C'est fini - my last blog post

It's been coming for awhile, but today I have decided.  It's over.  I'm done.

Those who've read this blog for the last 7 years have been with me through the first year of my mother's death, the breakup of my long term relationship, buying and selling many houses, having a litter of puppies and keeping half of them.  

You've encouraged me during dark times, supported me in light times, laughed at my follies, cried at my failures.  You've participated as I branched out to find love, you've been part of my wedding, and you've gotten to know my husband through these pages.

But, the time has come for me to move on.  It used to be, I wrote what I was thinking here because I had no where else to put it.  Now I share my stories and my heartbreak with The Guy.  It's a private affair. 

Who knows?  Maybe I'm growing.

Anyway, this isn't the place I want to be any more.  I said the other day "The Internet is boring me."  And so it is.  Real life is where I want to be for now.  That may change, but I'm happy with the decision. 

I'll let you know if that changes.  For now, I just want to say thank you for coming along for the ride.

For all those who have Facebook or Twitter, feel free to friend or follow me.  (I haven't given up on the internet all together.)

Reasons to write: how to lie effectively

I have always wanted to write.  I think it comes with being such an avid reader.  I wanted to be a person who was responsible for transporting someone else the way I have been transported.  I want to develop characters who make you laugh and cry and recoil in horror.  But I have a problem.

I don't actually have any ability to do that.

When my sister was little, she would beg me to tell her a bedtime story.  I always told her the same one: "Hello, goodbye, the end."  Yes, I mostly did it to infuriate her, but it was also because I couldn't think of anything.  I cannot make something up.

The people in my family are storytellers.  They can tell a tale with great enthusiasm and make you laugh.  Usually, it has little to do with actual fact, but it might at least be based there.  This is also my talent.

I can tell you a story about something that did happen and (even if you were there) you wouldn't recognize the story.  I admit I embellish a little if it's for comedic value.  I can wind a good tale as long as it occurred somewhere else first.

Therein lies the problem with wanting to write fiction -- I can lie, but only about things that are true.

My family will never sign the waiver on that book.  

The thing about stuff: living in a material world

I have a lot of stuff.

I think it's hereditary.  My whole family has a lot of stuff.  

My paternal grandparents had two farm houses and numerous barns full of stuff.  Every thing they ever bought or received lined the walls and covered the surfaces.  My uncle took over the farm recently and is happily adding to the collection.  

The maternal side had less and was tidier about it, but had stuff nonetheless. When we moved my maternal grandmother into her most recent home, she had two full drawers of torn pantyhose and over 20 styrofoam meat containers.  

I used to think that my immediate family was better about having stuff.  I was wrong.  They just had different stuff. 

My mother had scrapbooks filled with things she had gathered over the years.  Comics, cards, sayings, articles.  My father gathered books.  We tease that we didn't need to go to the library to do history papers, we just went to Dad's library.  That fact became less funny when Dad went to Ukraine and I got left with boxes and boxes of his books. 

The rest of us aren't much better.  None of my siblings have met a book we didn't like.  It's a sacrilege in our family to get rid of books -- even for a good cause.  Add to that children's toys, school keepsakes, knick knacks, and more, there is a ton of crap out there.  I have my share.

What to do with it all is plaguing me.

I keep asking myself: Who is going to want all this when I die?

The answer for most people of what is going to happen to all their stuff is that their children will inherit it and keep it and cherish it.  They believe that because they worked to get it, their descendants will care about it and thus justify it's existance.  

When The Guy and I discovered we couldn't have children, I started thinking about the things I have spent my life accumulating.  Suddenly, most of it became like an albatross hanging around my neck.

I am not quite at the point of having a garage sale, but I am questioning what's important after all.

Turns out, it's not what I thought.

Beards are gross

A friend's class is putting on a play where each of the characters has a different coloured beard.  She asked if I would make the beards for them.  I had the greatest time so I have to share my handiwork.

Here is the entire set of beards for your enjoyment.

Pork chop around my neck.

I admit it.  I have a problem.  I love dogs.  I have a seperate file of dog pictures for every vacation I go on.  Coming to this site, you might all think I'm unbalanced, but the truth is... well, yes. I am.

Without further ado, I give you: Dogs of Cuba 2011

This is our resort Monty. Except she's a girl.

My favourite dog on our whole trip, this litle resort dog captured my heart the first day.  She was obviously the outcast of the pack and was alone at all times except when she crept up to the cats on occassion.  The cats left her alone and let her be, but the other resort dogs made sure she didn't stick around long if they were there.

She lived in one small section of the resort and came out most ni the early moring.  She would not come near any of us (except for one friend who was the luckiest ever) and only after 2 weeks came within a foot of The Guy.  I tried to tempt her daily with bacon, but she ran each time.

When no one was around, or just not looking, she would play and run and jump.  She ran playfully after couples (including myself -- she brushed by my skirt) and did circles trying to bite her own tail.  She lapped up the pool water and slept on the beach chairs.  But if anyone looked at her, her tail went as far under her butt as it could and she slunk away.

I wanted to bring her home, but figured that would not go well for any of us.

Paladar dog.

This dog was at a house where we had lunch in Old Havana.  She is strictly a house dog who came next door to the Paladar (a home restaurant) to see if we would feed her. We did.

Okay, I did. But look at that face.  Could you have resisted?

Dog by the door.

This little guy lives with numerous families. They don't own him, he owns them. He has a collar though, which is a new thing for Havana dogs. On the day of this picture, he was waiting on the steps to be let into the building where he visits the old man on the 3rd floor. If you walked by, he would bark and look at you until you opened the door.

Besties

These guys wandered along in Varadero one evening. The littler one jumped about while the big one lumbered down the road. I couldn't help but want to follow them on their adventures.

For the entire catalogue of Dogs of Cuba (years 2011 and 2012) go here.  

Don't judge me.