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. 

Is It Just Me?

Ok, so I know it's not, my co-worker Danica mentioned that she saw it too. I'm just wondering who else can see it? Oh, and I may be a little obsessed with Leonard Cohen at the moment. Don't worry, I generally have a short attention span.

All I got to say is: Whoa!

Think! Before You Speak!

This doesn't have anything to do with why I came here tonight, but it's a thought I had and would like to share. I have two ideas floating around between my ears in the muscle that resembles a brain. Two ideas that I would like to commit to paper. In my minds eye these two ideas translate into pretty good stories, something I would like to read if it were written by someone else (that's the way it should go, right?). Well, I shared them with my co-worker the other day, and this isn't her fault because she was as gracious and receptive as any audience should be, but the magic is gone. I feel like I did something wrong. The stories sounded silly out loud. Perhaps they are, maybe I am not meant to write a single fiction that will be enjoyed by others and that's OK, but the proof is in the puddin' right? I can't get past myself to find out what anyone else thinks. I shut myself down before I've even begun. My imagination is wonderfully overactive, I could churn out stories left and right (I'm not suggesting they would all be quality) but I don't. Why? The answer differs everyday. I've got a dozen of 'em. Sucks. I'm sick of it, I want that freakin' turtle back. I want to believe in myself.

Moving on.....

I'm currently debating whether or not I should take part in a flame war of sorts on Facebook.

Oh, Facebook, how I love your ability to start all kinds of trouble. Just this weekend, I was checking the statuses of various family member's (and how you nurture the voyeur in me, Facebook). My cousin's status says she "feels bad for So 'n' So's family, RIP, So'n'So will be dearly missed" Just so happens So'n'So in my Grandfather's name. I call my Grandparents house. My Nan answers and sounds perfectly OK. Feeling a little silly, I explain why I've called. She assures me that no, it wasn't my So'n'So, but someone of the same name. Then she curses Facebook because several times over the past year or so, loved ones who are away from home have found out that a loved one has died before they have been properly informed. When did it become Ok to announce your condolences on Facebook? One of the many grievances I have with social networking sites.

Back to tonight. A friend's (loosely used term) status said he thought having an aerobatic flight show above the town was dangerous. The performance was given by the Military Snowbirds. The town, Gander, is home to an international airport. Is, in fact, the first stop for many transatlantic flights. Do you see my problem with his status? To live in a town that hosts an airport and complain about air traffic is ridiculous.

I realize now that I shouldn't have, but I commented. I tried to point out that the Military would hardly put the lives of civilians in danger for the sake of entertainment. That I had lived on an air base for years where the Snowbirds practiced regularly (I didn't mention the countless aircraft that had flown overhead everyday) without incident. Granted, the Snowbirds have a less than stellar track record. I've done some research, though, and while the Snowbirds are the worst, their counterparts in the US and the UK have spots on their records as well. As does Nascar, Monster Trucks, drag racing. I haven't actually checked any of those facts (for Nascar, etc.), but it would stand to reason that once in awhile things go wrong. If I'm wrong, fine. Correct me. If all of these spectacles have impeccable records then I will shut up. But I doubt that they do, because you are dealing with machines and humans and both are prone to error, regardless of the best of intentions.

If safety is your number one concern then you should be railing against the dangers of all of the events listed. But he wouldn't. Why? Because he takes part in a demolition derby every year. Yes, the man who cried unsafe to the Facebook world, gets into a car at least once a year (sometimes more) and intentionally collides with other cars. Sure, they take precautions. But accidents happen. Just last year a car caught fire (I can't find the YouTube video of it now!).

Let's just pretend he's not that kind of hypocrite. Really, there is only one argument to be made here; you live in close proximity to an airport. Planes fly overhead everyday. Period. They could fall out of the sky, overshoot the runway, run off the end of the runway, hell, they can even catch fire while grounded. They do. But rarely. If you still fear for the lives of your family, move.
Otherwise, quit your bitchin'.

Yeah. I'm not going to continue debating with him. He's going to think he said something brilliant that made me see the error of my ways, I'm sure. I don't care. Let him. I don't have the energy to argue when there is no hope in hell of getting through.

Why Do I Torture Myself?

