Hightailin’ it Outta Here.

by Camille Posted on October 21, 2009

Poor Kyle and I are taking this day off school and work to have a road trip.  A short road trip—a day trip, really—but it will be glorious.  I’ve been needing to exchange a birthday present so I can finally blog about it.  Also, I’m sending a package down for my dad’s birthday {twenty days late (I’m a real quality daughter. see?)}.  And lastly, and probably most importantly: Costco cheese. Poor Kyle and I have been on a pizza-making kick lately, and at $25.00/block up here at our Costco, we’re eating ourselves into the poor house.  The only reasonable thing to do, then, is drive six hours round trip to a different country that can supply it for $15.00 cheaper.  Smart, right?  I know.

Happy anniversary to us.

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Times Two

by Camille Posted on October 20, 2009

Today is the second anniversary of the wedded union between Poor Kyle and myself.

Last year, I was out of town on our first anniversary for what I thought was a noble cause; I have since learned that there are very few causes noble enough to actually warrant putting my husband last.  That wasn’t cool.  I’m sorry, Poor Kyle.  Poor you.

But then, I have a lot of regrets about how I’ve lived my married life, starting with the wedding preparations themselves.

Two years ago at this very minute, I was getting my hair done and freaking out a little bit inside.

Reception_5

I was nervous about getting married.  I was nervous about sex.  I was nervous about everything. Our wedding day was not perfect, but nearly.  If I had it to do over again, I would’ve gotten a much simpler dress.  It was really beautiful, but also really expensive.

Wedding DressThen again, I knew it would be my last chance to wear a full-length gown as fancy as that…so maybe I’d stick with it.

If I could do it again, I would be a lot kinder to the people who meant the most to me, instead of saving my niceness for the decorators and the flower people–I used so much on them, trying not to be a bridezilla, that I really didn’t have any left over for the people who matter most.  How stupid.

DSC_0351

If I could do it again, I might have graduated first and saved up some money of my own to bring into the marriage, instead of tuition bills and car debt.  If I had the chance, I would’ve signed a pre-nup.  (Not really, but wasn’t that funny?)  If I could’ve, I would’ve made my grandpa live long enough to be there for it.

If I had it to do over, I would still not get fake nails—that was the best decision I made throughout the entire experience, second only to my decision to have caramel apples instead of wedding cake.  I don’t even like cake. If I knew then what I know now, I might not have subscribed to the whole “maid of honour/bridesmaid” nonsense.  Silliness, really.  If I could do it again, I would’ve made my own bouquet.

If I could step back in time two years, I might think it over a little harder, a little longer…

DSC_0349 SEPIA

…but if I could do it again, I totally would.

Happy Second Anniversary, Poor Kyle.  I hope our lives turn out like this.  Let’s make it happen, kay?

Posted in in all seriousness, introspection, looking back, Married Life, Poor Kyle, wedding | Tagged | Comments Off on Times Two

Charles P. Wiggins the Third Goes On to Save the World

by Camille Posted on October 17, 2009

CharlesPChapter3

***This is the third chapter of the saga of Charles P. Wiggins the Third.  If you’re new here, or just need a refresher, you can read Chapters One and Two here and here, respectively.***

Charles P. Wiggins the Third was faced with an awful decision.  As a writer, it had become necessary for him to choose between the fondest desire of his heart—writing happy, jolly tales—or selling out to The Man and his cohorts by writing tales of the most deplorable nature…epic tragedies.

To comprehend the breadth of this painful contradiction, it is necessary to understand that Charles P. Wiggins the Third was a writer of impeccable character.  He considered himself a real moral crusader, and always aimed to write what he thought, without apologies.  Whenever his words were set to be printed, he always took a moment to ask himself, in deep reflection, “Charles?  Can you foresee a time when you will regret that these words hit mainstream media?  Or in other words, if you publish this, are you sure you won’t ever be sorry?”  If the answer was no—as it usually was—he would tip his hat to the printer as a gentlemanly sign to carry on, good chap. {That’s what he would say—“Carry on, good chap.” Oh, didn’t you know? Charles P. Wiggins the Third always spoke with a British accent, even though he was born and raised in Des Moines, Iowa.  He was inexplicable that way.}

The only time he ever answered “Yes” to this question, he failed to follow his inner insight and went ahead with the printing.  Needless to say, Charles P. Wiggins the Third lived to regret that decision, and swore he would never make that mistake again.

