before she’s pointed out to me.

Oh! I told y’all I joined Weight Watchers, right? Well I lost 4lbs last week! Yippee! Fun fact: 7 Ceasar’s = 21.5 points (60 was the entire night! Sorry, Dani, I misremembered). Oops, hehe.

Finally, (cause that really is enough for one fuckin’ day, isn’t it) Christmas is right around the corner. Right there, see it? I know! I’m excited too! I love Christmas. I love everything about Christmas; the giving, the receiving (I really like receiving), the cooking, the baking, the eating (again, really like), the pretty lights, the pretty paper (starting to sound like a Willie Nelson song). You get the idea. The hubby and the kids have a couple of weeks off, I have at least 5 consecutive days off (on the right days too, imagine the luck!). Here’s an early Christmas wish to you and yours, I hope it is everything you want it to be!

Told ya it was gonna be a roller coster ride.

It's Famous, I Tell Ya!

Tomorrow, my husband will attend a pot-luck lunch at work. Being a man of minimal cooking ability he will unfailingly offer up my services to make a dish when asked for his contribution. His go-to dish used to be beet salad. Yes, you read that right.

The majority of my family is from the great province of Newfoundland. Home of a vast array of edible ocean creatures, vision impairing moonshine, the yummy bake apple and beet salad. Beet salad is a simple concoction: mashed potatoes, mayo, sugar and pickled beets.

Early in our relationship I presented this dish (among others; never mention the flying Honey N' Garlic chicken wing, I'm afraid the trauma is still too fresh) as evidence of my superior culinary skills to my (not quite) husband. I was, as I am sure you can understand, apprehensive. I worried he, being of Finnish and Australian heritage, would look upon my humble offering with distaste. It is an unusual dish. My worries were unfounded. He did not turn up his nose. In fact, he embraced my quirky pink potato salad with delight. It quickly advanced to the top of his favourites list. So much so, that he began to volunteer my salad for every potluck, every backyard party, for every event where it might be acceptable to bring food.

I glowed with pride, in the beginning. I soon tired of explaining the significance of the salad, assuring the non-believers that it is a traditional Newfie salad, encouraging the more courageous. Eventually, I began suggesting other dishes. I understood the usual reaction, the salad is PINK, for the love of Pete! Had I never encountered it before, I would question it as well. As it is, I've been eating since I was this big. But he never wavered. Until this week.

I do enjoy a good beet salad. The potato salad I prefer to present to polite company however, is much less controversial. Not any less traditional, though. Auntie taught my Mother how to make potato salad and Mom taught me. I've tweaked it a little over time, so it has my stamp, but it is essentially Auntie's salad. This salad I have never had to explain, there was never a need to encourage anyone to try it. It does have a little surprise, though. It's a regular ol' potato salad with egg and mayo, whatever spices you might like to add for a little more flavour, a little onion perhaps. Auntie put apples in hers, and so did Mom, and so do I. Simple enough, but nummy just the same. A crowd pleaser as well, my potato salad was always invited back.

It has probably been about 14 years since I introduced my husband to beet salad. I brought it to every event he asked me to for approximately 10 of those years. This week he asked me to make potato salad. Not My potato salad mind you. I don't think he likes apple-y potato salad half as much as he likes the beets and so, it makes no sense to him that I should prefer to make the apple one. I do, though and I did.

I find I may just miss making the beet salad for the unsuspecting party-goers. Fickle, aren't I?

Just An Excuse

Let’s play a little catch up, K? I’ve been crazy busy because the military hates me and seems to think my husband doesn’t need to be at home right now. Seriously, he was gone a week, home a week, stir, add lime, repeat. A couple more times, just to make sure you’ve got the taste. So, in the mean time, rather than making up for lost time and building up the reserves for when he’s gone again, guess what hubby and I have been up to? We’ve been catching up on the first season of The Legend of the Seeker. Don’t know what I’m talking about? Doesn’t really surprise me. The Legend of the Seeker is a television series based loosely on The Sword of Truth books by Terry Goodkind. Absolutely, gloriously full of cheese! It’s fantastic! I love that my husband is nearly as nerdy as me (in fact, it could be argued that he created this particular facet of my nerd) or is content to go along for the crazy ride with me and let me enjoy the gratuitous helping of Craig Horner abs.

