The one you've all been waiting for... BUNFEST 2010!!!

On Sunday, Matt and I (and one of our rabbits, Petunia) spent what was possibly the most entertaining afternoon I have had in ages, at the third annual 'Bunfest', held at Huron Park Recreation Centre on Paisley Blvd in Mississauga.  We all had an AMAZING time (some of us more than others... ha ha), and I left after a couple hours with a huge grin on my face that I couldn't seem to shake for the rest of the day.  Though we were in attendance for the first 'Bunfest' in 2008, last year we missed out due to our friends' wedding near Algonquin Park, so I was totally pumped for this year.  If you know me at all, you know that nothing makes me happier than a warm, furry lagomorph, so how I could not have a good time at such a rabbity event, I'm not sure.  After counting down the days for the last few months, on Sunday my dreams finally came true... Bunfest day had arrived!  Hooray!

don't mind if I do...

 Ok, so just what is 'Bunfest,' exactly?  Oh I pity those who do not know... I really really do.

'Bunfest' is wonderful, that's what it is.  It is like a trade show crossed with an information fair-type thing (if someone can think of a good word for this, please tell me... ha ha) and is presented each year by Rabbit Rescue Inc. which is an amazing, compassionate, non-profit organization located not far from us, in Milton.  The group was founded in 2001 by Haviva Lush, who has since dedicated much time and effort to saving rabbits all across Ontario.  Haviva and her team rescue bunnies that are neglected, abused, unwanted, or just plain misunderstood (which happens ALL THE TIME with rabbits, sadly), but they also save the lives of unfortunate rabbits in desperate situations, such as ill-treated meat rabbits that have been confiscated from farms with population explosion issues, rescued or 'retired' lab animals, or buns from shelters that are about to be put to sleep.  They then have the rescued bunnies spayed or neutered, and find good permanent homes for them with experienced rabbit owners who will love, respect, and care for them for the rest of their lives.  In addition to finding new forever homes for buns in need, Rabbit Rescue Inc. focuses on providing programs and services that educate the public about rabbit welfare, health, nutrition, and behaviour.  This is a vital service, since so many rabbits are adopted each year on a whim and then abandoned when they do 'rabbity' things and not cat- and dog-type things.  Rabbits are rabbits.  Simple as that.  If you don't know anything about rabbits, find out.  Don't just go and get a bunny because it is Easter, or because they are so cute, or because you think they will make good pets.  Chances are, if you venture into rabbit ownership with an attitude like that, they won't.  Rabbits take practice, and patience, and consistency.  They have a very strict hierarchy and social code that must be respected and followed by rabbit and owner alike, and if it isn't, they simply have no time for you.  Most people don't get this.  It breaks my heart to think about all the bunnies that are neglected and abandoned, simply because no one understands them.  Rabbit Rescue Inc. really is a great organization, and it is the largest rabbit rescue in Canada.  I urge anyone seriously considering getting a rabbit as a pet to visit their website first.  You'll learn a whole lot, and if you STILL want a rabbit, they will help hook you up with one that is right for you.  Now, on to the 'Fest!

'Bunfest' combines learning new things, furry creatures, spending money and fun.  I like all of these things.  In fact, I like all of these things A LOT.  There was tons of information to soak up on topics ranging anywhere from rabbit housing; behaviour; bonding; nutrition; and toys, to exhibits presented by Mississauga Animal Services, the Donkey Sanctuary of Canada, The Toronto Wildlife Centre, and the WSPA (World Society for the Protection of Animals).  Two rabbit-savvy veterinarians from Campus Estates Animal Hospital in Guelph were on-site to answer any medical questions.  A knowledgeable rabbit vet is an invaluable thing, let me tell you.  Believe it or not, not all vets are familiar with the weird physiology and behaviour of our little long-eared friends.  In fact, rabbits are still considered 'exotic' animals in North America, even though they have been kept here as pets for over 200 years.  Matt and I are very fortunate to have a great vet for our buns - Dr. Janice Phillips, of Briarwood Animal Hospital in Stoney Creek - who has helped us out of many a jam.

This year's 'fest also featured a booth educating people on how to care for disabled rabbits, which was really neat to see.  I learned a lot about caring for a disabled bunny when we had dear sweet little Hops, who, with only one leg in the front and hind-end paralysis that robbed her of pretty much all control of her back legs, was very disabled indeed.  In spite of this, she lived an incredibly full life and she loved every second of it, spoiled bun that she was.  It was really great to see all the tricks people have found along the way to improve the lives and well-being of rabbits in need of a little special attention, instead of just assuming they are unhappy and need to be put down.  I always learn something new from these people... true rabbit lovers are ingenious when faced with adversity.  It brought back a lot of memories.  (Incidentally, my Hoppie tattoo was a real hit.  Several people took pictures of it... ha ha).

