So now that Anousheh Ansari is back from space, she has a blog to tell us all about it. Though I haven't read it all, it gives us a different perspective that what we wouldn't usually hear from NASA astronauts coming home. Click here to read about how they wash their hair and how painful it is to be tall.
http://spaceblog.xprize.org/
The trip to the international space station cost her $20M. I just gotta ask - how much money does she have that she can blow that much on a 48 hour trip?! I have to say, I'm a little envious... ok, a lot. Wish it was more affordable for the rest of us with restless spirits and a curiosity that knows no bounds.
What would you guys do if you had $20M to spend? Hmm?
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
Must Love Dogs
As most people I know would attest that I don't like dogs. A couple of posts ago I admitted my unpopular position on the animal and surprisingly no one commented... not directly to me anyway. Well, I haven't changed my opinion on the matter, just changed the facts.
Yesterday I met Maggie. An eight year old well-groomed husky shepherd mix with expressive eyes, one grey, one brown. She's calm, cute, and cuddly soft. She's loved and well taken care of, you can tell. See, that is the kind of dog I like. I don't like ones that look all depressed with dirty eyes, plowing me over at the door, and fur that leaves a lingering odor on your hands when you pet them. Poor guys, really. I know it's not their fault but why do people who can't care for them get them anyway? ... separate rant there... it upsets me.
I didn't always not like dogs. Growing up we always had some kind of pet in the house, Mocha a huge bull mastiff that I slept on as a toddler, Sneaker, our cat, who lived a long 16 years, Rusty, and Dusty, two shepherd mixes, rabbits Peter, Minnie, and a big chubby one that I don't remember the name of. We always had fish. And, Gizmo, the parrot I got for my 11th birthday. Gawd, I hated that thing. He just died last year you know, 21 years... my Mom adopted him. I guess she could tell we never connected like a girl and a screeching pet should.
I suppose I never wanted pets as an adult because they were always my responsibility growing up. Cleaning the aquarium, picking up dog poop, emptying the cat litter before the invention of that clump stuff, and getting bitten by mad rabbits while cleaning their cages (I swear they went crazy).
Just remembered... her name was Sherrie.
While on a field trip to Quebec City in the fifth grade, my Mom told me that Peter and Sherrie's cage, which was kept outside, was broken open by a wolf of some kind and Sherrie was killed and lucky Peter hopped away. There were sightings of him, likely stories to quell a little girls worst fears, but he was never found.
Minnie, a dwarf rabbit, escaped the balcony when my visiting aunt was letting her dog out and failed to close the gate.
Sneaker, who was my best friend until allergies kicked in at 13, was the most affectionate cat ever. We called him that because as a kitten he would hide behind furniture and close his eyes so we couldn't see him. He was jet black.
Missy, my puppy that I got when I moved into my first apartment. I remember her running away for a few hours and getting back to find scrape markings on her hip and blood on her nose. The next time I walked her she flinched whenever a car drove by. Broke my heart.
I'm sure we all have stories of how we loved pets and lost them. I think that's why I claimed I didn't like dogs, or animals in general, knowing in a few years I'll have to say goodbye...again. I have yet to decide if the pain is worth it.
...so, I guess it's not about the dogs at all... hmph.
Yesterday I met Maggie. An eight year old well-groomed husky shepherd mix with expressive eyes, one grey, one brown. She's calm, cute, and cuddly soft. She's loved and well taken care of, you can tell. See, that is the kind of dog I like. I don't like ones that look all depressed with dirty eyes, plowing me over at the door, and fur that leaves a lingering odor on your hands when you pet them. Poor guys, really. I know it's not their fault but why do people who can't care for them get them anyway? ... separate rant there... it upsets me.
I didn't always not like dogs. Growing up we always had some kind of pet in the house, Mocha a huge bull mastiff that I slept on as a toddler, Sneaker, our cat, who lived a long 16 years, Rusty, and Dusty, two shepherd mixes, rabbits Peter, Minnie, and a big chubby one that I don't remember the name of. We always had fish. And, Gizmo, the parrot I got for my 11th birthday. Gawd, I hated that thing. He just died last year you know, 21 years... my Mom adopted him. I guess she could tell we never connected like a girl and a screeching pet should.
