10 Things That Aggravate Me (ok, more like three) - Special Tony Flacco and Joe Romo

Now before anyone points out that I've got those two mixed up, let me explain.

Hubby and I root for different football teams. He likes the Ravens, and I swear (literally, these days) by the Cowboys. We do agree on one thing though: Flacco and Romo both need to man up and stop playing like little homos. Don't get me wrong, I think they both have much talent and a lot of potential. They just most often these days leave all of that on the sideline when it comes down to what really counts: using their brain.

So here goes, in no particularly annoying order (everything seems to be annoying me when it comes to these two these days):

Unibrow vs Cocky Smirk

Flacco: Squidward, urhhmm, sorry, Flacco, shave. Pluck. Wax. Whatever your preferred method of hair removal, get rid of the fuckin' unibrow. First, it's not aerodynamic. Second, it's butt ugly. And by the way, growing your unibrows into a Fu Man Chu does nothing to fix the problem.

Romo: What the fuck is up with your little cocky superstar wannabe smirk in post-game interviews? Pose for GQ in the off season, not after throwing a stupid pick that cost your team a much needed win. I've got news for you homo boy, you've got nothing to smile about, not even golf.

Brain Freeze vs Brain Fart

Flacco: Dominating time of possession doesn't mean you're supposed to hold on to the ball for most of the game. See the guys in purple running down the field? Throw the damn pigskin to them. Throw the damn pigskin to the hot dog vendor. Throw the damn pigskin to the referee. You DO NOT have to hold the ball until strip sacked in each and every game.

Romo: I would like to know how a guy that seems to be really wanting his team to win for the first three quarters of a game suddenly turns around in the fourth and helps the OTHER team score. When they say you should try to be the best quarterback in the game, they don't mean you should do it for BOTH teams. When I see you freeze, ball in hand, wondering what the fuck to do with the ball and then passing it to your opponent with that fuckin smirk (see above), I find myself as confused as Wade Phillips looks most of the time.  

Dazed and Confused vs Pretty Woman

Flacco: Let's face it. You're not the pretty woman. However, you often look stoned, lost, downright moronic and goofy. You silly goose. If football were a movie, you would be a stupid sitcom with no plot, no direction and long, drawn out jokes that just aren't funny. You basically make me want to change the channel and watch the home shopping network for hours on end.

Romo: Oh you sweet, purty little thing. Homo, no one cares how precious you look. What we do care about is to see you handle the game like you should, which you don't. Besides, you've got no chance of getting Richard Geere's attention, unless, maybe, you start playing like a winner.

Let's face it, the way you're both playing right now, you're not going to Disney World. You're not even going to a stupid knockoff Disney World amusement park. The only place you're going is nowhere, and fast. Ok, mebby you'll make it to Dancing With the Stars, and you'll be throwing your partner instead of a football. Meh.

14 Years is a Long Time

Well, I've been wanting to write another installment of Things That Aggravate Me for a while, but life got in the way, and, as life goes, stuff happened since my last post and I just didn't get around to it. Actually, I haven't really felt like writing about aggravations, because, to be honest, I've been through a rough two months.

As much as I like to keep this blog humorous, and try to use it to make fun of myself and other people (ok, mostly other people), sometimes my emotions get in the way of my rants. This post will not be funny, so if you were looking for a good laugh, skip this one and come back in a few weeks, as I'm sure I won't be able to stop bitching for very long. This post is, I guess, my way of getting closure and paying a last homage to very dear and very old friends to whom I have had to say good-bye this summer.

As the post title implies, these friends had been in my life for 14 long years. 14 years filled with moments of pure joy, as well as frustration and aggravation at times, but mostly happy and loving years. They have been in my life but, more importantly perhaps, they were part of each other's lives as well, and as much as they loved me (or so I like to think), their love for each other was something that only true soul mates will ever know.

For those of you who know me, even remotely, you probably have guessed who those friends were. For those of you who don't, you're about to find out. But before I begin, before I go any further with my sad but somehow beautiful tale, I want to make sure that everyone reading this remembers one thing. Remember that losing one was losing the other, that one could not survive without the other's companionship, and that anyone who ever tried or will ever try to tell me that true love doesn't exist is fucking ignorant.

Love and devotion of the kind Hobbes and Bagheera had for each other is something everyone, human or otherwise, should dream of and aspire to. Something those who have should recognize, cherish and not take for granted. Something that I believe lives on beyond the grave, in the memories and lives of those who witnessed it and marveled before it.

Hobbes was a beautiful, loving, orange tabby couch potato. Bagheera was a sleek, elegant, petite and skittish black ninja goddess. I met both of them when they were three months old and they took to each other like eggs and bacon. Hmm...mebby not the best analogy but I'm hungry. What I mean to say is that from the very start they stuck together like fly to fly paper. Hobbes being the fly paper, obviously. They took a little longer to take to ME, but after a few months of feeding them and cleaning their litter box I think they came to tolerate me well enough. I of course was in love with both of them. Loki came a few years later, then Milano, and they upset the pack a bit, but Hobbes and Bagheera were always sweethearts. Milano died a few years ago, Loki is still sticking around (and please heaven he stays for a while still, I know I've had enough heartache for a while) and there's a bit more to him in this story, but the main characters here are Hobbes and Bagheera anyway, so I'll leave it at that for now.

A few months ago, I wrote a piece on Litmocracy about how I came to find Bagheera. You can read it here, if you are so inclined, and see one of the last pictures I took of her here. I intended to write more, and made this the first installment of what I thought should be four: finding her, bringing her home, the big move, and the last chapter. I never thought the last chapter would come before I could even think of the second installment. Now I'm not sure I want to finish the story, although I imagine I will get around to it some day. My pain is still too deep to go back to happier times, and I need time to heal. Hence this post.

Over the years, Hobbes gained quite a bit of weight. This often brought about nicknames from my friends, the kids, or most everybody who saw him. From 'Chubs' to 'Garfield', Hobbes, aka Bibi or Hobby as I knew him, must have heard them all. I wasn't a big fan, especially not of Garfield, although I have to admit he looked like him and would probably have eaten lasagna if I had let him. He didn't need it though - he got pretty obese on good old cat food - well his and half of whatever was in the other cats' bowls.

He was a fat, happy cat, who loved to cuddle and purr and sleep and, well, eat.