Hops in the backyard, before she got sick and lost control of her hind legs...

Of course, in the midst of all of this wonderful knowledge, Rabbit Rescue Inc. manned a booth that featured a few rabbits seeking permanent homes, as well as several additional binders full of the profiles and stories of other hopeful buns that couldn't make it to the 'fest.  They even had two gerbils for adoption - Angus & Zach - but Matt said no... It was hard to walk away; you know how I feel about gerbils. *sigh*

Then there were the 'fun' things.  Things like professional photographer Jessica Lam, who does rabbit portraits (her photography studio is called 'Studio Lapin...' hee hee hee).  Jessica will even come to your house and photograph your rabbit in its natural habitat, which is good, because rabbits are a notoriously uncooperative bunch for the most part, and are very much creatures of habit who are not necessarily interested in being plunked down on a strange little table and having a bright light flashed in their eyes over and over and over again... (go figure) ...but we made Petunia do it anyway... ha ha  (Have no fear; Petunia is pretty much the most laid-back rabbit on the planet - she rolls with all punches).  Here is her portrait, which perfectly captures her typical semi-worried optimistic indifference... 

'Huh?  Oh.  Ok.'

As well as the portrait studio, the 'fest featured a silent auction, and a raffle for a big basket of bunny stuff (which we did not win).  The first 150 guests received a free 'loot bag' full of rabbit goodies and coupons, which was definitely a nice touch.  There was a grooming area where you could get your bun's nails clipped; a carrot-eating contest (for humans, not rabbits); and a craft station where you could make one of two bunny toys - either a brown paper bag poked full of holes stuffed with hay and treats, or a 'rattle' made of a thick piece of twine strung with plastic bottle caps with a hole punched in the middle (We made one of those and brought it home; Chicken chewed through the twine after about thirty seconds, and that was that.  ...should have given it to Penelope; she lives to throw stuff around... ha ha).  In case your rabbit got stressed, they also had a quiet corner with some cozy little pens where he or she could get out and stretch or munch some hay or have a drink of water and chill out for a while, but Petunia handled it all like a pro.  If she is anything like me, she had more fun than one should be allowed to have on a sunny autumn afternoon in Mississauga, that's for sure.  (You would think there was at least a smidgen of sarcasm there, but no, I am dead serious... ha ha) 

In addition to all that fun and learning, there was a plethora of 'stuff' to buy.  Stuff for buns, like fantastically fresh, delicious-smelling-yet-insanely-overpriced hay; all-natural treats and snacks; unbleached wicker and sisal mats, balls, rings, and the like to chew; medical supplies and nutritional supplements; plus scads of toys, dishes, and even CLOTHES for rabbits (I saw a rabbit in a 'Superbun' costume, and several in dresses... I'm pretty sure Petunia was laughing at them).  There was also loads of bunny stuff for people for sale - clothes and bags and license plate surrounds and bumper stickers and stuffed bunnies and candles and jewelry and crafts and toys and and and... an abundance of rabbity goodness as far as the eye could see, all to be had by those willing to part with a few dollars for a good cause.

I must interject here and say that I am not a 'crazy rabbit person.'  Oh they're out there.  BELIEVE ME, they're out there.  I love my rabbits, I really really do.  I treat them as though they were my children and dote on them like they are the most fascinating creatures on the planet (and they are).  I talk to them all the time, sometimes in a little bitty rabbit voice that embarrasses even me, and I often prefer their company over that of humans.  I am perpetually amused by their weird little antics, and yes, I do need to share these quirks with others so they too can marvel at how awe-inspiring and magnificent my 'babies' are.  My rabbits never fail to make me feel better when I am having a bad day... but the day I start pushing them around in a stroller, or dressing them in tutus, please kill me.  (Yes.  Strollers.  Tutus.  This shit is too weird to make up).  What is it with people and their animals?  I know I am treading on seriously thin ice here; I have done some things in my time when it comes to my pets that make me sometimes question my own sanity (I am a member of 'Bunspace,' after all... ha ha) ...but some people go beyond the beyond.  I am not talking about your garden-variety obsession, either.  There is something much more sinister at work here, and it scares the living shit out of me.  If you put a dress on your rabbit, there is something wrong with you.  And that's all I have to say about that.