In an effort to increase the number of classics I have read, I recently completed Rebecca. I chose this book as a result of reading a favourable review on another blog. I am glad to have read it because when I say it was atrocious I can tell you exactly what it was about the book that I disliked as opposed to saying "Oh, I tried, but I didn't like it so I never finished it".

Rebecca is the story of a young woman who is of a lower to middle class upbringing and becomes the second wife of a well to do older gentleman.


My problems with this book are many. The Narrator (that is what we have to call her, for she is never named) meets Maxim De Winter while being the paid companion to an obnoxious woman who is obsessively nosey and incredibly snobby. When the insufferable old coot falls ill and is bed ridden for a couple of weeks, The Narrator occupies her time getting to know Mr. De Winter, whom is presumably on vacation recovering from the loss of his wife. Once the employer regains her health she decides to visit a daughter in America. The distraught Narrator informs Maxim of her impending departure and he asks her to marry him. Yep, after a scant two weeks of courtship. Fine, I'll swallow that with only a mild grumble.

The Narrator has married a man twice her age. She moves into his home and assumes the role of a woman above any station she has been familiar with in life. Good, a little bit of a May-December Rags to Riches romance book. Great, I can enjoy a romance when it's well written. When the characters are likable. The Narrator is not. She is a nitwit. She constantly worries she is not up to the task of running a home such as Manderley, yet she never tries. She simply differs to the staff. She is harassed and terrorized by the former Mrs. De Winter's maid and says nothing, for fear of appearing weak, yet she never questions how weak she is when she is hiding or keeping secrets from from Ms. Danvers. She incessantly wonders if her husband loves her and whether she is living up to the reputation his first wife has left behind, without ever asking her husband what that reputation might be in his eyes. She eventually resigns herself to a loveless marriage so long as there is a facade in place so that the servants, family and public beyond never need know she has failed. She is certain Maxim does not love her. He cannot love her, she is unworthy of it.

I will give Daphne du Maurier credit, she threw a curve ball when I least expected it and it was the only thing that kept me from heaving this book at the wall. The twist was exactly what this book needed when it happened. Try reading a couple hundred pages worth of the the thoughts and ramblings of a woman with little to no self-worth. It is bloody draining. You want so much to root for her, you know there is something wrong, you are sure it isn't a result of The Narrator, but you find yourself rooting for her only because you know you should, such is the effect of her depression on you.

I have one other complaint. I usually enjoy when authors make use of speech/grammar trends of a particular era. I don't know if this one did, I would imagine its so, it is the only explanation I can think of. It seemed to lack an article where there should be one here and there. The chosen phrasing irked me on occasion. I don't know, I'm not doing an adequate job of explaining my meaning, I don't think. It could be this book is written in a style I haven't encountered before and am unfamiliar with, having nothing to do with the time it was written. Regardless of the reason, I did not enjoy reading the style.

I won't read this book again. I am glad I finished reading it because it was tough. It annoyed me and bored me, but I finished so that I could say I did. I didn't give up. So, there's that.

Just a Thought or Two.

Have you read Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged? I have. I found it intriguing. I have believed a person or society, for that matter, that is stronger, richer, healthier should take care of those that are weaker, poorer, sicker. Ayn Rand did not believe so. She coined the Objectivism philosophy. I am over-simplifying it, but it essentially the right to your own genius, profit and.....No, no I can't over-simplify it, because my explanation above doesn't nearly do it justice. Read the book. Seriously, it's long, but I think it's worth it.

Ayn Rand wrote an entire book (a few, actually) devoted to her philosophy. She makes an excellent argument. Atlas Shrugged had me questioning my beliefs. A particularly poignant part of the book is a conversation between the protagonist and another character - I don't remember who, I also don't remember the quote word for word and it's Sunday morning so I am reserving my right to be lazy and not look it up. You will get the gist, I am sure - The question is posed; If Atlas carries the weight of the world on his shoulders and the world is thankless for it, what would you have him do? The answer; shrug. I found that to be some of the most powerful imagery I have encountered in my reading travels. The image carried so much weight I had to put the book down for a bit to devote some thought to it. But it isn't the idea of Objectivism I am here to talk about today, it's that they want to make a movie based on this book. So I checked IMDB . Apparently one person or another has been threatening to do this for awhile. I have a number of problems with this.

