a question

why do you think that North Americans view a man who is besotted and willing to do anything for a woman as Pussy whipped while in other parts of the world that same man would be admired for his gallantry?

Does anyone else have a problem with this?

A while checking my email at Yahoo I came across a e-bite for a new *designer* cat. A toyger. Yes, that's right, the cutesy idiot people who came up with labradoodle and cockapoo oh and let's not forget shichons(purposeful???? cross breeding with an 'oh so cute' name *GAG*)have struck again with, can you figure it out? TOY TIGERS.

Being a tiger fan and suitably in awe of tigers... Real tigers, with orange and black stripes on their skin and fascinating eyes and powerful jaws and massive paws and oh yeah, weighing upwards of 500 lbs. I had to have a look at least. Because I'm also suitably in awe of the abject stupidity of some people.

I REPEAT TIGERS NOT BROWN TABBY CATS.

Are people truly so gullible that they will actually buy these? Short answer... yes :(.

Not only will they line up to buy these, there will likely eventually be a micro version, suitable for popping into your purse ala paridiot and chihuahuas. Eventually there will even be a micro lion complete with his own little pride of micro lionesses. Pursesized savannahs will abound.

Why why why do people see the need to do this? Microsizing perfectly respectable animals. Animals that can and should remain able to rip off your ridiculous head and do horrid things to your body. WILD animals. IN THE WILD.

MEH.

I am not against zoos. I see them as a necessary evil in a world that while becoming incredibly tiny and accessible to many still remains a huge mystery to most. Not petting zoos (although I do confess to a burning desire to go to Tiger Island in Australia some time in my life) but real as close to natural as possible habitats, where the animals can be observed. Safari type zoos, more than caged enclosure types. I'm all for being the one in the cage for my own protection, rather than walking free while the animal is caged.

But back to my point.

Reading further through the website I see a plan of purposeful breeding with photoshopped possibilities of eventual changes to the breed. I don't really disagree with breeding for a purpose. One of my favourite breeds is essentially man made (actually most of them are if nothing else but by a group of interested owners/breeders breeding for a particular type) however I don't and will never see the point in microsizing animals for cuteness factor.

And what the hell is wrong with a society that thinks it's okay to put a dog in a purse as a fashion accessory anyways. Sorry, I know I'm behind the times on that rant but it's been bugging me for a very long time. Not only do I object to Paris Hilton on principle and not out of jealousy...I'd be embarrassed to be as morally bankrupt as she appears to be... but it's scary for me as the mom of two young daughters that people such as she might be a role model *MEEP*

Mikey and me.

It's no secret that I'm a sucker for a sob story. It's also no secret that I enjoy working with horses and love the feeling of triumph and success when I turn around a cantankerous type or so called bad horse. How cool when it all comes together.

A couple of years ago, shortly after we started training for C. she brought me a couple of older boys that hadn't yet found homes. They're nice horses, one a very light palamino/grey and the other a copper sorrel. Bullet (the pal) is racy and elegant, would look great under english tack and has attitude out the yinyang. He's able to leap tall fences in a single bound and has a way of tossing his head that would make him ideal for film if he were black.

And then there's Mikey. They called him Big Mike, to differentiate between him and Yellow Mike. He's a rather ordinary sorrel coloring. Attractive head, nice blaze down from his forehead to his nose. No snip and only the hint of a star. Solid. Strong. Not overdone and sleek when he slips into his extended trot.

Willing too. "Try him in a lunge," C. told me. I did. He moved out immediately. Willing and able to understand even my hamhanded signals. I asked him for a lope and the transition was smooth, 2 strides and he was in full gait. Same thing coming back down, no jerking or hesitation... if he were a car he might well be well, maybe not a ferrari maybe a viper. Raw power but controlled. No finesse to it, but only because it's not yet applied.

Yeah, I'm a fan.

C. then told me his story. Yard pet foal to easy break horse, sold as a working horse to a pen checker at a local feed lot who used him well and trained him up right. Then he had the chance to go south and rather than take his horses he boarded them at the lot, for use. Someone either put a wet cinch on him or had a wet wet day and didn't check it. He galled (cinch burn scar of white hair on his belly 4" wide by about 15" long side to side :( ) poor guy was likely mad with pain. And they rode him still. He turned mean, or so they said. Tried to kill off a cowboy or two who were intent on 'fixin' that sombitch' They rode him and rode him and he bucked them off. C. took him back. Rescued him more like. Took him to a local trainer who did well with him. Until the day there was a blow up (seems someone decided they needed past the buggy and honked and honked till there was a wreck) Mikey took a broken stay in the gut. C. again took him back and put him out to pasture. But now... I was his chance, she said.

I looked into his eye. You never really know but I fancy that I can tell when there's meanness there, and I didn't see one tiny bit of it. I fiddled with him and he let me do a lot. I didn't push but I did put my foot in the stirrup and let him feel my weight. He shifted his front legs to square up and stood stock still.

Over time I did little bits with him here and there. Not enough, but each time was successful. No wrecks, no blowups. D. was up on him the 3rd day we started seriously working with him. I blew into his nostrils and he snuffled me back. I told him in a quiet whisper that he had to behave because I couldn't ride him till he was proved safe. I swear he nodded at me. Could be he just liked the jingle of bit too, but I'm sticking with nodding. D. climbed up, both of us watching Mikey's head, me ready to hang off the bridle like an ornament, D. ready to bail out at the slightest sign of trouble. Mikey's a big boy, muscular, heavy but agile. You wouldn't want to take the chance of being tossed by him. I sure wouldn't. Mikey shifted his balance. Squared up his front legs and uncocked his hind leg. He stared at me and I back at him. Slowly I passed up the reins to D. letting Mikey see me do it. "Let him ride you," I murmured and stepped back. Mikey stood still. Up till now when I'd stepped back he'd squared to me and moved with me. A dance of sort, training he received from someone else. A matter of distance and parameters. Stay x distance from me and all will be good. If I move back, move forward till x distance is maintained. I play with it, sometimes and we dance. Stepping back and forth and side to side facing each other. But this time, I had handed off control and Mikey's ears flicked, once, twice then again and he turned his head, feet still firmly planted and snuffled me again. Then D. rode him. A few steps forward and a turn to the left, then another few and a turn to the right. The idea is to keep the horse turning thereby making it harder for them to buck if they are so inclined. It's also a great opportunity to teach or reinforce leg aids and reining.