Bagheera on the other hand was really slim and not so much of a cuddler. Hubby took to calling her 'batman', because she would hang out on the pipes lining the ceiling of the basement, and 'Ninja' because her unbelievably green eyes would spook us in the darkness from seemingly nowhere as we turned the corner. I mean her eyes were level with ours, because, well, she hung out at higher than normal altitudes. Hobbes and Bagheera didn't hang out as much after the big move, because Hobbes enjoyed company and hung out upstairs with the kids and their friends, while Bagheera, being shy and skittish, preferred the quiet and calm of the basement. She hung out (when not up in the ceiling somewhere) with our three pet bunnies, and seemed quite content. Once in a while she would venture upstairs, mostly at night when things had calmed down, and curl up with her beau.

Then sometime in May I started to notice that Hobbes wasn't quite as chubby as he used to be. He still ate, and ran down the stairs at the sound of food being poured into bowls, but he was just a bit slower, a bit older. I noticed but didn't take alarm right away. He was 14 after all, and had battled with obesity all his life (ok, I was doing the battling for him, but he had to bear the weight), and what I was seeing wasn't much out of the ordinary given the circumstances.

Over the next few weeks, things went south fast. There was nothing we could do. Hobbes was just getting old, and really tired, and I tried to spend as much time with him as I could. I knew in my heart he was slowly helping me to prepare for the inevitable, as much as I didn't want to consider of believe it. Over 3 or four weeks, my lovely once 20 pounds cat lost over 10 pounds. Then in a short, painfully quick week, he slowly stopped eating, getting around, and almost walking altogether. I knew it was no use, but I tried to finger feed him some wet cat food. I stroked his skeletal body and took him on my lap, noticing that for the first time I could remember, my legs didn't fall asleep after 10 minutes. My big boy was dying.

On the night of June 5, Hobbes could barely hold himself up. He walked like a drunken, emaciated, and oh so tired old man. We took him down to the basement so he wouldn't have to negotiate stairs. We laid him on a chair between us and he went to sleep. Then he woke up, walked with great effort onto my lap, and took a loong, looong nap. I wish he would have gone in his sleep right then and there. He didn't. I think he was helping me cope with the fact that he probably wouldn't be there the next day. I took him up on the offer. Before going to bed, I took him outside, under the tree, because he loved the outdoors. We stayed there, I don't know how long, him laying next to me in the grass, me leaning against the tree, both of us looking up at the stars. Then I took him back in the basement and went to bed with a heavy heart and tears in my eyes.

Hubby found him the next morning, in the little cubby under the upper stair of the basement staircase. He had somehow managed to walk all the way to the stairs, climb all of them up, and curl up in there. He was still alive, and his face was all crusty and matted with hair and whatever else had fallen down there. He took him down and got his face cleaned, then turned to get some water for him to drink. When he walked back, Hobbes was gone.

I knew it was coming, but I wasn't prepared for the ugly bolt of pain that hit me when he told me. I had just woken up, and hubby stroked my hair and said 'Swea Pea, he's gone'. I remember saying 'how?', and he explained, and then the tears came. The kids were off to school, so I could let go, and god help me, I don't know if I could have prevented it either way. My little boy was gone, my little sweet, loving kitten, the orange fur ball who had given me so many happy years.

We buried him in the backyard, close to the tree, with his favorite toy and his food bowl. We added a sprinkle of catnip for good measure, and said our good byes. I planted some flowers on the grave, but the dog dug them out in an effort to figure out why the cat was underground. We put a slab of concrete over the grave, and planted some daisies right next to it. I don't think Hobbes suffered much. I think the last week was more painful for me than it was for him. He seemed really peaceful, resolute almost. And I miss him so very, very much.

After Hobbes died, things changed with the cat clan. Loki tried to take the Alpha cat place, not realizing the dog is about 10 times his size. He bullied everyone around, and Bagheera rarely came out of the basement anymore. That's when she started spending ALL of her time on the pipes, on top of the fridge in the basement, and, to my horror, in the crawl space between the drop ceiling of the office and the floor above. I wish now I would have paid more attention, drawn her out more, but I think it would have made no difference. Bagheera was in pain, she was depressed, she missed Hobbes, and she secluded herself in her little world of loneliness. I think she became half feral. On the few occasions when she came to me for comfort, she promptly peed right on my lap and ran away. She stopped using the litter box. She hardly ate. It was painful to see her like that, but I was at a loss as to how to help her. I told hubby that I didn't think she had long, that she missed Hobbes too much and would just die of grief. And, in a way, I think that's exactly what she did.

I got used to not seeing Bagheera very often, but I made a point to seek her out every day, or at least to ask hubby if he had seen her. It was like having a known stranger in the house, a dear friend who just shut doors and the world around her. She started spending more and more time in the ceiling crawl space, which there is no way of closing up, and I was worried she'd never come out, and just die up there. As it turns out, she gave her life trying to do just that - get out.

We've had a flea problem for a while, and so we fitted all the critters in the house (short of the kids) with flea collars. I will never buy one again. Last Sunday, August 14, hubby came to me and said he needed help. Bagheera was hurt badly. As I went down the stairs, not really knowing what to expect, I found my little ninja in pretty bad shape. Her flea collar had caught somewhere in the crawl space, and trying to get it off, she got an entire front leg through it, choking herself and cutting a huge gash below her elbow. She also had a pretty nasty scab around her neck and on her shoulder, and could barely stand. She drank something like 4 cups of water, and had some moist food. We think she must have been stuck up there somewhere between 35 and 40 hours, based on the last time we had seen her.

Her usually clean and pristine fur was all matted and stuck to her in an ugly, sick way. She smelled of death. I can't imagine how much of a painful and scary ordeal it must have been for her to even get out of there - and alive. I have nightmares about it. I can't sleep because I keep imagining her terror, her pain, her thirst, her mad determination. When hubby found her, she couldn't stand. Her collar was still stuck around her like a vice, and he had to cut it off, and she took a huge gasp of air, then let out this chilling scream...one I would unfortunately hear again, and several times, as she strained to vomit the little food she had managed to eat. We took her to the vet. There was no choice in the matter. She was in unbelievable pain, and if there was even a chance of saving her, I was taking it.

Turns out the fucking fleas did it. Stuck in the ceiling, unable to scratch, move or clean herself, Bagheera was assaulted by a battalion of relentless blood eaters. The vet said she was so anemic he didn't even know if a blood transfusion would save her. He would not give her an anesthetic in her condition for fear of killing her, and the gash under her arm needed to be mended. My little girl was in bad shape, and suffering.