1 - the book is better than a thousand pages long.
2 - there is a monologue in the book, a very important monologue in the book that took me 3 hours to read. Yes, 3 hours, don't let it discourage you though, I found it to be the only part of the two books I have read by her (the other was the Fountainhead) where her preachiness was overbearing. I think the entire thing could have been said in a hell of a lot less words, but I have never written, edited or published a book, so who am I?
3 - from what I have read on IMDB so far, I think they may miss the point.
4- and this one isn't a problem, per se, just something that makes me go hmmmm, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are tied to it. Angelina as Dagny Taggart obviously, but will Brad Pitt be John Galt or Hank Reardon? Hmmmm
5- I already said it in 1 & 3, but it bears repeating, this is a big fucking book, BIG book, not just in length but the idea, the story that conveys the idea....I just don't think Hollywood can translate it to screen without losing a lot of the message. Plus, I'm not sure the general public will want to see this movie. Ayn Rand takes self-serving, shoves it down your throat, asks you to chew on it a bit, digest it, and enjoy that fucking meal. People don't like self-serving. Unless Hollywood completely re-writes the characters, I would be willing to bet most people will dislike the leads in this story. If they succeed in writing the characters so that people will care about them, I think they will lose the idea. I dunno. Again, I have never written a screenplay of any sort, let alone one based on a book, so what do I know?

I don't know if I want this to be made. I'm not sure my faith in Hollywood is strong enough to trust that they can do this. I don't know if, when they do it, I will want to see this movie or if I will be able to resist my curiosity. We shall see.

Pancakes and Watermelon Martyrdom

My daughter turned 13 at the beginning of the month. Yes, I heard the hiss your breath made as you sucked it back in through clenched teeth. And yes, having a 13 year old daughter is as scary as you think it is. Scarier, in fact. I remember being 13 years old. If she is doing half of the shit I was doing at 13, I need to remain blissfully ignorant. Ponder that for a moment, your 13 year old self and what you got up to. Oh, I know. You need to sit down? Yes, please go right ahead. I understand. No, no, please don't talk about it. My Dad reads this blog and he thinks I was a good girl (I was Daddy, I swear. This is all for fun. You know that, right? Right?).

Anyway, she wanted to have a sleepover. You have that image I helped you conjure of one 13 year old girl? Now picture 5 of them. They are Lululemon wearing, ipod Touch toting, Twilight watching, gossip mongers. Just listening to their interactions exhausted me.

As is the sleepover tradition, I cooked a smorgasbord breakfast. Kings and Queens have not known such plentiful fare! Well, maybe I'm exaggerating a little bit; there was scrambled eggs, bacon, chocolate chip pancakes, blueberry pancakes, and watermelon. I am usually a fantastic pancake maker, but I require an electric skillet to make my fantastic pancakes. Sadly, last fall, my skillet was in the dish rack drying (I do not dry dishes, they will dry themselves if you let them) atop a mountain of similarly drying dishes. I may have accidentally brushed the the skillet with the fold at the elbow of my shirt as I turned to reach for something and wouldn't you know it! The damned skillet jumped right out of the dish rack, threw itself on the floor and broke! Now I have to rely on a cast iron frying pan for my fantastic pancakes and it usually takes me 6 pancakes or so (3 fit in the pan at a time) before I get the temperature just right and those first ones are always a little darker than the average taste bud prefers. Who usually gets these? Why, me of course! I also got the ends of the watermelon. And so I pose this question: Why do parents do this? Why not make the kids eat the burnt pancakes and watermelon ends? Oooo, that sounds mean. Is it 'cause we love the little buggers? Do you think 20 years from now they will remember my pancake and watermelon martyrdom? I don't think so. Why don't I throw them out you ask? Because then I can hear the little voice inside my head that sounds suspiciously like my mother reminding me of all the starving children in Africa; waste not, want not, etcetera etcetera. So I eat the burnt pancakes and watermelon ends.

Mr. Sprite and I got our movie on this weekend. In fact, we watched 3. Allow me to play critic a moment.