Here's a short video of Mikey and D after this session. Mikey's wearing no bridle or halter and simply going for a wander around the corral. Mean horse...yeah... dun think so. (NOTE: link is fizzed, I'll fix it soon)

My time being not so easily arranged I didn't get to do much more with him. An opportunity came up for him to be trained as a bulldoggin' horse. C. talked to me, asked me what I thought and I thought it was best for Mikey. A chance to re establish himself as a good horse. I cried after I hung up the phone but knew it was for the best.

Now he's back. The bulldoggin' training didn't happen, so he had a nice holiday on pasture and he's full of green grass. On sunday we were out to the ranch. I wanted a crack at him, and C. had promised me that rather than meating him if the bulldoggin' didn't work out (life is like that here, horses are a commodity and not just pretty animals in the field, they cost money to feed and shoe and vet and must make money one way or the other) she'd give me one more crack at him.

Sometimes when karma is knocking I get a little hard of hearing but this time I heard loud and clear. Mikey was back, grab him my little voice said. I proposed a deal to C. and she agreed. The fix was in. If I could get on him and ride him he was mine. So sunday was the day. He acted up in the slab fence corral. Reminiscent of the feedlot I'm sure. And again when people hung over the fence in the other corral, again, memories of when he was to be 'fixed', I'm betting.

I lunged him and he got it together. The intelligence was back, evident in every motion of his head as he missed nothing. Tacked and looking good, a little hunched looking cause of the extra weight he's packing, we led him out. D. fiddled with him a bit then gave me that look. I stepped to Mikey's head and talked to him, snuffling and chatting, stroking his nose and focusing him on me. Slowly D. got into the saddle, settling in to an ear flick and the familiar shift of balance, squaring up his front end. I breathed again and relaxed. D. sat still and I stepped back, asking Mikey to step up. 1 stride 2...whoa I said and he did. D. still silent and still in the saddle, only providing the weight while I 'rode' Mikey from the ground using only my voice.

D. climbed off and I'm sure C. breathed a sigh of relief. While we stood around and spoke D. climbed up again and off and all was okay. After a time C. headed up to the house and D. took Mikey (I thought) to the barn to untack. "Hurry up or we'll get caught," his voice came around the corner of the barn. "Say what now?" I asked walking around the corner. D. had walked Mikey into what we use as a mounting block and grinned at me. I stepped up onto the cement platform and slowly put my foot in the stirrup. Letting my weight lean on the saddle I stepped down again. Then into the stirrup again and swung my leg on his rump, sliding it, and still he stood, stock still, patient and uncomplaining. Many horses fidget in that spot. It's tight and they are impatient, ready to go, eager to be off. Not Mikey, he was willing to wait. Finally I was sure, I'd watched his ears and was willing to bet the farm. I swung up, settling into the saddle without even the teeniest of flutters in my stomach at mounting a horse known to be unpredictable. I was so focused on not scaring him I forgot all about my own fear of mounting a strange horse. I sat there for a triumphant moment then remembered to breath. Slowly I dismounted and once I was back on the cement I let out a whoop and hugged Mikey around the neck. "He's really my horse," I breathed and grinned.

More on Mikey as his and my journey continues. Stay tuned.

I guess I'm just selfish ...

Special K (scroll down she's been posting and I haven't) has a valid and very astutely written point about how we in the First World live in a bubble of comfort not enjoyed or hardly even dreamed about by the resoundingly large number of people that comprise the rest of the world. (I've never gotten that whole first third world thing by the way, I mean what happened to the second world?)

As I said, and do say with all due respect to K's incredible grasp of the English language and her extensive vocabulary that I admire and covet every time I read her posts, she makes a very valid point.

However?

I don't care.

Say what you will, I'm *T*I*R*E*D* of people telling me how I should be more charitable, more considerate of those who live without the amenities and conveniences that I do. I have what I have because my grandparents settled in Canada. They worked hard to get here, and did so to benefit not only themselves but to give their children a better life. I have the opportunity to have so much more than they ever dreamed of giving to their offspring and it's up to me what I do with it. (yes, I'm aware that some in other places in the world do not have the right or ability to do as my grandparents did, that really isn't the point in what I'm saying.)

I don't =owe= anyone anywhere else for anything, especially not as an apology for having more than they do. I can have a cold and feel sorry for myself without having to think of those dealing with worse illnesses than I have. I can be hungry without feeling guilty about having the ability and opportunity to buy food to fix feeling hungry. And I can knit a hat because I want to, and save it for myself or for someone special to me without feeling guilty that someone somewhere doesn't have a hat.

I knit. I like to knit. I like to crochet and tat and use thread and needles to create other fabrics/bits/extras whathaveyou. I do not HAVE TO KNIT FOR CHARITY to have the right to knit. I knit for myself, because I enjoy knitting. Not because I owe someone a hat because they are cold.

Let's not misunderstand me here. I give to charity. I work for a charitable organization that's non profit and goes well out of its way to make sure that all have the same. And I see the inequalities right here on the streets of my own little home town every day. I do what I do about it, in my way, in my own time and without need of fanfare or accolade. And you know what really sucks? Even as I take this stand about not having to, I feel the need to defend myself by telling you that I do things for charity that don't involve knitting. bah...

