Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Not quite wallowing

I'm indulging in a little self-sympathy. Not self-pity; I know a lot of people are dealing with a lot of crap at any given time in the world and my life, from the outside AND the inside, is really quite nice. But I saw the sleep doctor a couple of days ago, and he went over the readout from my overnight sleep study with me, and by all appearances I have gotten very little 'useful' sleep over the past thirty years or so. I stop breathing multiple times a minute. There are four stages of sleep and before they gave me the mask and the CPAP machine I never made it past the second. Even when I feel like asleep, I'm often not, or not in any kind of healthy, meaningful, refreshing way.

So I'm just taking a moment to feel some sympathy for that me that spent so much time wondering why I could never wake up in the morning. Why I couldn't just get up and have breakfast and go about my day normally, rather than sleeping until the last possible second in order to be ready for the first scheduled thing, then rushing around and feeling like a slothful, lazy failure. Why I would sometimes throw up if I had to get up much earlier than usual. Why everyone else, even if they complained about it, seemed not to dread every single morning as if it was a pitched battle.

It's a little shocking, the list of things that are adversely affected by this - then again it's not, because Jesus, it's sleep, sleep is really fucking important. It skyrockets your risk of heart attack, stroke, type 2 diabetes (and not just by adding weight, but in some other mysterious circuitous fashion). It contributes to depression and sexual dysfunction. It can lead to irritability, impaired cognitive function and loss of short-term memory, sometimes to the point where dementia is diagnosed ( and I always blamed the children -- sorry, kids!) The sleep doc (who I now and forever love and honour and adore) made a point of telling me that I didn't have this because I was overweight, but because of the size of my palate and the shape of my throat and airway. Then he said that severe chronic fatigue leads to heightened appetite and that the increased strain at night adds to increased sugar production - are you hearing this? Not only is this not my fault because I'm fat, IT MIGHT BE THE REASON I'M FAT). He looked directly at me and said "You have a severe sleeping problem, and it's not your fault." Then he asked me politely to remove my arms from around his neck and get out of his lap.

I'm still balanced on the double edge. What if I didn't have this, or had addressed it sooner? How different would my life have been? Would I have been a better student? Would I have a better employment history? Would I have been a better mother? Would I have felt less like I was stumbling through the first few years of parenthood, barely conscious? Would I have had more children?

You can't think like that, right? Sure, it would have been nice to have a couple more conscious hours every day. But I was a good student. I am a good mother. And I can't say I would have wanted my life to be materially different. All things considered, I am fortunate and grateful to have ended up with this life, these friends, this husband, these children. Maybe not this ass, but hey, if it goes with the territory.....

So I'm taking a few minutes to sympathize with my past self. And then I'm going to try to move forward. To sleep. Perchance to dream.




Monday, September 24, 2012

Mondays on the Margins: blog tour for The Deception of Livvy Higgs

"For two traumatic days, Livvy Higgs is besieged by a series of small heart attacks while the ghost of her younger self leads her back through a past devastated by lies and secrets.

The story opens in Halifax in 2009, travels back to the French Shore of Newfoundland during the mid-thirties and the heyday of the Maritime shipping industry, makes its way to wartorn Halifax during the battle of the Atlantic in World War II, then leaps ahead to the bedside of the elder Livvy.

Caught between a troubled past, and her present and worsening living conditions, Livvy is forced to pick apart the lies and secrets told by her greedy, prideful father, Durwin Higgs, who judges her a failure, and her formidable Grandmother Creed, who has mysteriously aligned herself with Livvy's father, despite their mutual hatred.

Tending to Livvy during her illness is her young next-door neighbour, Gen, a single mother and social-work student. Overnight, a violent scene embroils the two in each other's lives in a manner that will entwine them forever. In The Deception of Livvy Higgs, the inimitable Morrissey has written a powerful tale, the Stone Angel of the East Coast."


I've read Donna Morrissey's Sylvanus Now, and I've had What They Wanted on my shelf for months. Once I started reading this book, I couldn't put it down; I was particularly impressed with Morrissey's rendering of setting in the first book I read, and that holds with this one, which takes place both in Halifax in 2009 and on the French Shore of Newfoundland during the mid-thirties. If I close my eyes now and think of the book I can take myself there, standing on a rock with salt spray misting my face, hearing the exuberant mix of French and English voices.

