Falling in the General Direction of Up

I just got home from the most amazing vacation I've ever had. It was short - 4 days 3 nights - and it was aboard a 34' Hunter sailboat owned and captained by B3's friends, Ed and Sue. We were invited along their little excursion up to Desolation Sound then south to Texada Island. Now - I have to say this - a sailing trip for me would have been epic enough. I love the ocean. I love to sail. I love our coast line. And the little adventure of pulling into port to some of these teeny-tiny communities is delightful (Refuge Cove...I could have visited you longer). We even saw a pod of 3 humpbacks just to our port side, in the distance, travelling north while we travelled south. I had never seen whales in the wild before and declared it the Best. Day. Ever. I took a boat-load of pictures you might say, and if you had talked to me in the early morning hours of day 4 I would have told you my vacation had been excellent. Beautiful. The best. All the superlatives.  Then things go...

Of all the crazy random things I've blogged about thus far, this might be the silliest.  But it's been bugging me all day long.  Remember I wrote that little post about the fashion industry and how their random assignment of sizes are proof this world is six shades of crazy?  Well - I've decided there is still another layer of crazy. The "underworld" of crazy, you might say. And that layer would be women's underwear. Seriously.  OK - so here's the thing. I've been pondering my underwear drawer for a few months now. Every time I do my laundry and fold my underwear I tell myself - it's time to invest in some new undies there Miss Annette. Some are too big for me and just slide down my butt. Some, the elastic has broken free hanging in strands or even winding itself into a snarl - as if it has aspirations to be something greater - like a golf ball or something. I keep telling myself that I still have plenty of good underwear to ch...

I'm not complaining.  But there is something sad and contemplative about the smoke filled skies and the red rimmed sun that has me fighting off the blues. Without question, the people that should feel sad and blue are those who are in the fire zones. The people that have had to evacuate their homes. Lost their homes.  But I feel like I was going full tilt into summer. Blazing hot days, clear blue skies, vegetation still bursting forth all around me despite the drought conditions. The spattering of rain drops we felt this weekend and the low rumbling of thunder were just a tease that we might find some refresh.  Crickets have made their appearance - a sure sign of cooler nights. Blackberries are burgeoning on the vine. Fall is right behind the last ripe blackberry. So I've put August into high gear to squeeze in every last moment.  This eerie aura though...it's making me feel a little anxious. Outside my window are the industrious little citified farmers ...

It’s been a hot one this summer. Lots of 30+ days back to back. It’s made my house suffocatingly hot. It also means the heat rises on my temperament. I have a tipping point where I lose my patience and good humour.   A few weeks ago, with the August long weekend looming before me, I realized that summer was nearly half over and I hadn’t really vay-cayed yet. Oh yes, I had done some fun things on the weekends (Hello! Bocci Ball Champion, remember?), but I hadn’t left the Valley. Changed the scenery. I hadn’t taken a breath. So - near the end of July - I said I would help B3 on his grown up paper route and I trudged all over parts of Victoria I had never seen before. I had booked us into an Air BnB for those days and because it was the middle of summer, finding a place with the certain specifications I was looking for (Read: a private suite with enough room for the two of us and not sharing a bathroom with some creepy people from Arkansas) for the entire week proved challenging....

B3 and I tested the veracity of our 11 month relationship last week. I went to Victoria to help him with his grown up paper route. Long story, but all you need to know is he is delivering over 15,000 phone directory's to several of the communities around Victoria. That's a lot. And he's been stressed about it. So I took 5 days off from work, needing a change of pace and scenery, and said I would help. 2 Air B&B's, 976 km's of driving, 56.1 km's of walking, 97,178 steps, 1 wasp bite, 1 bloody face plant, and I delivered half of the 4,120 directory's to individual households around Langford and Colwood.  In the span of that week there were tears (mine) and some harsh words (his and mine), two fiery tempered arguments and some extended silence within the cozy confines of our rented Hyundai Elantra. The air gets heavy in there pretty quick when those tempestuous emotions fill the space. I carry the exchange with me. He expels it.  "No angry...

I tend to overthink a lot of things.  A LOT. Of things. Which is why the unexpected and unplanned are quickly becoming my favourites.  Thing is, you can't plan the unexpected. You just have to be ready to jump in with both feet when the opportunity arises.  Such was the case this past Canada Day long weekend.  B3, who, if you sit next to him at the pub or restaurant, will pepper you with questions and know your life story in 10 minutes flat. He will then introduce you to everyone who walks through the door whether he knows them or not. He's an extrovert with a gift of gab and no thought or opinion remains unsaid when you are around him.  Except when he's being shy and insecure about a person, place, or thing.  He's an enigma for sure. So let's just say, if it hadn't been for me pushing him, ever so gently, to leap onboard this unexpected opportunity, our little weekend - which likely would have been pleas...

Writing takes time. Duh. It means you have to step away from life and just do it.  That, right there, is where it gets difficult.  Full time job, B3, friends, housework, groceries, gardening, socializing, sleep - they all compete for my time. Then there's the muse. It often hits at inopportune times. Like when I'm in that grey area of surrendered consciousness right before I drift off to sleep. Or when I'm racing to pull it all together and get out the door. Oh muse...you are the cheeky little thing. Remember that Robert Munsch book - I Have to Go Pee ? Andrew's mother and father, gramma and grampa take a half hour to bundle him in a snowsuit so he can go outside to play. Ten buckles, 5 zippers and 17 snaps. Andrew threw one snowball before he cried "I HAVE TO GO PEE!"  They quickly pick him up, tearing away the layers and race him to the bathroom because his urgent pronouncement is imminent and can't be denied.  It's the same thing...