Just Beecause Cowl

Last night, I put the finishing touches on my latest knitting project. This beautiful black and yellow cowl.

The yarn was given to me by an exotic princess of darkness named Adrianne and was this fluffy lushness that I most definitely had to knit something for myself with. But, I decided, I didn't want to do just any old cowl, so I made up my own pattern and am calling it the Just Beecause Cowl. Beecause because it is a gorgeous black and yellow that were meant to be together forever, in cowl form.

For those looking for the pattern it is really very simple and is right here:

Just Beecause Cowl

I crafted this on size 11 (or 8mm) circular needles and used bulky yarn. Honestly, I can't tell you the name of the yarn because I tossed the tags out. Sorry! You can adjust the needls and yarn accordingly, but just ensure you CO with a number that is divisible by 4 and 3, and also even when divided by 4. Does that make sense? It's because of

CO 144 in colour A and join in the round and place marker.
Row 1 - Knit
Row 2 - *K1, k2tog, yo* repeat to end
Row 3 - Knit
Row 4 - *K1, yo, k2tog* repeat to end
Row 5 - Knit
Row 6 - *K1, k2tog, yo* repeat to end
Row 7 - Knit
Row 8 - *K1, yo, k2tog* repeat to end
Row 9 - Knit
Row 10 - *K1, k2tog, yo* repeat to end
Row 11 - Knit
Row 12 - *K1, yo, k2tog* repeat to end
Row 13 - Knit
Change to colour B
Row 14 - Knit
Row 13-16 - *K4, P4* repeat to end
Row 17-20 - *P4, K4* repeat to end
Row 21-24 - *K4, P4* repeat to end
Row 25-28 - *P4, K4* repeat to end
Row 29-32 - *K4, P4* repeat to end
Row 33-36 - *P4, K4* repeat to end
Row 37 - Knit
Switch to colour A
Row 38 - Knit
Row 39 - *K1, k2tog, yo* repeat to end
Row 40 - Knit
Row 41 - *K1, yo, k2tog* repeat to end
Row 42 - Knit
Row 43 - *K1, k2tog, yo* repeat to end
Row 44 - Knit
Row 45 - *K1, yo, k2tog* repeat to end
Row 46 - Knit
Row 47 - *K1, k2tog, yo* repeat to end
Row 48 - Knit
Row 49 - *K1, yo, k2tog* repeat to end
Row 50 - Knit

Bind Off loosely. Weave in Ends. Block as necessary.

The brilliant part of this pattern is that it is more like a potion and you can change it as necessary. If you only want to do one colour, only do one colour. If you want to do more checks in the middle, do more checks in the middle. If you want to do one row black, the other yellow, feel free. This pattern is adaptable to suit your needs, wants and desires. Do as what pleases you.

Just a little note. I hate blocking, I rarely ever do it, I would rather allow the cowl to curl up and be fabulous.

And here is where I say, I am grateful I have a firm enough grasp of pattern making to understand how to put this cowl together. I love the way it turned out, and it is functional and fashionable. Keeps me warm, and reminds me of our greatest friends, the bees.

Parental Units

When I was a little girl, I loved my parents. I wanted nothing more than to make them proud. For them to take notice of the things I did and give me a little pat on the back. Even as I got older, I wanted them to be happy with who I was. Even when I went through my darkest days and just wanted to scream at them to 'fuck right off' and 'leave me alone'. As I told the world I didn't give a shit what anyone thought of me, I wanted my parents to believe in me, to think I'd make it through and come out the other side stronger and awesomer.

To this day, I don't want them to be disappointed in me. As a fully grown adult, who still feels like a lost child sometimes, I long for parental acceptance and guidance. I want them to be proud. And I wonder if how I've turned out has done right by them, minus the piercings.  Luckily, I've never been to jail. Some people might laugh and think I am joking around, but I'm not. The fact that I haven't gotten arrested does set me apart from a couple of my siblings.

The thing about growing up is, it's hard. Bad things happen. People make mistakes. Everything feels so messed up and weird. Honestly, I wasn't sure I stood a chance at all. The truth is, life very rarely is easy. As I got older, I self doubted, self criticized, and generally felt thrust in the middle of madness, not sure what I was doing and why things were happening.

It wasn't until I moved out of my parents house that I realized they were probably just as confused and uncertain as I was. That they made mistakes alright, but so did I. They had hopes and dreams, just like me, and I bet they even wanted me to be proud of them. It wasn't easy for them. They had it hard too. I mean, six kids? Yeah, that's a headache just to think about. I have zero kids and life is, at times, financially, mentally and emotionally exhausting.  

You don't think about those things when you are a teenager. When you're a teenager you are a selfish, inwardly focused individual and you hold things against everyone you encounter. The jerk two grades older than you who asked if you were a boy. Your idiotic computer science teacher who sent you to the principal's office before you even made it to class. The best friend who you thought was on your side, until a boy was involved. And more than everyone else, your parents. It doesn't matter what they did. If they smothered you with love, coddled you, hit you with a wooden spoon, called you names, or fell asleep during one of your plays, you hold it against them, blame them for your shortcomings. Everything messed up in your life ends up being a direct result of the coddling, neglect, anger, love, fear, and unrealistic demands they placed on you. 

At least, that's what you think when you're a dumb fourteen year old. Or an even dumber sixteen year old. Heck, sometimes those feelings of resentment, hurt and bitterness leech over into your twenties. Sometimes your thirties. Sometimes you never learn how to forgive. Sometimes you never step back and see your parents as human beings just trying to make it through another day. Sometimes you don't come to terms with your own dickheadedness. And sometimes you don't figure out that, like yourself, parents grow up and change. They learn. They hurt. They fake it until they make it. They don't have all the answers. And they have a lot of questions. 

Luckily, I learned my parents were people a long, long time ago. I see them as these awesome, confounding, brilliant individuals. They make me laugh. They make me feel loved. They make me happy. I am proud of them. Proud they are these crazy, wonderful, gentle, kind, amazing people who each  gave me parts of themselves. Without them, I wouldn't be this crazy, wonderful, gentle, kind, amazing girl - the one I am still figuring out. 