The characters are equally solid and memorable. Livvy, kind but instinctively mistrustful. Livvy's mother, thwarted, unhappy and angry at the lost promise of her marriage. Livvy's father, nursing a years-old rage at the perceived wrongful death of his own father. The immense, boisterous, loving Louis family who takes Livvy in as one of their own. Livvy's Grandmother Creed, who seems eager to make up for her mistakes with Livvy's mother. There is fierce fighting between family members and between nationalities, based in grief and fear and feelings of injustice.

I swear to God, before I read that part about this being The Stone Angel of the East Coast, I wrote "Livvy Higgs as an eightyish old woman reminded me very faintly of Hagar Shipley in The Stone Angel by Margaret Laurence - cantankerous, intractable, indomitable." I like the way Morrissey's family secrets are not melodramatic ones involving murder or other convoluted plot devices, but instead are all traceable back to good old-fashioned human frailties -- envy, greed, insecurity -- which have incredibly far-reaching and destructive consequences. Even the present-day "violent scene" involving Livvy and her neighbour is more pedestrian than the jacket copy  makes it seem - and I mean 'pedestrian' in a good way.

I love Morrissey's writing because it isn't about bells and whistles. It's about translating her love for a place and a people into stories like this.

Memorable quotes:

-"I close my ears. I'm too tired for company and too old for ghosts. If there's one good thing age has taken from me, it's the burden of memories. In the past eighty years they've burned themselves out, leaving little more than a spattering of images that dim and glow like embers in the receding path of the fire they once were."

-"I chase after Mother down the yellow sand beach of Sables d'Or....She walks till she's tired. Then she stands tippytoe atop a rock and holds out her arms like wings, her hair trailing a burnished windstream behind her, her eyes filled with sky."

-"Father walks out the door towards his shed as Mother starts pushing things around on the sink, neither of them moving too quickly as though they, too, felt the stillness in that broken moment, felt the fear of time stopping and having to restart, throwing things off with its tremor and nothing ever matching onto itself again."

-"But mostly I think of Henri, and continue walking home, stroking the petals of his smile."

-"'Picking a flag's no joke, Livvy. The minute you settle on one, you spend the rest of your life serving it, else you're a traitor or a coward. Which fecks me good because I'm everyone's feckin' brother, uncle or cousin. Gawd-damn,' he ends in wonder."

This book was reviewed on Serendipitious Readings on September 18th, A Bookworm's World on September 19th, Stitch Read Cook on September 20th,  Nicole About Town on September 21st, and will be reviewed on Words at Home tomorrow.

*Disclosure: I received a review copy of the book from Penguin Canada. Opinions are my own.














Friday, September 21, 2012

Sleepover From Hell

First of all, smooshes and kisses to everyone who shared their own stories of official-document-related failures. I have to apologize to my husband for getting irate whenever he answers one of my own laments about my personal flaws with a consoling statement that starts with "if it makes you feel any better" and ends with his own or someone else's defects or missteps. I frequently bark something like "do you really think I'm so small and petty a person that someone else's screw-up will make me feel better about my own?" Well, friends, it turns out that I AM PRECISELY THAT SMALL AND PETTY A PERSON.

So I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening making supper, hanging with the kids and cleaning out another shelf of the downstairs storage closet (related: somebody remind me never to buy glue sticks again EVER). Then I packed my overnight bag and hugged the kids good-bye - Eve was very unhappy about this whole state of affairs (join the club). I left myself a little time for the almighty fuckery that is  every hospital parking lot, since I'd never actually parked there. As usual, the signs were less than no help, and I drove around getting increasingly annoyed and worried, ending up at the delivery entrance and in the staff parking lot before I found a geriatric pick-up 15-minute spot and went in to ask the lady at information where the hell I was supposed to park. She was very nice and called me 'Sweetie', which I might have found funny at any other time but at this point it was REALLY NICE, okay? Turns out I was confused because I could park right near the front door. At a hospital. I mean, what the hell kind of sense does THAT make?

I went up to the Sleep Lab and rang the doorbell. The technician, a nice friendly man named Fraser, let me in and took me right to my room. Without asking for my Health Card. I asked him - begged him, really - to look at my Health Card, but he really wasn't interested in anything but getting down to business (when I told this to Hannah, she sent me this link, which thank goodness I didn't have in my head right then, because things were weird enough.)