That being said, the majority of 'rabbit people' I have met are genuinely kind and caring.  They are more than happy to tell you all about the rabbits they have known and loved, and are eager to share tips and tricks they have picked up along the way.  Rabbit people certainly do love their rabbits, and are more than just a little bit odd, which suits me just fine.  They are people who have realized how interesting and truly unique rabbits are, and recognize the individual personalities expressed by each and every one.  Believe me, once you start learning about their seemingly odd behaviour and weird social dynamic, rabbits are pretty bizarre.  They are strange little critters who do strange little things, but if you keep an open mind and are willing to acknowledge that they are intelligent, sentient beings that will under no circumstances act like a dog or a cat, you will never regret getting one, and will probably keep rabbits for the rest of your life.  No foolin'.

Of course, without question, the best part of 'Bunfest' was seeing all the different bunnies.  So many bunnies - oodles and oodles of rabbits, of all size and shape and description!  But this was no mere rabbit show; there was no judging here... guests were encouraged to bring their rabbits with them, and they brought them out in droves.  There were big buns and little buns, fat buns and thin buns; lop-eared buns and 'helicopter' buns (one ear up, one ear down... ha ha); skittish little baby buns, grumpy old roly-poly buns, and disabled buns of all ages stoically persevering over their infirmities.  There were rabbits of pretty much every breed you could possibly imagine - big fluffy Angoras with funny tufts on their ears; patchy bi-colour Dutch buns and svelte, plushy, smooth-coated Rexes; tiny-eared Netherland Dwarfs (Dwarves?), colossal Flemish Giants and pretty pink-eyed New Zealand Whites; Lionheads with wily manes, black-speckled English Spots, and little white Hotots with dark eyeliner on.  There were buns on harnesses, and buns in wagons; buns in carriers and boxes and Snuglis (see above re: crazy rabbit people).  Such amazing variety!  What a celebration of lagomorphic diversity!  It was truly a sight to be seen, and I was in heaven.

'Bunfest' was awesome.  For five bucks, you couldn't ask for a better afternoon.  I had such a fabulous time, and, whether he wants to admit it or not, I think Matt did too.  He likes to grumble and groan and poke fun at me, but I have caught him talking to our bunnies in a questionable manner on more than one occasion, and he is no stranger to getting down on the floor and rolling around with a rabbit or two now and again, that's for sure.  Secretly, he is just as much of a rabbit fiend as I, and I wouldn't have it any other way.  And Petunia?  She had a great time, too.  She observed the wonders of 'Bunfest' from a fleece-lined canvas shopping bag hung over my shoulder, just as cool and calm a bun as you ever did see.  She started to get a wee bit stressed out in the car on the way home, but we were all tired by that point, so I couldn't blame her when she got home and ran for the quiet solitude of 'under the couch.'  Hey, if I could get away with it, I would hang out under the couch all the time.  Besides, it didn't take long before she was stretched out on the little rug in front of 'Rabbit Villa,' with her big fat snowshoe feet sticking straight out behind her, and a look of relaxed bliss on her furry little face.

me and Petu... 'festing...

So thank you, 'Bunfest'.  You truly made my day.  Plus, with all proceeds going to Rabbit Rescue Inc. to help find great homes for bunnies in need, much good was done for rabbitkind that day... and that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

rowr!  Lionheads!

(I miss you, hoppo-bun... *sigh*)

Hurricane Lisa Meets Tropical Storm Matthew!! aww... how romantic!

I'm a hurricane!!

I know I shouldn't be excited about this, but I am.  I am dreadfully sorry to everyone who will potentially feel my wrath, but I'm on a rampage and I can't be stopped!  I AM in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean right now, and it is highly unlikely that I will get a chance to 'fuck shit up', which is good, I guess... but still...

The best part??  While Hurricane Lisa rages merrily along off the west coast of Africa, TROPICAL STORM MATTHEW has just formed in Central America.  It's a match made in heaven! 

According to the Weather Network Website, 'Hurricane Lisa and Tropical Storm Matthew are giving forecasters a lot to keep their eyes on.'

You better believe it... ha ha 

I love you, Tropical Storm Matthew...

 
Read all about us here (proof that I am not making this up):

Hurricane Lisa and Tropical Storm Matthew

Back to Reality...

Well, I'm home.  I didn't blog.  I didn't do a lot of things.  But I DID do a lot of things, too, so that's ok.  Most importantly, I SLEPT.  I slept like... something that sleeps a lot...

