Ho-Hum

Lately I've been knee-deep in a blue sort of feeling and it's so strange. So encompassing. So heavy. So unwanted, truthfully. Thick as mud and just as hard to get out of. Damn wheels are stuck and we all know I'm rear-wheel drive.

Usually, October is my jam. Pumpkins and horror movies, sweaters and new seasonal colour palette - that riot of orange, yellow, red and brown, what's not to love? What's not to celebrate? Every other year, I've looked forward to saying goodbye to summer (good riddance, summer, with your tiresome heat that causes my meaty thighs to chafe) and hello to Autumn (Hello, warm blankets and big mugs of hot tea (well, actually, lukewarm tea. If you know me at all, you know I don't drink my tea while it is hot. It's a quirk, I suppose).

Except, this year is different. (You know how I am not equipped to handle different)

At first, I thought it was because of the baby boy's first birthday. Yes, he turned one. (Certainly I deserve some sort of praise and cake for this?) And yes, I was unusually emotional. Like the weepiest of all the weepers. I couldn't believe how often I welled up at the thought of him turning a year old. It was, to say the least, headache inducing and annoying. (You know how I am when it comes to feeling the feels.) I thought, for sure, I was being ridiculous, but word on the street is that being a mother is a very emotional business. In truth, I am not cut out for all these feelings. They are exhausting. So, I was sad. Very sad. But also hugely happy and excited about the baby boy turning one. After all, we made it a whole year together. It was both a blink of an eye and the longest period of time simultaneously. 

That was back in August. In September, I chalked it up to the change of seasons and the lack of warmth. Rainy days are great for reading a book but not so wonderful for adventuring with the wee one. We try to get out and explore for a couple hours a day. Hard to do that when the heavens are throwing a temper-tantrum of epic proportions.

Still, I thought for sure once October hit, I would be back to my joyous self. Actually, no one has ever used the word 'joyous' to describe me. So, let's not get too hyperbolic. Exaggeration is fine in moderation. Lo and behold, I did not feel excited about October. In fact, it turns out, I became even more morose. Confounding, I know. 

Now, it's ten days in, and I've yet to shake this melancholic mood. It's Thanksgiving today and I have many things to be thankful for. I try to focus on that, but you know how sadness creeps in until it has coated everything with its weepy residue and no matter where you sit or stand you get it all over you. The truth is, I don't foresee a turn around in mood any time soon because, and I know this is going to come as a shock, I am moving again (YES, AGAIN). And I started thinking, maybe this is why I wasn't enjoying October in my typical Halloween obsessed fashion. 

Even though we have a crazy landlady and an ant problem, I actually like living here. I have good memories. Like the most important recent  life-changing memory ... baby boy's arrival home. This was his first home and, for some weird reason that I'm sure other mothers can understand, I am sad to say goodbye to it. I know in my heart our next home will be just that, our home, but this one is special because we spent so much time together here. We grew so much here. I became a completely different person here. And that's the most truth I have written in a very long time. 

I learned to love another human unconditionally here. This is where my universe shifted. In this house, where I write this, I became a mom. I figured out how to be a mother. And I brought my son here. He learned to crawl here. He learned to say 'mom' here. He learned to eat food here. He learned to walk here. His first smile was here. My life was given new meaning here. 

If that won't trip you up and make you feel a bit sombre, I don't know what will. 

Also, the house we are moving into at  the end of the month is much smaller (cozier). 

Do you know what a smaller home means? Less space. 

So, I have been purging. And by purging, I mean throwing out my life. You wouldn't believe the things I've gotten rid of. There is still so much more to go through. It's daunting, really. I have donated, consigned, sold and thrown out so much of my life. So many things I was holding on to. At first, when I found myself knee deep in sentimentality, this was hard. Really hard. I felt as if I couldn't let anything go because I'd be hurting someone, or myself. That I would be letting go of who I was. The girl I used to be. 

And you know what ... sometimes you need to do just that. 

When I seriously started to get down to business, when I stopped moping and getting all boo-hoo over this junk, when I finally pulled my purge pants on and actually started giving things away, selling them, throwing them out - it got easier. With each thing I donated, it was easier to toss something else. Until, I looked around and thought, Well, shit, this is all just stuff. 