What really offends me is this damned holier than thou attitude that so many of my fellow crafters adopt. "I'm a *good person* because I knit 734 hats for the homeless this weekend..." I mean, really. Great, good, I'm sure that the homeless (at least some of them) appreciate that contribution to no end. But.. um.. .why are you telling me about it? Why are you holding it up like some badge that you won?

Knitting is mine. FOR ME. Because I like to do it and because I like to bestow my loved ones and friends with handmade gifts that show them I've thought about them and value them. Why would I cheapen that sort of gift by handing out my talents to just anyone willynilly?

Bah. Excuse me while I go cheer at a rodeo.

A 'laughter' of clowns

I've searched with Google, pawed through Dogpile and even Ask'ed Jeeves, but the only collective noun I can find for clowns is an 'alley of clowns'.

Well, I can see that alley is a very good word and well used, as most local clown associations are called Alleys it's probably all official and what not. In fact, upon contemplation I expect that it comes from where the circus clowns would prepare for performances. Where are the clowns? They're all down that alley. Maybe?

But after spending a wonderful weekend at a local 21st annual Clown convention I think that a 'laughter of clowns' works much better. If you ever have wondered what it's like to be a clown, or just like them, find yourself a clown convention and go. I can't recommend a hobby/passion convention I've ever attended (and being the obsessive gotta do it to the nth degree type I've been to a few such) any more than I do this one.

To be around people so honest and truly comfortable, and watch them just play. No strings, no agendas, nothing but true sharing and caring. I've seldom been in better company.

I was there in the capacity of chaperone to a group of youth. Some of them had been to the convention the year before but a few of them were as new to it all as I was. Suffice it to say we dived right in. :) Thank fully I mean into classes and not a glass of water or a clown car ;P. In fact the only 'clown car' I saw was one made outta balloons and there were no cream pies anywhere. But there was laughter everywhere you turned.

Clowns have a bad rap thanks to "IT" by Stephen King and various other misuses of the makeup. Really, when you paint your face pure white, exaggerate your features with traditional black and red (did you know, I'm told that it was against tradition (searching for more info on that) to wear blue greasepaint?), then clap on a wig of colours seldom seen together no shit that's scary stuff.

When Bumper and Patches met us at the door, my 5 year old nearly climbed me like a tree to get away from them. Bumper, I'm told, is a traditional whiteface. While Patches is what is called an 'auguste' (pronounced awwgooose) clown. Although he claims to not play in the traditional auguste way :) and I have to tell you after watching him perform a bit I think he just likes to play but that's just my theory.

Bumper was great, when Littlest was so unsure of him. He told her that under the makeup and clothes he was a daddy and a grandpa and did ordinary things. Then he left her be till she was in facepaint herself. Then HE acted afraid of her, and totally got her to run over and give him a hug to prove she wasn't scary. It was important to him, anyone could see and a payoff he was willing to wait patiently for. I think that's why I was extra pleased to have spent a little time getting to know him and to be present when he was awarded clown of the year. Patches' letter of congratulation was enough to put me and many around me to tears at the true bond of friendship, respect and love between them.

There are other traditional types of clowns and each was expected to play in a particular way. The whiteface is usually 'boss clown' He's the one that the auguste is trying to play pranks on and often ends up being the dignified winner in a contest he didn't even know he was entered in. The auguste is often a prankster, thinks he's clever than he is and the whiteface is his target. The tricks he plans for the whiteface's tumble are thwarted by misunderstood or literally enacted instructions by the whiteface whose earnest attempts to complete them often has the audience cheering for him rather than the IMO more appealing mischief maker. Heh, I guess I'm a little leary of the whitefaces too.

Which makes this rather ironic.

Memories...like the corners of my mind...

Recently I read a post on GutRumbles that made me start thinking about a lot of things. Primarily about how much *country* I really am, but also about how we are so sure we're all unique and we are, each of us, experiencing the world with our own personal opinions, life experiences and yet...

We think we're all so very different but really in a lot of ways we aren't. In fact right there in the job description for a vital part of growing up is 'disassociate yourself from your parents' beliefs, values, and morals...' what a lot of kids miss is the fine print that says 'until you figure out for yourself that those are good beliefs, values and morals and you could have saved everyone a lot of grief if you'd just thought about it for a bit before going off on that roadtrip...'

He spoke about watching a 100 best country songs and crying on the floor at various songs. I was surprised and yet not, to find that the songs he mentioned were ones that have been known to undo me as easily as they did him, although obviously for very different reasons. How so fitting I thought afterwards, the echoes of his posts long ago written, sending forth ripples of my own song associations through my mind. That I do believe is what some people mean when they say blogging is their way of reaching out.

Boobs spoke recently of how her son is becoming someone that delights her and yet surprises her. She recounts a conversation about being 'Goth' and how even though she was she didn't know. Yet again our differences become so much definition and not so much truly differences but variations. My daughters and son surprise me at every turn, even when it's what I expect them to do, they have their own spin on it.

I listen to a station called "Classic Country" in the Dodge. Somehow it seems to fit the car :P. I find myself bellowing out the lyrics along with Johnny and Marty, Waylon, Willie and the rest of the boys, surprising myself at how well I remember the words. The intonations and feelings that accompany these jaunts down memory lane are enlightening to me. Even if they do sometimes leave me wiping my eyes when I get to where I'm going.

People often talk about a song taking them back. I understood that, even though I wasn't someone who lined up speakers like headphones and laid on the floor between them to *experience* the sound. Music is background to me. That doesn't mean it's not important, just not the be all and end all I've imagined it to be to others. I've never spent a lot of money on records, cassettes or cds, content instead to listen to the radio. I admit I taped a few songs here and there and even *gasp* bought more than one collection for a particular song.