I walked all over the place - along Ranney Gorge in Ferris Provincial Park, along the Millennium Trail in Warkworth with Jane, up and down the Honey Line, all over the Archers' property (I haven't been behind the barn in about six years... good times... ha ha) - and I spent a bunch of 'quality time' with scads of people who mean a whole lot to me.  I saw some live music at the pub in Campbellford, did tons of reading, and a bunch of writing too.

I went to battle for the greater good, I lost total faith in the human race, but I found it again.  I did lots and lots of 'me' things - lots of self-reflecting and introspective-type stuff that I have needed to do for a long long time now.  I had a fantastic time.  Thanks so much to Jane and Cec for this opportunity to 'do nothing,' and for everyone who came and visited. 

Life as I know it will recommence on Monday... I'm still on holiday... ha ha

thanks to Shannon P for this picture (I stole it)

Oh Sweet Relief... please...

I'm going away today.  All by myself.  For SIX whole days.  And if I wasn't so goddam exhausted, I'd be thrilled.  I love my husband with all of my heart, and I'd be lost without him (I wouldn't even BE without him... no foolin'), but he sure is social, and he sure does love to be surrounded by friends and family, pretty much all the time.  And I sure don't.

Don't get me wrong -  I don't mean for that to sound harsh or callous - I love my family and friends (almost) as much as I love Matt, and I love to have them around me and share some great times, good laughs, and enriching conversation.  Hell, I even love a good argument with them every once in a while.  But when it all boils down to it, I live almost exclusively in my head, and I'm a bit of a loner... ok, a loner, and I am long overdue for some serious relaxing, all-alone 'me' time.  Coupled with a desperate need for sleep, this lack of 'me' time is almost pushing me over my limit.

So today I am going to Farmsville (i.e. Warkworth) to spend six blissful days doing some contemplative soul-searching, a whole lot of reading, a whole lot of writing, and (hopefully) a whole lot of sleeping.  I need a chance to get my life back on track, so I am taking it.  I haven't had much of a chance to just think, all by myself; to puzzle and ponder about life's ups and downs, and to reflect on why things are the way things are since I lost someone so very near and dear to me.  

The last time I went to Farmsville alone, at the beginning of April, I spent a few days with this someone and his lovely lady at their place, and on the first night, after his lovely lady had gone to bed, me and this someone spent many hours in each others' company, just the two of us.  We laughed, we cried... we talked and talked and talked some more.  We told each other things we had never told each other before.  We got real drunk and silly and watched the sun come up together.  We told each other that we would be sure to do this 'next time,' only next time never came.  I'm really going to miss it this time around, but I sure am glad I got the chance to do that when I did. 

This time, I'm still going to stay at this certain someone's place for a night or two, and I'm still going to laugh and cry and get real drunk and silly and watch the sun come up... and I'm still gonna talk and talk and talk to him some more... but this time, all he has to do is listen... 

So, off I go.  Wish me luck, and sweet dreams.  

Of course, life is all about balance, so I most certainly will be doing my share of socializing, visiting with people I don't get to see very often, laughing, and partying (and drinking), and as I said before, I DO love my friends and family immensely - so if you are one of those friends and/or family and you live in the Trent Hills area of course I want to see you while I am there, so please drop in for a visit (I don't drive, or I would come and see you... ha ha).

However, you might want to call first... If I am sleeping after going so long without, and you wake me up, I will probably have to break your legs... just sayin'... 

I will do my best to 'blog' and whatnot while I am up there, but in Farmsville they only have dial-up internet, which makes me want to scratch my eyes out with frustration, so don't expect anything too monumental while I am away.  I'll try though... and if I can't manage it, I will have a whole saga to share with you all when I return.  

Until we meet again, 'Keep fit, and have fun!'

Over and out.

Famous Last Words...

Have you ever been at a point in your life where you bravely endure hardship after hardship, obstacle after obstacle, struggle after struggle, year after year, all the while naively clinging to the absurd notion that 'someday, things are bound to get better'...?

Have you ever been in such a desperate state of being where suddenly your mind quietens, things are made crystal clear, and you come to the conclusion that maybe things just aren't?  That fighting the good fight like you have been just isn't worth it anymore?  That you'd be better off dropping your microphone and walking off stage?  I can't help but think that one of my favourite people in this world - the cantankerous, belligerent, punk 'pioneer' John Lydon of Sex Pistols fame - said it best.