So you see, for a writer so convicted to his principles as Charles P. Wiggins the Third, he almost would rather starve than compromise his beliefs.  If he felt it necessary to write of cheer, it was not an easy task to force himself to do otherwise.

So he put off deciding, but it could not wait for long.  Charles P. Wiggins the Third had just finished memorising every classical piano solo ever written, and finally perfected the art of baking souffles, when a thought entered his mind.  So brilliant—so clever, so witty, so utterly and consummately perfect—was this idea, this solution to his problem, that Charles P. Wiggins the Third could not restrain himself from letting out a gleeful yelp and raising his fist in triumph:

Charles PChapter3.2Charles P. Wiggins had figured it out.

Charles PChapter3.3He recalled his grandaddy, Charles P. Wiggins the First, sitting down by the fireplace at Wiggins Manor, taking Charles the Third onto his arthritic knee and declaring, in a warbly voice so typical of old old men, “Now, sonny…you must always remember that the only thing to fear in this life…is fear itself.” That quote has since been attributed to Franklin D. Roosevelt after the very worst of the Great Depression, but of course presidents have been using speech writers for years and years, and Charles P. Wiggins the Third comes from a long, long line of very brilliant writers.  So it was his grandaddy who said it first, and Charles P. Wiggins the Third dares you to say otherwise.  Naturally.

Here was his plan: He would give the people what they wanted; that is, he would give the people what they thought they wanted.  He would write a book, a happy book, to his own specifications, but the cover would be fashioned after the very saddest of sad books.  Charles, knowing that people generally judge the books they buy off of the covers they see, even went so far as to call his masterpiece The Very Sad Book, because sometimes you just really have to feed it to people, and Charles knew it.

Charles PChapter3.4And, of course…people went crazy about it.

But it was not so straightforward as that.  Nothing ever is with Charles.  Inside his book, The Very Sad Book, he wrote words that actually were… well… happy.  People didn’t realise it at first, so caught up were they in their thirst for tragedy, but as they continued to read the book, page by page and chapter by chapter, they found themselves feeling happy.  Lighthearted.  Better than they’d felt in ages.  Ten years younger, even.

Charles PChapter3.7

Thus, we learn that we CAN judge a book by it’s cover, but it’s better if we don’t.  Charles P. Wiggins the Third said that.

Charles PChapter3.5

When people realised they were reading uplifting words and actually enjoyed it, they began telling their friends.  They blogged about it, tweeted about it, Facebooked it, and everything.  Before long, viral marketing had catapulted The Very Sad Book to becoming a #1 Best Seller; to prove it, every copy in stores received a shiny new sticker on the cover.

Charles PChapter3.6

People were enamoured with Charles P. Wiggins the Third.  They lined up in front of bookstores to purchase his book on days he was scheduled for signings.  Some even slept overnight to maintain their position as first in line.  It was absurd, and utterly delicious.

Charles PChapter3.8The work of brilliance was the making-point of Charles’s career.  He hired an agent who booked speaking tours for the author.  He lectured at college campuses across the country, trying his darnedest to motivate others to do as well for themselves as he had.  He was in great demand both near and far, and there was even talk of a deal with Oprah.  (That last part was only speculation, and nothing ever came of it, but you know you’ve just about arrived when there’s talk of you appearing on Oprah.)

Charles PChapter3.9

…And so it happened that Charles P. Wiggins the Third went on to change the world.

Charles PChapter3.1

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Seriously Quacked

by Camille Posted on October 15, 2009

Since school started a month ago, I have been a very fragmented blog-person.  {I don’t even use the term “blogger” to describe myself anymore.  I’m not a true blogger.  I’m just a person who blogs occasionally, and poorly at that.  A blog-person.}

What is a fragmented blog-person, you ask?  I will answer that question by describing what a fragmented blog-person isn’t.  (Can you tell school has taken a toll on my critical thinking skillz?  So sorry for that.  Also too, I’m sorry I just typed “skills” with a z.  I don’t even like the letter z.  I don’t use it in words that are supposed to have a z, like realise and [brain lapse…], so why would I go out of my way to use it where it clearly does not belong?  I do apologise.  Oh!  Apologise.  That’s another one.)