Another reason blogs are changing the way we think...

Well maybe... Scientific Sex postulates that once someone writes something down they believe it, even if they write about something they don't agree with or against something they do agree with. Further research (in the guise of calling up a couple of psychologist friends and searching a bit on the 'net) explains to me that while a complete and utter reversal of opinion isn't the usual result, a questioning as to why one believes as one does, in respect to disagreeing with the 'false' opinion written often occurs.

So that makes me wonder, when we write about something, when we 'blog' our opinions what are we blogging? Are we blogging well thought out stands on issues we are well versed in? Or... are we guilty of 'jumping on the bandwagon' when we read something well written (regardless of truth in what we've read).

I know I am, at least at times, guilty of just that. But...then when I read what I've written I become even more firmly convinced that yes, that is my opinion and why is anyone even questioning that I think that way. Too bad if not that long ago I voiced a different opinion. That doesn't make me wishy washy it makes me smart enough to realize when I'm wrong.

The next time I find myself writing with Passion, I promise myself that I will examine that passion to be certain that it is mine and not inherited second or third hand.

Recycled Post

Well folks, it's come to this. I liked this post when I wrote it but I posted it somewhere else. Now that I'm trying to gather my fractured personality into one place I thought I'd post it here as well. This was written and posted in December 2006.

I tried the NaNoWriMo novel. Which to those uninitiated is a challenge to write a novel in 30 days. The goal is 50,000 words in the month of November. That breaks down to 1667 words per day. I got to just under 42,000. Much closer than the 13,000 I arrived at the end of November 2005 with.

The idea is great. My novel, not so much. But that's not really the point. The point is to write something, anything really, every day and keep it up for 30 days solid to establish the habit. Sadly, when you allow it to either become such a priority that you end up resenting the fact that you have to write those damned 1667 words or such a barrier that every word is wrung from you with such effort you start to sweat just sitting down at your desk, it sorta defeats the purpose. Not that I got that way you see. :P Just that I can see how that whole let's establish a habit can backfire. :P

Meh, I suppose that's nothing more than justification :) But I did learn a few things about myself and my desire to be a writer. I really do want it; and I really need to stop believing those 'only from angst and strife comes good literature' stories I've been hearing. Writing has to be something I do because I enjoy it, not because it's ripped from me like some clinging tentacles that are unwilling to leave go. So when it's not on, it's not on and forcing it, working myself into a mood of anger, disgust or just plain depression will not feed any muses that are hovering nearby.

On the flipside? When the muse speaks I need to listen. I've learned to carry a small pad and pencil in my purse as well as a small tape recorder for those moments where writing won't work. And I need to record everything. Because if I try to write in an orderly fashion, telling that dream of an idea to just wait its turn it will dissolve into the ether, leaving only the barest of flavour to the air that surrounded it. A teasing touch on your tongue, a brush of whisper against your mind and then it is gone. Never to return, never to dance upon your heart again to send it quivering. Oh you'll think you've got it back but if you're truthful with yourself, there'll be some lingering word that just isn't quite right.

Writing can be painful :) but it doesn't have to be. And just because it isn't rent from someone's mind amidst the throes of angst and turmoil that frankly would just leave me with a headache doesn't mean it's not good enough to put out there to read. What some would call bubblegum for the mind, soft teen romance and a girlhood crush that turns to first love is just as important, just as hard to write frankly as any epic. Just ask Margaret Mitchell (author of the ultimate true love gone bad story, Gone With the Wind...which she wrote in long hand.)

Wild Hogs

There are certain movies that have to be seen in a theatre to fully appreciate the scope of the film. Epic type movies like Lord of the Rings and certain family favourites like the Harry Potter franchise which while not really needing the *big screen effect* certainly are a family tradition to see on opening day.

Wild Hogs is not one of them. Not because it's not a side slippingly genuinely funny movie that had us smiling fondly and laughing out loud, choking on popcorn within 10 minutes of opening. And not because the cinematography isn't awe inspiring for many of the long 'road trip' shots. And certainly not only because it's a very accurate assessment of why many people find the appeal of the open road and no helmet addictive.

No, it's because at home, you can REWIND to hear the parts you missed from laughing at the bit just before.

There's little time wasted setting up the premise, as it's not really that difficult a concept to grasp. Four friends, middle aged, a couple of them apparently friends since college like to get together for a ride on their hogs. Not that strange that one or two or even all of them for varying reasons are in a state of malcontent at the way life has turned out for them.

So in the eternal cry of moviedom solutions, a roadtrip is proposed.

The story plays out as expected, but not in a jaded, oh here we go again fashion. Allen is eloquent, although almost seems to be striving to play against type, Travolta sometimes appears to be mailing it in. Hennessey is miscast in my opinion, not to mention looking a tiny bit too skinny. Lawrence is the fallguy or maybe not. And William H. Macy is brilliant. Tomei, cute, sexy, honest. Liotta...mmmmm HOT in a badboy is only misunderstood sort of way with just enough of a nod to the old Rats&Mice version of bikers to make it not sit badly. The Easy Rider nod might not be so apparent to some of the younger crowd but I certainly got it :) as did many others around us. And for anyone who didn't, look it up.

Certainly not an *enthusiast's* movie, for that you might want to go here. It sure won't give you anything more than a jaded 'let's make 'em look like idiots to stop people being afraid of them' glimpse of bikers either. Then again, it's not a documentary, so why should it do anything more than entertain? Which for myself, it did very well. Well enough that a few minutes into the movie I found myself thinking, "I'm so buying this when it comes out."

My rating: 3.5/5

You gotta know how to celebrate the difference, is all I'm saying...

