Tuesday, January 30, 2007

Dream walkin'....

So, as you know I can now fit in to my old riding boots once more. And as you also know, my dad has his new horse and it's kind of hard not to be reliving my riding days over and over again.

I've had a desire to have a horse of my own, and one of my very own, my whole life. I've always wanted an Apaloosa (blonde) horse, and I've always wanted to name him Tornado of Souls. I'd call him Davey for short, because Dave Mustaine sings Tornado of Souls. I've had this horse and this name picked out since I was about thirteen, and in the last months I've really been thinking of checking out a few yearling sales once I move back home.

The reasons I want a horse of my own are many: I don't want a bunch of other people to screw him up before he gets to me; I want to learn how to start from scratch; I want to work with an animal whose past and history I know as well as my own.

I briefly thought of having my Dad's horse bred, and he said we could get foals off of her. But the other day I was at my mom's friend's house, checking out her new barn, and before me stood the most magnificent animal I've laid eyes on in a while.

I saw her earlier this summer and I thought that something looked incredibly familiar about this horse. I was looking at her face, and studying her, and suddenly I had the urge to call out "Mindy!". My mom told me that the horse that stood before me was indeed the daughter of the horse I had when I was eight.

My parents tend to think that this particular horse is kind of... unattractive. But she's built very strong, she's enormous, powerful looking. Like something you could rule the world on. Or, as my dad says, a horse you could at least plough a field with. Either way, my heart is in love.

Well, my mom's friend was over tonight and was talking about none other than my Mindy's daughter. She was talking about having her bred. And my heart lept into my throat, and I thought for a moment that the horse that I had when I was little could be all mine again, only ... no one else could own her first, because I'd actually have her grand-daughter.

Come on, now, how cool is that? The cost is not too extreme to have a horse bred and to get a foal off her. It would be about three years before I could do this as our friend wants to have a foal first, which is fine by me because really? In three years I'll be in a much better position to go owning something larger than a cat.

It's one of those things where you're not really sure if it could or would ever happen, but regardless, it's one of those things that makes your heart happy just thinking about. It's about more than having a horse to ride, in this case: it's aboout proving to yourself that you can start with something that equates to nothing but can turn out to be everything.

If nothing else, it's one more dream to keep stored under my pillows.


Reaching those goals...

When I was younger, I was a bit of an Equestrian. I've always love horses, but been terrified of them at the same time. I suppose that's the reason my trusty twenty year old school horse and I never made it to the Olympics.

When I was nineteen, my mother made a gargantuan mistake. The mother of all mistakes. The only mistake you could ever really make that will crush a rider: She threw out my riding boots.

Now, these boots were second hand. They were a trade-off for a couple afternoons of babysitting for a family friend. However, I have odd legs. I have big legs. In the past my legs have been referred to as stove-pipe legs, and even Ham Legs. They were the kind of boots that went around the entire circumference of my legs without causing me to bleed or lose circulation.

After the boots were gone, I threw the mother of all temper tantrums. They couldn't be replaced, really, because they had years of wear in them and were at the point where they were comfy and nice to slip into.

So, my mother, under siege from the guilt of my massive tantrum, took me to buy new boots. They are fat legged boots. (Read: they have a zipper down the back No rider worth her salt would be seen in public with zippered boots.) I wore them dutifully, went riding three times with an individual I was dating at the time, and promptly left them in the closet while I got ready for university.

Fast forward to my first semester of school, and I find out that we have an Equestrian team. Before even looking into the fact that joining the team would cost hundreds of dollars, I decided to put my boots on and just feel like a rider again.

But they wouldn't go on. No amount of pulling, heaving, swearing, praying, or crying could wedge my chubby legs into these boots. Last year I put my Dad on the project and told him that come Hell or high water (And perhaps a combination of both) he was getting the boots around my legs.

First he tried using boot pulls to wedge me into them, but that just wouldn't work. We tried every trick in the book, and because riding boots are notoriously hard to put on, we are aware of quite a few tricks for putting on boots.

Eventually we gave up and tried using the zippers. My dad tried. He squeezed, he pushed, he pinched, and millimetre by millimetre, the zipper went up about four inches.

At this point my calves were looking somewhat battered and bruised and he assured me that it was not a case of needing to stretch the leather: It was a case of my legs simply being too fat for boots designed especially for people with fat legs.

I've recently dropped a few of my newly acquired pounds. It's been part effort, and part accident in result of my rough fall, but either way, I have taken notice of the fact that my clothes have been more comfortable, my pants are easier to do up, and my shirts are clinging less to my back fat. I've been avoiding the scales because the last time I was on one, I just didn't want to know.