I changed into my pajamas - shorts, tank top and a sports bra because I didn't want the infrared camera to catch my boob falling out and commit suicide by blown fuse or something. Then we went across the hall so Fraser could attach seventeen sensors to various body parts, after using a swab to scrape off four or five layers of skin first. While he was doing this, I was beside two computers that were monitoring the brain waves of Snoring Woman and Coughing Man. Snoring Woman was off in Dreamland, but Coughing Man was having trouble drifting off, and I kept asking Fraser if he was asleep yet, and he would show me which brain waves meant what, which was cool.

Fraser said that if they found evidence of Sleep Apnea, they would have me back to spend another night and try a CPAP machine, which made me die inside a little. Then he said that if the readings were bad enough that they were absolutely sure what the doctor would say, they could possibly wake me up after a couple hours and try the machine tonight. He asked if this would be agreeable to me and I said something noncommittal like 'OH HELL YES'. Then he said not to worry if they didn't do it tonight, it didn't mean there was no evidence of apnea, just that they had to wait for the doctor. I was pretty confident I'd be seeing Fraser again in a couple of hours.

We went back to my room and he plugged all the sensors into a little machine on the bedside table and then strapped a thing around my head with nasal prongs and a thing in front of my mouth to monitor breathing. Then he left and I laid there feeling stupid and uncomfortable for a couple of hours. Then I fell asleep.

Some unspecified amount of time later, Fraser knocked on the door, came in and said "yeah, we're gonna try the machine because my head is about to explode from watching you almost sleep for ten or fifteen seconds and then gasp yourself awake", or something to that effect. So now I had seventeen sensors plus a mask over my nose and 'headgear' to secure it, which was just a strap, but I think I actually whimpered when he said "we secure it with this headgear".

It took me even longer to fall asleep. Fraser woke me up at six and said things were definitely better with the mask. Then he gave me a ridiculous survey to fill out, asking how long I thought it had taken me to fall asleep, how many times I thought I'd woken up, what I remembered about my dreams and if I remembered what had woken me up this morning (I wrote "Fraser - duh!" - try not to judge, I was working on about 3.5 hours of sleep).

So now I contact a supplier and borrow a machine for a month and then decide if I want to buy one. This is pretty much a no-brainer, although I confess I'm feeling a distinct sense of loss and grief along with the hope and gratitude. I'm not sure if this is just my personal weirdness, or if it's normal. All I could think, lying there trying to breathe more-or-less regularly, was that this is the end of sleep as a normal, natural activity. Now sleep means having this alien extrusion attached to me. I had visions of my kids being scared when they come in to wake me in the middle of the night after a bad dream. And in the unlikely (really, very extremely unlikely, well-nigh impossible) eventuality of my ending up single again, well, forget ever sleeping with anyone ever again EVER. Then again, presumably the hideous clamour of my spasmodically collapsing airways were never going to be a huge turn-on anyway. And I hardly ever find myself dozing off attractively in a flower-filled glade. And truthfully, my kids will probably think the damned machine is totally cool.  So the fact is that, after I have time to get used to it, this will be a good thing. It will. Completely. Which is nice because he's good at his job and everything, but I never want to see goddamned Fraser again.


Wednesday, September 19, 2012

I will find the bright side if it kills me

Do you ever play the 'bad news, good news' game with your personality flaws? You know: Sure, you procrastinate about putting things away, but on the bright side, when Christmas rolls around again the decorations are right here! Or, yes, maybe you watch too many movies, but consequently you never miss an entertainment question in Trivial Pursuit?

I have my overnight sleep assessment at the hospital tonight. As if I'm not nervous enough about this already, I realized abruptly at around one o'clock this afternoon that my health card expired on my birthday back in June, and I still hadn't renewed it. I don't have a good excuse for this, so let me give you the pathetic one: my birthday is in the mid-June, which puts it smack in the middle of all the end-of-school craziness, and then it was summer, which, come on! Summer! Baseball! Travel! Drinking! Driving without a license! Yeah, I did manage to remedy that one, whereupon I discovered that my other excuse - that the Service Ontario office is in a really annoying-to-access area - was groundless, since a new one had opened really close to my house. If I had been more on the ball, I would have renewed my health card while I was there for my license, but I had Eve with me and I wasn't sure I had all the right documents, so I thought I'd do it when school started. Pam's birthday is in early September, and I thought we could go renew her license and my health card at the same time and then have lunch! It was a plan! It occupied prime space in my mind! I wouldn't forget, right?