Anyway, a fragmented blog-person is not a cool, collected, organised person.  Bloggers like that—cool and collected—frequently plan out their scheduled posts weeks in advance, work on their photographs to correspond with said posts, and never publish posts with typos.  I am not that way on a good morning, let alone after long days of wading through oceans of literary bullsh*t in an attempt to better myself and someday land a paying job with my shiny degree in English.  So now, under the strains of a semester that seems much more intense than the last one, I am an even more fragmented blogger than normal.

This is all just a really long, roundabout way (fragmented, remember?) of getting to the point—the point being, I have a slew of pictures saved up on my camera from all sorts of occasions over the past month that I’ve been meaning to blog about, and none of them actually made their way into real posts, so now you get the joy—yes, joy—of seeing them all vomited up in one giant post, just so I can get them out of the recesses of my mind and move on with my life.

Lucky you.

1.  I bought all my own birthday presents this year. (Poor Kyle couldn’t be bothered.)  One of them included the SteamTek™ steam mop that is currently sitting on the selves at our local Costco.

pub_steamtekImage from here.

I’m going to write an entire review of this product (UN-SPONSORED, thankyouverymuch [though if anyone does want to sponsor a review of any product, I am totally open to suggestions.  You buy, I’ll fly.]), but for now, I’ll leave it at this preview:

Filthy Kitchen FloorsThis was my kitchen floor BEFORE using the SteamTek™ steam mop.  I may or may not have saved up the filth for an entire month in anticipation of my birthday gift.  And it may or may not have been the most blessed month of my life.

2.  We almost sold our house last month. In preparation for this grand event which never happened, I first visited my doctor to beg for a prescription of Prozac, and when he denied me, I visited the local mercantile for my version of hard liquor (a 12-pack of DDP), which I took home drank in its entirety during the longest basement descent ever known to man.  Seriously: I stopped at each step, sat down to drink a DDP, and then proceeded to the next step, where I sat down to nurse another DDP.  And then another step, and another DDP.  Step after step, thirteen in a row.  It took me five hours.  Why all the dramatics?  Because.  BECAUSE…I had to deal with this:

Storage Room Before1Our much-dreaded, completely unnavigable storage room, where all the homeless boxes ended up from my move to Canada TWO YEARS AGO.  It has gradually acquired more and more worthless crap that we can’t seem to throw away, but for which we really have neither place nor use.  There’s not even a door on it to sufficiently hide my shame. It was pretty much a nightmare, and nothing has compelled me to deal with it over the past two years—not house guests, not even parties—until the faced with the threat of a home inspector coming in and instantly docking $100,000.000 off the value of our house because of it.  Again, this will be a post in itself, and trust me: you won’t want to miss it.  If I had been a recovering heroine addict, this room would’ve sent me straight back to rehab.

3.  In what is now officially the clumsiest moment of my life, I spilled three days’ worth of M*A*C foundation down my bathroom sink.

Spilled MACI used up as much of it as I could, but you know, there’s only so much foundation a respectable girl can slather on her face before she begins to resemble a whore.  What I could not manage to put back in the bottle, I rinsed away in the sink with weepy tears streaming down my face (and thus defeating the purpose of foundation in the first place).  That was, like, seventy-five cents worth of really good makeup I was literally POURING down the drain.  Woe was me.

4.  It snowed.  Heavily.  On October 11th.  And 12th. The leaves on the trees had not even fully turned to beautiful colours like they normally do, and then BAM!  They were all dead in heaping brown masses underneath the trees.  All the trees. In the entire city.  May I remind you that fall colouring is one of the two reasons I live in Canada (the other being Poor Kyle, and it’s a good thing he gives amazing back rubs, or I would SO be out of here)?  I have never felt so gypped in all my life.

October SnowThe ducks hadn’t even had time to fly south for the winter.  They were flapping about in an enormous flurry, landing there on the one sliver of pond that hadn’t frozen over, completely flabbergasted with their unfortunate fate.  I overheard one duck say to her husband, “But Edwin!  In THIS weather?  We haven’t fattened up the kids for the flight!  We’ll catch our deaths of cold, and that will be the end of us!  I just don’t understand how this could happen—THE LEAVES AREN’T EVEN YELLOW YET!  QUAAACK!“ I totally knew what she was talking about.  Quack back atcha, Mrs. Duck.

So, yeah.  Remember that thing I said about being a fragmented blog-person?

The end.

