A loss so profound...

Last Thursday morning, I walked toward my car to go to work and was suddenly filled with an overwhelming sadness as I thought about how easy it is to take for granted the freedom we have with the simplest of things such as being able to leave the house and go about daily life without fear, or looking over one's shoulder. I thought about my neighbors next door in Moncton who were, at the time, locked into their houses with strict instructions to stay inside, doors and windows locked, and retreat to their basements for safety.  A manhunt was ongoing to locate, and capture, an individual who had opened fire in a residential area. His target was the police. And he succeeded in his quest - slaying 3 members, and injuring 2 more.  The shooter managed to evade capture, and heighten fear, for nearly 30 hours until he was successfully and quietly detained by law enforcement without further injury to anyone else.  I'm not going to talk about the shooter. I'm not going to mention his name. I'm not going to glorify him in any way, shape, or form. Suffice it to say he will get his comeuppance.  And it will be just.   

After 30 hours the fear that had gripped a community, a province, a region, was replaced by unimaginable grief and sadness felt by an entire country.  Fallen, in the line of duty, were three members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.  Three fathers.  Three sons.  Three husbands.  Three friends.  Three heroes...murdered at the exact moment they were running in to protect...

I will name them:

(L-R)
Cst. Douglas James Larche, 40, married, and father to 3 girls, ages 4, 8 & 9 years.
Cst. Dave Ross, 32, married, father to 1 1/2 year old son,  and another baby due at the end of the summer.
Cst. Fabrice Georges Gevaudan, 45, married, stepfather to an 8 year old girl.

...

Words cannot convey the heaviness in my heart that I feel for the families and friends of these young men.  These brave individuals paid the ultimate sacrifice.  They volunteered their lives to serve and protect - to walk into the line of fire when the rest of the world runs away in fear.  Their loss signifies that the people who do protect our streets, and our cities and towns are not superhuman.  They are not invincible.  And now, they are just a memory.  Six children will grow up in a home without a father.  Three wives will sleep beside an empty space where their husband used to lay.  Countless friends and comrades will have a gap in their social circle that will never close again.

To the brave men and women who protect our cities, thank you.  To the family, friends, and comrades of the fallen officers, my deepest and most sincerest of condolences.  In the words of, Asst Commissioner Roger Brown, "Cst. Gevaudan; Cst. Ross; and, Cst. Larche, to your post.  Dismissed." 

Rest in peace.

Roses, strippers and drunken debachery: not my weekend, the Bacherlorette, of course

A return to blogging....and the subject of which?  Why, the Bachelorette, of course ;).  I didn't bother blogging about last season's Bachelor, because let's face it, Juan Pablo is a complete and utter douche. And, I just couldn't bring myself to commemorate a damn thing about that season, even if it was to make fun of him on a weekly basis.  Eeee's ok, right? ;)

So Andi Dorfman, the smart girl who caught on to JP's douche-baggery is our next Bachelorette.  I liked her on JP's season, and look forward to what this season has in store.  Having seen the first 2 episodes, her over-use of "ya'll" might be my biggest pick so far.  And maybe her gown choice.  Not that they're not beautiful (the first night's pale pink/silver bedazzled one was stunning) - but, she obviously feels uncomfortable in them the way she carries herself.  Honey, if you don't want your boobs to fall out, choose one with a slightly higher neckline, perhaps? *shrug*.  Oh, and perhaps her veer to the over-dramatic a few episodes in, too. So the guy had a little too much to drink. Kick him out if it offends you.  Ask the producers to reduce the unending flow of available liquor.  But, freak out, in tears, wondering, "What's going on??", and accuse them all of not having the right intentions for being there?  Really?  I thought you were a smart, professional woman of class? Hmm. Maybe you'll have to keep trying to convince me.

So it's still early, but so far, I took a liking to the firefighter (why is he gone already, Andi? Why?), the farmer, and I think that little Nick V. fella is just too cute for words. The ex-pro basketball player gives me the skeevies and I don't trust him; there's an inner snake just dying to get out.  Cody, the beefy personal trainer reminds me of Jeff Dunham's Bubba J.  And seriously, what the eff is a pantapreneur??  Chris Bukowski's attempt to gain access to the house, and Andi's heart, was laughable. I'm glad he was ball-busted from the start.  WTF, fella? Go get a life, already. You're a loser.

And, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the person this season is dedicated to.  Eric Hill, who sadly passed away shortly after filming of the season ceased, was an early favourite for women everywhere, no doubt. His untimely passing makes this season so heart-breaking.  I think the show handled what happened in a tasteful fashion - but I cannot fathom what it must be like to those closest to him, watching the show.  Rest in peace, Eric, your candle was snuffed all too early....

So. Hi. Thanks for reading.  Tell me - are you watching, too? Who's your favourite? Or your favourite to hate? 

Along came the spiders...

It started out like any other Friday.  I was working the late shift that day, but despite the later start time, I, as usual, left it to the very last second to leave the house. Upon reaching the driver door I noticed a cluster of evil perched between the driverside mirror and the door itself.  I was too panicked to take a photo with my phone so the googled image here will have to be enough of a descriptor for you:

Cluster of evil:

A baby spider, on its own isn't overly threatening. No.  But when you get seventy-billion in a cluster like that, the threat grows exponentially.  All I could think about was ridding the car of the threat.  I quickly rummaged around in my purse for something to help...nothing.  I carefully opened the door and grabbed a napkin.  Working quickly, I separated the nest from the car, threw the napkin down to the pavement with excessive force, and stomped furiously on it.  Some attempted to escape, as I could see little things moving all around the napkin and by my foot, and to my horror:  ON MY PERSON.  Yes, there was also a number of them walking up my pant leg!!  Using the opposite foot I tried to dispose of the threat.  I shimmied around and batted at my leg with my other foot. Upon nearly losing balance, I then opted to remove my sandal to actually beat them off me.  Redneck Highland jig, several shrieks, and sandal-beating later, I felt satisfied that I ridded my person of the threat and then got in the car (of course my brain still felt them crawling; all over me, I could feel them all.over.me.). 

