Oh, Mr. Sun

I think I can speak for everyone in the Comox Valley when I say, today was an absolutely gorgeous day. There is a reason why the West Coast is the Best Coast. It's March 31st and the weather was dreamy. After work, I went home and sat in the front yard with the boys. We simply soaked up the sun. The gloriously warm sun. It felt as if I was saying hello to a long lost friend, a lovely one that I'd missed so much. 

Despite my extensive vocabulary, words cannot explain how nice it was to simply sit on my porch and bask in the sunshine. And that's why we have pictures. I happened to snap one of Dixon that basically sums up how I felt. 

Look at that face. Utter joy!

Anyhow, I am grateful for living on the Best Coast. I mean, to think all those East Coasters talking about snow storms and such. Suckers!

Dildos & Sore Feet

There's this guy I'm head over heels in love with. He's utter perfection. Just adorable. Kind. Gentle. A bit hyperactive at times. A gorgeous personality. Clumsy. Mischievous. But there's a bit of an issue. You see, he's gotten fat. Now, don't look at me like that. I love a little extra something-something, but the winter months have not been kind. And yes, I feel terrible saying this. I mean, how can anyone say such things about such a magnificent creature?

So, I haven't. I mean, there's know way I can tell him he's chubby. When we go out in public and people call him a 'brute' or comment on how 'massive' he is, I tell him they are talking about his personality. Not about his size. I always take the time to tell him he is beautiful. And just the perfect the way he is. But the truth is, he needs to slim down. The even more heart breaking truth is I have also suffered the past couple months. I too am out of shape. There are no excuses, even though I have plenty I can try to pawn off as the reason why my thighs are meeting a little more forcefully than normal.

A couple months ago I was doing so well. We were going for walks every day. Hikes in the mountains. Jaunts around the block. We were at one with nature, except that asshole dog who attacked us that time and scared us into not wanting to go out. Hence the hibernation. Anyhow, I have resolved to get us both outdoors more, not only because of the weight issue, but because it's detrimental to the health of my grey matter for me to check in with nature, sink my feet into the earth, breathe the sweet forest air, and give props to Mother Nature for her most excellent and creative ways. 

Today, Dixon and I made the trek into Royston, to the beach. It's about 7.5 kilometres there, then we had to walk all the way back, so 15 kilometres both ways. It didn't take too long, really. Less than three hours. Worth every single minute. When we got to the beach, Dixon walked in the water and happened to pull me in with him. Wet shoes and an hour and half walk home didn't leave me all that enthusiastic, but there were no options. It's not like they'd let Dixon ride the bus, so I was determined not to let it ruin my experience.  

While we were walking into Royston, I stopped to take a picture of skunk cabbage which, despite its name, is actually quite beautiful. So, I crouched down to get the shot, steady my hand, try to ignore the dog pulling me this way and that, and I think I got a pretty good shot. 

  

But as I was getting back to my feet, I saw it in the water. Flesh coloured. Long. Thick. Alone. And I laughed out loud, because what else is there to do in that situation. Oh, and I took a picture, because who would believe me if I didn't get photographic evidence?

Yep, that's right, in the creek at the side of the road was a ten inch dildo. Just sitting there. No owner around. Of course, I got to thinking about who this could have belonged to and how it got here, in the middle of nowhere, at the side of the road, in the water. Still, the bigger question I had was, how many other abandoned dildos are out there in the world?

I didn't touch it. I left it there, hoping it would make someone else laugh.

Granted, you might be thinking this was the highlight of our walk, but it wasn't. I love going out exploring. Every time I take a new trail, I get excited over what I might find. The whole way down, I walked the roadway, so there wasn't any twisting forest trails, but the nature was there. On either side of us, the water rushing, the scent of evergreens and fresh rain. As the day progressed, the drizzle stopped, the grey sky parted and the sun came out to play. And I found these train tracks. Whenever I cross a set, I think about all the trains that used to run on them, the things they carried, the people who worked them, when they were laid.

Even though we are both out of shape, both packing around a few extra pounds, we made it to the beach. We got down there in about an hour and a half. No one was there. It was just the two of us. Sure, we didn't stay long, but we set a goal, or I did for both of us, and we stuck to it.

The beach was stunning. The tide was out. Little puddles held sea life. Rocks were slick with algae and seaweed. We tasted sea salt on the air. Wind ruffled our hair. Off to one side there were these shipwrecked vessels, all rusted and rotten. They were too far out for us to get to in order to explore, but they looked so neat standing there against the backdrop of the land and water. 

On the other side, just openness. No restrictions. No rules.

Our journey home proved to be a bit painful, for both of us. I could tell by how slow Dixon was moving and his frequent stops to drink water in the creek that he was feeling the burn. As for myself, my ass and thighs hurts, but it's that great hurt, the one telling you you're doing something right. The pain that makes you feel alive. On our return walk, I found myself looking in the creek more and thinking about how such odd things strike me as beautiful. There was this grass in the water and it was bending with the current, as it always does, but the way it was folding over and moving with the rush of water struck me as so pretty.

This picture doesn't really do it justice. You're just going to have to take my word for gospel. The grass in the water was lovely, okay?

Anyway, my feet are sore, but the walk was totally worth it. And I'm pretty sure the big guy feels the same way. It's nice I have these places to explore and the time to spend walking for three hours. Sometimes it gets away from me, but I really do live a very nice life.

Stripped Bare

Sometimes, I stand naked in front of the mirror and look at myself. Into myself. I strip myself bare and look at my bones. My soul. The key components of who I am as a person. I do this because it's a reminder. Not that my thighs are jiggly and my hair is pretty much always unkempt, but that I am human. That I am on a journey. That these moments are my life and I should be participating in the fullest degree. These seconds, minutes, hours, days, months and years, cannot just slip by.

Every moment is precious. Every day I wake up a gift. Each moon rise noteworthy. The sunrises important.