Have you ever read the book Gremlins that the movie was based on? There's something about the main character telling a friend that he NEEDS to go by and tell the person who's watching the little furry things that turn into gremlins that he MUST NOT feed them after midnight. I think the friend's name was Pete. The very next chapter contains two words: Pete forgot.

I forgot.

I was, in fact, in possession of the expired health card when I went for my initial appointment at the Sleep clinic. I was planning to pretend I didn't realize it was expired, act shocked and dismayed when they pointed it out, and throw myself on their mercy. As it turns out, they didn't even mention it or seem to notice. I considered it odd but fortunate, especially since I would certainly have long renewed it before my actual overnight stay.

Yeah.

So I think, no problem. There's still time to go this afternoon. Which is good, considering it's me, because I have a thing about having to plan whether I'm leaving the house or not the day before, so the fact that I could contemplate a totally unplanned excursion and not immediately withdraw to under a table or inside a Buffy marathon shows huge growth.

I was trying to proceed quickly now, to make sure I was home by the time the kids got home from school. So naturally every computer in the house immediately became hideously, gleefully uncooperative. I couldn't find the list of required documents. I couldn't print the renewal form. I couldn't find my passport (fuck off, it is SO the computer's fault). I checked my husband's rolltop desk where we always keep them and it wasn't there. I had the fleeting thought that I had had it in my purse for New York, but surely, SURELY I would never be so irresponsible and careless as to still be carrying it around in my purse when I am fully aware that I am a person who frequently, ceaselessly, LOSES STUFF. I checked my purse anyway. It wasn't there.

I grabbed a hydro bill and I knew I had my driver's license and a credit card, and I still couldn't find the list of documents, so I decided to go, on the chance that I didn't actually need my passport.

I got there and looked at the pamphlet and realized that, of course, I DID need the fucking passport. My shoulders sagged in defeat and I was about to turn around and go back home. Then I thought, well how much MORE stupid will I feel if I realize that I was here WITH my passport in my purse and didn't realize it. Not to mention that, on the chance that the clinic wouldn't let me do my overnight with an expired health card, after years of waiting and months of nervous anticipation, I would probably injure myself severely.

So I emptied my entire purse on the counter in the Service Ontario Office. And I found my passport.

Bad news: I'm a careless, forgetful, disorganized moron. Good news: I have a renewed health card.






Monday, September 17, 2012

Mondays on the Margins: Out of the Box: The Mostly True Story of a Mysterious Man

I should have paid closer attention to the description of this book before I accepted a copy to review. Bob Harris sounded like a character with some interesting stories to tell, which he is. However, I would never have taken a copy if I'd seen that it was billed as 'creative non-fiction'.

I have a problem with creative non-fiction. Well, I don't have a problem with non-fiction writing being creative, I have a problem with 'creative non-fiction' as a genre, since it seems to indicate to me that an author is saying "I want to write something that is non-fiction until I feel like making stuff up, and then it will be partly fictional non-fiction". I guess this is better than the authors who claim that they are writing non-fiction and then make parts up without admitting it, but still... I don't see the point. If you want to write fiction, write fiction. If you want to write non-fiction, stick to the facts and use your writing to make it creative.

I'm willing to admit that this is my issue. Still Life With June, a book I loved, written by Canadian author Darren Greer, contains a character named Darrel Greene, and this bugs me. Darren Greer came to the book club meeting in which we discussed his book, and I asked him about this, and about another part where the narrator lists various pseudonyms he's written under, and one of them is the author's own: Darren said it's just a way of being playful with the conventions of fiction. And hey, I'm all for playful, I don't want to be the Victorian no-play-allowed governess, but.... I just think it's dumb. I feel the same way about novels that have prologues where it is purported that the manuscript was found in a locked trunk or something, and we're supposed to giggle and nod and pretend like we might believe it's a TRUE STORY. A good work of fiction, in my opinion, doesn't need this pretext of 'reality' -- its truth comes from a different place. Likewise, a good piece of non-fiction shouldn't need fictional embellishment.