I am desperately trying to complete my second book for the CBR II, Inkheart. Not a terribly bad book, just not a terribly good one either. I won’t say anything more lest I spoil my review!

After all the hype surrounding the fundraiser last week, work is painfully quiet. Aside from taking two telephone calls trying to explain why the bank requires an inspection done by an accredited appraiser before they will release funds to continue construction on my client’s house, instead of accepting the inspection done by the municipality. So, since my client seems to be opposed to asking the municipal employee himself whether or not he is accredited, I have called to ask myself. He has yet to return my call. Also, the same client’s lawyer called and left a message for me to call him yesterday, I returned his call this morning and now I’m waiting for him to return my call. Nobody is calling me back. Literally. It’s been like this all week. I might get a complex.

Has anyone round these parts noticed I’m a bit of a Daddy’s Girl? I’m here to tell you that I am. I won’t go into great detail but whenever I have to confront my Father with what I deem to be a controversial subject (read: anything I think will make him mad) I get very, very nervous. I would endure unspeakable tortures before raising my Father’s temper without just cause. And the cause is somewhat subject to interpretation depending on how brave I happen to be on any given day. I have abandoned entire crusades in the name of peace between my Father and I. Well, one crusade in particular really. It happens that this particular situation of which I speak came to a head a couple of months ago and it took me a couple of months to gather the courage to talk to my Dad about it. Ready, willing and able to defend my stance, I broached the subject. Turns out, I got myself in an unnecessary tizzy. I usually do, by the way. My Dad has a short fuse, but the blast is hardly ever as bad as I remember it. In fact, this go ‘round there was no blast at all. Someone please remind me I have a tendency to blow things out of proportion next time (my husband does, regularly). But it wasn’t the lack of blast that was a relief, it was the response itself. Sorry to be so vague, but the story is a long one and to make you understand a five minute conversation, I’d have to tell you damn near my life story.

Well, That Was Easy.

My hubby is gone. Again. But you know what? I'm not too upset about that right now. Why, you ask? Because it's dang cold here and the weatherperson is calling for two centimetres of snow (not quite an inch, my Ameri-friends) but I gotta tell you, that requires a fire. And so I built the first fire in the stove this season and guess what? I have FLAME!!!! And red hot blazing coals! Whoo hoo! For those of you who do not rely on a wood stove as your main source of heat you are probably just smiling politely to yourself, thinking I've lost my ever lovin' mind. But if you have ever used a wood stove for heat, if you have ever been the one responsible for starting the fire that provides the warmth, then you know my satisfaction, my success.

I used 1 egg carton, a flyer, some birch bark and a few pieces of kindling (I usually need the equivalent of a newspaper, 4 - 5 egg cartons, and half a tree worth of kindling to start the damn thing) and I have a very impressive bed of coals. Not to mention, I put a junk of wood half the size of my thigh in there and it caught and is burning beautifully! I feel like I could scale Mount Everest tonight!

I took my girl to the casting call this evening. This morning I very quickly poured over every recent photo I have of my princess, and could not find one that I thought sufficient to land her the job of Actress (yes, I am taking this a bit too seriously). And, yes, I should have scoured over our photo albums before this morning, but I am the Queen of Procrastination Island. This is the way we do things here. Alright? Finally ended up taking 3 photos with her digital camera (it's better than mine) and then choosing the best one while I was at work. I corrected the red eye, and printed the picture at Wally World on my lunch. Drove the 45 minutes after work to pick up the princess, drove the 45 minutes back to the town I just left to fill out a form, provide my name and cell phone number as the parent to the child whose acting application I just handed over to a lady on the opposite side of a folding table. She promptly stapled my daughter right through the forehead so that her face would not become separated from her application. She told us they would contact us via email if my daughter was needed. By January. Okay. So....that was anti-climactic. I'm not complaining, it was kinda fun. But not exactly what I expected. I don't know what I expected but that wasn't quite it.