The other day, SuperNan and I were in her bedroom, looking for some long-lost object that we never did find. However, I did happen to glance in the corner and see my new boots, hardly worn and covered in dust. I saw them and I thought, it's really not worth making myself cry over these boots again. I promised myself for the last time that I am going to sell them on eBay and never give another thought to cramming my legs into riding boots again in this lifetime.

And then I promptly ran to the corner, ripped up the leg of my jogging pants, and prepared to haul on those boots like those boots have never been hauled on before.

And then, after my legs slipped ever so gracefully back into the sharp leather boots, and I recalled exactly how painful it is to break in the sharp leather of new boots; after I stared in amazement and made sure I wasn't trying on my Dad's boots by accident; after I ran squealing and screaming down the stairs and danced around my dad; long after the cats scattered and the dogs were cowering in their kennels because I sounded much like a cross between a wounded mule and a gleeful hyena.....

I made my mom take photographic evidence of the occasion:

Saturday, January 27, 2007

I love my school....

That was all sarcasm, Baby.

So, I'm graduating. The day is drawing near. I'm planning my grad party (In which I plan to light mass quantities of dead trees on fire and consume copious amounts of alcohol) and I'm looking around at having my photos done.

My school, bless their hearts, actually NOTICED that my degree is almost finished with and, by jove, they REMEMBERED to send me information about my convocation and diploma! Who would have thought?

I'm really torn as to how I should have my diploma displayed (read: pay two hundred dollars for them to do it, or go old school and run to Wal-Mart on the way home) and if I should have it done in Latin. Decisions, decisions.

They sent a lovely packet home with all this information and I think my favorite thing in the information packet was the notice that parents can stay in residence for the night of the ceremony.

For the Low Low price of seventy dollars!

I think they should have included a letter that reads like this:

Dear Parents of Graduating Students:

Congratulations! After many years, thousands of dollars, and a large portion of your child's soul, we are now willing to release her from our Devilish, non-English speaking grips! Yes, Sirs and Madams, your child is educated about all sorts of nifty things and if you read our school newspaper from this week, you'll find the uplifting news that by the year 2016, people with degrees will actually be in demand! Which means, Fine Parents, that you only have nine more years of supporting your child's sorry ass in your own home before she can hope for gainful employment, upon which time she will need to come back into our Satanic grips to have her degree updated!

Not only are we offering all this to you, BUT we are also offering you a place to stay while your child attends convocation. We offer no services, no linens, no room service, and no private showers. In addition, all the signage will be in a language you don't understand and if you want to eat in the school cafeteria? WE WILL CHARGE YOU THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS FOR ONE HAMBURGER. The beef will not be organic or environmentally friendly in ANY sense of the word, but you are guaranteed at least four hundred and seventy five grams of fat per serving. That's right. GUARANTEED.

Not only do you get all the above mentioned lack of ammenities, but we will charge you the exact dollar value of your left kidney to park at our wonderful establishment while you try desperately to sleep despite the din of beer wolves howling at the moon during all hours of the day and night.

The best part, Fine Friends? You get all this for the LOW LOW price of seventy dollars for the whole night! THAT'S IT. Seventy dollars so that you can manage to not sleep in an uncomfortable bed, be located in a room that still reeks of beer and vomit from last year's freshmen, AND have no chance of breakfast before we boot your sorry ass out at ten in the morning!

Be sure to bring your sedatives!


The Dumb Fuckwits Who Run Your Child's School.

Man. I should have taken a degree in advertising.


Thursday, January 25, 2007

What is with the whole Country vs City thing, anyways....

What is up with that? Why is it that everything you do relates to it being either a country thing or a city thing?

People ask me these questions sometimes. It's kind of hard to answer because I think that rural people, in general, are more into taking pride in the fact that they are, well, rural. I don't often see people walking through the streets saying "Oh, yeah? Well, I'm from the city! I can handle ANYTHING! Now. Where did I park my Honda Civic?"

The fact of the matter is that the city is just different from the country. There are certain aspects of city living that I've come to love as accessories to a partying lifestyle: three a.m. shawarma, anyone? Yes. Indeed. I think so. Liquor store within walking distance? Well, slap my ass and call me Sally. Work that I can get to without having to waste the gas in my car? Work it, Girlfriend!

But the country is the country and that's just where my heart belongs. Urban people probably have visions of horror in their eyes and terror in their hearts when they think of seven and eight year old boys being given BB guns as birthday presents.

Now, before I go on, you need to know a bit about my Dad.

That is, he's kind of insane.

It's a nice kind of insane: It's just that if you ever go to do anything? It needs to be done PERFECTLY or not at all. For instance, if you want to open a bag of shavings, and you can't figure out the little tying thing? The best thing to do would be to whip out your pocket knife and slice the top of the bag off. Right?