Simply put, I am grateful I got over my shit. That I grew up and realized life is too short to hold grudges, especially against the people who gave me so much. And I am not talking about food, a roof over my head and clothes. I am talking about my laugh, my nose that I think is a bit too big, these ample hips and busty bust, the curls in my hair and love of creatures of all sizes. I am grateful for the life they gave me, even if it hasn't been easy. Because it's been life.  

Beastly

Remember that movie adaptation of Beauty and the Beast called Beastly with Alex Pettyfer and Vanessa Hudgens and it was set in High School and Mary-Kate Olsen was the witch who cursed the spoiled rich boy?

Well, this isn't about that film. Though, if I was forced to admit it, I actually kind of liked the movie. It is what it is - teenage tripe. But like Gossip Girl and Vampire Diaries, there's something to be enjoyed in the shallow depths of the shiny, pretty things. Even if you don't want to say it aloud, for fear it will be the one fact everyone remembers, it's entertaining.

But, like I said. This isn't about Beastly - the movie. It's about Beastly - the state of mind.

Don't you hate it when you wake up and feel beastly. The beast of all beasts. As if the only fitting task would be to tear apart your west wing, smash all the mirrors and sit there brooding over the fact that no one will ever truly love a beast. Of course it's melodramatic and completely unsubstantiated, but in the moment, you want to just lock up your castle and never see anyone ever again. And, on the off chance someone does stumble upon your dwelling, you will toss them in the dungeon. Ha! That will teach them to sell Girl Guide cookies door-to-door. Give me all the thin mints and get in your cell!

This actually sparks a very questionable query. Why was it okay for the Beast to lock Belle's father in the dungeon? Isn't that some sort of form of kidnapping? Or, at the very least, false imprisonment? I mean, he knocked. He called out. Twice, in fact. Still, down to the dungeons with you, old man! And, if anything, shouldn't the enchanted servants take some of the blame? If not all of them, then at least Lumiere!

I regress.

The beastly days are the hardest. They come without warning, or sometimes with warning because you ate a pound of candy the night before, and they set your day off on the wrong foot. On these days, it is the hardest to look presentable. If you have a job that you work from home or at an office where you don't have to interact with the general public, you can squeak by in comfy pants and a hat, and silently wish for the day to end swiftly. This isn't the case when you engage with others and on the off chance you are SUPPOSED to look at the very least decent, it can be a daunting task. Like putting lipstick on a pig.

It gets even worse too. No matter what I wear, I am uncomfortable. It isn't my clothes, either. It's my skin. I am uncomfortable in my body. So, I try to put a little more effort in on the days I wake up in a self conscious puddle of raw emotions and unrealistic expectations of myself. Honestly, that effort tends not to pay off. I only end up feeling as if my time and energy are wasted. That I am foolish for even trying. That I would have been better off cutting holes in a burlap sack and wearing a Halloween mask.

Yes, I know this seems harsh. And, sure, it probably has something to do with the hormones. I hear estrogen is a wicked bitch. Still, once in a blue moon, these days come along. Like yesterday and, if I am being honest, which I so often insist on doing, I am still feeling residual affects today. Here's the truth of the matter:

No amount of pretty dresses, hair combing or makeup can change a Beastly day into a Belle one.  

Those are the facts. In the end, I just try to fake it until I make it through. Or make it to the weekend so I can wear oversized sweaters and no pants. Whichever comes sooner. Something funny did come of this. I told my Sidekick that I felt beastly and he told me I was, "The most beautiful beast of them all." Yeah, I cry laughed over that. It's hilarious, but still cut me a bit.

Crap, I have to add something I am grateful for on here. Ugh. Well, I am happy I can step back and know my beastly feelings are irrational, to a degree. And that I probably don't look as bad as I think I do.

Goodbye Egon Spengler

You will be missed, Harold Ramis.

And always remembered for the brilliance you created and encapsulated.

Ghostbusters was, by far, one of the best films from my youth. Everything about it makes me feel better. About life. About love. About poltergeists. One day, my children will watch that movie. And they will love it.

Your genius will live on and I am grateful to know it. Also, Egon Spengler was one of my first crushes. But that's just between us two.

May the rest be in peace.

Damn You Google

I, like so many other people, enjoy how Google makes life easier. Anything I want to learn about is at the tips of my fingers. Still, there is room for improvement. Like having more than one account.

Ages ago, I started this blog with a little known yahoo account. It has always been under that Yahoo account, but as time passed, and I accquired more accounts, like Google + and twitter and Facebook and Instagram and ... well, you get the picture, the more difficult it came to keep things in order. So, then I started the tedious task of merging everything under the same email account.

Now, since you have to have a Google + account with your gmail address, I figured I'd just keep that around. And since blospot is a Google application, I thought I would just be able to merge my blogger with my Google + account, because that would make my like 160 times better. Instead, when I went to go add my gmail address, it told me that that address was already associated with Google +. Yeah, I know, but can't I add my blog onto there?

Long story short, no. You can't.

Which sucks.

Yes, I could add another author onto my blog with my gmail account and then delete the original creator of the blog, but then all the blogs I follow don't transfer and neither do the comments I've left and my join date.

Call me fickle, but these things really do bother me.

It also bothers me that Google just won't allow me to merge the two accounts. I mean, come on! What's a girl to do?

I suppose I should just be grateful that I even have the ability to blog and type and tap dance in the rain, and I am. Don't get me wrong. I am super appreciative of all I have. But Google is this massive conglomerate all digitally advance, but they can't let me do this one silly thing that completely annoys my OCD brain. I want to have one account, I don't have to flip back and forth between them. Can't they just make my life easier and say, "Yes, you can merge your accounts. Ta dah!"

Yes, you can export and import a blog, but it doesn't save all your settings, nor your Blogger profile. It's almost like you're supposed to have previous knowledge of all this junk before you create  any account on the interweb. I guess I could delete my Google + account and start anew, but that seems like so much work and I am also lazy, as well as fickle.

Geez, my middle class problems are such a pain in the year. Though, I don't technically think I qualify as middle class. I made too little money last year to consider myself that!

Snark ended.

The Big Bang

Today I will not be writing about the theory behind the creation our amazing planet, Earth, and the universe it resides in. Nah, I'm going to dial it down a notch and talk about the television show. 

Some people may not be aware, but I like television. I used to not watch very much of it, but the more I write, the more I knit, the more I watch. A lot of the times it is simply background noise to whatever else I am doing, except with it comes to a select few shows. 