I signed up for the Cannonball Read II today. 52 books in one year. For those of you that aren't in the know, you can get the low down here. Reading 52 books in one year, a book a week, will be a cinch. Getting the reviews up is going to be tricky. I hate reviewing stuff. But I'll give it my best because it's for a good cause and everyone should read. It's good for ya. < -- That's evidence of the depth of my wisdom tonight, folks.

Anyhoo, tomorrow is another NWW. I will be sure to participate and I may even follow through with blogging about it.

Just one complaint before tomorrow. The Military has sent my hubby home for the week. That's right, he's in Toronto. I am green with envy. Green, I tells ya! I wanna go home too! I wanna stay in a five star hotel on the tax payer's dime in Downtown T.O. I wanna see my family and friends. It's not fair! *picture foot stomping here*

Hey! Did You Change Your Spots?

Sunday mornings are usually reserved for catching up on my favourite websites and blogs and this Sunday was no different. This morning I read a rather insightful post on Michael Murray's blog. I began reading this particular blog for no better reason than Michael Murray writes for Pajiba (my favourite site, for those of you who don't know) and he lives in Toronto and often writes about my home town. I stuck around because his writing is fantastic.

In case you haven't found the strength to or aren't interested in clicking the link above, I'll fill you in. On Friday he wrote about a visit to a pub. Whilst in the pub Michael observed the activities being carried out by both employee and patron. He focuses his attention more so on the owner of the establishment and "the career waitress". His observations were so astute I felt myself drawn to another time, another place.

I have mentioned before my parents are divorced. As a single parent, my Mother worked very hard to make ends meet. The type of employment available to a woman of meager education is limited and menial. Factory worker, housekeeping, cleaning lady and waitress are all jobs often filled by a single mother. The (perceived) lack of skill required is only the first of many reasons why. The hours are often flexible (to work around childcare, school, etc.), and the number of positions available are usually numerous. My mother has done every one of them, often more than one at a time. But the one that profited us best was waitress. And it did so for approximately 15 years.

I was just shy of 13 when the death throes of my parents marriage finally ceased. We moved back to Toronto from my Dad's home province because that was where the majority of my Mother's family lived; where she would receive the most support. Almost immediately she found work as a waitress. Nor had this been the first time. Waitresses have the luxury of being able to find work almost anywhere, at nearly any time. She continued waiting tables until well after I had moved away from home.

I was usually in charge of the homestead while Mom worked. Occasionally, whether by choice or necessity, I was at the restaurant. Michael's post transported me to a time when I was perhaps 15 years old. School books and binders spread across the Formica topped table, the smell of stale cigarettes, beer and fryer fat heavy on the air. I sat and watched my Mom. She never wrote down an order. Raising the inevitable question, followed by amazement at her ability to remember orders. The pride in her voice when she assured the non-believers she didn't need a note pad, never had. The troublemakers that tried to catch her with complicated orders. They never did; she saw them coming.

I remember marveling at the seemingly super human ability to carry an impossible number of drinks, glasses and bottles alike without a tray. To arrange platefuls of food and transport them to their destination without dropping so much as a fry, again without a tray. She rarely utilized the bartenders book when mixing drinks, every ingredient, every measurment committed to memory. More often than not, she approached the table of a newly seated regular, already armed with their drink of choice.

At the wise old age of 15 I knew I never wanted to be her. I knew the hate she felt at her station in life. I saw the wasted and missed opportunities mirrored in her eyes. I understood the fear she felt at the thought of what she would do when she was too old to do this. I heard the audible click in her throat every time she swallowed her pride after being reminded she was only a waitress, at the mercy of every customer. I watched as she measured success in a tip cup.

But she was a goddess among women. As much as I focused on her faults (the breath of many a career waitress carries the scent of her favourite vice), I knew her sacrifice was great, so mine or my sisters wouldn't have to be. She provided for us the best way she knew how, never knowingly asking us to return the sacrifice. And eventually it became all she knew. It became all she could know, because everything else frightened her. To begin again induced anxiety and so she began to hide behind her memorized menu, cocktails and orders. Too old to start anew.