After much, much consideration, I finally decided it was time for me to let her go. Even if she had survived the blood transfusion and operation, I would have brought her right back to finding places to hide, to being sad and depressed at losing Hobbes, to a life of self-seclusion and despair. I chose to end her suffering, both physical and emotional, and we had her put to sleep. She went in my arms, wrapped in a towel, and I didn't want to let her go. I finally did, after asking that she be wrapped in her blankie (this I had to turn to hubby and ask because I was crying so much I couldn't articulate and no one else would have understood me). She was returned to us neatly wrapped up in said blankie and laid out in her carrier.

I want to mention here how caring, compassionate and understanding the staff at the clinic were to us. Obviously, losing a dear pet is a difficult thing for anybody, and these people probably see a lot of this kind of thing (especially being an emergency vet clinic), but their concern and understanding were evidently genuine. They treated us, and most of all Bagheera, with such patience, respect and devotion that I feel compelled to give them four thumbs and paws up. From handing me a tissue to gently, softly cradling my deceased friend and wrapping her in her blankie, these vets and technicians were truly remarkable and deserve a huge kudos.

We took Bagheera home and buried her next to Hobbes, with her catnip mice and her food bowl. To have to dig earth that wasn't even hard yet was the most difficult thing I've had to do in a long time. I put some fresh flowers on her body, and on top of her grave, which we promptly covered with a concrete slab, too. I hope I made the right decision, I hope she is happy being reunited with Hobbes, or at least not feeling the loss anymore. I like to slip out at night and talk to them, about just stuff - what Loki's up to, what the kids did, how the day went. Seems crazy maybe, but it helps. I always say good night, too. Maybe in time I won't have to do that anymore, and maybe I will. I don't know. All I know is I miss them dearly, and it brings me some comfort to know that they're close, if even just in my mind. I keep ducking not to be hit in the face by Bagheera's tail hanging from the pipe, and I always want to dish out more than one scoop of food into bowls that aren't there anymore. The one remaining bowl really looks lonely...as does Loki.

I thought Loki would be ok with all of this, seeing as he always wanted all the attention. But no. Loki looks lost. With no cat pack, with no one to annoy, or cuddle with, he just looks lonely. I try to pet him more, and spend time with him, and I think he'll be ok. He wasn't in love after all, and I think the dog will keep him company enough, as will we and the kids. And as much as it pains me to find the house somewhat empty, and to see Loki looking for mischievous fun with his departed mates, I've made myself a promise. No more. No more cats, at least for a while. As much as I love them, it hurts too much to see them go.

And I think this is the end of my sad (and wow, LONG) story. Please remember what I said in the beginning. As much as it hurts to have lost them, the truly important thing is to remember how much they loved each other, and how true love never really dies.

Hobbes, Bagheera, I love you very much. May you find peace and a catnip heaven filled with food and leather mice. Good night my little ones. Sleep tight. And don't let the fleas bite.

Things That Aggravate Me - Part 2

Holy CRAP has it really been almost two years since my last post?? Seems like just yesterday I was vomiting my aggravations on blogger's canvas. Well, time flies, but aggravations accumulate, so I think I'm long overdue for the second installment of Things That Aggravate Me.

Parking Lot Etiquette

I don't know about you, but I personally loathe parking lots. I understand they were meant to provide convenient parking space relatively close to whatever business or market you need to visit, and if it was just me using them, I'd have no problem whatsoever. It's what OTHER assholes do in them that really ticks me off.

• If you are driving through the center aisle, YIELD. Shit, I know courtesy has died to some extent, but this is about more than being polite. If I'm trying to back out of my parking space and you come zooming through the freaking aisle on your way to the the big sale Dollar Tree is having, I'm bound to back right into you. And then you'll wish that it was Car Dents R Us having a sale instead.

• I know this is confusing to many, many, many people, but those white or yellow lines all across the parking lot aren't just the result of a drunk guy who stole the line painting machine one night. They're actually there to help you park your vehicle in the most effective space saving manner, meaning that when I pull in next to you, there will be enough space for MY vehicle. You're not supposed to line your tires up with the freaking line, you're supposed to be IN BETWEEN them. And if your stupid gas guzzling Humvee won't fit in there, you probably shouldn't be driving it in the first place.

• I don't care if you're old or if your mobility is somewhat impaired; if you can't walk from your parked car to the store, maybe it's time to ask someone to do it for you. How the hell are you going to get your shopping done if you can't even walk 40 steps to the front door anyway? Stop having someone drop you off at the door, stalling every single car behind you (and ahead, going the other way) while you painfully and oh so slowly extricate yourself from your seat. Drive your hoveround right in there instead, apparently you can GO GO GO in it.
  

• Either cross the parking lot main aisle, or stand away from the curb. How the hell am I supposed to know whether or not you're going? Don't stand there with your stupid shopping cart, looking dumbly at my stopped car, and start moving just as I start driving again, having decided you're having a mild seizure.

Grocery Store Etiquette

The only reason I go to the grocery store is that I can't afford or stomach fast food three times a day. I love getting fresh ingredients and preparing good meals, and so going to the grocery store is a necessity. But if I could get my groceries delivered without breaking the bank, you can bet your ass I would avoid the hassle - and the people.

• Your grocery cart is supposed to help you, not hinder me. I don't care if you got the squeaky one or not, it has no business being parked across the aisle while you figure out whether you want turkey breast or frozen egg rolls for dinner. Seriously, you're not the only one in the store, and if you have no idea what kind of easy frozen dinner you wanna get, you should move to the side and let other people shop while you're actively considering how fast your microwave can obliterate your oven's cooking ability.

• Ok. So you're 45 and still working as a cashier at Martin's. So what? Dude, you're employed, and making a living, and that's more than a lot of people can say in this economy. You don't have to take out your anger at not being president on paying customers. You should know that while I don't expect you to be overly pleasant, being overly rude really pisses me off. Don't say "have a good day" if you don't mean it, especially after giving me that scornful look because I had to tell you that those "prickly things" were artichokes. You work in a fucking grocery store for god's sake, show a little pride - or intelligence, for that matter.
  

• Walmart greeters, whoever you are, this one's for you. I understand that you're only doing your job, however shitty it must be. I know that you're not trying to assault me, and I know you need to make a living somehow. I will gladly ignore your greeting and walk by you. It's aggravating, but I can live with it. DO NOT attempt to re-greet me, or walk alongside me to make sure I acknowledge you. I will slap you. I don't care about the fact that you must be fucking lonely and yearning for any conversation or even for someone to notice you. That is your problem my friend. Go chat with the meat lady, I hear she's got a lot of juicy gossip. Just leave me alone.

• Count. Your. Items. The express line is clear. It varies from store to store, but it is clear on how many items OR LESS you must have to go through there. If it says 10 and you've got 12, I don't really care. But if you have a cartload of shit and go ahead of me waiting with my one jug of milk, I will call you out. I will let everyone know that you're a stupid lazy ass express line hogger. By the way, having 5 of the same item does not mean you can count it as one.