I suppose I never wanted pets as an adult because they were always my responsibility growing up. Cleaning the aquarium, picking up dog poop, emptying the cat litter before the invention of that clump stuff, and getting bitten by mad rabbits while cleaning their cages (I swear they went crazy).
Just remembered... her name was Sherrie.
While on a field trip to Quebec City in the fifth grade, my Mom told me that Peter and Sherrie's cage, which was kept outside, was broken open by a wolf of some kind and Sherrie was killed and lucky Peter hopped away. There were sightings of him, likely stories to quell a little girls worst fears, but he was never found.
Minnie, a dwarf rabbit, escaped the balcony when my visiting aunt was letting her dog out and failed to close the gate.
Sneaker, who was my best friend until allergies kicked in at 13, was the most affectionate cat ever. We called him that because as a kitten he would hide behind furniture and close his eyes so we couldn't see him. He was jet black.
Missy, my puppy that I got when I moved into my first apartment. I remember her running away for a few hours and getting back to find scrape markings on her hip and blood on her nose. The next time I walked her she flinched whenever a car drove by. Broke my heart.
I'm sure we all have stories of how we loved pets and lost them. I think that's why I claimed I didn't like dogs, or animals in general, knowing in a few years I'll have to say goodbye...again. I have yet to decide if the pain is worth it.
...so, I guess it's not about the dogs at all... hmph.
Friday, September 15, 2006
Gratitude, in no particular order
I'm thankful for hugs because they let me know I am loved.
I'm thankful for smiles because they let me know someone is happy.
I'm thankful for friends that show me their blogs, it means they're letting me into their world.
I'm thankful for the laughter I share with the Christian, the Purolator guy, knowing that a chuckle can be wildly contagious long after he's left our office.
I'm thankful for music and the songs I sing-along to.
I'm just thankful and far too often I forget to recognize all that I have and all that I am.
I'm thankful for smiles because they let me know someone is happy.
I'm thankful for friends that show me their blogs, it means they're letting me into their world.
I'm thankful for the laughter I share with the Christian, the Purolator guy, knowing that a chuckle can be wildly contagious long after he's left our office.
I'm thankful for music and the songs I sing-along to.
I'm just thankful and far too often I forget to recognize all that I have and all that I am.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
The ones that got away...
Spent yesterday afternoon at a friend of a friends sons 12th birthday party. The adults drank sangria, laughed, and discussed kids (not mine since I ain't got any) and all in all had a pretty great time. Listening to the home-building banes, potty training trials, and general malaise over mother-in-laws got me thinking... when is it my turn? That question came with a question mark slash exclamation point.
Do I really want all of that, right now?!?! I mean, dating sucks, I got the memo. But it sounds a helluva lot more appealing than a four year old jamming a hard plastic nerf bullet into what could only be described as a screaming bandsaw going through a steel pipe.
Which brings me to my next point... I swear, if someone gives me the are-you-still-single look one more time I am going to be the bandsaw. What is it about being the token 30-something year old friend who tags along at all friend and family BBQ's - is it the pity invite or are we genuinely wanted? You know, cuz we could all just as easily stay at home and not be reminded that we don't have a husband that makes fat jokes behind our back, have children that roll their eyes at us, or tell stories of how we yelled mercilessly at a hardware store worker who failed to know the difference between a 2 x 4 and a 2 x 10. For real.
But really, I have turned into that woman. The one that married ones secretly envy and hate. In essence, I suppose that's the same thing. Either way, I'll take it. I've got no one to cook for, do laundry for or pick up after... all of mine 'got away'. Thankfully.
Do I really want all of that, right now?!?! I mean, dating sucks, I got the memo. But it sounds a helluva lot more appealing than a four year old jamming a hard plastic nerf bullet into what could only be described as a screaming bandsaw going through a steel pipe.