Posted in blogger finger, Canada, failures, fiascos, It's All Good, mediocrity, oh brother what next, snow, thisandthat | Tagged | Comments Off on Seriously Quacked

A Brief Redirect

by Camille Posted on October 14, 2009

Oh, hello.  Were you stopping by my blog in hope of a post today?  I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’ll have to click that mouse just once more before you can hear the sweet sweet nectar of my e-voice.

I guest posted today for RatalieNose at her blog, EverybodyNose, though out of spite, I really shouldn’t have, because she’s frolicking in SoCal, while I’m stuck shoveling the snow to get out of my truck and drive to a university that DOES NOT RECOGNISE OCTOBER BREAK, which, hello, is TOTALLY a national holiday.  Wretched university.

If you want to read it, you’ll have to click HERE.

Thanks kindly.

—cpsf

p.s.  COMMENTS ARE OPEN AT EVERYBODYNOSE!  Such a novelty, right?  I know.

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In Which Everything I Thought I Knew About Fashion Comes Into Question.

by Camille Posted on October 13, 2009

**Updated to add: Apparently, when closing my comments, it is necessary to click that option every time I post.  The comments are still closed, but Lauren squeezed one in before I realised my error.  You can all read it—it’s a lovely comment, and thanks, Lauren, for leaving it—but they are now closed.  Sorry for the confusion.***

It has come to my attention that I am a fashion ignoramus.

Chicken Wing

I mean, I’ve always known I am not trendy—I don’t have any sort of motivation to exhaust myself by keeping up with “what’s hot and what’s not.”  I feel tired—literally, sleepy—after reading one fashion magazine, but there are people who devote their lives, their ENTIRE LIVES, to the gods of fashion.

And I understand how important it is to look nice, pretty, presentable, whatever.  To look good, right?  I can see the value in that.  But apparently, looking nice is SO last year, and therefore, my already-limited style knowledge is completely null and void.

Because SERIOUSLY?  THESE FASHION BLOGS I HAVE STUMBLED UPON LATELY?

I don’t get them. Is there some sort of unwritten fashion rule that says in order to be truly fashion-forward, you must start a blog and—at some point—post photos of totally nekkid women that you find inspiring?  Because that seems to be a recurring theme among these female fashion bloggers.

But more than just the nekkid women posts, the blogs are just plain confusing.

First, there’s Luxirare.  Probably of all the fashion blogs, Luxirare is the one I understand the most, which is saying a lot because this:

LuxirareThis, I do not get. Okay, okay, so she designs and creates all her own clothes, and she really does do some pretty amazing things with food, but as far as the fashion goes?  I would never wear that.  And moreover, I don’t think it’s very inspired, as so many people are swearing up and down on their mothers’ souls.  As for me, my mother deserves better than that.  Image from here.

But at least she lives in New York and has a right to be a little eccentric.

Red Sweater

…the same cannot be said for Jane Aldridge from Sea of Shoes, who is a senior in high school living in Texas with her parents.  Pictured here (image from her blog), she is wearing a red sequined sweater that looks exactly like one I had back in 1989—I wore it to get pictures on Santa’s lap one Christmas, and if I’d known how trendy it would be twenty years later, I totally wouldn’t have let it shrink in the dryer.

But aside from her red sweater, Jane usually does have some cool-looking outfits to showcase.  The problem is that…she’s just…UNRELATABLE.  Her most recent post, for example, documented how she and her mom rushed right over to Neiman Marcus because the sales associate there had called to let them know the new Proenza boots were in, and would Miss Aldridge like to set an appointment to see them?  HELLO, YES!  So in a rush, she throws together an outfit comprised of fantastic Margiela boots she’d gotten in New York last month on sale for only $180!!!, plus a vintage Adolfo hand-painted leather skirt her mom scored from eBay™, and an orange turtleneck—the perfect combination for a lovely day at Neiman Marcus.  Once there, they couldn’t resist a pair or two of the Proenzas, plus a pair of Louboutins for good measure, and by the end of the post which also may or may not have mentioned some amazing Guccis made of industrial-strength leather, I was all WHAT THE EFF IS GOING ON HERE?  When I was a senior in high school, my sister and I split the cost of one pair of Doc Martins between the two of us because they were quite expensive, and they were, like, $30.00 at Savers.  {That’s a thrift store, for those of you in Texas who are on a first-name basis with both Neiman AND Marcus.}

I mean, I’ve heard of Gucci and Louboutin {what good English major hasn’t read The Devil Wears Prada and Bergdorf Blondes?}, but Proenza?  Margiela?  Are you kidding me?  Her mom couldn’t resist this pair of pony hair leopard print Louboutin boots:

Louboutin Leopard Print BootsWith a price tag of $1,375.00.