• Save-A-Lot cashier, I am NOT your buddy. I mean if you were my buddy and started working there I would be, but I don't know you from jack shit. I let it go when you told me my engagement ring was pretty, but that's where I draw the line. Don't ask me about the kids, or tell me about how much of a good time you had getting drunk last night. For one, I don't care, and for two, you're annoying. Quit telling me that "your family drinks a lot of soda" just because I'm in there twice a week getting pepsi for my rum and coke. Mind your own business, and we'll do just fine.

• Charity is great. When I can afford it, I gladly share the wealth. When I can't, sorry, but my kids (and my booze) come first. It's ok for you to ask me if I'd like to round up my purchase to however many cents go to the next dollar. Really, I don't mind. It's NOT ok for you to look at me like I'm a fucking cheapskate because I say no, thank you. AND it's not ok for you to say "really?" looking at the rest of the line behind me to make me feel bad. I pay your fucking salary you dumb ignorant bitch. I'd love to charge YOU for your freakin groceries and give it to my favorite charity, see how you feel.

• Fuck bonus cards. Stop making me feel like I won the lottery because for every one thousand dollars I spend I get one tenth of a penny redeemable in your store, that I'll never use. Want to do me a favor? Drop your prices, shut the hell up, check me out as quickly as possible and get me in my car so I can go and enjoy what I just paid for. My guess is you spend more money on manufacturing those stupid bonus cards than I'll ever save in this lifetime - and the next.

• Walmart sucks.

• I know you're old. I understand things slow down, you've been through a lot, you're probably a fuckin veteran or have had like 13 kids. I get it. I should respect you. And, most of the time, I do. I'll hold the door for you, I'll help you out when you need it, hell, I'm gonna be old one day and I hope someone younger'll do the same for me. But for chrissakes, do I really have to stand in line behind you while you count your gazillion pennies that you just MUST spend to pay for that spam?? And to add insult to injury, once you've paid for your chew without dentures shit, you pull out like a hundred and five lottery tickets to be checked, even though you KNOW they're not winners. Just die already, and save me some time.

• Produce managers. How can you put a green banana next to a ripe banana next to a completely brown banana and charge the same price for all of them? If I put a broken down 1979 buick next to a '85 buick with 55,000 miles on it next to a 2011 brand new buick and tried to charge the same price, I'd be bankrupt in a week! How do you sleep with yourself? Do you bring one of these green bananas to bed? Does making an extra 58 cents off of a blind fat lady in a hoveround on a rotten tomato with black spots give you a woody? Seriously, you're taking yourself way too seriously??? See how I used the same word twice in a row? It's lame. Like when you sell an orphanage 200 pounds of deadly green potatoes at the same price as 200 pounds of nearly worthless healthy potatoes and snicker at TGI Friday's over fuzzy navels on the bonus you made by cutting a dollar and 58 cents off the budget. You suck.

• If you don't understand the internet, email or how the little black keychain thingy makes your car go beep beep, squealing in joy and unlocking your car doors at the same time DO NOT ATTEMPT to check yourself out in the automated computerized checkout aisle. It's pretty simple. The computer speaks a language you do not understand. You are either a fossil or a moron. Probably both. You wouldn't go to France or Spain or inner New York City without a translator. Don't hold me up in the super fast self check out lane trying to decipher the obvious and big, easy touch screen options: produce check up, coupon or insert cash here. Shit the fucking machine actually speaks to you in very clear, easy to understand words. And if it chokes up, there's an actual person there to fix it for you. You're an idiot. Learn a lesson from those insurance commercials: perhaps a caveman could do it...but your dumbass is screwed. Get over it.

Sporting Events Etiquette

I love sporting events. Hubby and I watch baseball, football and golf on TV and it's a blast. For the most part. We also go to little league ball games and that's also fun...up to a point. Of course we care about score, but mostly we care about the game itself. Unfortunately, there's always an asshole out there to ruin some of it for everyone else.

• Stupid fucking annoying bastard, I do not know who you are. All I know is that you somehow make it to every single fucking golf tournament ever televised. I. Hate. You. Rory MacIlroy is on the tee of a par five. FIVE. Loooooooooooooong way to the hole. Yet you stand there like Nostradamus' PR team calling for the end of the Universe every year, and at the top of your lungs, you yell: "GET IN THE HOOOOOOOOOOOLE!". The other day, we went golfing. On a good day we might shoot a good 150 (with mulligans). I swear this dumb asswipe yelled "get in the hole" when we put the key in the cart. If I ever meet you, I will put YOU in the hole, ass first.

• Little league parents, listen up. It's a GAME. They are 8, 9, 10 years old? They're kids trying to have a good time. Unfortunately, you turn them into kids worrying about what unhelpful or demeaning comment you are going to yell at them next. Here's a tip: they're worried about what the new sponge bob will enlighten them with. Not how they should be shading the left hander at the plate who drives the ball where it's pitched to. They don't understand pitch counts, don't keep up with the scores, they're not even sure if a bat's main purpose isn't to be used to break a pinata. Calm down. Get over your penis size, or boob size, take a breather, and just enjoy seeing your kid having a good time. You cannot overcome your own shortcomings by ruining your kid's childhood. Next time your blood pressure rises when your kid is at bat, buy an extra salted soft pretzel with loads of mustard and die. You'll be doing me, your kid and the world a huge favor.

• I LOVE live baseball. I love the stadium, I love the players, and most of all I love the beer. I love football too, for that matter. I love any live sporting event, maybe with the exception of cricket, and then maybe only because they're playing baseball assbackwards. But I always, in every sporting event, hate the painted guy. I understand that putting all that paint on your chest and back and face and god knows where else must have taken quite some time. To get to the stadium without smearing it in the car must have been quite a feat. But that notwithstanding, you just plain suck. You're 40. This is why your family disowned you. This is why your friends mock you. This is why you're divorced and haven't been laid in 20 years. This is why your kids walk past you when you try to pick them up from school. And, most importantly, this is why the stadium cam will NOT pick you up. I like oysters. I don't dress up in a shell, crawl into the ocean and pretend to be one. You are not an athlete or a mascot or even a remotely interesting midget from the circus. You're a deadbeat lost soul who thinks that painting yourself an acting like an asshole will help your team win the series. It will not. A better pitcher or quarterback will. They don't even know you exist (and thank god for their ignorance) and the rest of us wish we had never seen your ridiculous ass. One sight of you would cause your favorite player to make the worst play of their life. It might even haunt them in their sleep. I know it haunts me in mine. Grow up and put a fucking shirt on. Your nipples are scary. Focus on the important things like dominating your fantasy league and finally winning a dungeons and dragons tournament with your loser friends. Hey, and worst case scenario? This will reduce the amount of restraining orders filed by your family and favorite team against you.