Dear, God. NO. This is not the answer AT ALL, you nitwit.

If you do that sort of livin-on-the-wild-side-tree-huggin-hippy-crap when he's around, the vein on the left side of his head is likely to explode, and now wouldn't that be a nice mess? He, like I, has many of these little idiosyncrasies that make him the one and only Dad that I love.

So, knowing that my dad expects PERFECTION in all the tasks his children complete, know this: Nothing short of PERFECTION in behavior will land you a gun in your hands as a child of his. You'll notice, here, that no one put a gun in my hands until I was 21. Telling? Hmmm....I actually had no desire to have a gun in my hand till then. I'm sure I could have had a wicked collection by the time I was sixteen, but I was more into playing guitar. Sigh.

But when it comes to gun handling? Whoa now. Watch out. Because the first thing you get with you get handed a gun? Is a billion little instruments for finding out how you site it in. He's a safety expert when it comes to firearms, and so giving one for a birthday present to my brothers wasn't really that big of a deal. They learned how to shoot, and grew up to become excellent marksmen.

Like I said, an urban person would likely rather have their kidneys disected with live cockroaches before they'd think it a good idea to have a seven or eight year old with a gun.

One of the first times I was walking through the city, trying to orient myself to my new surroundings, I saw an adult and a child. Keep in mind that I live off of several intersecting streets that make up the main streets of this city. The child was on a sidewalk learning how to ride a two wheeled bicycle and I wanted to scream, run across the road, and go on a ten hour diatribe about the dangers of riding so close to so much traffic. I thought how horrid the mother must be to allow her child in the face of such imminent danger. WHY would anyone be ENCOURAGING a child to ride on a sidewalk of a main street?

Well, Duh. They have no other place to go.

I don't necessarily view my life as country versus city. (Because, really, we all know that in terms of who's winning in a versus competition? The country will kick the city's ass. Hands down.)

However, I've been taking note over the last three years on the vast cultural differences, the social norms here versus the social norms there, and I do have to say that I am forever amazed that a new culture, an entirely new way of life exists so close, and yet so far, from the safe little pocket of CowTown in which I was raised.

As amazing as this new culture, this new way of life that involves food from varying parts of the world while on drunken adventures downtown, is? I have to say that my safe little pocket of CowTown is calling, and no number of shawarma and samosa, sushi or feta cheese will keep me here.

If nothing else, it is wonderful to spend time knowing where I belong.


Tuesday, January 23, 2007

What a weekend!

Daddy got a present this weekend!

And he's NOT sharing!

Not sharing his present! Not even with me?!?! Cute, wonderful, funny, adorable, witty little me doesn't get to share in the joy of my Dad's present! I figure I'll get one of those hundred year old bottles of scotch and leave it in the cupboard, and tell him he can't have it.

Pfffttt. As if I could afford a bottle of hundred year old scotch, anyhow.

To see pictures of the lovely and wonderful newest inhabitant of CowTown, click here!

Welcome to the family, Tia!!


Friday, January 19, 2007

My fifteen minutes of fame.....

The other day, I was waiting in line for the bathroom before my five-thirty class. And in front of me in line? Was none other than Mischa Barton. Seriously. I was staring at her like there was no tomorrow. I couldn'tget over the fact that Mushy Bartone was attending MY school! That makes me like the next Perez Hilton!

I wanted to say something to her, like "HEY! You're Mischa Barton!!! YOU! HEY PRETTY GIRL!!!" But I didn't, because only the uncoolest people say things like that. Instead, I headed into my Poli-Sci class and, guess who was sitting in front of me?

None other than the famous Mischa barton. Or, at the very least, her most likely twin in the owrld.

I have a problem with my legs, and it upsets me to no end. I can't keep my legs still for long periods of time, and it's very hard for me to keep my legs still during three hour classes. At one point, I decided to stretch out my legs, and the unthinkable happened.

I stretched my legs and kicked over MISCHA BARTON'S coffee cup. Now, why anyone would keep their coffee cup on the floor is beyond me. But this is a famous person we're talking about. I felt like such a dolt that I wanted to run away and hide for the rest of my life.

I don't actually believe that Mischa Barton goes to my school. With her money, she could (and should) go to any other school on the continet, if not abroad. So there is really no reason for her to go to my school.

At any rate, if it really isn't the real Mischa Barton, if nothing else? There is a one hundred percent ook-a-like her in my class to make me feel silly should I kick over her coffee cup in class.


Wednesday, January 17, 2007

I have to post this..