I have always appreciated the value of the half-hour sitcom. Usually these come on after dinner. And are 24 delightful minutes of funny. Growing up, I watched shows like Home Improvement and Full House, but above everything else Roseanne was the best. Because the family was dysfunctional and that was the beauty of it. Maybe I saw my own family in the show. 

These days, the half-hour sitcom isn't as memorable. There are a few that I certainly like to indulge in, Parks and Recreation, 2 Broke Girls and Modern Family are at the top of the list, but if I want a laugh there one show I turn to. 

The Big Bang Theory. 

Every episode has something to make me guffaw over. Currently, I am catching up on season seven and I must say  Amy Farrah Fowler is my hero. She's perfect and delightful, but also one of the most humbling characters. Also, Mayim Bailik was Blossom. And who didn't love Blossom? Though I really disliked her best friend Six, but I think there was an issue with best friends in the nineties. Six, Kimmy Gibbler, Screech ... why were they all ridiculous and kind of moronic? 

Anyhow, Big Bang Theory. I love it. 

And that Bernadette is hot. 

Ogdred Weary

Today is Edward Gorey's birthday! For anyone who doesn't know of this uniquely amazing man, he was a master illustrator, creative genius, and one of the rarest gems ever to exist on this rocky plain. Not only can we celebrate his macabre books, which there are over a hundred of, but his unusual way of looking at life. This man was the true definition of strange and brilliant. And I am grateful he existed, for the world would have been a far less interesting place without him. Before Tim Burton, there was Mr. Gorey and his ominous tales told through a tip of a pen.

Even though Gorey's literary catalogue is deep and plentiful many of his works are hard to find, all because of his love for word play, especially anagrams. A lot of his books were published under pseudonyms of his own name, most notably Ogdred Weary. Another name he used was Eduard Blutig which actually isn't an anagram, but still a word game. Blutig is German for bloody or Gory. A few of the other names he wrote under were Mrs. Regera Dowdy, Raddory Gewe, and E.G. Deadworry.

Here are some more ponderable facts about Edward Gorey:

• His parents divorced when he was 11 and remarried when he was 27.
• He attended Harvard and roomed with poet Frank O'Hara 
• A lot of John Bellairs cover  art was illustrated by Gory.
• A few of Gorey's works were in fact wordless and his illustrations always had a Victorian and Edwardian style to them, not to mention an air of ominousness. 
• An unabashed 'pop culture junkie' Gorey loved television, movies, and soap operas. He stated in interviews his love for Batman and Buffy The Vampire Slayer. 
• Gorey was never married and confessed to have little interest in romance. 
• When asked about his sexual orientation, he said, "I've never said that I was gay and I've never said that I wasn't ... what I'm trying to say is that I am a person before I am anything else."
• His home in Cape Cod is called Elephant House and is now the Edward Gorey House Museum.
• This quirky gentleman left the bulk of his estate to a charitable trust for animals, dogs, cats and even bats and insects. 

A Gothic icon, Gorey stretched the bounds and falls into a very grey area. Though his artwork is often categorized for children, he did not write or draw for our youth, nor did he have much of a fondness for them. In truth, Gorey's works cannot be put into any one genre. Sure, you can find his books in the humour or cartoon section at your nearest bookstore, but he experimented all the time and often his artwork falls into a surrealist niche. Not to mentions his experiments - books that are wordless or ones the size of a matchbox, popup books or ones filled with inanimate objects - these only make it all that much harder to classify this man. 

Gorey himself described his work as literary nonsense. Which kind of only endears me to him more. Though he once said, "Ideally, if anything were any good, it would be indescribable." And that truly is what this man was. Good and indescribable.

Happy Birthday, Edward Gorey, you beautifully odd man. May your dark humour live on forever. 

It's Friday Night

And I'm just a little run ragged. Not to sure why, but my brain isn't turning properly, so a succinct posting it shall be. Tomorrow I shall put more thought, time and energy into what I am grateful for.

Today, I will simply say my new anchor plugs. A Christmas gift from the Sidekick.

Yes, I only got them in today. Because stretching to 0 from 2 with bamboo just doesn't happen. So glass was involved and stuff. Anyway, aren't they adorable?

On a side note, look how hairy my cheek is! That's not normal. 

Because Of The Poo

A little over a week ago, I read an article about how we ask the wrong questions, especially with the ones we love. Questions like "how was your day?" and "how was work?" and even "how are you?" are surface questions. They aren't crafted for their target. They take no thought to conjure up. So often, they are part of our routine and we ask them because we know we are going to get a surface answer back, like 'fine' and 'not bad'.

When I really got to thinking about it, I came to the conclusion people avoid digging deeper due to lack of energy. Sometimes it's exhausting to think about delving into a lengthy conversation, so we keep our questions simple and virtually unanswerable. I mean, how can you truly answer how was your day? No matter what you say 'good, bad, fine, shitty, great, awesome, terrible, monotonous, same old - you are lobbing the ball back into the other person's court and waiting for them to ask why. Which often doesn't come because people are tired. They work and have kids and have chores to do! Besides, a lot of people are afraid of what the answers will be if they keep digging. They don't want to get hurt.

But the truth is, when you're in a relationship with others not getting hurt isn't always an option. 

By asking more specific questions, you can improve the quality of your relationship. The more you do it, the easier it becomes. Surface questions fall to the wayside. Instead of, how was your day? Suddenly you are asking, what was the best part of your day? You start checking 'how are you?' at the door and welcome more direct conversation starters with 'did anything make you laugh today?' That one happens to be one of my favourites.  

Tell me this makes sense to you. Because after I read the article it was like a switch had been flipped in my head and I saw all the conversational faux paus people make. The theory behind it definitely falls into the empathetic listeners ballpark and encourages sharing. Some people may already embrace these sorts of questions. It might even be a natural thing for you. Heck, you might not even realize you do it. 

I didn't. 

But after I read the article to the Sidekick, he said I always ask him weird questions. True, I do. But I also found those were more for fun. They weren't chosen to understand how he was feeling or what I could have done to make his day better, they were silly and for shiggles (shits and giggles). Like the other day, I asked him, what part of the body don't you like? 

His reply. "The anus." Which is pretty self explanatory. Still he added, "Because of the poo." 

Oh, did I ever laugh. 