The man has had one seriously hard life.  He was born the oldest of four boys to dirt-poor Irish parents in a working-class London slum, at the height of a time when the Irish in England were seen as drunken parasites, and shops hung signs in their windows that declared 'No Irish. No Blacks. No Dogs.'  He contracted spinal meningitis in early childhood; a near-fatal experience that left him with crippling scoliosis and an inability to focus his eyesight that largely contributed to the infamous 'Lydon Stare.'  He fronted a band so outrageously vile and musically inept, knowing all along that it was doomed to fail.  He was ripped off, misused, and abused by blood-sucking band-mates, managers, friends, and family his entire life.  He spent three years unsuccessfully trying to keep his best friend since high school from a hopeless, self-destructive heroin addiction and the inevitable fatal overdose that goes along with it.  He hardly saw a penny for his efforts, and has spent the rest of his life bitter and twisted, living with the criticism of people who don't know what the fuck they are talking about. 

While I can't say that my story has been even remotely close to being as rough as that, I have been dealing with my share of demons for some time now, and I'm tired.  One can only take so much crap, and my crap reservoir is nearly overflowing...

I'm not as rotten as he is, but I share with Mr. Lydon a dogged determination to stand up for what I believe in; to speak my mind even when not socially acceptable, or when the outcome will almost certainly be less than rewarding.  We both have an often brutally cruel, misunderstood sense of humour, and the wherewithal to 'never let the bastards grind you down...'

But sometimes when you've fought and fought until you can't fight no more, there comes a time when enough is enough.  At the end of the Pistols' last gig at the Winterland Ballroom in San Francisco on January 14th, 1978, John Lydon famously faced his squalling audience and his train-wreck of a life, calmly took in his surroundings, then shook his head, gave a sneering chuckle and asked himself and everyone within earshot one question...

'Ever get the feeling you've been cheated...?'

Oh Mr. Lydon... Never so much in my entire life...

Why I don't dance...

Oh this weekend will be action-packed, dear readers, and if my weary, exhausted, insomnia-addled carcass can make it through without incident I shall be one happy (and lucky) lady indeed.  Tonight, nothing special, just a quiet night at home with my sweetheart.  Tomorrow afternoon, I join Jane and Cec and 'mystery guest' (Matt can't go, so I'm not sure who is coming instead) to watch the Jays pummel the Devil Rays at the Sky Dome (pfft... Rogers Centre... it will always be the Sky Dome to me).  Sunday afternoon we reconvene in Mississauga to watch the 24th Street Wailers play not one, but two sets at the Southside Shuffle, a gig they scored after winning the Toronto Blues Society Talent Search.  (The band promises 'two sets of entirely original music written by the band members, most of which has never been performed live', which is exciting in itself).  To top it all off, I will fulfill a small dream that evening by watching in awe as Johnny Winter plays some face-melting blues guitar.  Sounds pretty sweet, no?

'Hey darlin', can I buy you a couple of drinks?'

However, Saturday night will certainly be the party night; the night to get embarrassingly drunk, cut loose, and leave my troubles at the door for a few hours - and I will be welcoming it with open arms.  On Saturday night, I will get all dolled up - as best I can, anyways - and help Matt's aunt Maggie (that beloved, wily, blog-inducing librarian... ha ha) celebrate her FIFTIETH birthday.  How will I help?  I will join Maggie to watch the much-lauded 'Weber Brothers' and drink too much at the historic 'Red Dog Tavern' in Peterborough.  She needs help with that, because she's just so damn old now, you see... ha ha

'Lookin' for Mr. Goodbar? Here he is...'

I have never seen the Weber Brothers, but Maggie gushes about them so much, and follows them around with a fervour bordering on groupie-dom, so I am positive that I will have a good time.  Besides, any excuse to get dressed up all purdy, to drink and eat and laugh a lot, all while listening to live music, is always a good time, in my opinion, so I am rarely one to turn down an invite to such an event - I know a good thing when I see it.

But there will be dancing. *sigh*  I hate dancing.  Don't even bother asking me, because it's just not gonna happen.  Don't get me wrong, I do feel that spark induced by seeing a live band that makes you want to get up and move.  I'm not a robot; not a machine (DEFINITELY not a 'dancing machine', anyways).  I do bop along in my seat and tap my toes and all that good stuff, and I do so while screaming wildly with a big stupid grin on my face.  But dancing?  Actually getting up and gyrating or contorting my graceless body into strange unnatural positions that I would never ever make in the real world?  Not on your life.  Maybe if it's a slow one.  Maybe.  I went to middle school; I can put my sweaty hands on my guy's shoulders and twirl slowly in a circle with the best of them.  But nothing more.