I have a sitemeter now, and I was just seeing what referred people to me. So far, the things people have searched to find me are:

1) Small boobs, Padded Bra
2) Boobless Wonder
3) Used to have a great body
4) Country mouse, City mouse
5) Mouse drink milk in India
6) Miniskirt windy day
7) "I could use your trust in me" country music lyrics.

The things you learn about a person by googling random phrases and winding up at her blog! And what the Hell kind of mice to they have in India, that they drink milk? I'm not sure if I need to get out more, or if the people googling things need to get out more, but at any rate, this is kind of hilarious.

(And for those of you who are wondering? My insanity led me to lose fifteen pounds and I'm almost again at the point where I have a great body again. Although I'll always be the boobless wonder, but we can't have it all, now can we?)


In lyrics that someone else wrote....

>There's a full moon over Tulsa, I hope that it's shining on you. The nights are getting cold, In Cherokee County. There's a Blue Norther passing through.>

Big brother, are you out there beneath that full moon? Davey, so far away for the next weeks, can you see it? It never ceases to amaze me that no matter how much distance is between people, we all continue to exist under the same sky.

>I remember green eyes and a ranchers daughter. But remember is all that I do. Losing you left a pretty good cowboy, With nothing to hold on to.>

My eyese are blue. I broke someone's heart once, years and years ago. I wonder if I left him feeling like he had nothing to hold on to.

>Sundown came and I drove to town, And drank a drink or two. You're the reason God made Oklahoma, You're the reason God made Oklahoma. And I'm sure missing you, I'm sure missing you.>

We've all been there. Drink a drink or two, and wonder where the people we love are hiding out, if they're ok, if they're thinking of me. I might just go out on Thursday, and drink a drink or two. And I'll be happy that I have so many people to tell "You're the reason God Made Oklahoma"

>Here the city lights out shine the moon I was just now thinking of you. Sometimes when the wind blows you can See the mountains, And all the way to Malibu>

I've sat so many times wondering how it can all exist. The lights actually can outshine the moon, and I'm surprised because the moon is the MOON, after all. It's amazing that humanity can overpower even the moon.

>Everyone's a star here in L.A. County, You ought to see the things that they do>

It's amazing, because there's been so many times that I've wanted to call home while looking out my window. I did my first night in the city. Five people got arrested outside, merely a few feet away from me. I had to share the excitement with someone, so I ended up calling SuperNan.

>All the cowboys down on the Sunset Strip Wish that they could be like you. The Santa Monica Freeway, Sometimes makes a country girl blue>

I went to Country Night at a local bar here in the city once. I was standing in line with all these boys, who were wearing big belt buckles and John Deere T-shirts. The girls all had on cowboy boots and fuzzy pink cowboy hats, and I was wondering, do they really think we dress like that?

And someone I was with said, "Hey, how come you don't have a John Deere T-shirt? If anyone should have one, shouldn't it be you?" And I said "Honey, I don't need no John Deere T-shirt, and I've got the tractor to prove it."

Ok, that was a lie. My parents have the tractor. But anyhow.

>I work 10 hours on a John Deere tractor, Just thinking of you all day.>

I once dated someone, way back in my Other Life, and we started dating in the middle of hay season. Then we continued our relationship through plough season and I think, if we had lasted, I would kiss him and smile every time I hear this sentence, because much of our time together was spent in a tractor. One time we did indeed spend ten hours, the two of us crammed into the cab of his father's elderly Massey Ferguson. Two people, happy in love, driving around the field, talking, laughing, jostling about.

Too bad he turned out to be such a dolt.

>I've got a calico cat and a 2 room flat, On a street in West L.A. You're the reason God made Oklahoma, You're the reason God made Oklahoma. And I'm sure missing you,>

I used to think about this alot when I first moved here. Only my cat didn't like me and my flat was one room. And it had brown water. And was full of schizophrenic people who would cause all kind of raucus at all times of the night.

It's just one of those songs, and you hear it, and so much of it is your life, and so much of it connects you to so much of your past. I've known the lyrics forever, but I'd never heard it until just this winter. I finally found a copy of the song, and I just can't stop listening to it.

I'm learning to play it right now. Perhaps it will be my first successful cover song. Even if it is, I need a nice, harmonica-toting alto singer to do the guy duet part.

Hopefully he's someone who likes John Deere tractors and driving to town, to drink a drink or two.


Monday, January 15, 2007

My first ever F in university...

So, last semester was kind of a tough one. Some of you were there. I did manage to write all my exams with the help of some very lovely people, so I was feeling pretty proud of myself.