A career in the service industry is not without its hazards. Many attempt to drown the emotions related to the supposed lack of achievement. Often age becomes a hindrance so great, employment in their chosen trade is no longer an option. Occasionally, their wrists give out. I don't know how others have addressed this particular disability when waitressing is all they've known. I do know that my Mom, after attempting to deny it, falling back on one or two of the previously mentioned jobs, reigned in her will, her resolve, her strength and enrolled in college.

I used to know the woman in Michael's post. My Mom used to be that woman. Not anymore though. Now my Mom is a college graduate who has a career in Social Services. Shame on me for forgetting a leopard can change her spots.

Indiana Jones and His Last Crusade

This is not a tale you will be familiar with. If you are drawn here this evening by a whip carrying, adventuring archaeologist, then you may be disappointed. Stay awhile though, listen to the tale of a girl and her kitten and you may be glad you did.


My childhood pet was, more often than not, a cat. As an adult, I continued tradition. When my husband and I first moved in together, we got a cat. After having our second child, our son, it became painfully clear the cat had little tolerance for the curiosity and mischievousness of a young boy. Sadly, Fidjet was given a new home with my father-in-law, where he lived to old age, never having his tail pulled, or cuddled against his will, or riding in the dolly stroller. He began his new life with my father-in-law in February. By April, I was in desperate need of a feline fix. After making many promises I never had any intention of keeping, my husband agreed to take the whole family to the local Humane Society to look at all the potential....err, nice animals.


When we arrived, we learned there had been a box of kittens on the door step awaiting the employees arrival. In the short time since discovering them, the employees had determined the kittens were barely old enough to have been weened. I asked if they were ready to go to a home. My husband scowled. The kids squealed. I was told it was unlikely they would be ready to go today, they needed to be thoroughly examined. My husband heaved a sigh of relief. I frowned. The children groaned. They asked if we planned to give the kitten we chose all of its shots and have it spayed or neutered. I said we did. My husband said we didn't because we had no intention of taking a cat. I pouted, batted my eyelashes, pleaded. The children watched, wide-eyed and hopeful. He broke down. Admittedly, I wasn't playing fairly. I had picked up a brown tabby female and she had nestled in the curve made by my neck and shoulder and began purring. There was no way in hell I was going to be able to leave without her and he knew it.


When it was obvious a decision had been reached, we were taking a kitten, one of the staff said there was one more kitten from the litter. He was in the back because he wasn't very friendly. Not unfriendly, but not friendly either. They couldn't let me go in all good conscience without seeing all of them. So they brought him out. A ball of black fur that fit in the other neck-shoulder curve perfectly. He began purring right away, and what a purr it was! My husband took one look at me and said "No! We are not taking two cats home, you can forget it!" The staff told him they would give us half of our money back when we brought in proof we had had the kittens fixed. I said "It's a discount! 2 for 1 sale! Please! Please! Please!......" The kids joined in "Please, Daddy! Please, Daddy!" The three of us are in the Humane Society, we have him surrounded, I have two purring kittens wrapped around my neck and we're jumpin' up and down chanting "Please!" Resistance is futile. To fight us was useless, our pitiful faces, our pouty pleading; you couldn't have denied us anything. The kittens were ours!


During the car ride home, we discussed names. Sitting in the front seat with a box with two kittens in it in my lap, I asked the children for suggestions. They wanted to call the female "Beautiful", because she had beautiful marks on her face. We decided beautiful was a little long, but settled on "Bella". When it was the males turn, my daughter suggested "Indiana Jones". At the time, she adored Indiana Jones (I pity the man who aims to be her husband), we were subject to watching the movies on a regular basis, so it came as no surprise that she immediately went in that direction. Everyone agreed that was definitely too long and maybe a little too much of a reputation for just a little kitty to live up to. "Well," she says, "we can call him Indy for short and I think it fits, 'cause he hasn't stopped trying to get out of that box. He's looking for adventure!" Now, you can't fault us for not arguing with logic as sound as that and so we named the male kitten, Indy.