Now when I look through a box labelled 'my past', I don't see the people I used to love or memories we shared. I see things. Things that have been sitting and collecting dust. And some of these things I have moved around with me since I was seventeen years old! Do you know how many moves that is? Let me think ... Surrey, New West, Main, 14th, back to Surrey, another place in Surrey, to the Island, and to here ... that's eight damn moves! And do you think I even opened those boxes? Or went through that stuff? 

Big. Fat. Nope. 

So goodbye pirate shirt, I might fit you again but I will never wear you. Goodbye ex-boyfriend boxes full of twenty page love letters and mixed tapes. Goodbye scrap books of ticket stubs and weird advertisements. Goodbye jewellery I've had since I was sixteen, no one needs three dog chain choker necklaces. Goodbye wedding dress with the wine stain from Leppy. Goodbye random tooth I had pulled when I was eighteen. Goodbye first tattoo design which I seriously regret having now. Goodbye all this crap. 

Because these things may serve as memories, but you know what else does. My memories. In my brain. I still have them. They are all stored up there in meticulous order. And if one day I no longer have my memories, then these items will be useless anyhow! 

Okay, so maybe I know why I'm in a funk. Birthday. Moving. All this change. And I know I am terrible with change. There's been so much of it in the last couple years - the business, the baby, the job. It's basically been a complete overhaul. And now all this purging - it's hard work, you know. I suppose even the brightest beam of sunshine might be disenchanted by this act. All these items, they fill up our lives, don't they? It's almost as though this stuff defines us in some weird way. It is nice to have a few trinkets to hold onto to remind us of who we once were and how we got to this point. But we are not the same people we used to be and, you know what, it is okay to let that person go. I think letting go of who you once were is freeing because you no longer have to compare yourself to her. 

You can simply be who you are now. And maybe that's something I can look forward to. 

Then I can start working towards the girl I want to be.*

*a girl who isn't in a funk

And now a picture to sum up the chaotic beauty of my life: 

Oh Man - Day 16

Last night, I watched the remake of The Omen.

Here is my review:

Title: The Omen
Year: 2006
Synopsis: A remake of the 1976 horror classic The Omen (1976), an American official realizes that his young son may literally be the devil incarnate.

Tagline: His day will come.

After all these years I've come to the conclusion I don't like The Omen. Not the original from 76 or the remake of 2006. It's just a bad movie. And I know it's heralded as a classic, but it really isn't very good. I can't even pinpoint what it is I dislike so much. Probably because we've seen it before. Is this not just a blend of The Exorcist and Rosemary's Baby? Both of which are far superior films. 

In both movies, the slow build is almost agonizing to watch. Nothing really happens. A lot is hinted at. And the creaking wheel on a tricycle is supposed to be scary. I must have missed the memo. It takes about 3/4 of the film to actually get to any action, but by that point you're so board that they could kill Damien and you wouldn't give a care because you can't stand any of the characters. Or maybe that's just me. Like Julia Stiles and Liev Schreiber couldn't act in this movie. Granted, I am not a huge Julia fan, but Liev, I love Sabretooth! But that's beside, even then, most of the action and suspense in The Omen is delivered through the dreams of the mother. What a cop out! 

Both of the fathers from the original and remake are annoying. The mothers weak and kind of crazy. Priests are erratic and don't offer enough evidence of their claim to convince. And the fact that everyone who is associated with the anti-christ is marked is far-fetched. Something else that drove me nuts, the dog. Why are dogs always these snarling snapping balls of fur in movies? Especially horror movies! 

There is the bones of a good movie here. It just so happens the flesh over said bones is rotten. To put it simply, the acting is stilted in both, plot is thin and watered down, movie generally lack luster and boring. I honestly think that this was such a success because it capitalized off the gore it displayed. Some of the deaths in this are cited in horror movie blogs as ground breaking, so I suppose it does in some ways deserve its cult classic standing. But I honestly think the only reason it was ever popular was because horror exploded in the seventies as cinema and the audience embraced their desire to be scared. 