The first grade that came in was my culture grade, and I got an A+ there. Wheee! Apparently, the professor found my study of Redneck culture pretty interesting. I got a C+ in the Pshychology of Personality, and that wasn't surprising because it was a pretty hard course. I also got a C+ in Family Psychology. I thought I would at least get a B in that one, but a C+ is close enough for me. My Sociology of Work course I got a B+ in, and that wasn't really surprising. In fact, I'm a little dissapointed in myself for not making that one an A+ as well, because it was quite possibly the absolutely dumbest course known to man. If my school had a basket weaving course? I'm sure I would have benefitted far more from that than from an exploration into the sociology of work. Seriously.

In Sex class? My mark isn't posted yet. Hopefully I didn't fail sex, because I don't quite think I could live that one down.

And now, for the story of my first ever F.

I got my Anthropology mark back and sure enough, it was an F. I was expecting at least a B in that class, so seeing that I failed it was very shocking. I managed to remain calm, though. And then I sat an stared at the F for a good three or four hours. I'd never seen one before. I mean, I type the letter F often enough when I'm blogging. I've dealt with the letter F in terms of graffiti, and people with potty mouths, and all sorts of different occasions.

But I've never dealt with the letter F in terms of "By the way, Dumbass, You FAILED." And certainly, if anyone EVER fails an Anthropology course? They are a dumbass. My term paper consisted of presenting the findings of a night sitting on my balcony watching drunk people. Come on, now. Not only was it an Anthropology course, it was a course in the Anthropology of every day life.I've done some stupid things in my life. (That first perm I got in the eighth grade comes to mind.) Internet dating? That was dumb. That time I was drinking with friends and decided to let that girl who was totally blasted pluck my eyebrows? Very unwise decision.

But for heaven's sake. IT'S THE ANTHROPOLOGY OF EVERYDAY LIFE!! It's an examination of why some cultures use combs to style their hair, and why others use brushes. We explored a group of people in some faraway country who head hunt as a way of coping with a death in the family, but then switched to Christianity as a way of coping with grief. We discussed making thick descriptions. HAVE YOU EVER READ MY BLOG?!? All I do is describe things thickly! We discussed participant observation. YES! It is possible to both observe a foreign culture while participating in their rituals to obtain a more thorough understanding of their rituals and norms. MY WORD! IT'S GROUNDBREAKING!

Needless to say, by the time I thought of all that, I figured, No Way. It is not possible for someone who knows how to spell her own name to fail Anthropology. Hell, I can spell Anthropology! I can spell all kinds of neat stuff! Surely I can't have failed Anthropology.

So, I emailed the professor.

He sent me a very kindly worded email back saying, Whoops! Wrong grade! Silly me! Have a great semester, I'll switch it tomorrow!

And meanwhile, my brain is still trying to recover from the near explosion it just went through thinking up all the things I could fail in my life OTHER than anthropology. Like Quantum Physics, or Calculus, or Biology, or Pharmaceuticals... But ANTHROPOLOGY?

And so, I now have a C+ in Anthropology, which means that I didn't get the B that I was hoping for, but it certainly feels better than the original F I spent so long staring at in disbelief. Furthermore, I can now hold my head high when I return to The Ranch, and my parents won't have to shake their heads in disbelief and then tell outright lies about how well I'm doing in school to their friends. Because trust me. If I had a kid dumb enough to fail Anthropology? I'd be outright lying to all my friends as well.

Phew. I'm very relieved, to say the least, and I do believe that in celebration I should go and bond a litle with my trusty friend, Gibby.


My last spring break....

This is my last semester of school, and as a result, my last chance to do something wild and wonderful with my spring break. Unfortunately, spring break in Canada tends to fall smack dab in the middle of winter, but anyhow. Spring break it is, nonetheless.

The problem is that I really don't have any cash. I've discussed doing a few different things with my roommate: Go on one of the school-sponsored trips to Panama city, or I've considered asking my crazy uncle if I can get a week at his timeshare for myself and a few other ladies. Of course this would also involve getting our hands on a vehicle of some sort, which tends to complicate matters some. I briefly considered taking a train to the East coast and checking out Newfoundland, but that seems ... daunting.

The problem is that I've never really been anywhere or done anything and now I'm thinking, school is almost done! I'm almost a grown up! And when I'm a grownup, will I really be able to hop on a train, flutter to some strange part of the country, drink my face off, spend the night in hostels, and come home feeling not guilty? I mean, doesn't being a grownup mean you have to stop acting like a fifteen year old?

At any rate, my finances are dicatating my life at this point, but I still kind of want to do something other than hang around in the city. I could organize a spring break trip for some girlfriends to come to the ranch and party it up country style: But even that leaves us with the dilemma of getting there, getting home, finding places for people to sleep, and so forth.

I'm just thinking out loud here, procrastinating from doing my readings on social change and minority groups. It's interesting stuff, but aimlessly surfing the web is much more interesting.