It's easy to get sidetracked. To get swallowed by emotions and worries, strife, grief and uncertainty. The longer I stare at my bared body and soul, the more I see how convoluted existing can seem. But seem is an impression, not necessarily truth, and if you dim the lights and change the angle, everything shifts. Morphs. Looks different.

There is so much noise these days. So many distractions. We are carrying computers on us everywhere we go and this new fangled technology hinders us. Even when we are with our family and friends, we aren't with our family and friends. We are with our family and friends, and the hundred or so friends we have on our Facebook, Instagram, Twitter or whatever social media is our current vice. The noise gets to me. It grinds me down. Out in the world, there are radios and cars, people, phones, televisions everywhere. It's why I moved away from the city. Why I am in fact living in a village. But I love it here.

Because it is easier for me to strip myself bare. Because when I leave my house there are mountains all around me. Because the air smells of smoke and forest. Because the streets are quite. Because the stars can be seen when I look up at the night sky.

Still, even with all this wonderment around me, I get distracted. I forget. And I get downtrodden, especially in highly emotional times. I get weary. Tried. Broken. I forget how blessed I am. How happy I can be. And how healing the earth is.

So, I strip myself bare. And stand in front of the mirror and look. Not at how my belly may just be a bit bigger than it was last year, but at my soul. I reconnect with the girl I am, and the girl I want to be. The one who wants flowers in her hair and no shoes on her feet. It only takes a moment to reconnect with myself, but it's so important. Because when I lose sight of who I am, it gets hard. This whole thing is all about ebb and flow, I wonder why that always slips my mind.

The truth is I don't want my journey to be a burden. I want it to be an adventure.

It's nice to check in and see I am still here.

Big Hair

Whenever I think of big hair an image of a Texan housewife from the eighties comes to mind. You know, the ones with neon pants, dangerously high heels designed only for standing and nails like eagle talons which are painted fuchsia or teal. If you think of women from John Waters films, or the neighbours in Tim Burton's Edward Scissorhands, then you are almost there. Just add another foot on their hair.

Unlike a lot of other women who have thick, flowing locks, my hair is actually quite fine. Not thin, because I have a fair amount of it, but fine. Not wispy. Not sparse. Just fine. There isn't a lot of meat to it.

Today one of my coworkers did this messy bouffant bun style on me. She needed to practice updos and I needed to feel a little pretty. I think the style turned out really well, considering my hair isn't all that long and it's fine. She was working with thread when she needed spaghetti. Or some other analogy that makes more sense. Alas, I am tired. It's been a long week. A long week of my brain not working properly, another thing I don't like. I mean, since when do I make mistakes? That's right, not bloody often.

Anyhow, after I took the gazillion bobby-pins out and let the tendrils fall, I had big hair. Not Texas big, because I simply don't have the follicle mass for that, but big for my standards. And I like it. It makes me feel powerful. Maybe the height of your hair is directly proportionate to the swagger in one's walk. Regardless, I wish I had saucy hair like this every day!

Big hair. Just don't care. And here are some pictures.

Being tortured in the chair

 The style

 The obligatory bathroom picture, a little later in the day, after a walk in the rain. 

 Just before taking all the pins out. No, I am not wearing a shirt. Shirts are overrated. 

All the bobby-pins

 BIG HAIR 

And everyone is going to dress like me, wait and see, when I'm a supermodel. 

Are You Okay?

If the past couple of weeks have taught me anything, it's how unanswerable the question 'are you okay?' is. Fine, I get it. Everyone wants to hear you say that you are in fact okay, but what if you aren't. What if you don't know if you're okay at all, what then?

The other day, I was talking to my fister - which is what you get when your sister is also your friend - and yeah, I know how bad it sounds, but I just love merging two words into one - anyhow, we were discussing how being asked 'are you okay?' is most annoying. In some ways, it's almost as though the other person doesn't want the truth. They just want a quick response, then they can dust their hands off and be on their merry way.

Then my mind started making connections. Remember how I wrote that blog about how we need to ask better questions? No? Well, it was beautifully named Because Of The Poo and basically detailed how we are asking the wrong questions, that if we truly cared about the people in our lives we would tailor our questions to be more specific.

If you think about it, 'Are you okay?' is a slap in the face. Either you answer yes or no. Mostly you answer yes for fear people will get that awkward expression on their face that tells you they really, really, really don't want to know what's going on in your head, let alone your heart. I suppose an honest conversation can seem a bit daunting, after all they can run on in length. Still, no matter what the answer is, I have a hard time grasping what 'okay' is.

Sometimes I think it's the simple act of existing. Yeah, I'm okay, I'm here, I'm breathing, I'm eating and pooping. I am going through the routine. Is the basic act of existing what it means to be okay? And if so, why are we accepting that as a good thing? Why is it a relief? If I really start brooding over it, which is never a good idea, it seems as though being 'okay' is in fact not 'okay' at all! This is getting to be too much for my tiny brain to handle right now. I mean, it is almost eight o'clock. So, let's start wrapping this up.

In the past couple days, I've come to the realization that it isn't acceptable to be emotional. If you do it at work, you're boss might not think you're cut out for the job. If you do it around your friends, they might think you're unstable. Mention it to your mom and you might end up being analyzed. In truth, people shy away from those raw moments. And who can blame them? I hate showing that vulnerability,  but sometimes the tears come and they aren't wrong. They are what make us human. Sometimes you can't plan your meltdowns, they just bubble up and over the cauldron of your mind and leak out your eyes.

Here it is, the truth, simple and honest: things happen in life you can't control. Shocking, right? Well, when they do, you are allowed to feel however you feel. That's right. Your feelings are your own. And they may not make sense to anyone else - hell, they might not make sense to you, but that doesn't make them any less valid. It doesn't mean your feelings aren't justified.

I've decided to dump 'are you okay?' from my vernacular. In its place, I will ask things like, how are you handling this, what can I do for you, can I get you anything, and is there anything you want to talk about? These questions will at least make way for an honest response. Because I don't fear a truthful conversation, no matter the length, and I never want someone else to feel I am asking them a question for show. I am just not that kind of girl. Thank goodness.