Without much hope of a change, despite the determinedly cheerful forecast by the poor guy on the weather channel last night; (I do believe that's one of the most thankless jobs around at times) I looked out the window this morning to a view of white with more falling from the sky. Did the weatherman not hear the date? I mean we changed to DST early and all for this? Oh sure it's beautiful, all pristine and still like that; the white flakes falling from the sky in silent splendour reminding me of the awesome implacability of Mother Nature. IN DECEMBER it's freakin' awesome.

We are now in April. 'nuff said.

'Move south' my american friends tell me. 'Come to God's Country' my relatives on the west coast and in the valley tell me. 'Come home' say the ones still living in Saskatchewan, adding 'at least you'll know what to expect', because when it's winter in Northern Saskatchewan it's WINTER and while it's brief, when it's summer time it truly, truly is.

Having grown up with seasons as distinct as that I have to say that as much as I bitch and complain along with everyone else I look forward to the seasons changing.

There's something about the scent of snow in the air in October that reminds me that all's right with the world and sends me into a Suzyhomemaker spiral that equates to a squirrel getting ready to hibernate. I bake, I cook, I organize my spice cupboard after much swearing because I can't find the nutmeg I bought last fall after running out and I go out and buy more. Somewhere in my house is a treasure trove of little orangeybrown tins of nutmeg. I pull out my wool for new winter wool socks and I revel in it anticipating the hours I'll spend watching the new seasons of various tv shows and knitting because it's too ugly to go out. And just when it's become very nearly unbearable to stay cooped up inside one more day, I catch a glimpse of a brave stem of grass poking through the muddy snow.

I know that spring will stir other, although similar, urges within me. My farmer father's genes run rampant and I have to fight the urge to rip up the soil and plant something, anything. Usually I manage to lay down and this urge goes away :)but sometimes I have to repot all my herbs and houseplants (the ones that survive in spite of me) and there's usually a new addition. Last year it was crocuses (crocusi?)in a lovely blue crockery pot and I'm rather curious to see if they will come back this year. I guess pulling the pot out of the storage shed and unwrapping it would help, hmm? After spring comes summer, days of lake time (if Miss gets a chance and life cooperates that is) and hot days. As little clothing as is legal or practical and corn on the cob grilled on the barbeque. But even that ideal fades as the summer winds to an end. A soft chill creeps into the morning air and takes longer to leave each day, and soon the dry scent of snow is in my nostrils and the cycle starts again.

Winter allows me to love summer, and summer allows me to love winter. I think that's why I firmly believe you can't know if you're happy unless you've experienced sadness, nor sad unless you've experienced happiness. Success is only truly embraced if you've experienced failure. Although I do believe that contentment is another matter, because it's a fine line between content and complacent with only a step or two to go from there to contempt. But that's another post.

I've learned that seasons change and nothing is forever, not even the idyllic 'hazy days of summer'; no matter what that phrase becomes a euphemism for. I know that life is a temporary state. It's also what you make of it. You can freeze your fingers and bitterly complain about the cold, walking around in clothing unsuitable to the climate, however no matter how much you complain the weather isn't going to change for you unless you move. Or you can bundle up and have a snowball fight, or make a snowman, knowing that even that emblem of fun will not last forever. It's all about how you choose to view the world.

Today, I'm choosing happy and let the snowflakes fall where they may.

Ain't no altruism, at all

Thank you all for the kinds words about getting our good friend Special K up and running again. It's heartening to receive all this attention but like the good lady said. It was absolutely and positively not an act of altruism. Damn it all, I was going into withdrawal.

Most of my daily reads (with the exception of Acidman ... and his are archived posts being put up by a friend in his memory) are becoming somewhat lax in their posting. And yes, I am well aware of the irony in someone who has posted a grand total of what? 5 times in the first quarter of 2007 complaining about the lack of posting by others, but they were daily posters when I started reading them and now they aren't. So, I stand by my whine. ;P. I was running out of new stuff to read. I dislike that. It makes me crabby and whiney and I really needed to know about (let's call him) Mark and the status thereof, and Petey and RaisinDoug and all the rest of the wonderful characters that populate her world.

So, when the simple fact of her not having a computer could be solved by my taking one of the ones we had donated and cleaned up for our own personal little 'make sure everyone who wants one has a computer' thing, voila, easily done.

But altruistic? Nope. Pure, unadulterated selfishness on my part. The woman makes me laugh, think, cry and muse over her random and sometimes scary posts :P. I like that in a person. Don't you all?

So again, thank you but come on, be honest, any of you would have done the same if you'd had the wherewithal, opportunity or what have you. Cause face it, you were all in freaking SK withdrawal too, weren't you?

For those who don't really read comments here's a list of the pimped urls that have accumulated:

www.acrossthelana.blogspot.com
www.thekaetlancaresnot.blogspot.com
http://www.sundrymourning.com/
www.izzlepfaff.com

Now I'm off on my daily roll through the blogs.

See you in the comments.

tru

stolen idea

Heh, isn't that what memes are all about? :P

Crystal over at Boobs has a pretty cool idea. She's asked her readership to pimp their blogs. She also had the *gasp* courage to turn off her word verification for the post. As she said in the comments, here come the penis ads LOL.

I'd like to invite you all to do something similar here. I'm not turning off the word verification however :) I'm not that brave.

I'd like you to instead of pimping your blog, put a link to your favourite read. Be it blog, newspaper, sarcastic news site, entertainment whore site whatever.

Some filler for a few laughs.

writer:

You Should Be a Film Writer

You don't just create compelling stories, you see them as clearly as a movie in your mind. You have a knack for details and dialogue. You can really make a character come to life. Chances are, you enjoy creating all types of stories. The joy is in the storytelling. And nothing would please you more than millions of people seeing your story on the big screen!

What Type of Writer Should You Be?

How Leo are you:

You are 73% Leo

How Leo Are You?