Sunday, January 14, 2007

Now that's class....

Avert your eyes, Mother!

This is a pic the lovely Mal gave me. It's actually from November, when I had my infamous SubShack party. This was a mere hour or two after the lot of us got kicked out of my apartment for noise violations.

I'm sure right now that the Berry Queen is thinking: Yes. I've hired this moron to manage my fields.

I'm sure my mother is thinking: Yes. I gave birth to this WITHOUT an epidural.

And I'm sure my Dad is thinking: AHA! THIS is why she needed to "borrow" that twenty bucks.

Yes, Dad. That was the reason I needed to borrow twenty bucks.

I should be able to repay you by March, 2011.

But only if you give me a sweet deal on the rent until then. *Muah*


Thursday, January 11, 2007


It's truly amazing what a short amount of time can do for a person. Six weeks ago, I was probably at the lowest low I've ever been in my life. And now here I am, and I'm overwhelmingly OK. The doctor says that he doesn't want people feeling like an eight, and he doesn't want them feeling like a twelve. He wants them feeling like a ten.

It's hard to discuss medicine as it pertains to anxiety disorders because there are still many, many non-believers out there. It's really hard to continue going forward with treatment plans when there are people out there saying that your symptoms aren't real, or that you don't really have a medical problem at all. Tome Cruise, I'm talking to you. This isn't something that can be dealt with using vitamins and exercise. Trust me.

I sat on the balcony last night, having a ciggie and looking at the stars. I could see Orion's belt, for some reason, clear and pure and beautiful, shining down on me. I don't think it's coincidental that yesterday was the day that Big Brother returned to Afghanistan to finish his tour. He is the Hunter, much like Orion, and he has a tattoo of Orion on his left shoulder. And I was sitting on the balcony, and I was watching the stars and listening to the rumble-y tumble-y sounds of the city below me, and I realized: for the first time in months, I feel OK. I'm not an eight, or a minus five like I was a few short weeks ago. I'm not a twelve or a fifteen. I'm a perfect ten.

I imagine that part of my feelings of OK-ness stem from the warm welcome I've received from my friends, roommate, and co-workers over the last few days. Everyone's kind of excited to see that I'm still kickin', that I'm back in town, that I'm OK after all. I imagine as the "HEY! I'M BACK" feeling wears off, I might fall back to a nine or an eight. But, in time, if I do fall back into eight or nine out of ten, I know that I can get back to ten. That with the right help, the right medicine, the right coping mechanisms, OK will find it's way back to me.

My last semester is incredibly easy. I don't have a single class before 11:30 a.m, and I've started back at work slowly, with one shift per week. So for now, I'm focussing on staying at the very top of my game, doing my readings and making up Q-Cards for studying as I go through the chapters. I'm making sure to eat breakfast every day, even just a few bites, and starting my day on the right foot with freshly flossed teeth, conditioned hair, and a well-rested body.

A few weeks ago I didn't even have the energy to put on pants. I've now worn actual clothing, actual pants and tops (if even only T-Shirts and Jeans, it has to be better than tank tops and sweats) and done my hair for five days consecutively. I almost feel like someone should give me a medal. I'll settle for a cold can of Coke. You can bring it to me at my house.

You'll find me on the balcony, smiling up at Orion.


Copying Joomy Rocks!!

I'm copying Joomy yet again, because she comes up with such wonderful lists of things to do (Or in this case, not do). I think it's important to have lists when you're single and looking in this world. It helps keep you centred when you're caught up in the warm and fuzzies and trying depserately to not notice any shortcomings an individual you're interested in has. Because trust me. They all have shortcomings. And most of them have lots.

So, as the song goes:

"I would do anything for love, but I won't do that."

For me, that is:

I won't live in suburbia. If you're scared of cows and the possibility of living in a drafty old farm house with a small herd of mice to keep you company, date someone else.

I won't change my religion. Unless I want to.

I won't dye my hair or change anything about my style (Or lack of style. I don't think jeans, jogging pants, and T-shirts constitutes a style).

I won't move far from where I was raised. They may try to shoot you, or run you down with pitch forks, but my family is an integral part of my life. If they turn out to not like you, you can just have a lot of poker nights with the boys after we're married.

I won't quit smoking. Unless I want to. I have been known to quit in the past. But when I feel like smoking, I'm damn well going to smoke. I will have the courtesy to brush my teeth after, though. And wash my hands and change my top.

I won't promise to like your mother (But I will try. Briefly. After my brief period of trying, I'm going to go back to hiding at my parents' house every time you have a parental engagement to go to.)