'Wait a minute, I've got it... you're an Italian'

It doesn't bother me when OTHER people dance.  I don't envy them their dancing prowess or wish I could gyrate like that too... and I certainly don't criticize them or make fun of them for wanting to dance or for whatever particular steps they have chosen to satisfy this need (well... certain exceptions must be made on that one... ha ha).  But no, I don't dance. 

First of all, I CAN'T dance.  I know everyone will say 'how do you know you can't dance if you don't try?'  Well, I just know, ok?  I don't want to try.  In my opinion, if you have no actual strong desire to do something, it is unlikely that you will ever really be good at it, unless you have some sort of supernatural gift, and I know enough about my dancing skills to know that I am not gifted in that particular area.  It is not that I'm shy, either.  I'm not.  Or that I am weirded out by having people look at me.  You don't get very far in life with bright red hair and twenty-plus tattoos if being stared at makes you uncomfortable.

'Huh?  You're Jewish?  Oh... love your nails, you must be a Libra'

It's just that, watching people dance or attempting to dance myself, I can't help but laugh.  I am bound to crack up sooner or later.  I have a very vivid imagination; I always have.  Before too long, my mind strays until all I see in my head is a streaming 'National Geographic' montage of the showy, exaggerated mating rituals of so many birds - birds of all size and shape - primping and preening and strutting around their potential mates.  These mental images are inevitable, so I therefore try to avoid dancing at all costs. 

So yeah... when I'm sitting in my seat, beer in hand, smiling to beat the band, and watching people dancing, I'm really watching Blue-Footed Boobies... Lesser Prairie Chickens... Cockatiels.  I know I won't hurt Maggie's feelings this weekend when I don't dance at her party.  Maggie is a non-dancer too (maybe that's one of the reasons we get along so well)  Who knows, maybe she also has these visions... 

If she didn't before, she will now... ha ha

'Your place or mine?'

(Thanks to Frank Zappa for the captions, by the way...)

To Liam...

Well, today is Liam Archer's twenty-fourth birthday, and while he will most likely never read this, not being one to subscribe to blogs or sign in to Facebook or partake in any other sort of life-sucking, time-wasting internet activities, I'd just like to say a few words about my fabulous, talented brother, as I have known him over the last twelve years.

When I met Matt and he told me he had three younger brothers, I didn't really give it much thought.  I HAD a brother (I still do, and he's my best friend, but that's an entry for another day).  No big deal; a brother is a brother is a brother, right?  Nope.  Not even close.

Growing up as the youngest of two kids, I never thought of what it would be like to have more siblings.  I never needed to.  Justin and I were inseparable; he was all I could ever want in a brother, and, being a total tomboy, the notion that I might be better off with a sister never even entered my mind.  No, it was me and Justin against the world, and that was just fine with me.

When Matt and I first started dating in 1998, the younger Archer boys were little more than funny, well-mannered 'accessories' to the new man in my life.  We got along ok, and I'll admit that at the time I never imagined that I would have the chance to get to know them so well, or that we would share all the laughter, joy, and tears that have come our way since then.  Living so far apart, as Matt and I did, our encounters were few and far between, and I didn't really start to see them as individuals until Mother's Day, 1999, when I moved from Hamilton to the Archers' house just outside Warkworth in rural Eastern Ontario.  For someone like me, a quiet-ish, fairly private, semi-loner, being immersed in this chaotic household full of 'men' was quite an eye opener, to say the least.  I remember my first thought being 'Oh poor Jane!  What a saint!' but I very quickly learned to love my new surroundings and my new family, and I soon started getting to know each of Matt's brothers for the amazing individuals they were (and still are).

While Peck was busy trying his best to make me laugh all the time and inviting his friends home from school to gawk at me like some kind of bizarre zoo attraction, and Mike was busy ignoring me or hating my guts (ha ha), Liam was busy just being Liam, and I instantly respected and appreciated him so much based on that fact alone.  Whether he actually felt that way or not, he immediately made me feel welcome in his home, and I have never truly thanked him for this small kindness he extended to me, a total stranger who had invaded his space.

I know that when many people think of Liam, they see him first and foremost as an astonishing, breath-takingly talented drummer and musician, and yes, there's that.  What that boy can do with a drum kit and a pair of sticks will completely blow your mind, and you will never be the same again.  But that is not what defines him, by any means.  Over the years, I have had the opportunity to form my own first-hand opinion of him (however deluded it may be), and he is SO much more.  The Liam I know is selfless, generous, loyal and caring; levelheaded, easygoing, and even-keeled.  He is real, unpretentious, and speaks his mind freely, without being a jerk about it.  He has a great sense of humour, is incredibly fun to be around, and hard working without complaint.  He shares with his three brothers that warm, friendly, approachable smile and the bewitching 'Archer Charm' that makes them all so darn likable, goddamit!  Truly, he is one of the nicest people I will ever have the pleasure of knowing or the honour of calling my friend. 