Now, where'd I put that meltdown I've been meaning to have? I know it's around here somewhere.

For Shiggles

I use the word shiggles every now and again. It's shit and giggles. Shiggles. For shiggles. It might make me feel a bit more gangster. You know, this suburban white chick in her adorable dresses and adorkable glasses.

This afternoon, I took some photos with Dixon for shiggles. Instead of posting about death and sadness, or moroseness and being tired, I've decided to touch on something I adore. How my guy, the big oaf, my Doofus, the hilariously clumsy fool that he is, doesn't mind taking selfies with me. In fact, I think he kind of likes it.

Here is how we spent the evening.

It's all love. All the time.

Bus Stop

Things have been hard lately. That's pretty much the understatement of the year. But I always figured if you could laugh during the tough times, then you can get through to the other side. Not unscathed. Never unscathed. But at least in a semi-functioning condition. In a state you might be able to put yourself back together in.

Last Thursday I rode the bus for the first time in over a year. There I was, urgently needing to get from point A to point B, with only the 257 standing between me and where I wanted to be. I didn't even know how much it cost to ride the bus. I remember when bus fare cost a dollar twenty-five. No joke. A buck and a quarter. Since I know it is no longer 1995, I had to ask someone, and the bus driver hadn't opened the doors yet. Also, I hate to be one of those people holding up production for others.

And, in the state I was in, I really didn't need anyone mumbling snarky comments about having my money ready. I might have snapped. And snapping in public never seems like a wise idea.

So, I turned to the guy next to me and asked, "Excuse me, do you know how much it costs to ride the bus?"

He looked at me, dead in the eye, and replied, "Four dollars for adults, but I don't know how much for youth."

I smiled, because I'm fairly certain I look over nineteen. "I'm older than you think I am."

Still, it was a ray of sunshine on a very gloomy day.

To be honest with you, I didn't miss transit. I didn't miss the crowd, the stink, the slowness. All in all, public transit is pretty much disgusting. Some people have enough respect to not be disgusting piglets or rude baboons, others are not so equipped with manners. Still, I got through it. Got to where I was going. And cried.

Today I took the bus again. Twice in the last week. Crazy.

The bus fare over here was $1.75.

That's island life for you. Cheaper bus fare and the scent of the forest when you open the door. Two things I am grateful for.

Here I Am To Entertain You

Did you know, and this is rather embarrassing to admit, I thought the lyrics to Smells Like Teen Spirit were actually 'here we are all entertainers'. I thought it was a fairly deep meaning. You know, here on Earth we are all a source of entertainment for others, what we say and do, just a bit of white noise to distract and entertain. This is not the case. They are actually 'here we are now, entertain us'.

Breaking News. I have been singing this song at the top of my lungs in the shower wrong for all these years.

It's a funny little thing. Not such a big deal. But how many other songs have I been butchering? Probably hundreds. It's funny because as a young girl, I used to love reading the inside sleeve of compact discs. This wouldn't have happened if I actually bought Nevermind instead of stealing it off a friend. The funny part is I always thought I'd hit the goldmine when I unfolded the little booklet in a compact disc and the lyrics were in there.

Compact discs. Did anyone else snort with amusement at that? I mean, that's what they were called. CDs, but still is sounded funny. Like VHS, but no one really knew what that stood for, or at least they didn't think about it. Video Home System, which is kind of silly. Granted, so is compact disc. I mean, what would the opposite? A loose disc? Uncondensed disc? Perhaps they were talking about size, right? I mean, the laser disc that came before the CD was a fair bit bigger.

Maybe these are things I should have ruminated over in 2002.

The reason I was thinking about Smells Like Teen Spirit is because the girl who owns Still Rad, a totally awesome apparel shop for tots, teens and adults, posted a picture of a toddler with this saying on his t-shirt. It sparked the 'holy crap I've been saying the lyrics wrong all this time' horror. Of course, I consulted with Dr. Googles, just in case Mrs Still Rad had printed hundreds of shirts with the wrong lyrics on it. No, she hadn't. Good thing I didn't jump the gun and warn her.

And then I heard the rumour Kurt Cobain's case was going to be reopened, but that proved to be a vicious internet lie. Can you believe it's been twenty years since he died? I mean, can it really be that long? It makes me feel old. Sometimes I wonder what would have become of him if he hadn't passed on. Would he still be making music? Would he have gone solo? Could he have withstood the test of time?

I think about all those grunge bands from the nineties and I'm surprised so many of them are still around. Pearl Jam lost all kinds of street cred when they kept putting out all those bloody bootlegs, but they did just release a new album last October. I will be honest, I haven't listened to it. Mostly because, I've never been a big fan. But even the Smashing Pumpkins are still going. If Billy Corgan can weather the storm, then I can only assume Kurt Cobain could have. Too bad 7 Year Bitch, Veruca Salt and L7 didn't.

All these memories of things and places and people. It's so weird how the brain works. What you remember when, and why. Sometimes I think memories crop up for a reason. Other times I think I'm just unable to turn the noise off. I am grateful I remember, though. Even the silly things like wrong lyrics and the mystery of the compact disc.

Here I am now, entertaining you. And here's a picture of Kurt with his kitten.

Sleeping Dogs

Snoring all around.

Love. And peace.

Another Quickie

Again, too tired to write anything of substance. So, I'm grateful for my bed, beaux and boys.

Too Tried To Try

Sorry, I am utterly exhausted. Too tired to think of something witty for a handful of people to ruminate over. It's a broken sort of couple days. I tell you one thing, I am grateful for my sister. Even though it sometimes feels as though I am so far away from her, I can be at her front door in a matter of four hours. Not counting the fact ferries stop running at 10:30PM. Damn them for that.

She is strong. And I hate the fact she is hurting. It's a grief I feel right through to the pit of my soul. And I understand why it hurts so much. I am hurting for her. Broken for her. Distracted and confused and unsure and angry and sad with her. I am by her side because there is no other place I would rather be. I know when I need her, she will be there because that's the brand of love we have. Friends. Sisters. Wicked women who know the importance of life is to live it, and love.