I won't give up naming random things around the house. (I think Big Al the TV, Snuffalupagus the houseplant, and Alistair the thing that used to live in the drain would be sad without names, thankyouverymuch).

I won't quit eating the carcasses of dead animals, nor will I put an end to my dream of one day making a living (or part of my living) off the sale of said carcasses of dead animals. I'm not an animals rights activist.

I won't give up my love of milk, nor will I try to do away with my hatred for cream cheese. I've never tried it. Your love is not going to make me try it. Please move on.

I won't make it part of my routine to shave my legs or pluck my eyebrows. I've managed to find true love before with hairy legs. I believe it can happen again. And if not, my parents really are screwed because then? They WILL be stuck with me for the rest of their lives.

I will not give up my love for Degrassi, ER, or RoseAnne. I will beat you with the remote control and bind and gag you with my crocheting if you talk during any of those shows.

I will not get rid of my cat. Even though she hates me, and I hate her.

I will not stop wearing long johns in the winter.

I will not jeapardize my future (Which means that if you're looking for a partner in crime, move on.)

I will not likely have sex with you. I WILL likely tell you this on the first date, just to get it out of the way. Some people accept it, some people don't. Move on.

I will not jeapardize my credit rating. I need to buy a house in the future.

I will not pledge allegiance to something I don't wholeheartedly agree in or with.

I will not give up my love for cold beer on a hot day. Because that's right up there with sacriledge.

I will not make you learn to hunt. But I guarantee that I will ridicule you until you can't take it any more, and learn how for the sake of shutting me up.

I will not make you learn how to drive stick. But I will ridicule you until you can't take it any more, and learn how for the sake of shutting me up.

I will not make you play swords with my nephew. But I will stand by looking entrenched in some other task while he looks at you with big, pleading eyes and lets you have the good sword. Hehehe.

That's the list for now. I think it's fairly comprehensive. I think it's a good thing to have in mind when looking for a boyfriend.

Not, however, that I AM looking for a boyfriend. But if the time ever comes that I AM? I have my handy list to refer to. And seeing as how it's posted on the internet, so does he. Tricky.


Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Back to school, Back to me....

Here I am, back in the city after my one month hiatus from reality. I'm feeling good about being back: It's my last semester, most of my courses are bird courses, and I don't have a single day that starts before eleven thirty. Life is good.

It's hard to come back after leaving in the rush that I did leave in. It's kind of hard to face people, especially at work, where everyone is like "Oh, look! You're back! Are you... Uhm... Better?"

I'm not a hundred per cent better at this point. I'm still kind of freaked out and a little bit anxious from the events of this fall. But for the most part, I really feel that I'm on the road to recovery On Saturday, I'm going to my first social outing in over two months. I'm excited to get out, get dolled up and in some nice clothes, and see everyone again, if only for a little while.

I went and talked to the BossMan today, and he even agreed to give me my job back. I was scared for a while that he was done with me, as the last few times I worked at the SubShack I wasn't exactly a stellar employee. But he shook my hand, told me to show up at eleven thirty tomorrow morning, and wished me a happy new year. Let's hope that it will be just that.

I went out and bought my school books today; or rather, I bought books for three of my five classes. The other two classes are sold out already. I hate my school. At any rate, I also bought myself a treat: my very own copy of Fast Food Nation. I wonder if it will change my mind on fast food at all. I know that movie about the guy who ate McDonald's every day for a month didn't kick my fast food habit. Perhaps this will.

I suppose I don't have that much to update with. I think I forgot my camera back at the Ranch, so I can't even take any cool pictures until I get it back in a few week's time.


Saturday, January 06, 2007

Fare thee well, vacation....

Tonight is my last night here at the resort. I feel bad for the people who came to this particular ski resort to ski, because... well, you can't very well ski with no snow.

We could swim at the pool here. If I was much of a swimmer at all, I would have been in there like a dirty shirt. As it stands now, I actually resemble a drowning rat more than a human swimming when I've been immersed in water. But I did make it down one day to splash with The Princess and Big Brother while they were here one day.

While here, we discovered that a figure skater I am not. By the time we made it for our third ski, I managed to avoid skating around the rink on my face, and I only tripped over my new girl skates once. I look like an utter fool on the ice. Picture sixty five four year olds skating circles around me, and then me: clinging to the boards for dear life, wincing in agony.

The condo was lovely. It has a gas fireplace, and while my father prefers to light his own fire hiw own way, it was nice to be able to turn it on with the flick of a switch. There are huge bay windows which look out onto Georgian Bay. I find water nerve-wracking, as once I'm in it, my death becomes suddenly very imminent. However, it was nice to look at from the safety of the condo windows.