And I’m all, I know it would be really hard to try and resist such a stunning pair of poopoo-caca shoes, but ONE THOUSAND, THREE HUNDRED SEVENTY FIVE DOLLARS really is a *bit* more than I was planning on spending today, Neiman.  Perhaps next week after I’VE VOMITED UP ALL THE GROCERIES I’VE CONSUMED SINCE THE DAY WAS BORN, TAKEN THEM BACK TO GROCERY OUTLET™ WITH MY ORIGINAL RECEIPTS, AND RETURNED THEM FOR A FULL CASH REFUND…maybe then I’ll be back to buy the leopard boots.

Inasmuch as the $1,375.00 pair of shoes were only an impulse buy/secondary purchase and not the true goal of the shopping adventure, I cannot even FATHOM the final bill of that shopping trip.  It would have very likely funded my entire college education—plus an allowance for books, pens, and DDP—and I don’t mean just this semester.  Maybe I should get in good with that family and see if they’d be interested in donating to my scholarship fund.

Of course, I cannot begrudge a rich girl just because she’s rich.  You know?  If I was rich, I’d probably blog about Neiman and Marcus, too, and all the good times we have getting fitted for custom-made Chanel dresses on an all-expenses paid trip to Paris.  {By the way, have you ever noticed how it’s always the rich people who get free stuff?  Hello, they can afford to fly to Paris for a quick weekend getaway—GIVE THE FREE STUFF TO ME!  POVERTY-STRICKEN ME!  I DESERVE PARIS FOR FREE!}  It’s just…I’m not rich.  I’m jealous.  Really, of the three of the bloggers I’m talking about today, Jane does seem to have the best grasp on how to look presentable in public.

Unfortunately, that statement does not apply to 13 year-old Tavi, author of Style Rookie, toast of seven continents and inspiration to every fashion guru walking the earth at this very moment.  Tavi has become hugely popular as of late, and has recently been featured in all kinds of fashion magazines, hailed by designers and models alike as the greatest inspiration to fashion since who-knows-what (I’m a fashion idiot, remember?), and I’m not even kidding: I just spent two hours on her blog reading post after post after post trying to figure out whether or not this is an enormous joke that the entire internet is playing on ME, like there’s someone who’s gonna jump out with googly eyes when I click the next link and say, “APRIL FOOL’S!”  Because this is what Tavi wears:

Tavi1

Tavi2

Tavi3

tavimarc-1All images from Style Rookie.

And I DO NOT GET IT.  I mean, is that it? All I had to do to become a world-renowned blogger was to continue dressing as a three year-old all through junior high and high school?  Dang, how EASY.  And at first I felt bad saying that, because really, she’s only 13, and I don’t want to hurt her feelings, and then I thought YES!  THAT’S IT!  THAT’S why everyone is making all the fuss—NOBODY WANTS TO HURT HER FEELINGS.

Even still, I do feel bad, because I think I would really like her if I met her (not that she would like me, after all I’m saying about her style).  I mean, I respect any person with the confidence to wear crap like that, I really do.  She really does employ some witty humour, and her sense of self seems solid as a rock.  Plus, she sounds amazingly smart for someone so…young.  She walks around saying things like, “I know Louis Vuitton was ridiculous but I can’t bring myself to hate it,” and people who say stuff like that are guaranteed to land a sweet job at some amazing magazine in New York by the time they’re 18, so really, I should just jump on the bandwagon and agree with everyone that she’s amazing.  She’ll probably be the president of the United States in 20 years, and then I’ll be sorry.

But not really, because here’s my thought: BLOG.  Blog away, if you want, Tavi.  Blog about life, about friends, school, your clothes.  Blog, blog, blog.  But DON’T mess with my brain and get everyone to say how inspired your outfits are when in actuality, I wore the same thing for every Halloween from 1998 to 2001—those pivotal years of my life when I thought it was HILARIOUS to dress up as a bag lady slash hobo.

It hurts my head.  It makes me confused.  I don’t know what’s up from down anymore.  So wait—SHOULD I wear every headband in my accessories drawer on my one head today?  According to Tavi and, apparently, the rest of the world, yes.