The point is, I still need to work on asking him questions about his day, our lives, and everything and anything that makes him tick. Because if I care enough to ask a question, then I might as well make it a good one. I want to improve the connections I have with people. I want them to feel special. And I want them to answer me honestly. Truth is a beautiful thing, even if it hurts. Because it teaches us. It allows us to understand and better know the ones we love, so they don't slip away from us.  

Don't be afraid to ask the ones who mean the most, have you felt loved today? And make your next question a stepping stone to a better relationship and a way more enlightening conversation. 

Articulation

The other night I was leaving work with the Sidekick and I said, "Hey, it's still light outside."
To which he replied, "Yeah, it's getting ... light ... outside ... more."
The situation only became more amusing when he added, "Yep, if anyone ever needs anything articulated send them my way."

We shared a laugh over it.

But it's a funny thing this articulation. Not everyone is blessed with the ability to put thoughts, feelings or ideas into words. I know many people who feel the English language is daunting and discussions the bane of their existence. When confronted with a conversation, they balk, hesitate to engage, and feel put on the spot, fearful over looking stupid, unsure if their verbal weapons are lacking compared to the person they are speaking with. Personally, I think the art of conversation is not an easy thing to master. That being said, I have never spoken to anyone and come away thinking, "Jeez, that person was an idiot." Actually, that's not true, but it hasn't been because they are unable to articulate themselves or they don't have a very extensive vocabulary. No, it's usually because they are narrow-minded, sexist, racist homophobes, or belligerent butt-heads with no common sense and even less manners.

What you are saying is far more important than how you are saying. While I certainly don't feel people have to read the dictionary or thesaurus in order to convey their emotions and thoughts to others, I do feel the ability to speak coherently, organize your thoughts, and deliver them in a fluent and concise manner can only be an advantage when speaking or writing. It's is far more likely for others to understand what you are saying, where you are coming, and not misconstrue what is being said and why.

While the Sidekick and I certainly had a laugh about his statement about the days being lighter, he really is a man of few words. And though he may not be an overly communicative person, he insists that he makes count the few words he does share. Here's the thing. Mr. Sidekick is certainly capable of articulating himself, but he chooses not to. It just isn't the way he goes about doing things. One part shy, two parts stoic man-beast, and the rest laid-back-whatever-will-be-will-be, he simply has a different way of tackling life.

Some of us are internalizers. Others externalizers.

I can appreciate both sides of the spectrum, which is probably why Sidekick and I get along fairly well. I don't like talking about my feelings, but I am blessed with the ability to be able to do so if necessary. Once in awhile I do engage with others in person, but because of this little thing called blogging, I am able to write about the thoughts running rampant through my head. I have been putting words onto paper, both virtual and real, ever since I was a little girl.

In many ways, I am pleased I know how to take my unbridled thoughts and form them into sentences, paragraphs and novels. Maybe that's a gift. It's certainly something I am grateful for. Most people have a hard time summing up their feelings and conveying their thoughts to others, and even themselves. But there's an age old saying for that, isn't there?

Practice makes perfect. This applies to articulation and the art of conversation. I can't recount how many times I've seen people try to talk to others, only to clam up and scurry away, or clamp a lid down on what they think, because they don't know how to brooch the subject, and are uncertain how to make their point. If you desire the ability to be able speak to others, to tell people your thoughts, feelings, ideas and beliefs, then start practising. Engage with others in a conversation. Try writing everything down. Start a blog - it can even be anonymous. Look up synonyms. Read books. And don't be so bloody self conscious.

One day, I will be the Queen of Articulation. I shall have a sash and everything.

It doesn't matter if you excel at speaking and writing or not. The Sidekick may not be the most communicative fellow, but he can draw like a mother fucker. So, here I am able to write down the things I feel, create fluid prose, and engage in lengthy discussions over human emotions and rain dances in the nude, but I can't paint at all. Sketching shapes is a task for me. And I'm not even talking about a tetrahedron or hexagonal prism. Circles and triangles are most tricky!

There's a point here somewhere. Maybe it's that we are all different? Sure, let's go with that.

Tears From Heaven

No, this does not give reference to that horrible Eric Clapton song. And yes, I am aware that statement will cause people the world over to gasp in horror. But it's the truth. Tears In Heaven is a horrible song. It's terribly depressing and breaks my heart. I mean, come on! It's about the death of his four year old son. I can't handle that. Too sensitive.

Don't get me weepy. That song and Life Is Beautiful. PASS.

Anyhow, I'm talking about the rain pouring down from the heavens today. It is nonstop. The clouds aren't even taking time to breathe. Wonder who make the sky so sad.

On days like these, everyone talks about the weather. They make comments about how miserable it is outside. Weather talk is about my least favourite kind of discussion. So, I am writing about it! How exciting, for you.

From where I stand, rain is awesome. It cleans the air. Feeds the flora and fauna. And who doesn't like that tap-tap-tapping against the window pane in the middle of an epic storm. Oh, and it takes care of snow. It's like, Hi Snow, you came, you saw, now you must go. Just like that, a little downpour and the snow takes off without so much as a goodbye. Fine by me. I'll take rain over snow every single time.

Unlike others, I look forward to the rain, I appreciate it. I am grateful for it. I even like walking in it, if I have the right footwear. Nothing better than puddle jumping. But do it on the way home, then you know you will be warm and dry in a matter of minutes. And have you ever smelled the forest during the rain. It's the sweetest scent you'll ever draw through your nose. Maybe you have to be a fran of nature to appreciate raindrops on roses. But then again, who the hell isn't a fan of nature?

Interestingly enough, I think this rainstorm is all my doing. I did the rain dance in our kitchen the other night. The Sidekick refused to join in. Typical. Still, my thighs and chants were strong enough and Mother Nature complied.

The other day when we were driving back from the ferry, we saw a rainbow. It was sunny and rainy and we knew it was coming. When we saw it, there was this sigh of relief because nature didn't disappoint. All this wetness is cleansing. Refreshing. It's washing all our sins away and giving us a fresh start.

Rain, rain, don't go away. Stay around another day.

My Inbox Scares Me

I wish I were joking, even a little bit, but I'm not. Whenever I see I have mail I get a little anxious. There used to be a time when I rarely even checked my email. That was a long time ago. These days, I check it at least once in the morning and again at night. A couple years ago it used to be a forever tab. You know, one of those tabs you always kept open. 