Ok, enough for now. If I go any further, I'm bound to go crazy and get myself all painted up, run into the nearest grocery store and yell "GET IN THE HOLE!!!" which would probably get me committed. I'll rest a bit and write up the next installment later.

Top 10: Things That Aggravate Me (and then some)

In no particular order. For no other reason than I've seen a lot of them recently. And I believe they need to be shared, exposed, finger pointed for all that they are. If you find yourself guilty of any of those, please consider stopping.

Public Bathroom Etiquette

Here are just a few of the things I've been subjected to in the last couple of weeks while trying to take care of my -rather private, thank you- business.

• Public bathrooms, as opposed to parking garages, should be surrounded by 10 feet of concrete all around. The bathroom stall is no place for lengthy conversations on your cell. Of any kind. I have no interest in being witness to the fight you're having with your boyfriend, or the quotes the insurance company is offering you. And hey, here's a little tip: if I'm aggravated by not being able to shoot my golden trickle in peace, whoever you're talking to is bound to be aggravated by your grunting and the sound of toilets flushing all around you. I can see where you might need to use your phone in a parking garage. I mean if your car won't start or someone is trying to mug you, it might come in handy. But seriously, I rather doubt you'll call anyone if you happen to have a bathroom emergency. First you'd probably be too embarrased by whatever you're calling about, and second, let's face it, no one in their right mind would come rescue you anyway. If you need coaching for anything happening in there, I suggest you re-take potty training.

• No talking. Please. Do your thing and go. If you absolutely need to talk to me while I'm in the bathroom, please let it be about something worthwhile. If you can't manage even that, at least wait for me to be at the sink. Do not, I repeat DO NOT engage me in conversation while I'm actively relieving myself. Or while you're doing that, for that matter. Conclude your conversation before entering the stall and resume it at the sink, if you must. Better still - come by my desk or stop me in the hallway. That way I at least have the option to pretend I'm busy or late for lunch. Cornering me between the sink and paper dispenser will only lead to your demise. I can't help it, shoving your face in the trash bin and running for my life is a reflex.

• Take your big business home. Or use the handicapped washroom. Or find an empty floor. Ok, I know bathrooms are supposed to be for crap, and you're totally in your right to take one in there, but please consider the poor ventilation, poor flushing power and other bathroom guests. I mean, seriously, I hate pointing it out, but grunting and heavy breathing tend to make me uncomfortable to the point where I'm trying to remember my CPR training. To use it on myself. My gag reflex isn't that sensitive, but if you're serious enough about passing that log, I might have to consider turning around and emptying the other side of me once I'm done peeing. Which would be no small feat considering the auto-flush toilets in the building.

• Wash your freaking hands. Don't pee and dash. That is just disgusting. It takes what, 10 seconds? Oh, and use SOAP. Wriggling your fingers under the tap just won't kill all that nasty shit you just wiped off your ass. And if you think I don't know who you are because you were in the stall when I came in and got out while I was in there, you are mistaken my friend. I ALWAYS look at shoes under the wall, and I'll track you down. Oh yeah. I'll know you're a dirty non-washing crap hand fiend. You remember THAT next time you're in the crapper...eyes everywhere. Thought those fancy patterned socks were cool? They're very incriminating, that's what they are.

Being out and about etiquette

Ok first, I have to point out that these things only aggravate me if I see them when I'm on my own. With one or more friends, I find those very entertaining indeed. Guys, thanks for providing entertainment, and keeping us laughing for weeks. Only please try to keep it for when I'm with company - sharing afterwards, without the visual, is really not as fun.

• Girls need support. Big girls, small girls, all girls. Wear. A. Freaking. Bra. I don't care what size you are, they make bras that'll fit you. Buy a corset. Shit, use duct tape if you have to. Seeing you walk down the street with each boob swinging in different directions is just not a sight I should be subjected to. I get dizzy, distracted, and a little grossed out. I don't really care about that 'be natural' granola crap. The natural shape of your boobs is whatever shape your bra molds them into. Period.

• Oranges look best unpeeled. K now before this sounds harsh, I do realize that cellulite is quite unavoidable, even in thin people. But for heaven's sake, I don't need to SEE IT. I've got enough of my own to deal with. Quit wrapping your textured thighs in too short, too tight apparel. It just doesn't look good. Sorry to be the one to break it to ya, but yeah. Not sexy.

• Know where you're going, and get there. Yeah, I know, the market is a pretty amazing place, and those carrots will make you stop in your tracks. But for the love of god, MOVE TO THE SIDE. There are people walking behind you, and in front of you, and if you're in the middle of a group of 10 people who all stop when you do, I'm bound to just walk right into Uncle Ed's behind. I have places to go, I know exactly where I'm going and how fast I want to be there. Don't stop my progress because you just realized you forgot your shopping list or because you have to get your cell phone out of your oversized purse. MOVE!

• Learn to walk before you get stilettos. Yeah, they look great on the shelf. Yeah, they make you look awesome when you look at yourself in the foot mirror. But try walking in them before you set out on you Friday night adventure. Walking as if you've got a watermelon up your butt with arms extended in front of you ready to grab whoever happens to walk by because you can't keep your balance only makes you look like a cheap whore on your first night manning the corner. Mind you, they don't even walk, so you look worse than they do. But you are pretty funny to look at. Carry on.

Driving Etiquette

Oh my. Where do I start. Where do I stop? I have to give myself a limit on the number of Aggravating Situations I write here. Me being the EXCELLENT driver that I am, I tend to notice flaws when it comes to others.

• Blink on, blink off. I don't know which aggravates me most. Those of you who don't use the blinker, or those of you who forget it's on. If you want to cut in front of me, you better have that blinker on. Yes, I will recognize the telltale signs that you desperatly want to get in front of me. The hugging, the swerving, the dangerously close nosing...but I will not let you pass unless I see that little flashing light. Period. Asshole in the big SUV that think you can squash me just because you're bigger than me: not working my friend. Flashers work on every model, I checked. They are not an option. I'm sure you're no closer to wanting to fuck up your bumper than I am to letting you do mine in. I'll play the bluff any day. And that little finger gesture? I don't get it. Write a manual on what it means and mebby I'll think of reading it. After I see you cut in BEHIND me. Blinkers on? Seriously? Don't you HEAR that tick tick tick thing going? Come ON!! If you're a little Smart thing just following your line, not so bad. I know you're just high on something or other, or muching bio-health food and haven't realized that the little spiritual drumming you're hearing is your blinker not going off. But hey, big 18 wheeler-guy? You freakin scare me. Are you moving into my lane or not? Cauz you're swerving anyway, so it's hard to tell. I hate playing the 'did-he-see-me-did-he-not' game. If you see me passing you at 200 over the speed limit, check your blinker. It's probably on.