There's something so powerful about knowing you will never truly be alone.

Anyhow, this song has been getting me right in the feels these last couple days.

But then I am sensitive and these are hard time.

And I always miss the sun.

A Waste

There's this beautiful little girl on the bus with me. She's staring out the window. Her name is Hazel, to match her eyes. In her dainty earlobes, she wears elephant earrings. A pink gem glitters in the belly. Sometimes she looks so sad. And others simply contemplative.

She's sniffling. I guess she has a cold.

Her hair is long and brown. There is a Boston Terrier on her shirt. It has a blue moustache. In this very short ride she has offered water to someone and her seat to others. She's with a group. It's Spring Break - something us adults can't comprehend. A week off without responsability.

And I'm remember why I'm on the bus. On the mainland. On route to my sister. A death. A suicide. A person from our past has punched his own time card. More her past than mine. This little girl and the grim reason for my sudden trip collide and all I am thinking is how does it go so wrong.

All these children, vibrant and full of life, when does life mess them up? I'm sure some of them are already experiencing the cruel nature of life, how bitter she can be, how utterly depressing it can seem. Since this is an honest space, I can say we have all been messed up by life. Tested, optimists the world over say. We have all been tested. Sometimes I think we spend the first thirty years of our lives being messed up and the next thirty trying to clean it up, fix it and find ourselves.

Sometimes we can't find out way back. Sometimes we can't see what there is out beyond the forest of our doubts and fears. Sometimes we miss the truth of life. That it truly is what you make it and happiness comes to those who can see. But there are those who can't see past the cobwebs of their own thoughts. The ghosts in their own minds.

Even in my darkest days I've always wanted to be. To exist. To breathe that crips mountain air and sink my feet into the mud of life. I have always wanted to conqour my own demons and not let them win. Leaving is not an option, not by my own hand, because there is too much love to give. I know this sets me apart. And I know I will never understand. That it will always seem like such a waste.

And I am terrible in these moments. There are tears and laughter, painful honesty and regrets. I suppose I am grateful that I don't feel nothing.  That I care. And always will.

Life is a gift but not everyone gets the memo.

Stop Making Me Uncomfotable

Here's a funny little truth about me, emotional scenes in television shows and movies make me uncomfortable. Not 'oh, this is so bang on I'm squeamish about the truth ringing forth from the scene' and not even 'wow, this is so glaringly terrible and unrealistic I can't even look at the screen'. It's more of an 'I hate emotions' type of feeling. And I'm not even an emotionless drone sent here to crush feelings with my inhumanly strong hands. In reality, I have a vast array of emotions bubbling under this calm, put-together exterior. Once upon a time, I was all about rage, these days I keep company with love and sadness.

This whole crazy world can induce such melancholic feelings if you're paying attention.

But this post isn't about the good or bad in the world, the sunshine and storm clouds, it's about being uncomfortable with emotional outbursts on the big screen. You see, last weekend, we watched the latest Walking Dead episode, the one where Darryl Dixon cries over nothing, and it left me writhing in agony. Before I go any further, let me share with you these three universal Tee truths:

1. I love Norman Reedus and think he is a rather brilliant actor
2. Darryl Dixon is my most favourite character on Walking Dead
3. Emotions make me uncomfortable

Alright, now the Dixon Darlings, what I imagine the Mr. Reedus fan clubbers call themselves, won't tear my throat out when I say I could have done without that episode. Maybe it's because I love a man of mystery and didn't need to know anything more than the rough, badass exterior I'd grown to love. Or maybe it was because watching Darryl break apart, shed that hard as rock exterior, and let loose the raw man emotions he harboured only managed to leave a 'this is mighty awkward' impression on me. Oh, he's done it before, spilled those salty eye droplets, better known as tears, but at least he had a reason. His brother was a zombie and he needed to shoot him in order to stay alive. Talk about a tragic situation right there! Poor, poor Merle. But this time it was almost like Walking Dead was trying to do some character building, which I am not okay with! Just joking, I love character building, but Walking Dead doesn't do those sorts of dirty things. They prefer to keep their characters flat, except Rick, he's all kinds of colourful crazy.

Darryl Dixon's sensitive scene isn't the first flood of feelings that has put me on edge. It happens all the time.

Back in the day, my ex-used to call me cynical because every time there was a proclamation of love in a movie I'd scoff and roll my eyes. It's always the grand gestures that get me or the man breaking their strong, silent habits, all of a sudden going against every fibre of their being and getting verbose about how much they adore the woman who is ready to leave them. Yeah, because men always stand outside your doorway with cards proclaiming their love, or say things like 'you complete me'. Even now, my brow is pinched and I'm smirking wryly.

And don't get me wrong. It isn't just when men do it. You know that scene in Ten Things I Hate About You when Kat reads the poem she wrote about hating but not really hating Patrick? She's all crying and upset and I distinctly remember feeling as if I needed to escape the moment because watching it made me extremely distressed. Even worse, every single time Julia Roberts cries in every single movie. Steel Magnolias, My Best Friend's Wedding, Notting Hill, Pretty Woman, and on and on. I think it's her mouth and the watery misery welling in her Bambi eyes.

Maybe it's because I know they are acting. That it isn't real. It's all fake. And often the scenes are so contrived and ridiculous. Characters going completely against their nature to have these epic emotional episodes. Perhaps that's what makes me uncomfortable, except sometimes emotions in real life make me uncomfortable too. Though, I don't discount them, unless they are over something ridiculous, like a misplaced cellphone. I can totally sympathize with most people and truly am most empathetic for others.

I'm not even going to bother trying to figure it out. After all, it's just a funny little truth about me. Something I noticed and am sharing. I think I just have a bit of Spock in me.