Which brings me to my next point... I swear, if someone gives me the are-you-still-single look one more time I am going to be the bandsaw. What is it about being the token 30-something year old friend who tags along at all friend and family BBQ's - is it the pity invite or are we genuinely wanted? You know, cuz we could all just as easily stay at home and not be reminded that we don't have a husband that makes fat jokes behind our back, have children that roll their eyes at us, or tell stories of how we yelled mercilessly at a hardware store worker who failed to know the difference between a 2 x 4 and a 2 x 10. For real.
But really, I have turned into that woman. The one that married ones secretly envy and hate. In essence, I suppose that's the same thing. Either way, I'll take it. I've got no one to cook for, do laundry for or pick up after... all of mine 'got away'. Thankfully.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Listening to Neil makes me happy
Windows media player let's me stack a playlist full of songs I currently love and some of those I haven't heard in a while. Now playing is "I am, I said" by Neil Diamond. Brings me back to living on Notre Dame street in Chomedey in the late 70's listening to Johnny Cash, John Denver, Diana Ross, Ginette Renaud, and of course Neil Diamond. I can remember my mom's friend bellowing the lyrics to Sweet Caroline... brings me back to a time I knew nothing at all and loved every minute of it. Oh, to be six again. Ba-ba-baaaa....
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
I always hated plaid
Being aware of ourselves, namely our behaviour, keeps us in constant contact with the 'me'. It's almost like checking your pulse once in a while to make sure your heart is still beating, your chest is filling with air and then you exhale... all in working order. Check and check.
Keeping track of where your mind is at isn't that cut and dry. There's no inflation of anything we can see, or touch, there's no rhythmic beat to count, only assumptions of where we believe we are at the time. A lot of rationalizations can happen there too. We fiercely defend our positions when no one has even questioned them. We make excuses for ourselves vowing to all and to none that things are different this time, I just know it. When we think we've cleared up those nasty patterns we would fall so easily into, only to suddenly get jolted from our false reality awakening to yet another "oh shit I've done it again" moments. Those suck ass.
When do we know what we feel is actually what we're feeling if we don't know it? And when do we accept responsibility for not knowing something we know? Since we can't un-know, how is it that we can't seem to recognize behaviours we have perfected and know make us feel icky? What is it that makes self-sabotaging an attractive scapegoat? Where does it end? And when... can someone tell me when?
I think I need to be more aware and let my instincts guide me and hope that the alarm bell sounds before I've gone passed the point of no return. For now I can only sit with my life today and hold on to what I think I know and wish all of my past knowns will know themselves. You know?
Keeping track of where your mind is at isn't that cut and dry. There's no inflation of anything we can see, or touch, there's no rhythmic beat to count, only assumptions of where we believe we are at the time. A lot of rationalizations can happen there too. We fiercely defend our positions when no one has even questioned them. We make excuses for ourselves vowing to all and to none that things are different this time, I just know it. When we think we've cleared up those nasty patterns we would fall so easily into, only to suddenly get jolted from our false reality awakening to yet another "oh shit I've done it again" moments. Those suck ass.
When do we know what we feel is actually what we're feeling if we don't know it? And when do we accept responsibility for not knowing something we know? Since we can't un-know, how is it that we can't seem to recognize behaviours we have perfected and know make us feel icky? What is it that makes self-sabotaging an attractive scapegoat? Where does it end? And when... can someone tell me when?
I think I need to be more aware and let my instincts guide me and hope that the alarm bell sounds before I've gone passed the point of no return. For now I can only sit with my life today and hold on to what I think I know and wish all of my past knowns will know themselves. You know?
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
The truth about mullets
What do we really want? I must've asked myself this at least a thousand times in the last few months and have finally found most of the answers - I'm also totally comfortable with the fact that I don't have all of them. Whew.
It's amazing, once I put myself out into the dating world I realized I'm facing it with my eyes open and chin up. I'm more confident than before and understanding what I can and cannot accept in a friend, partner, lover, and everything in between.