• Left = Faster Than Right. Yes. I know this is complicated to understand. So let me explain it in no uncertain terms. Stay. The. Fuck. Out. Of. My. Way. I am a pretty decent and patient driver. I really am. I will follow you in the left lane at 60 kms an hour, so long as you're actually PASSING people in the right lane. I won't tailgate you or anything. But if the right lane is empty, or you're going the exact same speed as your right-couterpart, I get aggravated. The left lane is meant to be a passing lane. I know, surprising, eh? Dude. Glad we cleared that out. If you're not passing, MOVE OVER. Don't try to be the hero that slows me down. You'll just end up being the dimwit that has my bumper in your butt. Yes, I have a right to go 100 kms an hour on the highway. Not my fault your Lada only goes up to 75. Deal with it and move over. I might be going slightly over the speed limit, but if I'm not passing, I'll move over myself. See? It's that easy.

• Pedestrians are kings. I believe that, even when I'm a driver. Let them pass. It's not worth trying to make that right on the red because you think you can make it before the crossing people reach you. Be freakin' patient. Oh, and don't try to make it through the light if you haven't got space on the other side. You'll just end up in the middle of the pedestrian crossing line and my friend Andre will take pleasure in scratching your car with his bag as he walks by. We are all pedestrians at some point. Show them the respect you expect when it's you crossing busy streets. And if it's raining? Give them the right of way. Dude you're high and dry in the car. They're walking through the downpour. Seriously.

• Stay. The. Fuck. Away. I have no interest in feeling your front bumper hit my steering wheel. If you're trying to pass people in the right lane, let me pass them first and then I'll move out of your way. If you've been hugging my ass while I'm doing that, DO NOT pull in behind me as I change lanes. You better pass me, and fast. Else you got ME in your ass the whole way. Seriously, that drift you're getting just isn't worth it. You're not saving that much gas. If I can't tell what kind of car you drive cauz all I see in the rearview mirror is your ugly face and half your wipers, you're way too close. Know what that leads to? Breaking. Yeah. So you make up your mind whether you want to follow me at 60 kms an hour. Smart ass.

Ok, I'm getting aggravated just writing this stuff. I have way more coming - how could I bypass the gym, the customer service or the phone etiquettes? I'll write that up in Part II. I'm done for tonight.

Going Home

Yes, I will be going home to North Hathley tomorrow. Don't worry, I'll be back on Sunday. My parents, recently back from an 8 year stay in Africa, are having their long-awaited house warming. Them and all 62 guests.

It'll be nice to go back towards Estrie, to feel the cool air and see the mountains and trees. I'm hoping for a visit to the cemetary so I can say hi to my grand-parents. I'll be seeing my sister, brother in law and my godson. It'll be nice to be with the family - and not at work.

I have had a pretty busy week, so I'll surely have a lot to write about when I come back. In the meantime, hope everyone has a good weekend :)

Sabs - no laughing without me, and keep Dan and Kazoo entertained. Don't forget the mix.

Dan - keep Sabs entertained and get Kazoo back from vacation. I'll staple your shirt when I come back to work on Wednesday.

Andy - hope you're having a blast in BC. Sorry about your luggage, but I'm sure you can find purty underwear wherever you are.

Ray - stay out of trouble. Hah! As if :)

Everyone else reading this - don't miss me too much. If you can.

I Don't Have a Prostate

Well not that I know of anyway. But I know a bunch of people who do, and although I'm not quite sure what it does for them, I do know that it is prone to cancer. And, well, the bunch of people I know who have a prostate are quite dear to me (for the most part), so I'd rather they hang around and stay, well, alive.


That is one of the reasons I participated in the Ottawa's Motorcycle Ride for Dad event. And I say one of the reasons because it would be quite dishonest of me to try and convince you that was the only one. I have to admit I was really looking forward to the ride, and the riders, and seeing all the bikes, and partaking in all that the Ride involves.

The $300 I managed to raise from sponsors was totally for my love of healthy prostates, however. My friend Andy and I raised close to $500 together, which I think is pretty decent, and which I hope will help researchers find a cure. So I'd like to officially send a BIG thank you to all of you who contributed, and apologize if I guilt tripped you into it. No scratch that. I'll stick with the thanks :) I also owe a HUGE thanks to Dan for totally stealing my donation sign up sheet and collecting over $100 on my behalf. AND donating of his own on top of that. Dan, you da best. After me. I mean. Yeah, you totally rock. Whenever they start the Sexy Prelude Ride for Prostate Cancer, I'll be sure to return the favour.

For any of you who have a prostate or know someone who does, or did, you can donate online here.


Ok, I'll stop talking prostates soon enough, but there is a bit more in there somewhere that I just have to write about, so bear with me.

So we're hoping for nice weather on Saturday, obviously, because riding in the rain isn't quite as fun as riding in the sun. The first part of the ride is a big procession of bikes going through downtown at crawling speed, just so everyone gets to see us and grow really annoyed at all the blocked streets. We were to meet up at the National Aviation Museum and from there all the riders took off in a double line procession running through downtown and all the way to the first halt in the Carp area. For the road map, click here. Start time: 8h50 SHARP.

Or so it said on the paper.


So Saturday morning, 6h30, Andy and I are looking at the downpour out the window and hoping it'll stop, even though it really doesn't seem like it will. And this wasn't a drizzle, either. I'm talking freakin buckets of water coming down. I wouldn't ride the motorcycle in that, let alone walk out the front door for fear of one of those massive raindrops connecting with my skull and making my brain explode. But of course we don't want to miss the Ride, so we do the only thing we can - decide to leave as late as possible without being late. Three coffees and a shower later, and BAM - the rain has stopped. Don't ask me how, but I did it again. Willed it away. Heh. Yeah, I'm that good.