The Reader

I sat down to this one blind. I had read something, somewhere about this movie but I was damned if I knew what, where. Ahhhh, Kate Winslet, is this the one she won the Oscar for? By the time the movie had finished I decided it had to be. That was definitely the type of performance the Academy folk like. I haven't bothered to verify that. I may still be wrong. It was good. I enjoyed it. I don't want to get all spoilery so I will be brief and vague. She has an affair with a 15 year old boy (that's not a spoiler! It happens in the first 10 minutes or so), as he is young and impressionable, when the affair has run it's course (that may be an inadequate description, but I'm gettin' tired, sorry), she continues to plague his thoughts. She lacks a particular skill the rest of us take for granted. The lack of this skill, her inability to admit to it and the fact that she is a guard for the Nazi's lands her in a heap load of trouble. I'd recommend it. Not the happiest of love stories though, so if that's what you're looking for, look elsewhere.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Mmmmm, Brad Pitt......Oh! Sorry! Yeah, so unless you've lived under a rock this year, you have to have heard of this movie (the same could be said for The Reader, I know). A baby is born old and as he ages he gets younger. The baby is played by Brad Pitt. His love interest is played by Cate Blanchett. I think I may trade in my current girl crush, Scarlet Johansson, for Ms. Blanchett. She has such classic beauty. Is there anything she can't do? Anyhoo, not much to say. If you are talented at suspending reality and ignoring the numerous questions this premise begs, then by all means, see this movie. You will enjoy it.

JVCD

Meh. Jean-Claude Van Damme is cool, don't get me wrong. Cute, too. But this? This was meh. I didn't hate it. I wouldn't trip over myself to watch it again. It's supposed to be sorta, maybe, a little bit, kinda autobiographical, so I'm told (again, I haven't bothered to look it up. I'm all about repeating all sorts of unsubstantiated shit tonight, sue me). Back to the maybe, could be, sort of, might've been autobiography. Reeeeally? I raise one eyebrow at you, Mr. Van Damme. I imagine I would have to be a bit more of a fanatic type fan to fully understand what happens in this movie. Perhaps, if I had an inkling, I could do a little research and be enlightened. I'm not so much into researching my movies to be quite honest. I had a similar experience not so long ago, where I felt so strongly about my experience I was compelled to write an email to a website I frequent regarding a movie I had watched recently. Awww, What the hell, I'll include that too, since I am playing critic tonight. Oh! If you are looking for Jean-Claude patented ass kicking, don't watch this. If you are a fanatic, go right ahead, fill yer boots.

I'm Not There

Now, just in case you’re a huge Dylan fan let me explain before you hire a hit. I like Bob Dylan; in fact my affection resides in the much stronger territory of love where certain songs are concerned. My Father made sure I was well acquainted with the music of, in his opinion, the best musicians on earth. Bob Dylan was one of them. So, when I saw a preview for this movie I was excited. Unfortunately, life happened and I didn't get to see it as early as I would have liked. I happened to be at the movie store without the other half last weekend, and there on the bottom shelf, in the corner of the bottom shelf, were two copies of this movie. I got all excited because I had forgotten all about it and I remembered how much I wanted to see it. I scooped it up, paid for it, drove home, popped me some popcorn and fired up the DVD player. I watched all 2 hours and 15 minutes of it.

If I had an ounce of knowledge on the subject, perhaps I could say this movie is visually remarkable. I didn’t invest 2 hours of my time for the cinematography. If I had wanted to see the result of Todd Haynes flexing his writer/director muscle, then I might have been impressed (although I was intrigued by the idea to use 6 different actors to portray one man). What I wanted was to learn a bit about the legend. To walk away feeling as if I had been audience to a small portion of Bob Dylan’s life. What I got, however, was a whole lot of “What the…?!?”
I thought I should sleep on it. Maybe I would feel better about it in the morning, you know, digest a little. I woke up still confused. What was I missing? Everything seemed out of context, nothing tied one event to another. I mean, what in the name of all that is good does Billy the Frikkin’ Kid have to do with Bob Dylan? I obviously was missing some very crucial information here. And that’s it. This movie left me feeling like there exists some secret VIP Dylan Club for which I was not a card holding member. Amateur’s need not apply.