Time passes and things change. 

Now, I worry that it is something bad. Too many rejections I think. Now, I only send queries from a different email address, just so I don't feel nauseous every time I open my hotmail. Yes, I am still using hotmail. I like to think of myself as a retro kind of girl, clinging to those pieces of my youth. My first email account was dramaticfelony at hotmail dot com. Yes, I do laugh about that, pretty much on a daily basis. How things change. 

Back in the day I used to get emails from my mum and, once in a blue moon, other kids at school. These days, it's my strata, Realtor, landlord, bills, Spam and the occasional well-wisher. I can only surmise that my anxiety over my inbox is directly linked to the amount of unsatisfactory news I've received. 

Tomorrow, I hope I get really good news in my inbox. That might help me out a bit. If I get enough good news, maybe then my inbox won't intimidate me. I will tell you this much, I am grateful for the few people who sneak through who are just looking to touch base and say Hi. Without you, I don't think I'd ever look at my email. Bills be damned. 

How about you? How do you feel about messages in your inbox? And do you remember your first email address?  

Apples

I try to eat one a day.

They are one of my most favourite foods.

Grateful for good food.

That being said, I am reaching on today's 365 Day Challenge.

I mean, at least I am posting, but apples? Weak.

Handmade Gifts

I cried yesterday. A good cry. 

All because my Sidekick gave me an illustration of my Little Guy. 

I am lucky to have someone so creative in my life. Grateful someone thinks about me enough to make me these amazing things. It isn't just the time that goes into it, or the talent. It's the fact that this person has given me exactly what I needed. Olive. My little guy. Who is at his other home right now and dearly missed. 

And can you believe this was done with felt markers? I know. Some people are so gifted. The Sidekick is one of them. 

I just love homemade gifts. They are so much more valuable than everything else. Words really do no justice for what I feel towards this. 

I mean, I cried. Happy tears. Maybe that says it all. 

Love

Love is an extraordinary thing. It's remarkable and lovely. 

You cannot hold it, but can give it to someone. How enthralling that is. You can't technically see, hear, taste, smell or feel it, but at the same time you can. It's nothing and everything. How magical it seems. You can take and give it, hold it, shelter it, care for it, and wildly spread it. Love cures inexplicably. It is the greatest cleansing agent. Healing wounds you never thought you had and the untouchable ones you thought would be there forever. And it has the power to make you see so clearly, while still being able to cloud your sense and make it seem as though you are walking through a dream. 

We all have it, in different forms, but at the root of it the seed is the same. Leaves of good intentions and harmony, respect and trust bloom on it. The blossoms are fragrant. People give it to us, and we give it to others. It's handed off, handed down, passed along, passed around. It is young and old, used and new, recognizable and different. 

Love storms in on the cloudy days and shines down on the crystal clear ones. It is the pot at the end of the rainbow and it skips over the ocean like a stone only to alight the sky when birds take flight. The stepping stones of our lives hold the love of those we've crossed paths with. And in our footprints, we leave behind the impression of love. With it we can fly and run and jump and beat the odds. Without it we are lost. 

It's one of those things that we should all be grateful for. I know I am. 

Pat Yourself On The Back

Good work ethics were instilled in me at a very young age. I blame my parents for my intense need to go above and beyond. I say blame because sometimes being a hard worker can be a bad thing. It's sometimes annoying how things have to look a certain way. Be done quickly and right. To look pretty and draw attention. Good attention. Not bad. I always have put my best foot forward, and that's exhausting.

Let me tell you, when you work for big companies, life is hard. They don't see the little minions sloughing through the mess to ensure things get done. They don't see how hard you are working. How much you try. The overtime you work. The breaks you skip. And it is all for naught because at the end of the day, you are expendable. Replaceable. Just a number on an employee file.  

That always hurt a little. 

I wanted to be irreplaceable. Unfortunately, the older I get, the more I come to terms with the fact that irreplaceability (which isn't a word) in a work environment is a myth, like unicorns and gargoyles. Unless, perhaps, you are working for yourself, then maybe you can't be replaced. If, like most of us, you aren't your own boss, you can be replaced. That's just the honest truth, horrible as it is. If you move along of your own accord, or are forced to leave - someone will fill your shoes. 

Hey, don't get me wrong. They might not wear those shoes in the same way. They might not have your same drive and desire to do a good job, but that often doesn't come into play in the big picture. Your perfectionist ways mean nothing if you butt heads with a manager, CEO or whoever else is at the top of your employment pyramid. So often it seems as though personal relationships are the driving force behind so many business decisions. That always made me so disenchanted. Not because my personality sucks, though there are areas in need of improvement, but because I am opinionated, I have questions, and often find myself playing Devil's advocate. 

And yes, I know these are not character traits managers look for in an employee. 

Still, it's ingrained in me to work hard. I am always willing to take on more and rise to a challenge. The only problem with being a diligent worker bee is that you are sometimes left feeling unappreciated, taken advantage of. This is only exacerbated by the passage of time, that cruel bitch.When a certain amount of time passes, be that days, months or years sometimes your determination to do a good job is taken for granted. As if everyone wakes up with the goal to make their employer's life easier. Is that weird? That I wake up hoping to make everyone else's day move along more smoothly? Probably, but that's just the way I am. 

It's a terribly distressing thing for resentment to build. I don't like contemplating doing less work simply because I am not being thanked. And I hate hearing that nagging question in the back of my head, the horrible seed of self-doubt that demands to know why I even try. I do what I can to put a kibosh to that. Because I know why I try, because I care. It's who I am as a person. And I am grateful for that. 

Maybe that's the point. Maybe me knowing I'm doing a good job is enough. All these years, all the hard work, maybe it has paid off, despite being laid off for no reason. My heart knows what my intentions are. Maybe all the missed thank yous and lost jobs and write ups and one-on-one meetings don't matter. Perhaps I only need to pat myself on the back more often. We don't need anyone else to tell us we are the best thing since sliced bread. Not if we are telling ourselves that. 

Simply put, I like doing a good job. And that's what I strive for each day. Hopefully that doesn't change as I head into my twilight years. Actually, I have no idea what twilight years actually are.  

Musical Memories

Sometimes a song is played and it takes me to a time and place I haven't thought about in years.

Just one song and ...

