I can’t believe I’ve been (sporatically) maintaining this blog for three years already. Strangely enough, I still haven’t gathered that army of minions willing to do my bidding, as I originally envisaged.
Sigh. I’m trying to keep it together. But, it’s hard, ya know? Woke up this morning, still sad that white-trash-but-somehow-endearing, semi-literate wrestling couple Lori and Bolo were eliminated from last night’s The Amazing Race–what can I say? The show for me is like a relationship gone south: you feel dirty watching it, but there’s occasional titillation to be had–only to learn that Paige Davis has been fired as the host of Trading Spaces. What the fuckety fuck is that?
It seems that “TLC is taking Trading Spaces in a new creative direction, transitioning to a “host-less” format this spring.” Wonderful, just wonderful. No longer will I be tuning in to see the hostess with the mostest, what with her low-slung jeans and midriff-baring tees prancing and dancing around. Oh no. Instead, the show will probably continue with its effeminate mid-west and southern “designers” painting rooms black-with-a-black trim or, even worse, Hilda with her feathers-glued-to-the-wall masterpieces. Rumours abound, of course, from Paige being too fat (wha?) to her, um, striptease and sex tapes.
Luckily, the milliner picked up the season 7 box set of Buffy the Vampire Slayer, so we’re good for a while. Mmmmmm, Willow.
Perhaps once or twice. In case the evidence wasn’t strong enough, I was presented with even further proof today. I was heading out this afternoon to see an exhibit of an old friend. Getting close to the car, I realise that, in my spacey-ness, I left the driver’s side window open. Overnight. With climbing gear in the back seat.
Oh, and it snowed last night.
I should probably just put a sign on the windshield: “Steal me, because my owner is just too stupid for his own good.”
It’s rough, I tells ya. A discussion board where I frequently lurk and post has been down for several weeks now. Faced with nothing better to do, I’ve actually gotten a lot of work done. Work I get paid for. This just doesn’t jive with my middle-age slacker ‘tude. Dude.
So, the Cancer Society and the Quebec government are running a bunch of PSAs, featuring Quebec media has-beens and never-weres explaining why they quit smoking, or never smoked in the first place. You may have seen these ads: a vaguely familiar “personality” sitting in a studio food court that’s made to look like a bleached-wood-panelled bistro, the requisite white napkin and single glass of water on the table, said personality explaining to someone off-camera their reasons. Good on ’em, there’s nothing preachy about the ads.
However, last night, another of these PSAs comes on, someone I’ve never heard of, Marlene Duylens or something (?), explains that, “after [her] brother, [her] uncle and [her] father all died of lung cancer,” she realised that smoking might be dangerous to her health, so she quit.
Wow, thanks for the head’s up.
Twit. You see, you don’t even have to be smart to quit.
Handcream and tissues
Left bloodied, scratched and crying
Cat was in the way
When I read this.
During my little ischemic attack last March, what was most worrisome was how utterly lonely it was inside my head. No gray noise, inner conversations were turned off, simply the echo of any thought I could force myself to make. It was so strange, like one part of your brain was trying to talk to the other part, but the bridge was down. Even monosyllabic words didn’t make sense. I learned then that the constant chatter in your brain is a good thing.
Oh, and I also learned not to contradict the milliner or put up a defense when it came to her caring for me.
Luckily for me, that episode was transient. I can’t imagine how devastating it can be to be struck with a mental illness, or to have it strike a loved one. To not even be able to control your mind, your thoughts, your emotions, to be able to get your body to even do what were, for you, the simplest of movements.
I’m reminded of my uncle, who was a world-ranked flyweight boxer. Five-foot-four–they’re all leprechauns on my mom’s side, with her being one of the tallest at 4’11”–and really sweet, but you never wanted to make him angry. He spent the last 20 years of his life fighting Alzheimer’s.
I’ll stick with the momentary physical emergency situations, if it’s all right with you.
A little exercise in Republican thinking, if you will.
Mud slides and storms across the US. Mud slides in Brazil. Floods and nazi royalty in Europe. An awful tsunami rips apart SE Asia and parts of Africa (my brain still can’t process that). Major bush fires in Australia, the worst they’ve seen in over twenty years. Etc, etc.
Conclusion? God loves Canada. Oh yes, she does.
You know how it is a few years into a relationship? The object of your affection no longer inspires a longing in your heart (or groin). You no longer look forward to spending time with them, and you only half-heartedly pay attention to anything they say, if you pay any attention at all? You imagine how things used to be, and wonder if they’ll ever be like that again. What you could do to make things better. Whether life wouldn’t be simply without them in your life, because they make your time with them simply miserable.
Yeah, well, that’s how I feel about The Amazing Race. It’s unfortunate, but I’ll get over it. (Granted, gifts of chocolate would help immensely; email me for my address.) Oh, I’ll still watch, but the love is gone.