For what it’s worth, I enjoyed the acting. Heath Ledger can (could?) do no wrong. Christian Bale was broody and he does that well. Cate Blanchett is amazing and everything she touches is gold in my eyes. Richard Gere, well, again I ask you, what does Billy the Kid have to do with Bob Dylan? I should add that I did look up Billy the Kid’s relevance shortly after I woke up and the explanations I found left me still confused. I did find a satisfactory explanation of Marcus Carl Franklin’s character. Even when I didn’t know why he was there or why he was calling himself Woody Guthrie, I was amused by the kid.

This movie should come with a warning; if you aren’t a die-hard, a Dylan aficionado, get your kicks elsewhere. This movie’s not for you.

Th-th-that's all folks!

Road Rage

I have a dirty little secret. I like to drive fast. I am usually a good little law abiding citizen, I would never demean another person for following the letter of the law, even when I have chosen to bend a law a teensy bit. Normally, I have no problem whatsoever sharing the road with drivers who obey the speed limit.

I grew up in Toronto, the 401 ( the MacDonald - Cartier Freeway or Highway of Heroes, as it is more recently known) was where I learned my highway etiquette. Granted, it may have bred a slightly aggressive driver where speed is concerned. But the aggression was not unknown. In fact, if you were of a less aggressive nature, you knew your place on my fair city's highway. The unspoken rule (one the Ontario Provincial Police would, I'm sure, love to rid the highway of) is the actual speed limit is 15 - 20 km/h above the posted speed limit. At least. If you cannot bring yourself to follow the flow of traffic, remain in the far right lane and deal with merging traffic. Otherwise, prepare to be tail-gated, flashed at (lights, dirty minded!), or flipped the bird. If you are the reason a driver going faster than you has to brake or *gasp* cancel cruise control, prepare to be ridiculed. You most likely won't hear it, so the emotional damage is minimal, but know that it is happening. The other driver is most likely cursing the day you were granted a driver's license.

Mr. Sprite is a member of our fine country's esteemed military -no, I didn't just choke, why do you ask? A couple of years ago, the powers that be determined my husbands ability would better serve another military base and so being the patriotic family, we obeyed orders and were relocated. Since relocating, I have to travel a good portion of the 101 highway in Nova Scotia's Annapolis Valley in order to make it to work. I don't mind. I like to drive. I like to drive fast. Fast is not a word that often enters the common resident of the Valley's vocabulary. So much so, they have robbed Mexico of their laid back motto and more often than I care to admit, I hear the locals refer to Valley Time.

Even though I grew up in a city where anything I could ever want was literally at my front door, where I could buy diapers, roofing nails and roti all a four o'clock in the morning, it wasn't hard to get used to "Valley Time". I polished up on my organizational skills, adjusted my expectations and voila! I am no longer a child of instant gratification.

I cannot, however, handle the drivers in this portion of the province. While in Ontario the posted speed limit suggested the slowest you should drive, here, I am lucky to encounter a driver actually approaching the speed limit! It is not uncommon for an entire caravan of vehicles to be trudging along at a leisurely 90 or 95 km/hr. The speed limit is 100! To add insult to injury, the majority of the highway is a single lane in either direction. The passing sections, where the line is not solid to one or both sides of traffic, is use at your own risk. Because I know a guy, who knew a guy, who has a degree in civil engineering, I am confident when I say; this road was not designed to support a 100 km/h speed limit. 80 maybe, but not 100. Attempting to pass in the oncoming lane is a game of Russian Roulette. It's a twisty, turny, sort of hilly stretch of road and those passing sections may be sufficient if drivers were coasting along at a comfy 80. But when you are trying to pass the Pappy Parade, propelling past at 130, it is grossly insufficient.

So, I often find myself chomping at the bit. Inevitably, I am usually the 32nd car in a line of 50. I await the opportunity to pass with baited breath. I used to enjoy driving. I drove in a city that boasts two of the country's 10 most dangerous intersections and rarely felt stress as a result of driving. After moving to a more rural location, my anxiety behind the wheel was usually weather related. Here, in what is peddled as one of the most relaxing provinces in the country, I fear my daily commute. I would hardly have cause to complain if my complaint were speed limit obeying drivers. But it isn't. My complaint is people who can't seem to find the strength in their right foot to apply the pressure required to the gas pedal to go just a leeedle bit faster. It may be my sanity's undoing.

I Never Promised You a Rose Garden

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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