Seduction style:

Your Seduction Style: Ideal Lover

You seduce people by tapping into their dreams and desires. And because of this sensitivity, you can be the ideal lover for anyone you seek. You are a shapeshifter - bringing romance, adventure, spirituality to relationships. It all depends on who your with, and what their vision of a perfect relationship is.

What Is Your Seduction Style?

SNORT: Driver:

You Failed Your Driver's Test

You only got 5/10 correct. If you have a driver's license, it needs to be revoked!

Are You a Good Driver?

mythical creature:

You Are a Mermaid

You are a total daydreamer, and people tend to think you're flakier than you actually are. While your head is often in the clouds, you'll always come back to earth to help someone in need. Beyond being a caring person, you are also very intelligent and rational. You understand the connections of the universe better than almost anyone else.

What Mythological Creature Are You?

I miss my car.

It took me a while to get back to the fun of driving. I'd gotten used to it being more of a tool than a possession, more of a needed thing than an identity. I even got to a point where I poked fun at those who did have an identity because of, or sometimes in spite of, their car.

I learned to drive in a toyota corolla in the midseventies. Rather I learned to love to drive in that car. I'd been driving tractors (badly, we won't mention the JD up the tree just now) a chevy truck of my father's with three on the tree that hated me, a fact I'm still convinced of some 30 years later, but when Sam let me take the wheel of that little brown toyota I fell in love with driving. I had no fear. I spun that little car through sand dunes and over gravel, revelling in the sensation of skimming over the pavement, caught in the hum of the tires under the country sounds on the radio. Driving got to me.

I've been horse crazed my entire life, so it only stands to reason that I'd be nuts about Mustangs. Still, I teased and poked gentle fun at the II on my hubby's car. He'd done a bit of playing under the hood, though and when he finally let me drive it I got pretty fond of that car pretty fast too.

My love divided then, between the slick handling of the toyota I remembered and the sheer let's do it power of that little Mustang.

Then we got practical. We got an Aerostar. *sigh*. Still a standard though, so that was some relief. After that, it was a succession of cars for transportation. Economy and price were the deciding factors.

Finally the Tempo pretty much died. I found a Supra at a decent price, getting it from the young fellow who needed to sell one of his two cars before his dad did it for him for half his asking price.

And I fell in love all over again. Here was the perfect blend of my two previous loves. The handling I remembered together with the speed. It was bliss. Driving to school was a pleasure that offset the need to go somewhere as the Aerostar had not done.

It died last summer. I killed another one (not quite the same, being an automatic, read the Mountain Dew post if you want to know how) and now drive a Dodge Spirit.

Here's the bumper sticker that the blog thing says should be on my Supra:

Your Bumper Sticker Should Be

Anything worth taking seriously - is worth making fun of

What Bumper Sticker Should Be On Your Car?

Here's the one that I get for the Dodge Spirit:

Your Bumper Sticker Should Be

Squirrel - it's what's for supper

What Bumper Sticker Should Be On Your Car?

Le sigh...sort of says it all, doesn't it?

It was inevitable

I've been trying hard not to turn this blog into a mommy blog, or a knitting blog and reading back through my posts...well... I failed. So I might as well give in and write about knitting.

A while back I started reading (with great delight to find her blogging) The Yarn Harlot. Finding Steph posting on the net was like discovering an old friend. I used to read her on the KNITlist and often read her posts outloud to my family. That is when I could get the words out without falling outta my chair with laughter. Trust me, if anyone of you has ever read the skating while knitting adventure and didn't laugh then you just plain don't have any sense of humour what so all.

Her blog isn't quite as madcap as some of those posts used to be (I wonder if she's planned a book of those) but it's full of wonderful inciteful posts that will leave even the non knitter muggle thinking, I guarantee you that. She hardly needs more publicity :P I can barely get to her site some mornings over coffee because her non believer ISP has difficulty believing -that- many people want to read a knitting blog.

So in the interest of throwing up my hands and surrendering to one of my quiet passions here's a copy of a letter I recently wrote to Steph aka TheYarnHarlot.
Hey Steph,

Yet again I've read something in your blog that has inspired me.. gofigure :)

I tend to focus on the little throwaway stuff you toss in more so than the big check this out ones :) so a while back you mentioned acquiring Sea Silk. I promptly went to the link, checked it out and after a while (cause I tend to have wonderful intentions but a gold paved road) went back and found the link again and bought some.

I have to say, my initial take on it when my son picked it up for me (at the wool shop, in the city, where he had to go out of his way across town to get it for me...what a good boy he is...which would be said with a great deal less sarcasm if the daughter of the owner wasn't his age and a gorgeous doll that makes him nearly stammer when he talks to her LOL) was wow.. oh WOW it's even prettier than in the pictures. Yeah I know, it always is but I'm always surprised. Living life as an optimist has its perks :) .
Then I felt it. YUMMY. Smelt it..double YUMMY...

then... and then... oh the pain... I started to wind it on my ball winder.

Not so yummy.

It was a mess. It tangled and twisted and was generally a pain. Okay so it's me I decided and took up the other skein after fighting with the first one for two days. This time I told myself to besure to examine the skein ... find the right end and not try to wind from the middle out. That was what I was sure was the problem. Not so much.

Second skein same as the first. (will you forgive me if I say that sounding like Davey Jones? :))

I called the wool shop and whined and whimpered. They said they'd get in touch with handmaiden. A goodly time passed. Days, weeks even and I spent hours on the couch untangling the silk and ended up with about 6 balls where I had to break it.
This was intended to become a hairpin lace shawl so I wasn't too overly concerned with the breakage but the stuff that was too tangled that bothered me as I hate to not have enough. (hence my stash suitable for insulation of a bedroom according to hubby)

Long story short, by the time they got back to me I'd started and completed 3/4 of the lengths of lace so wasn't interested in their return the skeins and get new ones solution.

Even more cutting to the chase...

