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