... I am eighteen years old again. Living in my first apartment. Crushing on that guy from Save-On-Foods. Working at Canadian Tire. Having my tongue pierced at Next on Granville Street. Writing terrible poetry. Being afraid of ants. Laughing with my sister. Going to the Java Joint. Wearing the smallest jean jacket in the world. Buying animal rights buttons and a chain wallet from The Rock Shop. Getting my first tattoo at Liquid Sliver. And my second. Watching the Black Halos play at The Piccadilly Pub on Pender Street. Being taken to see Wendigo. Feeling lost and unsure, and wondering if that will ever go away. (It doesn't) Always being plugged into my discman. Learning the lyrics to a hundred different songs a week. Falling in love with being independent. Finding out the importance of an apology. Wondering when I'll fall in love with a boy. Buying Converse shoes. Setting my hair on fire in the bathtub. Tripping and falling, but getting back up again, and laughing about it. Buying guitars from Long & McQuade. Hanging out with Bella and Sam. Saving Etnie.

Listening to music I will always remember and making musical memories.



I am grateful for those memories and the music that makes me remember.

To Be Missed

There aren't a lot of people who check in when I don't pop up online anymore.

Believe it or not, there used to be a time when if I didn't sign in people would flood my inbox with care and concern. They asked questions. They noticed I wasn't there.

Where are you? What are you up to? Is everything okay? Come back, Tyson, we miss you!

This is both sad and wonderful. Sad because I spent nearly every day on the internet for over a year when I should have been giving the people who brushed shoulders with me the attention they deserved. And wonderful because I felt loved.

The fact only a couple people notice when I'm not around makes me a bit melancholic, but at the same time incredibly happy. My internet consumption has plummeted, and justly so. I've been putting a dedicated effort into spending more time with those I love, meaning the Sidekick, my boys, friends, family, and my writing.

On one hand, I kind of miss being a popular force on the inter-web. On the other, I am proud of myself for prioritizing my life properly. Not that you all aren't important. You are. More than you will ever know.

Still, it's nice when those few people do come wandering around. The whole 'where were you?' questioning is actually quite lovely if it isn't coming from an abusive significant other.Perhaps it simply comes down to being missed, and how nice that is.

That being said, I'm still in charge here.

Home

It's nice to have a place to come back to after a long journey. Or not so long journey.

Comfortable bed. Delightful teas. The sound of hounds snoring and the hum of the dryer. Familiar smells of laundry soap and dog feet. My favourite mugs. And my own pillow. The same old heart-stuttering kisses. Routine. Face soap and toothpaste. Laughter. Unpredictable predictability. Life as it should be. Where everything is as I left it. In and out of place. Different and the same.

Mine.

A place where I am only me and can exist as such.

Home.

I am thankful I have one.

There is nothing better than that first sleep back after time away.

Better Late

Than never.

Almost forgot to blog today.

I am grateful for text messaging. It makes staying in touch with those I love easier.

Warm Blankets And Fluffy Pillows

As a general rule, I hate sleepovers. When I was a teenager they were terrible. I cannot tell you how many cold, hard floors I slept upon. Even worse, paper thin pillows and flimsy blankets. It makes me wonder what the hell parents were thinking.  Where is the hospitality people?

My back hurts just thinking about those sleepless nights on dirty carpeting. Because we all know about dust mites now, and how any type of flooring is never truly clean. Let me just say, no carpeting, not even shag, is equivalent to the glorious nature of a mattress.

And why was it always so damn cold? How many times did I bury my face in my sweatshirt and pray my nose didn't fall off due to frostbite? Too many to count. Did these people not know how to work a thermostat? And these abhorrent sleepover conditions didn't exist in just one friend's home. No. They were always the same. Oh, and I distinctly remember waking up at five in the morning and staring at the ceiling waiting for my friend to wake up, who just so happened to be snug in her warm, cushy bed.

I went because I thought that was what I was supposed to do. A normal teenager thing. But how I loathed it. All I wanted was my own bed. For all the girls to shut up. To not be terrified of farting in my sleep. And to be able to get up and go pee without waking the whole house when I flushed the toilet. Not to mention stomach aches. Getting one at a sleepover sucked. No one likes pooping at anyone else's house.

I suppose the whole concept of sleepovers is fun in theory but I have back problems to this day and I blame it on those hard bedroom floors. In truth,  I still hate them and find myself wishing teleportation was all ironed out and up and running. But it isn't and there are times I have to stay at other people's houses.

Thankfully as an adult I can be more selective with who I stay with and don't feel pressured to accept sleepover requests from individuals who might stick me with a threadbare blanket or even worse, no blanket. Yep, been there, done that. The thing is, I am old. There will be no sleeping on area rugs! Paper thin pillows shall be no more!

When I cross the ocean to the mainland, the people who put me up, or put up with me, seem to genuinely care about my comfort and the general wellbeing of my back. They have fluffy pillows and warm blankets and I don't have to sleep on the floor. I like to think they too experienced the atrocious sleepover conditions of the nineties and refuse to make anyone else suffer as they did.

Whatever their reasons, they are beautiful creatures who I am eternally grateful for. Huzzah for people who understand the ingredients for a good night's sleep.

A Little Gay

Today I am grateful for this ad:



Because it sheds light on the situation in Russia in a light way. In fact, it breaks down the situation in a very simple way, but it is incredibly effective. With only fifteen words, it touches on equality and the basic human right to be included. Now, I haven't said much on the Sochi Olympics. This is because the ideologies Putin is putting forth and how he personally condones shaming, luring, physical and mental abuse to other people confounds and infuriates me. Rage and pity and horror and grief sum up the way I feel, only to be exacerbated when I see the atrocities happening in Russia.

Oppression is not our friend.

People have the fundamental right to exist, be who they are, be happy, and not have to hide or fear being persecuted for something as meaningless as sexuality and sexual preference.

Yes, I truly, from the bottom of my heart feel your sexuality means nothing. The size of your heart, content of your character, and amount of love and understanding you exhibit are the things I take into consideration. Not who you sleep with. It's irrelevant to me. Not to the world, though. And it will continue to be relevant until there is no longer a fight to simply be who you are.

While I wish everyone boycotted the Sochi Winter Olympics, I knew it wasn't going to happen. So I am going to celebrate the little victories. The people who are taking a stand, no matter how small that might be, from Google's pride banner, to Germany's colourful entrance at the opening ceremonies, and this commercial from the Canadian Institute of Diversity and Inclusion and Rethink.