The shawl is nearly done, border to be crocheted on today.
And now after all that longwinded moaning, my question... any ideas on how much I can block this? And how to do so?

How has your seasilk experience been? I'd like to do more with it...not totally turned off it from the winding but definitely will be fortified with various libations to the knitting gods before I attempt another winding.

tRu

FYI the shawl was recieved with much gimmeegimmeegimmee of the recipient. Promptly put on and cuddled. Made its debut on a cruise and was pronounced perfect. So a happy ending nonetheless.

In the Just when you thought it was safe department

I've only recently (ie in the last year or so) become a prisoner of my cellphone. Sure I had one years ago. We had one of the radio phones that was like a suitcase that you carried with you and believe me we had some elaborate charging system for that 10 mins of usage at a time. *GRIN*. Then we had the Motorola 650 which is one of the toughest phones we've ever seen. Hubby actually ran over ours with a semi, not once but two or three times. On pavement and on gravel. he'd get out of the truck to do his bihourly brake and load check and take the phone with him to call home. Inevitably he'd set it on the back tire to thump his tires and occasionally he forgot it there. After retrieving it for the third time it became a family joke that we needed to invest in Motorola and that he oughta get a job in their R&D department for destructibility.

I progressed and picked up a V100. ( http://mobile.softpedia.com/phones/Motorola/Motorola-V100.shtml ) A cute little laptop wannabe in opaque blue plastic. It was intended I believe mostly for use as a handsfree and had a convenient little beltclip and nifty headset thingie. When you opened it up it had a tiny little keyboard but it was cute, and I got it for cheap ($50 I think) too bad that the cellphone service provider I used wasn't so cheap on the text messages.

After a while of not having one personally but hubby using the MIKE phone sytem (yet again Motorola go figure..that whole stock option thing I guess) and being able to talk to him when he was on the highway, all over the states and Canada we started looking for cellphones that worked for us.

Eventually we decided upon the Solo system. ( www.solomobility.ca ) Solely for the 10-4 capability. So we joined the current decade as my snarky children like to point out, and bought Sanyo 2300 phones. I tricked mine out with a MyTego tigerskin (www.mytego.com) and away we went. Soon we picked up one for the 10 yo, because it's handy for riding. The horses are all used to the phones ringing and talking and when you're collecting cattle in the foothills it's great to not have to shout around the bushes and over the hill.

But now... this is going a bit too far... http://electronics.howstuffworks.com/ref/nfc-phone.htm?cid=rss1 I have enough trouble with lost/misplaced cellphones, debit/credit cards without combining the two.

Yikes.

The Tooth Fairy Cometh

My children were young when my marriage reached its end. After everything was said and done they ended up living with my ex husband. It wasn’t the way I wanted things to be, there were things that were worse and things that were better but we made the best of it. Weekends were spent with me, school holidays and summer holidays.

My ex was not the sort of man who believed that children should believe in fairies so while he bowed to convention regarding the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus he simply was not going to play the tooth fairy game. My eldest was the only one losing teeth at the time and I convinced her that since the Tooth Fairy was a lady that she would find her way to my house easier than to her dad’s and so she should save her fallen teeth to put under her pillow at my house.

All went along well in the tooth fairy department for a year or two. The eldest has brought her teeth to my house with unfailing regularity, and had convinced her younger sister to do the same. Number 2 daughter is a spirit unto herself however, and one day she decided to test mom’s theory about the tooth fairy. She announced that the next tooth she lost she wasn’t going to wait till the weekend visit, she was going to put that tooth under her pillow that very night.

I was blissfully unaware of the crisis my eldest faced that night until later. By now she knew that her sister was going to be disappointed as she’d secretly tried this very thing herself, only to find the tooth still there in the morning. So she waited till her sister was asleep and snuck into her room replacing the tooth with two shiny quarters from her own allowance.

She told me the story the next weekend and I tried hard not to cry. Nevermore than in that moment did the guilt and selfishness I’d felt about the divorce rise up to confront me. Nevermore than in that moment when I saw her innocence draining away. I rewarded her with a dollar for her kindness to her sister, hugged her and told her how proud I was of her. She went out to play and I sat and cried.

Believing in the tooth fairy was one of the childhood dreams that are so precious and I had let that be taken from her, I berated myself. I was immensely proud of her though and through my guilt I found a glimmer of hope that some of what I was teaching her was the reason she’d been so compassionate towards her sister.

A few weeks later, she hugged me good night and whispered in my ear. “Mommy, I lost a tooth today.” She showed me the tooth proudly. “Do you think the tooth fairy will come if I put it under my pillow?” Her face was earnest, eager for my answer and innocent of all sarcasm or guile.

“Yes, baby, I’m certain she will.”

That resonates

One of my favourite reads started back blogging a time ago and I'm glad. Sometimes she's funny, sometimes she's sad. And sometimes she makes me squirm in my own skin when she rales about things that make her nuts and I know that I do them.

Sometimes however, simply, she resonates.

Like this post, entitled "Goal" and it's simply a plaque type picture that says. "Love like you'll never get hurt."

How terribly honest.

How absolutely terrifying.

How immediately I rejected that idea. And I doubt that I'm alone.

yet...there's a nagging honesty there, something that made me stop, pause and look over my shoulder as I ran screaming from that proposal. Why shouldn't one? Why shouldn't someone go into a relationship without all those anxieties and nasty memories of how someone trod upon your heart?

But then all these other branches of thought open up. Do you really want to lead with your heart? Time and time again. Isn't it just asking for someone to step all over you if you don't learn from past mistakes? Isn't it a repetition of the cycle if you repeat and repeat and repeatedly take up with the wrong kinda guy? Or for that matter.