Don't get me wrong - I'm sure he has his moments.  I've only seen him really mad a handful of times, and then, from what I remember, he's a wild, thrashing, foaming-at-the-mouth dervish of furiosity... but he gets over it.  Mind you, I'm sure those who know him better than I - his brothers, his mom and dad, his wonderful girlfriend of three years, Andrea - could offer a better description of what Liam is like when he is pissed off, but I'd rather not sully my image of him as 'nicest guy on the planet' with such frivolous details... ha ha.  Besides, we all have our bad days, right?

So here's to you, Liam Timothy Archer.  Happy Birthday.  I'm so proud of you for who you are, for all you have achieved, and for all the wonderful, astounding, well-deserved things that are undoubtedly coming your way.  Thanks for being so damn nice to me all these years, even when my actions were less than impeccable.  Thanks for letting me call you my little brother, even though technically you aren't.  And, most importantly, thanks for just being you, because that's the best thing you could ever possibly be.  I love you dearly, and I always will.

 (please don't kill me Liam... ha ha)

Procrastination, hopelessness, or apathy... you decide

I know I said I would write a little something about a little something, each and every day, yet here it is, almost a week since my last post - how disgraceful!  While I'd love to report that this lack of communication stems from an exciting life rich in colourful experiences that eat up too much of my time to write, just the opposite is true.  Maybe it's the sleep issues I have been having.  Maybe it's the dour mood that sets the tone for the lives of each member of this family as we struggle to get back on track after such tragedy.  Maybe it's the recent change in temperature heralding cold, lonely, winter nights that are undoubtedly just around the corner.

Maybe I'm just making excuses for not having anything worthwhile to write about.

I've always been a procrastinator when it comes to things like this.  'Homeworky-type' things, that is.  Not that I find the task of keeping a blog so off-putting  or unpleasant that I try to delay it as much as possible - I love to write, and I always have something to say (even when I should just keep my mouth shut), so that can't be it.  In school, I relished the added pressure of leaving assignments to (almost) the last minute.  The challenge of squeaking in under a deadline was much more thrilling than completing homework right away, and when it came to school (among other things), I was (am) always one to accept a challenge.  Looking back, that extra pressure probably contributed significantly to the 'little meltdown' (little meltdown = massive anxiety attacks and insane, irrational perfectionism) that drove me to walk out a third of the way through my final semester of college.

But 'Live and Learn,' they say.  And I have.  In that time, I have lived through all manner of things, good and bad.  I married my sweetheart.  I survived personal struggles too painful to describe.  I lost a brother.  I turned myself around.  I have learned so much since then.  In fact, I have totally reworked how I live my entire life and how I perceive and process pretty much every situation that arises.  And I am very proud of myself for all that I have accomplished.  Just being able to say that - 'I am very proud of myself' - shows how far I've come.  A year ago, when nothing I did was ever good enough or completed to my liking, I would never have been able to even think that, let alone admit it.

So why can't I commit to writing a few paragraphs every day?  There are no deadlines here.  No professors cracking the whip.  No 98% college average to maintain (no joke! ...makes you sick, doesn't it... ?  ugh... me too).  Even if it's just a piece of fluff about how fantastically interesting and amazing rabbits are, or why I like cheese as much as I do, I should be able to come up with SOMETHING, shouldn't I?  I'm rarely at a loss for words, but lately everything seems so foggy.  I feel so sluggish and lackadaisical.  It's hard to find the initiative to string four or five words together, but I am determined to try harder.

After all, January is fast approaching.  January means school; one lousy semester of Biotechnology to finish so I can get a 'real job' and do something 'important' and 'meaningful' with my life.  I'm already having panicky school dreams about not being prepared for tests and not having my homework done.  Only this time 'round, the goal is not perfection, but graduation.  This means no more procrastination, no more undue pressure, no more refusal to accept a less than flawless result.  What better time to start practicing these alien concepts than right now?

So... I apologize for ignoring this little project like I have... it won't happen again... probably... ha ha

Insomnia Rules!

I can't sleep.  Not just 'I can't sleep tonight'... I can't sleep, period.