Flowers

Today I received the most beautiful bouquet of flowers from the girls at work. They are so fragrant. I can smell them from the living room. This might be because of my wolf nose. Regardless, they are gorgeous flowers. The lady who made the arrangement is opening her new business in the valley. She's very talented and I know this will be a success for her. It always impresses me the different ways people are talented. How we all think differently and excel in unique ways.

Some of our ships are simply passing in the night, some with drop anchor and bob next to each other on the never settling waves of life. Either way, we are lucky for the ones we come in contact with. The ones we get to meet and stand still with for a bit. I am grateful for those I have in my life, those who have left my lift and even those yet to come into my life.

Anyhow, aren't these beautiful?

Kind of wish my floor wasn't so dirty.

Sheep Teeth

What an odd title for a post, right? I mean, what could I possibly have to say about sheep teeth. Well, in fact, nothing. I have nothing to say about sheep teeth, except this.

A friend of mine, Missy, is editing through Seeking Eleanor. Yeah, yeah, that same old first book I wrote. No, I won't give up on her. You can't make me! I love her, love her. And she deserves the limelight she will one day get. *insert anguished cry here* Now, where were we ...

Despite all the edits (over a million) and rewrites (at least seven) there are still typos. Mostly because, I am human and I make mistakes. God, that was hard to admit. Actually, a bit painful. The simple fact is, when I sit on my human butt and read with my human eyes, I don't see all my human mistakes. Even worse, I didn't even stand a chance at catching the ones in the draft Missy is reading and this is because, just between us, I didn't even read through it after I finished rewriting.

Yes, that means I actually handed her a semi-rough draft. I know, I am a terrible person.

So, she's actually catching things I might have caught on my own. I use the word 'might' because it's touch and go with what I actually see when I read. The truth of the matter is, there are certain things I will never catch because I know what it is supposed to say and my brain fills in the correct word and punctuation and crap. The only way for me to catch everything is to print it off and read it aloud. Because I have a huge respect for trees and an appalling disgust with the price of ink, I won't be printing out my manuscript, which is currently four hundred and thirty pages. Yeah, that's a lot of pages.

And I was supposed to be cutting stuff. Oh, that makes me laugh.

Back to the point, one of the edits Missy came across and corrected was 'sheep teeth'. There's this part at the end of the book where good meets evil and evil has sheep teeth. I actually laughed myself silly over this mistake. I mean, there's the bad guy standing in front of you, skin paper white, eyes yellow and bloody, lips cracked and bleeding, and behind them sheep teeth.

Not really the imagery I was going for. 

Sure, sheep teeth are totally terrifying when you get in there and really look at them. And maybe they would have added a certain uniqueness to my baddie, but they aren't exactly the image I was hoping to conjure in the minds of my future readers. Still, it gave me a good laugh. It also makes me wonder about how my fingers are trying to sabotage me. Sometimes the simple act of typing amazes me. I think one thing and my fingers put it down on virtual paper. Well, not all the time. Sometimes they put in a similar word. Like sheep instead of sharp. This might not surprise you, but it happens a fair amount. Which only confirms my suspicions that my hands hate me. 

Haha. Sheep teeth. 

Grateful for my sense of humour. 

Wolf Nose

Smells are driving me crazy right now. I'm under the weather, but for some reason my sense of smell is rivalling that of a wolf's. Honestly, I've never felt so nauseous and achy in my life. Yesterday, I spent the entire day on the couch, except the handful of times I took the dogs outside to do their business and switch Veronica Mars episodes. By the by, Tim Foyle's hair is hideous. What was he thinking?

Anyway, I have it in my mind to re-watch the seasons before partaking in the movie, which happened to get a limited release in Canada. Also, it isn't showing in any of the theatres on Vancouver Island. That means I will have to pack my bag and head over to the mainland for a movie. Yeah, that's not going to happen, not anytime soon. I'm hoping it will come over here sooner rather than later, but still the Sidekick hasn't seen the television program so I doubt he will go see it with me. Of the limited friends I have cultivated over here, none of them are stoked on this release. Yes, it does make me question the validity of their friendships.

But I was discussing my wolf nose. Under normal circumstances, smells can get to me. It's a sharp sense I have. My ex actually was the first to point out the wolfishness of my nose. I could smell something off from two rooms away. I'm sure he dreaded the words 'what's that smell?' because I'd then have to go and actually find the noise, which proved to be time consuming. I very rarely don't get the offending offender.

With being sick, it's making me want to puke though. And I don't even have an excessively stinky house. But there's the compost, the bathroom, which no matter how hard I scrub still seems to smell like urine, the dogs, who are disgusting animals, that I totally love, cat litter, and even this new shirt I'm wearing has a new smell stink that's causing me to wear a grimace.

It's driving me nuts. Rolling my stomach. What do I do? Plug my nose, I suppose.

Today I ventured out to get orange juice and, would you believe it, the store only had from concentrate. I was hoping for the Happy Planet Valencia Orange one. Here's the thing about this whole nauseous can't stand the smell of my home thing, I don't vomit, so I know there will be no end result. Haven't upchucked since I was twelve years old. Grade seven. And I am usually grateful for that.

Here's to a better tomorrow.

Because you care, here is a sickie selfie. 

Grateful, Grateful, Blah, Blah, Blah

It might be the fact I can't eat a bloody thing, but I am grateful for orange juice. 

You never fail me orange juice. 

Thank the Gods for you. 

Snot Bubbles

Sitting here with Oliver, his face on my lap. I'm so grateful for snot bubbles. It sounds like such an odd thing to give thanks for. But he's with me. And he has these cute little snot bubbles on his muzzle. Really is adorable. It's a little thing, but it makes me smile. And I needed a smile.

Oh, goodness. Look at that face! 

I just can't stand it. 

Famski

The truth is, I'm not close to most of my family. There are a select few who I keep up with, but I'm lucky for those. The rest is scatteref and virtually unknown.

Tonight has been cinnamon buns, stories and laughter.

Death doesn't scare me but it definitely leaves a hole. People carry on. We live our lives. And those we love stay with us. But things do change. You change.

Shot with a bullet of emotion.