And yet, that honesty nagged and nagged. I've had many people prejudge me by the fact that I looked like, sounded like, thought like someone else. I've seen people not celebrate various holidays because this person or that person did this or that or the other thing on that holiday. I mean really, do we need to outlaw breaking up on Christmas? Sometimes though, people need to just get over stuff.

I've heard sad story after story about how someone let someone go, walked away because of past experiences and not wanting to revisit those feelings. And to tell the truth I've had a moment's pause here and there myself about people.

I wish that everyone coming into my life had the same open chance that others have had. That's just not the way of it though, and I'm sure I'm not alone. Each experience colours my ability to trust, love, believe the next time around.

I wish I could have that goal. In not just love, either. People deserve a chance to be who they are. Correction, I wish I could have that goal as an achievable goal.

What's your goal?

mountain dew, not just for drinking anymore...

So.. a few days ago I'm returning from an evening visit with my daughter (we went and saw a really dorky movie called You, Me & Dupree...normally I like owen wilson but meh...

I'm driving the sorta supra. It's a year newer than the old one (which we're still not talking about what happened to btw) but it's an automatic. It's still a fun enough car to drive and gets from point A to point B well enough but it's an 'automatic'. It's hard to explain but there's something about driving a standard. It's difficult to explain but there's a sense of being in control. It's like your brain goes to mush when you drive an automatic and you make silly decisions.

Anyway, i'm on my way home. Driving down the main thoroughfare and I see a sudden blurup of flame shoot up from the left side of the hood of the car, and then in my rear view mirror I see a flame shoot out from the car and a trail of sparks.

And yet, the car is still running. There's nothing odd about the sound of the engine and I'm not totally sure I didn't imagine it. I drive a bit further, and there it is again, a fillip of sparks behind me and still nothing indicating that anything is wrong. The car has not lost power, there's no more flames and before a chorus of facepalming and what the hell were you thinking starts, consider this. I was in traffic on a fairly busy road. Averaging 100 kmh. And it's not like any of the other drivers were in any way inclined to move the hell out of the way so I could pull over to the side of the road.

Oh, wait, there we go again, another flashing trail of sparks. Alright, it's time to find an exit. Off I get...still rolling at a regular speed, no hiccuping, no more flames. A quick phone call home on the cell and the concensus is, drive it as close to home as I can get it. It's cooked already is the thought.

Getting off the main road drops my speed to about 60 kmh. Now followed by an odd coloured plume of smoke I'm still moving with traffic and the car appears totally oblivious to any sort of issue. The smoke is not blue, indicating burning oil, nor is it a billowing cloud of white steam that would probably mean a blown head gasket. It's just smoke.

yeah yeah, I know... still no clue.

I am starting to feel uncomfortable and uneasy and all I want to do is get back onto the highway where I can keep up my speed. Miraculously I make every light but one at the very edge of the city and that seems to bode badly for the now starting to chug car. Then, the traffic is moving again and believe it or not, so is the car (and me).

But it's the beginning of the end. The dash has finally gotten a conversation going wth the various computerized controllers and is sending a flashdancing set of signals that are basically telling me to pull the hell over and get the hell outta the car. Apparently that was far too easy to do 20 minutes ago.

A few miles more, a hill or two and the gallant little car is coasting to a standstill at a conveniently located roadside set of selfweigh scales. I call home again and give my location.

Now this car is previously owned and some previous Special Person has had the incredibly annoying idea that removing the radio is as simple as snipping a few wires and yanking... causing a recurring short in the dash that as an interesting side effect requires the headlights to be turned off by unclipping an aligator clip from a wire under the dash. (And no, that was not the source of the yet to be declared problem) As I open the hood, in the dark, unlit area I've rolled to a halt I notice a glimmer of light. Curiosity certainly will kill the cat... I had to know what that flickering was so I walked around to the other side of the car and there we have it folks... a fire. Right there on the back underside of the engine on the passenger side.

I ducked into the car, grabbing my purse, cellphone, insurance and registration, a litre bottle of Mountain Dew with a few sips gone, and a camera case full of cameras and dashed to a safe distance. Setting this stuff down I flip open the cell phone and holler, "I'm on fire!!!"

"You're what now?" Hubby's distracted voice cuts through. "I'm trying to find ..." I'm not listening anymore.

"I mean the car's on fire, not me." Somehow I thought this was an important denotation to make. Now I'm back at curious and circling closer to the car, Mountain dew in hand...

Side note: On any given date or time, the back seat of my car holds anywhere from 3 to 10 half finished bottles of water. The girls are always grabbing a few bottles to take with us when we go to the horses and despite our constant nagging to the contrary, leaving them in the backseat unfinished. This time apparently, they decided to change things up and there were no bottles of anything in the back seat.

"I'm trying to put it out..."

"Let it burn..." I know he's thinking fire insurance, however I'm thinking ...my supra...

"Yeah..yeah... I'm putting it out ..." Splash! Sizzle...splash splash splash...sizzle sizzle sizzle..billow of smoke now scented with the unbelievable scent of hot burnt mountain dew.

Yuck!

So there I sat, for a little while, till hubby and son pulled up in son's chevy pickup. Which he repeatedly and annoying pointed out was running. and a chevy... meh...

Custom make a quiz...

... and receive lots of spam :) or maybe not

So far I'm not but...we'll see I guess.

Anyway... want to know what your friends really know about you? Your significant other? Set 1 to 10 questions about yourself or some other equally scintilatingly interesting topic and send the annoying link to all your friends. Thereby challenging them to admit to you how much or little they know about you. ;P

Here's the link to mine...see how you rate about knowing the unicorn (aka me).


http://www02.quizyourfriends.com/quizpage.php?quizname=060912201530-520122&

Hee... it suddenly occured to me that some people reading this might not even know that my pseudonym, long before the notion of an online nickname entered my mind, was UNICORN.

I've used it since I was 13, a very long time.