Resoundingly.  Yes.

Posted in blogger finger, fashion people, It's All Good, oh brother what next, what I'm about | 2 Comments

Thanksgiving Weekend

by Camille Posted on October 12, 2009

It’s Thanksgiving today in Canada, and I’ve just enjoyed two solid days of delicious family dinners.

I tell you what, there is no more comforting food in my life than a nice mound of mashed potatoes with a nest in the middle for my peas (or corn, if necessary) and a cesspool of gravy.

Poor Kyle can’t stand the thought of eating peas in the same bite as mashed potatoes, but as for me, I don’t even bother eating mashed potatoes if I can’t crunch down on a few peas at the same time.  Poor Kyle, in case you couldn’t tell, is not a food mixer.  He eats very systematically—all the mashed potatoes and gravy, all the peas, all the green bean casserole, and finally, all the turkey (saving the best for last, of course).  Me, I dip my turkey in gravy and acquire a few peas along the way, and if some stuffing sneaks its way into my salad, well, not to worry, it probably just adds to the flavour (although I don’t care for stuffing and never take any, so that scenario is highly unlikely).

Anyway, it was good to celebrate.

In lieu of the holiday, it seems ungrateful to write about anything else besides what I’m thankful for, so that’s what I’ll do today:

-My family, who loves me so much that when I announced Poor Kyle and I wouldn’t be coming down to Mesa for Christmas due to funding shortfalls, came right back with the announcement that they would make up the difference and get us down there no matter what.

-My pride, which I do still have, and the fact that it enabled me to turn down the generous offer.  Because really, no.  But it’s good to be loved.

-My husband, who thinks I’m silly for going to school when I don’t really want to, but who nevertheless does not utter a word of complaint about my exorbitant tuition fees every October and February for what feels like the rest of my life.  Also, he supports my blog in a major way, and without his support—his faithful reading, commenting, tech-ing, and spell-checking—I’m sure I would’ve given up ages ago.

-His parents, who are so good to us, and his mom especially, who, really, when I think about it, is my only non-husband friend in this country.  That’s both scary and comforting—comforting, because it’s good to have at least one; and scary, because she’s a snowbird now and will soon be flying south for the winter and then what will I do when I need chocolate?  I’ll have to buy some, I guess.

-Chocolate, which is my constant companion, whether physically or just spiritually—it is the same.  Chocolate is dear to me.

–DDP, specifically the 12-pack with which I had a sordid affair last week, but now is dead and gone.  I will miss you, DDP; I shall never forget the good times we had together in the darkest corner of the university library at the crack of freaking dawn last week.  You made the cold so much more bearable.  I loved you.

-My willpower, which is all I’ve got to get me through the next few weeks of withdrawal pains I’ll be suffering on account of ending the love affair with DDP.  I think I’m addicted, and that’s a scary thing.  So it has to end.

-Spell-check, which just alerted me that “withdrawal” is spelled “withdrawAl,” whereas all my life I thought it was “withDRAWL,” and you know, that’s just unsettling.  But at the same time, it’s good to know the proper form.

-Bobby pins.

And lastly…

Burt's Bees Pomegranate Lip Balm

-Burt’s Bees Pomegranate Lip Balm, which makes summer more joyful and winter more hopeful.  Without it, I would be lost in the world, with very chapped lips to boot.  Please, Burt’s Bees, don’t ever discontinue this product.  I beg you.

Oh, and one more thing.  It sounds so cliche, but really, I am so thankful for the health I enjoy, and for the good health of my family.  It might not always be this way—health is a fast-changing condition, I’ve learned—so right this minute, when everyone I love dearly is alive and fairly well, I want to remember what it’s like, because who knows how long it will last?  My blog-friend Alexa is struggling with her husband in ICU right now, and he’s so young—what, just 25?  That’s younger than my own husband.  I’m not quite sure what sent him there in the first place, but since he’s been there, he’s suffered a stroke and has lost the use of half his body.  Temporarily, permanently, the details are fuzzy, but I’ve been so worried about them ever since I heard.  It’s the first time I’ve ever been compelled to pray for a blog friend—I’ve never had a relationship or “connection” with any blogger who has asked for prayers, but this one has weighed heavily on my mind.  If you know Alexa or read her blog, please be thinking of her during this hard time.

Posted in Canada, family, introspection | Comments Off on Thanksgiving Weekend