My granny was 92. I cannot even imagine a life that long. Cannot comprehend all she experienced. Born in 1921, she saw the world morph and grow. The world she was born into was entirely different from the one she left.

There is sadness. But joy too. And as much as it makes me feel guilty,  relief. For peace and the next chapter and an end to the pain and fear of the world she was trapped in at the end.

And we gather here. This family I have. Parts of it, at least. To exist. And be.

Grateful for my sister. Mom. And crazy cousin who probably shouldn't have brought that wine.

Grandma

For all the laughter and stories and love.
I am grateful.

A Million Words

Over the last year, I've been writing a book for my mother. When I first moved to the island, I sat on the ferry with her, travelling from Horseshoe Bay to Departure Bay, all my belongings in a U-Haul below deck. This was one of the biggest changes of my life, leaving the mainland, but I wasn't thinking of how monumental this decision was. I sat with my mom and talked about this idea I had for a new novel. 

You know, one of those stories about the good and wicked. 

She seemed to really enjoy the premise. After mulling for a couple months, I decided to give it a go. The beginning came easily and whenever I finished a chapter or two, I'd Skype my mom and read it over the internet. In the beginning, I had a lot of time to write because I wasn't working as much and had enough energy to be creative. Once I got a job, the writing ebbed and flowed. As it goes, my imagination suffers when punching a time clock. Not that I am complaining about having work, it's just hard to craft, create and bring characters to life when you're tired and use your brain for other things, like creating Excel spreadsheets. 

 So, writing became a weekend endeavour. I worked hard to turn out those chapters. This novel, we will call her Ramona, wasn't the only thing I was working on. I had some Pankhearst projects and this alien collaboration, and a zombie thing I was dividing my time up for. Honestly, Ramona was like pulling teeth.  But I kept at it. As some of you may know, I am the Queen of putting things to the side when I lose interest in them. At the side they will sit, eating away at me, but I never seem to find the time to pick them back up and get involved again. 

Thanks to my mother's interest, I couldn't put Ramona to the side. My mom wanted to know what happened. How it ended. If everything was resolved in the end or if there were to be more books coming. And she asked about it. Asked how it was coming along. So, not wanting to let her down, I kept at it. Toiling away. Some days I'd write a paragraph, others pages, and once in awhile I'd do really good and churn out a couple chapters. Those were the best days. Days where I slipped back into those characters with ease and knew exactly where the story was going. 

That's one of the things a lot of people don't know about writing a book. 

It changes as the characters grow and as you write it. Sometimes the ending is completely different from what you thought it was going to be. This happens a lot to people like me, anti-plotters, people who don't map out where they are going, what they are doing, and how they are going to get there. What can I say, I like my freedom. 

In the end, this is the ninth book I've written on my own. Ninth. That's hard to believe. Don't get me wrong, the first eight were terrible. I've also co-wrote three novels, that are completed. And I refuse to count how many short stories I've put to virtual paper. All those words. So many of them. Thousand. Hundreds of thousands. Over a million, believe it or not. 

I have written over a million words. 

Well, that thought simply exhausts me. But before I tuck off for a nap, I want to thank my mother for her support and interest in Ramona, the clumsy book that she is. Without her I wouldn't have finished it. It's been nice having someone who cares what happens. 

In the end, Ramona is still a work in progress. After all, a first draft does not a finished novel make. There is plenty of work to do, and plenty more books to write, but for now, this one is roughly done. The fine tweaking will start, but for now she will sit and rest, until I have the courage to take another look and bring out the red pen. 

Onto the next book. 

$500 Dollar Jeans

Let me break down the 5 reasons why I will never buy a pair of jeans that cost $500 dollars or more.

1. Because it's stupid.

There are so many other things I could be spending that type of money on. For example, groceries, because I love me some eating and snacks and such. Paying off a bit of my debt. Buying someone a gift. How about this, putting that money towards helping out the under privileged. I mean, last time I checked there are still people starving in this world. Why not buy 100 homeless people a sandwich and skip the overpriced denim?

2. Because I'd be paranoid.

And nobody wants me paranoid. I'd be forever snarking at people to stay away from my jeans, not to touch me, and I'd end up wearing a diaper JUST IN CASE. I mean, I haven't defecated myself for a very, very, very long time, but I have an inkling the likelihood of it happening would increase a hundred fold if I was wearing a pair of jeans worth five hundred bones. The paranoia would become so intense people would avoid me at all costs. I'd basically be going to the bathroom every hour on the hour, no if, ands or butts.

3. Because of the increase in mug-ability.

Even if I ignore the soiling and stupidity factors of spending that much money on JEANS, I simply can't turn a blind eye to the fact it would make me a bigger target for thieves. Expensive pants increase the chances of being robbed. I mean, if I were wearing a pair of 7 For All Mankind jeans people walking down the street would think I could actually afford them and that I carry big bills in my wallet. This illusion would only ensure muggers gravitated towards me. They'd beat me up and steal my purse thinking they were hitting the payload only to find lint and a dusty piece of gum at the bottom of my secondhand bag.

4. Because of the anger.

Expensive things make me angry. Not in general. On a whole, expensive things don't turn me into The Hulk, but when I break or ruin expensive things I get all Hulk Smashy. Let me explain how life is for me. Yesterday we decided to go to the beach. It was a lovely day and we were going to have a lovely time at the lovely damn beach. Well, instead, I got dragged across gravel and down stairs by my dog, only to walk through brambles and have the Sidekick crunch a log down on my foot. This was, seriously, a twenty minute expedition to the freaking BEACH. Here's the proof:

I don't want to say I am accident prone, because then the word clumsy gets tossed around, but I am often getting holes in my clothes and scratches on my knees. See, I was wearing a dress yesterday. Imagine if I was wearing a $1200 pair of Dolce & Gabba jeans? It wouldn't have been pretty. The truth is, I hate it when I ruin a five dollar pair of jeans I bought secondhand at the thrift store, I can't imagine how I would feel if I got an ink stain or grassy knees or a hole in the crotch of a pair of pants worth more than my current wardrobe altogether.