I got to spend a few days bonding with the lovely Princess. She has grown so much, and has started making some sounds that resemble words. At one point, I'm sure I heard her say "Potato". But my sister in law thinks that unlikely. They just chalked it up to my being insane. Hmph.

Here are a few other pictures of our vacation week. Enjoy!

SuperNan cooking up a storm

SuperDad, Chillaxin' like it's his job.

The Princess, discovering how gorgeous she really

is in a full length mirror

Don't take pictures of me sleeping. Because you won't see me.

The Princess, Standing on her head.

My Dad, Showing off a fish he 'Obtained'

Hope everyone has a great weekend! This is it, then it's back to the big city for me. My LAST semester of school! *Cheer!*


Thursday, January 04, 2007

What's that popping sensation?

And why are my knees all purple, blue and green? And why does every muscle in my body ache? And what is up with that popping sensation?

I went skating on Wednesday. It was ... not entirely successful.

When we got there, I saw all these little, tiny children there and I thought, dear God, I won't be able to stop! And I'll crash into them! And kill them! And their parents will be mad at me!

Fortunately, I didn't crash into any little kids. It was fun to watch them whizzing by me on the ice, skating backwards, playing tag, laughing, and screaming while I held on to the side of the rink for dear life.

The first fall wasn't so bad. I caught myself with the palms of my hands and sort of fell sideways onto my hips. I did catch my left knee on the ice, but the bruise there isn't so bad. Not quite so purple. Not quite so poppy.

The second fall. Well. Have you ever heard the sound of dead weight slamming onto the surface of the ice with such force that a loud *thud* echoes about the arena, causing all people to stop and look in horror?

I must say that the look of concern on my dad's face still brings a smile to my heart, because, quite frankly, the man was terrified. As was I. Initially, I thought that every bone in my body had simply shattered into a million pieces. My palms felt funny, but I didn't bother assessing them because my knees and chest hurt so much.

I landed knees, chest, then hands on the ice with such force that I ripped the palms of my hands open. The wind was knocked out of me and I am still pretty sure that I broke one of my ribs. It hurt to breath all day yesterday. My mom was examining my knee for damage this morning, and that's when we discovered that is you press on the left side of it, slightly below the kneecap, a piece of ligament or tendon or something starts popping around on the left side above the kneecap. Very interesting indeed.

At any rate, skating again tomorrow. I'm going with the old "Three faceplants on the ice" rule I made it up myself. It means that as soon as I've faceplanted into the ice three times, I'm outtie.


Tuesday, January 02, 2007

A surprise....

My parents and I have arrived at our vacation destination. SuperNan took me boxing day shopping and we found me my first ever pair of skates. Ther very first skates I've ever owned that haven't been owned by a big brother or two before me.

The problem? They are girl skates. They have picky things on them and I think that if I fall down and break my teeth on the ice and end up with a broken nose and have to have plastic surgery, I may well throw myself off the docks and straight into Georgian Bay. I'm that scared of breaking my teeth.

This post, however, has nothing to do with skating or teeth or vacations, even.

It has to do with Big Brother. The one who is supposed to be in Afghanistan.

A day or two before we left for our vacation, the phone rang. It was my sister-in-law's number displayed, so I settled in for a chat with my number one girl.

But it was Big Brother's voice on the other end. At first I just assumed that the wires had crossed somehow, that when he hung up from talking to her, he called us so quickly afterwards that the call display said her name.

I kept on repeating myself because if the connection was that screwed up, I was likely to lose him fairly quickly.

But then he said that he was with his wife, in Ontario, Canada right that moment.

My heart sank below my knees, right through my feet, and into the basement. I was so sure that something terrible had happened to him. In hindsight, I suppose if he had been injured, he would be in an army hospital on the other side of the world.

He kept on telling me that he was with his wife, at her parents' house, and I could hear a little smirk, a little giggle in his voice.

If he had been near me I would have slapped him. I was so stunned that someone who is supposed to be in a war zone on the other side of the world was mere hours away from me.

He was offered leave in November, but he turned it down. An opportunity for him to come home for ten days came up this very week that we are visiting his wife and the Princess. And he took it. And he surprised us all.

I can't quite imagine how his lovely wife felt when she saw his face. The constant worry, the constant fear, the thoughts in your head every time the phone rings: these are very real things you deal with when you have a loved one overseas. When I heard his voice on a phone that wasn't connected through satelite, I can't quite explain how my heart felt light and easy.

Tomorrow I am trying out my new skates and then going for an afternoon with big brother and his family.

I'm not sure if it's the water-y air, or that Big Brother is safe and sound, or the fact that exams are done, or any of a number of other factors in play here, but I've been sleeping better the last few nights than I think I have ever slept in my life.