15 minutes later, we're on the road (ok make that 17 minutes cause we had to go back for the camera). The sky is steel gray but the sun is shining through and we're pretty much feeling like a million bucks. Riding through almost deserted streets through Ottawa in the morning is pretty nice. As we got nearer to the starting point, we started seeing volunteers posted at every street corner, waving and giving us the thumbs up. How they knew we were going to take part in the Ride I have no idea, but my guess is they waved at every bike they saw. This was the big day, after all. As we got closer, I started seeing bikes coming from every direction. And I mean - bikes. Everywhwere. Murders of bikes, as Andy likes to call them, 20, 30, 50 strong. They're in front of us, in the back of us, all you can hear is bike engines roaring and the anticipation is so strong you can feel the electricity in the air. Had I not been wearing my helmet, my hair would probably have been a big freakin hissing electrified thing akin to that ball of lightnig we loved to play so much with at the museum as kids. It was cool.


So after going all around the museum, we are instructed to park in a line. People park behind us, and there's a sea of bikes all lined up, as far as the eye can see. Let me tell you, it was pretty impressive. And (devil me) I couldn't help but wish for someone to lean against one bike and start a domino slide...ok, bad bad Xtine. No. I didn't wish that. I just...giggled at the thought. Yeah. It was a pretty neat experience. I also discovered the joys of being a passenger on a bike after a rainstorm. Remember riding your bicycle in the rain, and how you got that wet and muddy line from your butt all the way to the top of your spine? Yeah ok, multiply bicycle power by what, 3 billion? Yeah. My butt was wet, and so was my braid. But hey. I'm a biker chick now apparently, so it's perfectly normal to have a mud skid mark on my back. Bonus for the hair.

So there's a stage there, and some people talking, but I'm busy looking around at bikes and people and outfits and stuff so I can't tell you much about it. I only recall one gentleman talking and that's cause he was funny, and here's the last bit of the prostate talk for ya. This gentleman was talking about this and that and then says: ''So I've been getting a lot of emails from you guys, and I really try to answer all of them, but in the meantime let me answer the most popular questions so you all get the answers right here''. Ok by then he had my attention. Here's what he said next.


"Prostate exams. A few tips. If the doctor has both hands on your shoulders while doing the exam, GET OUT OF THE ROOM.'' (laughter here, although nervous laughter, as far as I could tell, from the gentlemen present. Mine was a big heartfelt laugh. Go figure). ''Oh and one other thing - if the doctor asks you to make any sound at all, like animal sounds, that is NOT part of the exam''. (more laughter, definitely strained at this point. I'm still laughing my ass off. Go figure again). He did make me pretty happy I'm a woman and don't have a prostate, whatever it's for. Heh.


So after quite a bit of talking, we are asked to walk to our bikes and get ready to go. My 3 coffees are starting to swell up in my bladder by this point, but I don't feel like using the restroom when we're almost ready to go. So Andy says - yeah, but can you hold it in for 2 hours? Yeah. I can. No problem. So off we go to the Old Virago, and...wait. Who would have thought it takes so long to get 2000 bikes going double file? Yeah. Takes a while. But not to worry, we're still pretty excited, waiting to go, we can hear bikes roaring to life row by row, and by god we can't wait to get going. Eventually we do, and we're off!


We ended up being side by side with a Harley guy and his passenger. Now I'm a pretty easy going gal, and pretty accomodating as far as I know. But seriously, this guy got on my nerves. For one, he had the radio blasting 'Oldies 105' and the songs just kept repeating themselves. I'm not sure if his partner enjoyed the songs or just wanted to die, seeing as she was pounding her thighs with her fists to the beat of 'Love me Do'. Now I'm not sure what was up with that guy, but he obviously could not deal with the idea that we might be ahead of him. Even though the biker in front of him was closer to him than the biker in front of us, every time we sped up to catch up, he'd gun it and try to outrun us. Which is to say, he'd speed up as close as possible to the guy in front of him so that our front wheel did not go beyond his. Let me tell you, if he didn't have a backrest on there, that girl woulda been sitting, driver seat, on the bike behind within seconds. This was just brutal. I laughed at most of it, because I really didn't care. But it was just ridiculous. If that girl doesn't have whiplash today, I'm really surprised.


The really cool thing about the parade was that all cross streets were blocked off and we got to run red lights. Cops even waved us through those. And you wouldn't beleive the cars waiting in line to turn. It's not like there weren't signs, either. But I guess people just ignore those, because all you could see for miles were lines of cars with doors open and drivers out on the curb sheilding their eyes to try and see how long this line of motorcycle really is. Long, it was. And we just waved at them smiling. Hah! I do pity the joggers waiting to cross to get to the other side of the path. I mean you can only jog in place for so long before giving in and starting to wave. Yeah, everyone was having a grand time.


When we got to the first halt, most of the parade was already there. It was pretty cold, too, and although it wasn't raining, the sun had gone and hidden behind clouds, so that by the time we stopped I was freezing. All I could think of was the free coffee...and the porter potties. Yes, by that time, my 3 morning coffees and water had inflated my bladder to what felt like exploding proportions. So we made a beeline for the potties.


Ok. 2000 bikes means approximately what, 2500 riders? Add volunteers, gawkers and police officers, and you got roughly 3000 people in one spot, gunning for coffee and potties. All 10 of them. Yes. You read that right. 10 potties for 3000 full bladders. Ouch. By the time I got halfway up the lineup, I was looking for nearby bushes. Better still, I was trying to convince all the male prostate wearing people to head for the woods and let me through. Seriously, by the time I actually got to a free one, I didn't even feel like I had to pee anymore. I cursed for not buying depends, but in the end all was well. I did my business and walked out about a thousand pounds lighter.


We headed for coffee and the poker run table. Oh, I didn't mention the poker run. We got to draw a card when we registered, and we got to draw one at every halt after that. You collect 5 cards and make the best hand out of it. With my luck, my first card was a 2 of spades. Never fear, I was gunning for 4 of a kind, or a full house. Jacks full of deuce. So all excited about the first poker halt, I drew...a six of clubs. Not great, but hey, not bad. I still had a straight shot. After coffee and a smoke, we were about to set off when I spotted Paul, a guy I work with, and an avid biker. So we stopped and said hi, chatted a bit, then walked to the Virago and set off.

Now the rest of the run is free for all. Meaning that everyone is going towards the same spot, but we're not following each other anymore in a parade kindof way. So for the first half of this run, we were pretty much on our own, still waving at the many (surprisingly many) people on the side of the road or sitting on their lawn waving Ride for Dad flags at us. Oh I should mention that we had 2 said flags, but ended up losing them somewhere around Waba. I was supposed to keep an eye on their steadiness, but I guess my brain froze and when I looked next they were gone. Man in the minivan behind us, if they hit your windsheild, I'm sorry. If you happened to catch one, I want it back. Thanks! :D


We eventually caught up to some riders and followed them. More riders caught up to us and followed us. And so we pulled in to the second halt in the middle of a 40 or so murder of bikes.