Then they went and remade it. But that's irrelevant in this day and age, because there are far scarier, gorier movies, that actually have good actors and keen plots. 

A truly good movie stands the test of time. 

This sadly isn't one of them. Neither will the remake. 

Just pass on The Omen. 

Quitting Is For Quitters

On a whim, I decided to go through all the blogs I follow. As it turns out, everyone and their mother has a blog and apparently I was diligently following them. The list mostly consisted of other wannabe-authors like me. Men and women toiling away, churning out blogs about their journeys, posting articles about writing and editing and just awesome life events and crap that is important to them.

Oh, wait, hold on.

While the blogs I followed were mostly other writers, they certainly weren't posting anything. This blew my mind. Not literally, just figuratively. Out of the 127 witty blogs with wonderful play-on-word titles, only thirty of them were still active. Most of them hadn't had posts in months and a lot years!

Now, I know how this works. Some of these blogs had been abandoned for new blogs, and I simply wasn't given the memo, but most of them were left out in the rain, much like that cake in that song. But, but, but, the abandoned blog owners will say. Everyone has reasons, right? Reason why they didn't write. Reasons why they didn't respond. Reasons, reasons, reasons. We are full of them.

Alright, I can sympathize. There are dry spells. When you're moving or birthing a child into this world, you can go months without posting but still have the intention of returning to your virtual stomping ground to deliver amazing content to the boys and girls following your blogs. You might be sitting there, baby on teat, thinking about all the things you want to say.

But those people are the exception, not the rule.

As I axed the inactive blogs out of my list of worthy reads, I picked out over seventy people who hadn't moved, gotten married, or pushed a child into this world. What is their excuse?

They are quitters.

Plain and simple.

Surely that's going to ruffle a few feathers. As it should. No one wants to be considered a quitter. But it doesn't matter how you cut it. Quitting is for quitters. And if you have a blog you haven't posted on since last fall. You're a quitter. I don't care how good your intentions are. That baby is out there floating in the blog abyss, cold, hungry and wondering what it did to drive you away.

Don't you love it when I personify a blog? I do.

Some of these crappy blog owners might say they ran out of things to write about. I've heard it before. No really. I have.

If that's the case, perhaps the whole writing thing isn't for you. Because, let me tell you, even when my wells run a bit dry, there's still water seeping in through the cracks in the foundation. The soil is always moist, if you know what I mean. Granted, I completely understand if you don't. It was a weird analogy. I think the point is - you should always have something to say.

Simply put, people give up. Sure, I am only talking about blogs here, and maybe they don't seem important to you, but if you can't muster enough creativity or energy to post a blog once a week then how the heck are you going to stay on top of marketing your book or responding to your readers.

Think about it this way. All these people out there who start a blog, write a book, self publish, sell ten copies, don't achieve the staggering famedom they were anticipating and just throw the towel in. It kind of terrifies me to think of how saturated Amazon is with these types of cases.

But people don't read my blog, the quitters moan.

Boo-hoo!

Perhaps you're putting boring as dirt posts out into the world. Or maybe you aren't utilizing tags. There might even be a chance your really crappy at networking. Comments and views and reads ebb and flow depending on the time of day you post to what it is you're writing about. Word on the street is that twenty thousand people start a blog each day. (Those numbers seem a bit high these days, but as we know humans are extremely opinionated) With those numbers, it's hard to fathom making a splash in that sort of a pool, right? I get it. I understand.

But here is how I think about this whole writing into the blog abyss. It's practice.

Practice for when my seven figure deal comes rolling in. All I am doing is showing the world I have drive and tenacity. That I am not going anywhere. No matter how few of views on my vlog, reads on my blog, or likes I get on my sardonic but ingenious Facebook updates, I am sticking around. Because this is what I want to do. This is my passion.

I ain't no quitter.

That said, I cannot guarantee the content posted here will always blow your socks off. But it will most of the time. Blogging is work. Whoever told you otherwise was lying.

Oh, yeah, I've decided to delete blogs off my reading list if they go a month or longer without posting. It's a harsh rule, I know, but maybe this will motivate some people to actually start taking this social media, blogging, virtual crap seriously.