The simple fact is, they are still made out of denim, not some magic material forged by wizards. Last time I checked, denim stains, regardless of how much money you pay for it. Honestly, spending that amount of money on a pair of jeans is basically tempting the fate of the Gods. You're putting a target on your back. All falling food will be attracted to the jeans you are still trying to pay off. For serious.

5. Because it's stupid.

Okay, fine, I already said it's stupid. But seriously, I just took a moment to Google "Expensive Jeans" and am seriously regreatting it. Did you know there are jeans out there that cost $1.3 million dollars? By a brand called Secret Circus, which is a terrible name. These are the first pair of million dollar jeans. And why are they so expensive, you ask? Because of the diamond embellishments on the ass. Hello?! Is this for real? What is wrong with this world that someone would spend over a million dollars on a pair of jeans?

Yeah, I could have helped end world hunger, but I bought these jeans instead.

Well, at least they have diamonds. There's a pair of jeans called Dussault Apparel Thrash Denim and they are hideous, torn up, and dirty looking. Basically, they are a beggar's pair of pants, a hobo belongs in these pants, or at least one of those squeegee kids down by Main Street Skytrain station. Except, and here's the kicker, they are worth $250,000! Wait, it gets even better! They are washed thirteen times in order to make them look more worn.

I have no words. Actually, I do, but they aren't appropriate to put forth into the world.

All I can be grateful for right now is that I have my head on straight and I will never, ever pay a quarter of a million dollars for a pair of jeans that look like this:

What. The. Eff.   

It's Sunny!

Gloriously sunny!

We should all take a note from the weather. One day, blustery, rainy and grey, the next sunshine and fluffy white clouds.

Something like, don't let yesterday's rainstorm ruin today's sun.

Or another optimistic
sunny side of life motto.

Grateful for Mother Nature and her mood swings today.

Blustery

Blustery is one of my most favourite words. Today, is one of those days. The wind is howling. Rain is falling in a sheet, from the side, cold and fierce, undeniable in its desire to soak you through to the bone. Wind chimes are knocking together. We have the wooden ones. So the sound is quite pleasing to the ear.

Dixon stood in the doorway for twenty minutes staring out into the storm. All day, he's done the same thing. Sat on the porch, smelling the air, but he refuses to go out in the rain. There's something amusing about him not wanting to get wet. I even went out there to clean up the garden a bit. Still, he sat on the porch. Watched the cars go past. Smelled the fresh, wet air.

I have decided to take a cue from my hound dog and am staying in.

My lofty goals for this weekend are to finish the novel I have been writing. It's a magical story full of wonderment and odd encounters. More so, it's about friendship and being who you are. You know, those boring themes almost all novels have in them. It's been going on far too long, though. Writing this thing.

So, as the rain comes down, tapping on the window, I will be tapping on my keyboard.

Trying to be creative. I am grateful that I can pretend to be a writer today.

Don't Be So Emo OR What The Hell Happened To AFI?

The Sidekick and I just had this conversation.

Him: What's Emo?
Me: I'm not too sure.
Him: I think it's what Goth has turned into.
Me: Emo. So emotional, I am guessing.
Him: Well, yeah.
Me: My Chemical Romance and Fall Out Boy.
Him: *laughs* There are newer bands now.
Me: Whatever. I'm old.
Him: I'm older than you.
Me: Okay Mr. Hip And With It. What's Emo?
Him: Murder On The Dance Floor?

As it turned out, it was actually a band called Blood On The Dance Floor he was talking about, which apparently is in fact ElectroPop, not an Emo band at all. Bloody horrendous it is too. And what the hell were these guys wearing? Do people actually enjoy this kind of music? Can people take these guys seriously? And do girls find them attractive?

No, seriously, I'm so lost. I have no idea what is going on here. 

Am I being pranked? 

Needless to say, this whole entire evening has been a rude awakening. When the hell did I get so old?

Truth is, I don't know what kids are listening to these days, especially Emo ones. Back when I worked at the record shop, I considered bands like Dashboard Confessional and Sunny Day Real Estate to be Emo. The subculture was based around black hair, black nails, lip rings and parents just not understanding. Also, boys wore tight black jeans and their mom's eyeliner. Other than that, I hadn't a clue what it truly encapsulated. So, I guess things haven't changed all that much, because I am still out of touch.

Then the Sidekick sprang something else on me, something I truly couldn't comprehend. AFI is Emo. I was so flabbergasted by this reveal, I actually turned to the internet to prove him wrong. I mean, surely this had to be a mistake on his part. Surely he must have been talking about some other band, like Evanescence. But no, he wasn't. And after listening to three minutes and thirty-six seconds of their latest album, Burials, I actually said out loud, "What happened to AFI?"

I meant it, too. What the hell happened to AFI? I'm not even talking about their hair and clothes.

Back in the late nineties, AFI was a punk bank. A fast, funny, upbeat punk band with songs like I Wanna Get A Mowhawk and Let It Be Broke, with albums like Answer That and Stay Fashionable and Shut Your Mouth and Open Your Eyes. They coined the term East Bay Hardcore, for crying out loud! Tim Armstrong produced their first album and they signed to Dexter Holland's label Nitro Records!

But that was back in 1995 and apparently things change. Tonight I mourn the AFI that used to be. And my youth.

 

Breasts and Brains

My father shared this image on Facebook today:

Frankly it causes me concern. First of all, I don't carry my cellular phone in my bra. I don't even keep it in my pocket. It's either in my purse or on a desk or side table. Second, I want to know how long girls are keeping their phones in their bras. If this sign is in fact true, then isn't everyone worried? I mean, next to the breasts, where is the next popular place to put your phone?

Against your ear.

Right next to your brain.

As it is, I worry about all the crap floating through our air. Wireless signals, cellphone towers, radio frequencies and the internet ...  it's all out there. Streaming through our heads. In reality, we will only be learning how all these things affect us. The internet is a relatively new thing. Remember when people didn't know cigarettes were bad for them?  How foolish are we going to feel in ten years?