There were hamburgers and hot dogs to be had there, and so we had them because we were pretty hungry. We got another card (9 of hearts - wtf), tried to warm up a bit (sun was still hiding) and got on our way pretty quickly. By this time, my reynold's fingers are tingling all the way up to my elbows. I can't feel half of my toes and all in all, I'm having a grand time.

So we set off again, and, of all wonders....the sun actually pops out. We go through hot and cold pockets, the scenery is breathtaking, and I can't beleive this wonderful and magical country is but an hour and a half from home. I had never been down that way but seriously folks, that is a really, really nice area. Fields, old welcoming farm houses, rivers and lakes, windy roads....so very poetic and rustic and homey. I forgot all about being cold, and just took all I could in before the next stop, which was lunch. MMmmmm.. Riding makes me hungry.


Lunch halt was nice simply because it was, finally, sunny and warm. We found a cool spot in the grass and just laid there for a while, warming up. I even took off my leather jacket and hoodie. Then we got some burgers and fruit, ate, and got the next poker card. Queen of spades. Finally a good card, but sweet fuck all for my run. Ah well. There's always next year. Andy at this point has two fives and whatever else though, so I'm still hoping he'll get a full house or something. After warming up, eating and going to the pottie again, we set off for the second to last run of the day. This one will take us to the final halt, and then there's the journey back home.

So we set off right behind some other folks, and some more soon join us in the back. This is where I finally remember I have a camera. Stupid me. I tap Andy on the shoulder and tell him I wanna get it out of the saddlebag, so he knows to lean to the left as I'm leaning to the right, half bent over the fast moving pavement, getting my camera out of the bag. We've done this before, so I'm pretty confident about not falling off. I'm less confident about not losing my gloves in the process, so I stick them under his butt. I get the camera out and start shooting, then realize the battery's about to go dead. Stupid dumb luck. Anyway, I tried to get as much of the murder and scenery as I could, so I hope this gives you an idea of how really cool this ride was. If you've ever been on the back of a bike and tried to snap good pictures as you're winding around scenic roads, without making your driver want to kill you, you might have a little appreciation for my sense of balance. Enjoy.

First pic of the day. Starting point, sea of bikes.

Same, from a different angle.

Andy and the bikes, before we set off.

Lunch halt - after half the bikes are gone. I never remember the camera.

Run to the last halt - this and the next few are just shots of the 'murder'.

Andy and I - In a rearview mirror.

Yup, I guess this is where we're turning :)

And, well, me and the Old Virago. Or I should say the Old Virago and I. Not the best picture, but this is after the last stop...I'm a bit tired. So is she. :)

Other things of note - we saw a rider down, it was sad. I think he/she is allright, we're still not sure what gender he/she was. Other than that, I didn't win the poker run (big surprise) but Andy almost got 5 5's. Which I think is cheating, but whatever. He didn't get them, so we just rode back.

And now my fingers are tired. Take care of your prostate, or prostate bearing friends. Be good, be safe...be all that you can be :)

Friends I've Never Met

I'm a pretty reserved person. I'm pretty stubborn, and I'm pretty private, and most people can't tell because I've also got a pretty loud mouth and a tendency to steal the spotlight. Call it a shell, call it a front, call it what you like. That's just who I am.

Truth is, I project a pretty strong image. I think somewhere inside I AM pretty strong, but deep down I'm also pretty insecure. I'm sure that's the case with a lot of people. So I have many aquaintances, but very few close friends. I'm a great gal to hang out with until you start asking questions that I will not answer, talking about stuff that is mine only, trying to pry your way into a place that is marked PRIVATE.

I mostly think I'm a burden. I'm not easy to live with. I'm not an easy friend, either. I'll be there for you 200% until I just...disappear. Into the Eternal Haven. And that's a long story so I won't get into it. Suffice it to say that the friends that have hung around know that at any moment I might just drop off the face of the earth and resurface at an unpredictable time. They also know it's hard for them to be there for me, because I'm too stubborn to let them help. And those true friends understand that and somehow find a way to help anyway.

This is therefore a tribute to those people who endure me because they somehow find that all this aside I still contribute to their life in one way or another, and that it's worth the hassle to keep me around and help me out, and let me help when I can.

Funny thing is, some of these friends I have never met. They are people I trust with my life, they are people who are always there no matter what. They are people who seek me out when I've dropped off too long, who care about me and don't judge. I always go back to them on all fours, asking for forgiveness, and their answer never changes. This time, it went like this:

Dave: Chris!! I am agog! Are the last, what three months of your life on the net somewhere yet? I was going to ask if you live in two different universes and been in the other one a while.

Me: Oh, yes. I do. And I have been. Thought you knew that by now ;) I just keep disappearing...but I always come back hoping you don't hate me yet.

Dave: Pffff. Absence make the heart grow fonder.

And like that:

Don: what was wrong?

Me: Wrong, hm..had to retreat to the hole for a while. Had to rethink life and stuff. Still working on that. Phase one: deal with it anyway you can. Phase two: pretend you're fine. Phase three: actually pretend so well you believe it and stop working at making it better. Phase four: realize you haven't done shit in forever and feel like crap. Phase five: realize not doing shit has gotten you in trouble and doing other shit has gotten you in more trouble. Phase six: run away. Phase seven: say hi to Don and hope to god he doesn't hate you. Good 'nuff?

Don: Yep. No hate. Life's a waterfall.

So there you have it. No questions asked, other than what I've been up to. No matter what I've dropped. No matter what I missed. I'll be brought up to speed, and I'm right back to where I was before I succombed to the call of the hiding god.

Somehow, these guys know me better than most people I see every day. We've talked online, worked together, dreamed of plans, found a common goal. We don't think the same way, we have very different lives, but we respect each other because of those differences. We welcome the opportunity to debate and share, and disagree. Because we know that our arguments, ideas and opposing thoughts bring us closer to understanding. And in the end, we're really not that different. Or at least I like to think so.

They make me realize that I have a right to retreat. They make me understand that it's ok to take a break. They respect the way my brain operates, and my needs. I would never expect that from them, but they give it naturally, and without question. They are pillars. They are inspiration. They make me want to be better at everything.

Hopefully I give a bit of that back. They certainly deserve it.

Dave, Don, thanks for everything. I'll be down there this summer. I'll bring maple syrup whiskey and I'll finally get to hug two guys who've been much more to me than they'll ever know over the last few years.

And hell, I'll drink to that.