Oh, I may get a few hours here and there, and I do go for the odd stretch of 'good nights' (anywhere from 5-7 hours), but when it all boils down to it, I'm a hopeless insomniac; a veteran 'Night Owl' of the worst kind.  Since my mid-teens, I have spent many a night staring at ceilings all over Southern and Eastern Ontario.  If there is a prize for guessing how many dots on a ceiling tile, or for thinking up as many foods as one can that begin with the letter 'P', I'm definitely in the running.

Needless to say, there haven't been many 'good nights' since June 26th, the night before I lost my dear friend and brother to a horrific shooting accident.  While I don't believe in wallowing in self-pity (anymore) and I am not prone to bouts of weeping and wailing (anymore), I am certain that Peck's death is somehow instrumental in hindering my slumber.  'Well, DUH,' you say, 'No guff!'  Yes, I know this explanation seems like so much common sense, but that is what is so puzzling to me.  If I were up all night thinking about Jesse and bawling my eyes out, I could understand.  But that's not the case at all.  When I DO think about Peck, I can't help but laugh.  The first image that comes to mind is always that free and easy ear-to-ear grin; a quick one-liner followed by a slap on the knee and his head thrown back, just enjoying the hilarity of everyday situations... not exactly something that should keep me up past my bedtime.

I've spent enough nights like this over the years to know that trying to figure out WHY I'm not sleeping only makes things worse.  In fact, the more 'thinking' I do, the more alert I become.  So I don't.  After going through the usual routine of what one in my situation SHOULD do (the reasonable, consistent bedtime.  the half-hour of reading.  the darkened room.  the meditation and breathing techniques.  the white noise.  the chamomile tea, etc etc etc), I generally end up curled in a chair, glassy eyes fixated on some screen or another.

While I would love to say that I use this 'extra' time for something productive, or creative (a blog is creative, isn't it?  maybe?), or useful, I can't.  Though I am no stranger to functioning perfectly well on 2-3 hours' worth of shut-eye, it isn't exactly my idea of a good time.  But when I have gone for two or three days without rest, productivity and creativity are a downright impossibility.  Even though the concept of 'usefulness' is always relative in this world, I don't think even I could bullshit my way anywhere close to it at this point.  I can't think.  Hell, half the time I don't even want to.  I feel like my brain has melted.  I couldn't think if I tried.

According to my research (hey, I'm up, I might as well read about it):

'Sleep deprived test subjects have difficulty thinking of imaginative words or ideas. They tend to choose repetitious words or clichéd phrases. They are less able to deliver a statement well. They may show signs of slurred speech, stuttering, speaking in monotone, or at a slower pace than usual.  Subjects have a harder time reacting well to unpredicted rapid changes. They do not have the speed or creative abilities to cope with making quick but logical decisions, nor do they have the ability to implement them well.  A lack of sleep impairs one's ability to simultaneously focus on several different related tasks, reducing the speed as well as the efficiency of one's actions'


'A 2001 Chicago Medical Institute study suggested that sleep deprivation may be linked to serious diseases, such as heart disease and mental illnesses including psychosis and bipolar disorder.  The link between sleep deprivation and psychosis was further documented in 2007 through a study at Harvard Medical School and the University of California at Berkeley. The study revealed, using MRI scans, that lack of sleep causes the brain to become incapable of putting an emotional event into the proper perspective and incapable of making a controlled, suitable response to the event.'

No wonder I'm such a head case.  I'm exhausted.  deranged.  The stupidest things make me laugh until I cry.  My skin is pasty, bags under my eyes.  I have dark circles that spark jealousy in the hearts of raccoons everywhere.  My brain - a quivering, throbbing mass of short-circuiting irrationality - just plain aches.  It's hard not to succumb to paranoia and delirium, but somehow I manage to keep afloat, until finally I pass out on the couch at 5am (if I'm lucky) with visions of Dorothy and the other Golden Girls trying to sell me Ab Blasters and Bump-its and Proactive Solution with its Amazing Refining Mask floating through my cranium.

When will it end?  WILL it end?  I fear for what the future will bring.  My mind seems to have accepted this routine as the norm, and sometimes I wonder if I will ever be the same again.  Will I ever get my eight hours?  Will I ever be able to rest?  To wake refreshed each morning, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?  Or am I doomed to a life of counting sheep until I have tallied enough fleecy beasties to knit a whole flock of itchy, uncomfortable, carelessly crafted, irregular sweaters?

I guess time will tell.  Insomnia rules, alright.  It rules my life... and I want my life back.

bah ram ewe... how many sheeps?