I suppose I am grateful that I don't talk on my phone all that much. I basically only use it to post pictures on Instagram and play Words With Friends. What can I say? I lead a very exciting life. Still, the internet is all around me, every day, all day. Yikes.

Don't Even Reply

So, I found this.

I am ever so impressed with this person's persistence to pissing off people.

That said, I needed a laugh. And it worked.

Ever so grateful for the internet. Some days more than others.

365 Dresses

No more flowers, no more candy, no more silly gifts. I want dresses.

On a whim, I've decided I want a different dress for each day of the year. 365 dresses. Now, wouldn't that be sublime? Judging from my sailor's vocabulary and love of all things zombie and pirate, some might assume I am not a dress person. This simply isn't true. I love to twirl and swish my skirt fabric about.

Back in the day, I used to be a bigger tomboy than I am now and existed in jeans and t-shirts. But then, one glorious day, I discovered the freedom of not wearing any pants and haven't gone back. Nowadays, I probably wear jeans once a week, and that's being generous. Dresses are my favourite thing to wear because they are easy to put on, hide many unpleasant things and make you look prettier with very little effort.

I'd say I own approximately twenty-five dresses, but that's just a rough count I did in my head because I'm far too lazy to go upstairs. By this shoddy calculation, I only need 340 more dresses to reach my goal. Hopefully, people will want to see my dream come true and send me dresses in the mail. Now, wouldn't that be lovely? Imagine if girls the world over raided their closets to send me just one of their dresses. Or if boys raided their girlfriends' or mums' closets because they want to see my dream come true. How fabulous.

Now, I am a hippy girl, meaning I carry most of my weight in my hips and thighs, so the sizing might be a bit tricky if you want to send me a dress. I usually wear a size ten or a medium, especially if the dress is an A-line. Please take into consideration my bust, not only because it is amazing, but because it is on the better endowed side. If you are a full B-cup and the dress is tight in your chest, then it is not going to fit me. Sad but true. Also, my favourite colours are purple and green, but I am convinced any colour of the rainbow and those in between would look smashing on me.

And now I sit back and wait for the dresses to come in ever so grateful I had this whiz kid idea.

Here is an old picture when I had long hair in which I am wearing one of my twenty-five dresses.

Just Passing Time

They say you only live once and to live life to the fullest. To cram it with the things you love, what makes you happy, to enjoy every moment and embrace every minute. In theory, it makes a lot of sense, but who has the energy to make every second of every minute of every hour of every day count? While I truly do believe life is far too short for hate and anger and ill will towards others and that you should make the most of what you are given, it is inconceivable to never have a sad or angry or disenchanted moment, to never curl up and say, "Not today."

Life is a beautiful thing. This world is an amazing place. There are gentle, kind people around us every day, ones we know, others we don't. Strangers who are waiting for us to notice them, ready to impress upon us understanding, compassion and empathy if only given the chance. Good things happen, ones worthy of taking notice of, and there is much to learn. We have so much growing to do.  And I am ever so grateful for what I have, where I am, and all the things I can do.

Sometimes I think about all the books I will never read. All the stories I will never write. The trails I will never hike. Sights I will never see. Songs I will never know. Majestic places I will never visit. And when  I think about all the things I will miss out on, I feel this fire to get out and do, to see, feel, hear, smell, learn and experience. To conquer and thrive, to draw deep breaths, and free fall into wonderment. At my most passionate, I don't want to settle down. I refuse to stop. I go, go, go until I've walked through the deserts, danced in the stars and swam to the unexplored depths of our oceans. I want to soak up everything the Earth has to teach me, the lessons of soil and air, of fire and water. I want to burn with the sun and kiss the man on the moon.

But some days, I am not at my most passionate. Some days, I am tired. Some days I am just passing time.

It's so very easy to get distracted and lose sight of what's important. Not food, clothes, and a roof over your head, but what stokes the passion inside you. What turns the cogs in your head and sets your heart beating rampantly. Passing time isn't necessarily a bad thing. It happens organically. We set patterns in our lives, so easy to follow, and focus so intently on getting from point A to point B. Still, I feel it is important to stop the wheels of routine. To check in with our souls and make sure they are getting what they need, that we aren't overlooking them. Life is a hustler, trying to hustle us into forgetting to check in. It's always tell us what to do, when it needs to be done and how to do it. Our lives end up revolving around a clock. What time is it? When do I have be at work? What time do I get up? When is dinner? Do I have enough time to get this done? We go to bed in order to get up and do it all again.

Don't get me wrong, routine isn't all bad. It's comfortable and safe, except when it controls every facet of your life. Then it is uncomfortable and unsafe. We must be willing and ready to step out of our routines at a moment's notice and witness the wonders the world offers us. For it's when we pass time for too long that it becomes normal to just pass time, and we forget what we used to do before we were just passing time. This is what I worry over the most. That I am not living. That I am missing out.

I want to be with the ocean. In the forest. Playing outside. Going to the movie theatre. Learning things I don't have to learn. Growing strong and smart. Gazing at the stars. Reading words, fictional and not. Baking bread and cookies and cupcakes. Eating cake. Holding hands. Being kissed. Kissing beings. Making and maintaining friends. Snuggling with my fur babies. Drinking tea. Knitting gifts. Solving puzzles. And taking on a challenge.

Above all, I want to write. Words are my life. They always have been. I feel so distracted and out of sorts when I am not creating. And I know I haven't been creative enough lately, which is why I am feeling so off and worrying so much and turning my thoughts inwardly instead of outwardly. It is strange when you know something is so fundamental in your own happiness and still you cannot find the time to do it. Excuses, right? We are full of them. These daily posts do help. Despite how it may seem, I put a fair amount of thought into most of these and I take care in writing them. But they aren't fiction and that's what I truly love to create.

Perhaps this is me simply saying, "No" to just passing time.

I'm off to go kill someone. Fictionally, of course.