Added to my instinctive dislike of the fictional 'framing device' is the fact that said device is fairly clumsy and doesn't seem to serve the author's stated purpose of adding 'flow and continuity'. On the back of the book, the fictional 'niece' Julianna, is said to have suffered from a form of arthritis that kept her bedridden for much of her youth before she began travelling with her "Uncle" Bob. In the book, this illness is alluded to but never fully described, as if we're supposed to have read the back of the book and then take it as understood. Also, the author (Julie Morse) begins the framing chapters with "I" (Julianna) and then jumps back into Bob's story in succeeding chapters, with "I" (Bob) without bothering to distinguish who is now narrating the story, which is quite confusing. Julianna doesn't travel with Bob all that much in the book. In fact, at one point she's too preoccupied with her own life to accept his invitations for a lengthy period of time. This makes it doubly confusing as to why the author thought the fictional niece was required, as she is less a smooth link between stages of the story than a randomly-inserted cipher.

There's no question that Bob Harris is a well-travelled, charismatic and dauntless character. He has travelled to more countries than I can actually name; he grew up in Chicago during the Depression and learned some life lessons the hard way; he displays a business savvy and a way with people that can't be taught; and there are hints that he might have done some intelligence work (spy stuff). The author does a good job of conveying his charm and joie de vivre. It's hard to think of an appropriate audience for this as anything other than a vanity project for friends and family of the main character; perhaps that's why Morse felt the need to tack on the framing embellishment. Unfortunately, it seems to me that it adds nothing except unnecessary confusion.

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Why my book club conversation will be less than scintillating tonight

My husband's away for a couple of days. The kids were being all cute yesterday. Angus's homework was tangrams - turns out making squares out of triangles and parallelograms is not one of his strengths or mine. Eve's homework was assigning gender to French nouns. Eve is very visual and has a good spatial sense, and Angus has flipped a few French dictionary leaves in his time - at one point I looked over and they had traded homework. I tried not to dwell on the ethical implications.

After homework and piano practice, Eve had about a half hour before bed, so I said she could watch TV in the living room. Instead, she went downstairs where Angus was playing video games and he turned off his game and they watched TV and wrestled. The heartwarming music of their laughter led me to make the exceedingly stupid mistake of agreeing to a family sleepover. Actually, any time Angus still wants to do a family sleepover I get all mushy and amnesiac and I succumb to the Hallmarkness of the moment.

It's all fantastic at the beginning. Eve snuggles into Matt's spot and I drag in the single mattress from the bed that's under Angus's double loft bed - it goes between the bed and the dresser. We read and they chat and giggle. They turn out the light and Angus pretends he doesn't 'mind' Eve's music, when he actually really likes it. Last night I was nodding over my book extra-early, which I thought was good - if I was really tired I would sleep well even with extra company. Right?

I fell asleep hard at about 9:45. I woke up desperately needing to pee and thinking it was probably about 3 a.m. I looked at the clock. It was 11:31. I had the best sleep of the last five years..... for an hour and three-quarters. Then I was awake. Hardcore awake. And my children are not quiet sleepers. There is loud breathing and snoring and tossing and sniffling and grunting. Eve uttered a few phrases at one point, something about rosebuds and pathways and helmets. There's an outside chance she's some kind of sleeper agent and Stephen Harper should keep an extra close eye on the state secrets today. Angus kept flailing his arms and hitting the bed or the dresser.

I tried to think peaceful thoughts. I knew I was still tired, and I tried to deep-breathe my way back to sleepiness. I tried to enjoy the fact that my children wanted to be with me. Then I pointedly rolled Eve back over to her side of the bed and jerked the rolled-up comforter out from under her in a fairly ungentle manner. Which had exactly NO effect. Ten seconds later she was back on my side, elbow in my stomach, snoring contentedly. I debated going to her bed (loft beds are a little beyond me at this point), but I'm really bad at sleeping in beds that aren't mine, and I had visions of them waking up and coming to find me.

Eve got up at ten to seven and I stole twenty more minutes, which she interrupted by coming in to tell me that meet-the-teacher night is October fourth, which she discovered by reading the newsletter that she left beside my computer, because she knew I'd been wondering about it. I said thanks.

Somebody remind me not to let the little buggers fool me with their cuteness again. For at least two or three months.