As happens once in awhile, an animal that was intended to be a family pet ends up taking to one member of the family more than the any of the others. Such was the case. Our daughter and Indy quickly joined the ranks of Mutt and Jeff, Abbott and Costello, Charlie Brown and Snoopy, inseparable. Hers was the first lap he would seek out (although he would never turn down a good petting). He would sleep with her, under the covers, until my husband and I turned in. At which time, Indy curled up between my husbands feet and there spent the remainder of the night (a good nights sleep has been few and far between for my hubby). They spent hours together, her petting, him purring. She was the only one he would play with and only her hair at that.


Felines are normally aloof. They usually have loads of personality, but are incredibly choosy about when and to whom they show it. Cats are usually solitary, content to lounge in an empty room, an out of reach shelf. This is not Indy. Indy has oodles of personality and doesn't mind showing it. He is aggressive in his search for lovin'. If my daughter is unavailable to satisfy his cuddle need, he is not above crawling into another family members lap or even a strangers. When he is hungry, he follows whoever he can, meowing. He insists he is an outdoor cat, despite the fact he has never been allowed to be. An open door is another opportunity to escape. Where does he go, you ask? Nowhere. He's never gone beyond the backyard. He eats grass, chases butterflies, tires quickly and comes back to the door that let him out in the first place, waiting to be readmitted. Oh! He was fat. He was the biggest cat I had ever seen. Garfield had nothing on our Indy! And he purrs. When he is happy, I mean, delightfully content, he sounds like a diesel engine. Except for the squeak. When he purrs, I'm not sure if it's when he inhales or exhales, he squeaks. If you have met him, you know him and know there aren't words to do him justice. He is just about as perfect as a feline can get.



About a month ago, he began to lose weight. I wasn't too concerned because we had recently added another kitten to the growing zoo and I thought his rambunctiousness was doing the Fat Cat some good. Then I noticed he wasn't eating much. My husband and I began discussing a trip to the vet. The very next day Indy was basking in a sunbeam and I noticed his skin had a decidedly unhealthy yellow tinge. On Tuesday we took him to the vet. The vet determined there was no infection because Indy was not running a fever. All signs pointed to a very sick liver. He spent the night in the vet's office and after a barrage of tests and an early morning ultrasound -which confirmed that his liver was indeed grossly enlarged), it was looking as if our worst fears were coming true. Our dearest Indy, the friendliest kitty (I once watched my toddling niece drag him and his substantial weight by his head across the floor and he did nothing), my daughter's friend was knocking on deaths door. Cancer of the liver seemed the likeliest culprit but a biopsy would be necessary and Indy wasn't strong enough to be anesthetized. If he survived the biopsy, there was very little hope what ailed him could be cured.



After a tearful conversation with our veterinarian, I called my husband to relay the news. I told myself it would be selfish to put the cat through the trauma of trying to make him well enough to have the biopsy when the chances were so small there was anything to be done for him other than diagnose him. My heart ached with love for our family pet and the devastation my little girl would know when she learned his fate. I resolved to have him put to sleep. Knowing this would also be my husbands suggestion, I was already prepared when I had finished telling him what the vet had said. Chances are slim, not looking good. Hubby had questions I had not asked and so called the vet. Then he called me back to tell me Indy was coming home. We were going to treat him in hopes of him gaining enough strength to undergo surgery. I was surprised because I am usually the one who clings to the smallest of hopes. I normally think with my heart rather than my head. Our roles have been reversed. And I love my husband all the more for it.



I don't know if one decision makes any more sense than the other. I know our cat is home and we are giving him medication and it seems to be helping. That could be wishful thinking. But you know what? My daughter has doted on him since his return from the vet. She has been near tears the whole time but she is stoic. His comfort and care are paramount. This morning she spent 10 minutes kneeling by the edge of the bed Indy was laying on with her forehead pressed to his. Both of them, their eyes closed. Him purring for all he was worth. It was painful and enchanting to watch.



Because there was never a feline like him before, because he is my daughters friend, because he's a part of our family, I hope he makes it through. If he doesn't, I am glad we have known him, because he's part of the family, he's my daughter's friend, because the mold broke when they made Indiana Jones, Feline.