People should know, despite the badness, despite the evil, there are good people, doing good things. There are droves of people who disagree with what is happening. Millions of people who want change. And it will happen. It just might take some time. Until then, watch this commercial, and revel in how perfect it is to have The Human League's 'Don't You Want Me' playing in the background.

Sleep It Off

Last night I got a total of three fitful hours of sleep. The lights in my mind went out at three and I was back up at six. Dixon kept me company in these restless hours. There used to be a time when I only got four to five hours of sleep a night. After today, and the complete dysfunctionality (not a real word, but should be) of my brain, I cannot understand how I made it through all those years of next to no sleep.

Today was terrible.

Foggy head. Cloudy thoughts. Unwillingness to look on the brighter side of anything. I might as well have had a little grey storm cloud hanging over my head. Don't get me wrong, I faked it pretty good. Smiled pretty. Said kind things. Well, kind enough. And tried. I really did try today. But in the end, I felt negative.

They say sleep is one of the most important things, along with food and water, but I never really understood that until today. I bogged down at eight in the morning and never fully recovered. Now, I'm sitting here wondering if 8PM is too early for a grown woman to go to bed. If I had a child, people wouldn't think anything of it. Or if I was at least twenty years older. Sometimes it feels like you need a good excuse to go to bed, like being a mom, working a physically tiring job, or having jet lag.

I say, to the birds with that. Sometimes you don't need a good excuse for going to bed. Sometimes just being human is exhausting. Sometimes life is tiring, you know?

And I am grateful I can go to bed whenever I damn well please. Except for when I am at work. Apparently it's frowned upon to curl up on the comfy green couch and take a snooze. How would I know that?

Trial and error, my friends. Trial and error.

Needless to say if you are not a little ray of sunshine. If things seem daunting. In general, the day drags you down. You might not be getting enough sleep. Remember how when you got hurt in gym class the teacher told you to walk it off? Well, I think as you go through the later years of your life you should sleep things off. And now I am convinced. I'm going to bed. Dr. Tyson has left the building.

Let's Keep This Pinteresting

The Sidekick hates Pinterest.

Not because he isn't a fan of art and pictures and such, but because people print off grainy tattoos that a hundred million people have and want to put them on their bodies. When all he wants is to design something awesome and unique to the individual wanting to put something permanently on their body. I can see how this can be frustrating. Do you know how many people have an infinity symbol with the world 'love' in it? A gazbillion. And where do they put them? On their wrists. Upside down, of course. Because it's for them and they want to read it.

And I never really thought about upside down tattoos until Mr. Sidekick said, "What are you going to do, have a whole sleeve the wrong way on your arm?" Whatttt???? Yep. So here I am, with two upside down tattoos on my wrists (neither of which say love or have an infinity symbol in them) and knowing I have to cover them up because they are in fact UPSIDE DOWN. Then I ask the man, "Why didn't the guy tattooing them steer me right?"

Do you know what he replies?

Because people don't listen. What a sad state of affairs! I would have listened. As soon as Sidekick pointed out how if I wanted to build a sleeve it'd all be upside down I felt silly! Thank goodness for cover ups. And just the other day I ran into a girl with upside down tattoos on one arm. The word 'believe' on her wrist, I believe, but then she put two birds under it, which were upside down as well, then another tattoo under that, also upside down. It looked terrible.

So, I guess I understand why Sidekick dislikes Pinterest. It's detracts from originality and spreads poorly done work. It's great to have an idea for what you might like and using pictures as a stepping stone and jumping off point, but there's something to be said about being open minded enough to have an awesome piece of work designed specifically for you.  

On the other hand, I love Pinterest. Mostly because I do love art and pictures and weird things and it inspires me. I can create boards for my novels and give myself visuals of the characters and places inside my books and that's something to be grateful for. Also, it allows me to save awesome imagery! There are some really odd things on the internet. It's kind of nice to have one place where I can collect these wicked and weird and beautiful pictures.

That being said, only one of my pins has ever really gotten a lot of attention. A picture of Charlie Hunnam (Jax Teller from Sons of Anarchy). Goes to show you where most pinners minds are at.

Anyhow, this is my account over there.

But before you click the link, beware. I am a bit of an odd duck. And no, I don't have a tattoo board.

My Mom Hates My Piercing

Isn't it funny how some situations never change.

I remember when I got my tongue pierced. My mom hated it.

She told me it was disgusting and asked, "Why would anyone do that to themselves?"  

In all fairness, it was a venom piercing and quite swollen when I showed her. And, from an outsider's point of view, I can see how it might not be the most attractive of all piercings. After all, you can't talk right, due to a swollen tongue, and the barbells are too long. Still, I can't blame the double tongue piercing for her dislike because I distinctly remember her not being keen on my labret either.

And just forget about tattoos. I do believe she said she would cut it out with a knife if I ever got one. Granted, she never did. A clear cut case of no follow through. Still, she's always been fairly vocal about how she feels when it comes to body modifications. What can I say, Mom doesn't sugarcoat things. At least not for me. Because I'm tough, she says. 

But that tongue piercing happened over a decade ago. Surely things have changed since them. After 11 piercings and seven tattoos, she's lightened up a whole heck of a lot. Hell, she's even openly admitted to thinking tattoos are 'cool'. 

And yet, tonight, when I showed her my brand new, only a couple hours old, nose piercing she told me she didn't like it. According to her, it ruins my cute little nose. Evidently, my mom is not now, nor will she ever be a piercing fan.  

When I hung up Skype, I wailed, "My Mom hates my piercing." 

Then I laughed, because I was eighteen years old again, or possibly younger. 

Awesome. 

See, some things never change. I will always be that kid, and that's kind of awesome. Also, I think it's rather wonderful that I have a mother who doesn't feel the need to bite her tongue when it comes to her opinion about my physical appearance. And people wonder where I get it from. 

In other news, my dad liked it. 

Please Tip Your Waitress

I'm a good tipper. Whenever I go out for food or drinks, I always ensure to leave a little something extra behind. Fifteen percent seemed to be the precident for a long time, but I've been noticing eighteen percent cropping up on a few debit terminals lately. Eighteen percent? Really? Some places just tack it right onto your bill, which I find kind of presumptuous. 