Addicted? Move on. I heard this past weekend that people who smoke have suicidal tendencies. Think on that one for a minute.
A father? Can't do it. I've been in two relationships with men with children and I won't do it again. Am I being selfish? For sure. But would I be sacrificing my needs to stay with someone who didn't want more children? Definitely.
Total dog lover? Yeah. That's a deal breaker for two reasons... 1. I'm allergic to most. And 2. I am against committing to picking up someone else’s crap for 10 - 15 years... sorta sounds like a sentence doesn't it. I'm single, love to travel, and would hate for an animal to have to be put in a kennel for weeks on end. Not to mention, I work full time and am in complete disagreement with people who think keeping dogs in cages for ten hours a day is a mighty fine idea.
Into weird... stuff? Seriously, I know 'to each his own' but really, where the hell do these people come from? What possesses someone to get oddly placed piercings, full body tattoos, and having a snake as a pet is beyond me.
And another thing, why are most men into sci-fi (not that there's anything wrong with that) but what is it about oddly shaped heads, giant flying cities, and blobs that allure you? I've never met a woman who owns the complete Star Wars series.
Controlling? Yeah, not me or the remote. I once dated a guy that had me thinking my friends and family were secretly plotting to kill me. Well, not really, but it was bad. I left him... with his permission.
Bad hygiene? What is the deal with men who hate to bathe and/or do laundry? Ever been around a guy who smells like a hamper? Sick. They mustn't have friends to tell them - or, even worse, their friends smell just as bad.
Two words... comb overs. Give it up. You're losing it and the sooner you accept it the sooner you'll cut it off and stop looking like a muppet.
And saving the best for last, let's discuss the mullet. Oublie ca mes amis. It's over. 1987 has come and gone and unless you're vying for a prime position on www.mulletsgalore.com, let it go.
So here's what I know I don't want... saving the mystery for what I do for another day. Until then, I remain, imperfect and wonderful.
Cheers!
It's amazing, once I put myself out into the dating world I realized I'm facing it with my eyes open and chin up. I'm more confident than before and understanding what I can and cannot accept in a friend, partner, lover, and everything in between.
Addicted? Move on. I heard this past weekend that people who smoke have suicidal tendencies. Think on that one for a minute.
A father? Can't do it. I've been in two relationships with men with children and I won't do it again. Am I being selfish? For sure. But would I be sacrificing my needs to stay with someone who didn't want more children? Definitely.
Total dog lover? Yeah. That's a deal breaker for two reasons... 1. I'm allergic to most. And 2. I am against committing to picking up someone else’s crap for 10 - 15 years... sorta sounds like a sentence doesn't it. I'm single, love to travel, and would hate for an animal to have to be put in a kennel for weeks on end. Not to mention, I work full time and am in complete disagreement with people who think keeping dogs in cages for ten hours a day is a mighty fine idea.
Into weird... stuff? Seriously, I know 'to each his own' but really, where the hell do these people come from? What possesses someone to get oddly placed piercings, full body tattoos, and having a snake as a pet is beyond me.
And another thing, why are most men into sci-fi (not that there's anything wrong with that) but what is it about oddly shaped heads, giant flying cities, and blobs that allure you? I've never met a woman who owns the complete Star Wars series.
Controlling? Yeah, not me or the remote. I once dated a guy that had me thinking my friends and family were secretly plotting to kill me. Well, not really, but it was bad. I left him... with his permission.
Bad hygiene? What is the deal with men who hate to bathe and/or do laundry? Ever been around a guy who smells like a hamper? Sick. They mustn't have friends to tell them - or, even worse, their friends smell just as bad.
Two words... comb overs. Give it up. You're losing it and the sooner you accept it the sooner you'll cut it off and stop looking like a muppet.
And saving the best for last, let's discuss the mullet. Oublie ca mes amis. It's over. 1987 has come and gone and unless you're vying for a prime position on www.mulletsgalore.com, let it go.
So here's what I know I don't want... saving the mystery for what I do for another day. Until then, I remain, imperfect and wonderful.
Cheers!
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