Monday, September 10, 2012

Festive Folk

Pam and I went to the Folk Festival on a whim last night. Well, to be accurate, I developed a sudden folk festival whim and Pam enabled it. This is why I love Pam. How can anyone live without someone who will do this kind of thing at the last minute? And drive? And deal with her routine-loving son who WASN'T EXPECTING her to go out last night just so I wouldn't have to feel like a dork going all alone?

I always wonder about those people who are walking around the folk festival in tie-dyed bell bottoms or flower-strewn sarongs or asymmetrical fringed garments. They always look so RIGHT and, by comparison, I always feel like a penguin in a flock of starlings. But do these people dress like that all the time, or do they just happen to always have the exact right folk-festival garb in their closet when it rolls around? Do they look right at the folk festival and whacky everywhere else? Is the folk festival the one time they get to wander among their people and feel at home?

We saw some of Amy Helm's show. It was good - her voice was powerful and I liked the music. We couldn't figure out who she was because it was only written on a blackboard right beside the stage, in dark chalk, so even when I walked up fairly close by it wasn't legible. Then we wandered over to the other stage (the stages were way too close together, in my opinion. You could mostly hear the band you were watching, but between songs there was major bleedthrough, and if one band was quieter the other one was really distracting. I don't see how this isn't poor planning, and incredibly distracting and insulting to the performers). We saw about an hour of Belle Star (I love three-part-harmony girl groups. With fiddles.) And then Whitehorse, which I'd never heard of. Except I had, because when I got home and looked them up I realized I had really wanted to see them because they're Luke Doucet and Melissa McClelland, and I love Melissa McClelland, she's all over my ipod). But when I first heard the name, I think I was influenced by the similarity to White Snake, so I was apprehensive. They were awesome. Their voices match perfectly and they're funny and sweet together (they're married) and I love their songwriting.

Also, they said at the beginning that they had just finished a new record so they'd be playing some new songs, which always vexes me slightly when I know the group, but since I didn't it wasn't a factor. But at one point they announced that they were about to play an older song and a man in front of us did a cute air-punch happy-gesture, which reminded me of my friend Collette talking about going into a Wiggles concert with her kids and her husband, who had only ever listened to their first CD and said earnestly, "I hope they play some early stuff!"

While Whitehorse was setting up we wandered across to the artisan-and-snack-section. This brought us past a stage where some odd psychedelic tones were wafting into the cold night air. I don't even know what a sitar is, but it made me think of sitars. I don't particularly like this kind of music - it's formless and ungraspable and makes me feel high - and not in a good way. From the schedule, it looks like it must have been Patrick Watson (ah yes - 'experimental musicianship', that was totally it). Sorry Patrick - it's just not my scene, Dude.

It was cold. I knew it was going to be cold, and yet it's been so long since I've been anything but too hot that I couldn't persuade myself to wear or bring anything heavy or fleece-like. By the time we left, I didn't have the manual dexterity to get my chair back into its bag. I almost couldn't pay for my kettle corn - quarters everywhere! Pam promised not to tell my Mom I was too stubborn to bring a jacket.

I went to the folk festival every year for a while, back before I had both kids - I think the last time I went I was pregnant with Eve. Then we started renting a cottage with my sister, and it was always that week-end, then other stuff happened, and I haven't been for a while. It was lovely to be back, sitting in my chair under the stars, the air crackling with the chill of fall and ringing with exuberant harmony. And faintly fogged with pot.

Friday, September 7, 2012

Two's Company...

I'm just going to have to jump in here with something inconsequential or it's entirely possible that I will never blog again.

When I was in New York at BlogHer with Marilyn, at one point I was going through my swag bag and found a little mini fan sort of like this that had come from the Chrysler party. The bottom had fallen off and the batteries had come out, so I took it out and tried to put it back together. I couldn't see the latch properly where I was standing, so I went over by the lamp, right beside Marilyn who was on her bed looking at her phone, so she could only see what I was doing out of the corner of her eye.

Suddenly she recoiled and said "what are you DOING?" I indicated that her reaction was somewhat out of proportion to what I was, in fact doing... and then I realized that when she saw me, in her peripheral vision fiddling with the fan, she actually thought I was fiddling with this, which we also both had in our bags. And she was merely expressing the fact that she was not up for some sweet lady lovin' at that precise moment.

Hmph.


Monday, September 3, 2012

Watch This Space

I was getting tired of looking at that pitiful political protest post (ha - try saying that three times fast). Both my laptop and my motivation are having some work done. I'll be back.