Okay, I'm going to put this out there knowing it might get some backlash. I don't agree with mandatory tipping. I know, I'm a terrible person, but if you have crappy service then you shouldn't leave extra money behind. Why? Because you had crappy service. It's really all very simple. And for me, you really have to be a terrible service worker to NOT get a tip. I'm talking snorts of derision and eye rolls. So, if you haven't received a tip from me in the past, it's because you should be exploring other avenues of employment. 

The funny thing is, and I never really thought about until recently, but tipping extends beyond waitresses and waiters. Now that I work at a salon, I see most people tip their stylist. I am dating a tattoo artist, I see a lot of people tip their artist. Then I got to thinking, who else is being tipped? Delivery people because they lift things we don't want to, or at least arrive with hot, cheesy pizza in a timely manner. Bellhops (are they still called bellhops?) because they monitor your bags and ensure they don't get stolen. 

But where does it stop? Or, why does it stop? 

I certainly don't tip my doctor for a gynecological exam or my dentist for a root canal, even though both these people are helping to keep me in my most tiptop shape. Maybe these people make too much money? Or maybe it's just awkward trying to slip an orthodontist a fiver.  

Waiters and waitresses often tip out the kitchen from their gratuities. And tattoo artists frequently tip out their counter staff. So, in some ways, these make sense and can reasonably rationalized. Delivery men do grunt work. And Pizza boys get tips because they risk their lives driving from point A to point B so you don't have to. Maybe that's all this comes down to? We tip people for doing things we should be doing ourselves but just can't be arsed. 

Except, that really doesn't apply to tattoo artists! No one should be doing their own tattoos. Go to a clean, respectable shop and get a clean, respectable artist, with a clean respectable past, and a clean respectable portfolio to give you a clean, respectable tattoo. So you see a pattern, clean and respectable, people. And, while I never thought it prior to a year ago, most people shouldn't be doing their own hair either. 

When I was little, I remember my mother tipping when she used full service at the gas station. Full service is pretty much a thing of the past these days. At least up here in Canada, and more accurately, on Canada Island where I reside, I can't think of a place that even offers full service. Granted, when I drove down to San Francisco, I tried to pump my own gas when a very nice gentleman took the hose from my hand and told me that was his job. 

So, I guess it depends on where you're from. I did tip the man in Frisco who filled my tank, if you know what I mean. It's pretty clear, he took me from empty to all filled up. Made the little arrow rise. None of these sound even remotely appropriate to be writing in this post. 

Today, I tipped the person who changed my oil, air filter and serpentine belt. It felt good doing it, too. Because it wasn't expected. I'm grateful to have had a little extra cash to do so. Why did I tip her? Because she was cute, kind of looked like a gelfling, and is a woman in a male dominated industry. I also told her to split the tip with the guy helping her out, because I am not sexist. And you know what, she was super appreciative for the extra bones. It wasn't going to buy her a new house or Rolex watch, but it might get her a quick bite to eat when she made it to her lunch hour. 

And why not tip these oil change aficionados? I mean, they are at least ensuring my vehicle runs smoothly, letting me know if anything is on the verge of breaking and, possibly, killing me. They've kept me healthy and alive by ensuring my serpentine belt doesn't break while going 110 down the highway. Kilometres, not miles. Canada, remember? 

It makes me think that if anyone does a job well done, goes above and beyond, delivers great customer service, then we should tip them. Go ahead, tip someone who doesn't expect it, it feels kind of awesome. 

Well, I've talked myself into it. The next time I go to the doctor, I'm going to slip a ten in her lab coat pocket. 

For those of you unawares, this is a gelfling. 

Rent Dark Crystal and be prepared to have your mind blown. 

Take My Breath Away

Yes, this is about the Berlin song. You know, the one featured in Top Gun when Tom Cruise has sex with Charlie. First she tells him how she doesn't want anyone to know she's fallen for him, then the magic happens. It's so romantic. They're all back lit, silhouettes on the billowing curtains, seducing each other with mesmerizing gazes. Kind of nauseating, really, but it was the eighties.

Honestly, I haven't seen the movie since I was twelve, but all these scenes came flooding back to me tonight. While I was eating sushi. On date night.

Whenever I go to this little Japanese place in town, I always marvel over the weird music they play. Tonight, took the cake. Berlin. Take My Breath Away. Only made more amazing because the sweetest Japanese waitress was full on singing it to herself.

It's funny how a song can remind you of a movie, but now, that song will always remind me of tonight and our waitress, and not Tom Cruise's nipples.

That being said, poor Goose.

Kiss The Sky

Spring is here.

Don't even think about going to look at the calender either because season come whether the month says so or not. And I can 120% confirm that spring is here. New growth, crisp air, mushy ground. All signs point to awesome.

Today, I finally broke out of hibernation (meaning laziness) and got off the couch. It's clear outside is where I'm meant to be. One of the most lovely factors of the great outdoors is that it doesn't matter if you're alone. Sure, you can bring a friend along, if you so please, but if you don't have any local friends, you can just head on out there all alone and not feel lonely at all.

Is it just me, or is it hard to feel sad in the forest?

There's a loop I do through the trails near my house that takes about an hour to complete. Two sections of it allow me to kiss the sky. It's high enough for me to feel on top of the world, but not so high that I have to pack a lunch to get there. When I'm standing there, looking over the village I live, I feel small, unimportant, a blip on the radar.

And that's just the way I want it.

My ripples on this earth will not be massive or memorable, they shall be small. But just like the baby waves take silt out to the ocean, I too will have some sort of impression. I am a cog in this machine but my intentions are good.

More than anything, I want to protect what makes me feel happy. Protect the feeling of standing on top of the world, being one with nature, a part of this earth. These trees and mountains and ferns, I want them to be here past my life, past the children I don't have lives, and their children too. And on and on and on and on. It makes me wonder why people want to tear it down.

It's almost like people forget it serves a purpose. Not only is it lovely and amazing, it cleans the air. Yes, trees have a function here on earth, just like all aspects of nature. They are important. They are also cogs in the machine Mother Nature crafted for us to enjoy. I am super lucky because I live in a beautiful place.

Anyhow, I sunk my feet in and kissed the sky today. I highly recommend you do the same.

Take pictures, too. It's always nice to capture what you love and show others.