Secure in the safety of the vehicle, I noticed that my initial napkin scoop hadn't really finished the job.  There were several all over the window.  Now what I'm about to tell you is VERY IMPORTANT.  Take heed.  Learn my lesson.  If you find yourself in the middle of a similar predicament, DO NOT, I repeat, DO NOT,  OPEN THE WINDOW!  The fact that I'd just had a family of baby arachnids on my person no doubtedly hampered with all reason and sensibility because I opened it.  I opened the god-damned window.  Suddenly, a whole new crop of baby spiders were now crawling INSIDE MY CAR, down the window and down the door, trying to get back to my person!  I shrieked, flew the door open and then grabbed my sandal to do my best at slamming and bamming them into smithereens.  When the sandal stopped working, I grabbed a handful of napkins to finish the job (the only good thing about them being baby spiders is they were too small to be juicy. And, God bless the drive-thru staff at Dairy Queen for their heavy napkin hand).

Fighting the urge to run back in the house to shower I had to go to work; time was ticking and I would be lucky at this point if I even made it there on time.  Parked, I then enlist the help of another night shift arriver to give me a once-over. She said she didn't see any.  I still felt them crawling. 

I made it to work on time, and I got through my shift despite ending it with a few less layers of skin from the scratching.  And only 1 more baby spider had to be sacrificed from the inside of my car that night.  I haven't yet quite figured out a new plan of attack if I'm faced with a future car nest. Other than never, ever opening the window again. Ever.

...climbed up the waterspout...

Might I just add that NOT long after the sink spider incident, I discovered the following ginormous creature in the bathtub!

Proof to my theory that those icky, disgusting things live in the deep, dark depths of the drain pipes.  Chris wasn't home when it reared its girthy frame so I knew I was on my own.  I DID, however, attempt to coerce Bosco to be the saviour of the day.  He and Zoe both do enjoy playing with the odd creepy crawly.  As Zoe's *ahem* stature isn't condusive to quick-play, Bosco won the choice in cat, and I thought I'd likely be home free.  I grab him, coax him into the tub, asking him to, "Get that spider for Mummy!! Get that spider!!".  Bosco immediately made an extremely hasty retreat from the tub as fast as he left my arms.  It was as if I'd introduced him to the devil himself.  Not wanting to take the chance on another fail, I opted out of grabbing Zoe from her slumber, and instead grabbed the nearly-full 1.5L bottle of shampoo and went to work.  The death was fairly quick, but I did mush a few extra heaves at it with the bottle.  When I was convinced the spider could not reincarnate I then took an empty toilet paper tube and flicked him from the bottom of the shampoo bottle into the waiting toilet bowl and sent him a-flush. You can never be too sure, ya know.

the itsy, bitsy...

Though we're smack dab in the middle of Tropical Storm Gabrielle and the high humidity that's accompanying it, there's no question that summer has bid us it's untimely adieu.  In retrospect I have a few tales to tell about one of the few unsavory things that come along with summer. Namely bugs. Nasty, creepy, crawly, icky, disgusting bugs!

I sat on the living room couch one morning, sipping on my coffee and watching the news when Chris very calmly said, "Amber? What would you say if I told you that I saw the biggest spider that I've ever seen in my life?".  I returned that with a, "I'd say KILL IT!", followed by a narrowed-eyed, "Where?!?!".  A very calm, "Right here. In the sink", and he points, and actually steps back a little.  I grow slightly more panicked at this point, adding a bit of a begging tone to my, "Kiiiillll it!!".  Chris' suggestion to end the spider's existence in our kitchen sink?  Running hot water and drowning him.

Well no. That just will NOT DO.  Number 1, there's no way you can get the hot water to reach temperatures high enough to cause life-ending scalds to the thing. Number 2, how do we NOT know that the little effer didn't climb up the drain hole in the first place, thus proving it's ability to withstand the hottest of our hot water temperatures, and also cementing the fact that they CAN SWIM.  There was no way I could take the risk that he could simply be offered a flume ride down to its humble abode. NO!  We had to ensure that there was no risk of the possibility that he could crawl back up there and make its way out of the sink. And there was only one solution.  The man of the house had to nut up and be the one to do the killing.  They only problem?  He was convinced his idea was the winner.  And I could have nothing to do with that.  I had to be the bigger person and ensure there was no risk of that thing returning and crawling over my face at night or nesting in my ear (actually, he was too big to do such a thing; it never would have fit in my ear).

So I push up my sleeves and approach the sink - only one goal in mind:  to get that sink spider dead.  He was so big there was no doubt in the world that he'd be juicy and go down with a fight, so I had to ensure that my hands didn't do the killing.  I first enlisted a sufficient ream of paper toweling which I coated the spider with, then grabbed the dish soap bottle with the thought of smushing it to smithereens. Unfortunately the keen arachnid just hid in the small hollow between the middle of the bottle bottom and the sink.  Chris laughed.  A few seconds of panic followed before I realized that the best kill tool would be the sharp-bristled scrub brush. Yes!  That would do.  I took a bit of the paper towel cushion away and proceeded to jab and stab at it, forcing an albeit messy, but successful demise of the sink spider.

An alternate description, in the words of Christopher, courtesy of Facebook:

Me: Amber, there's a giant spider in the sink
Spider: DUDE! Help! I can't get the fuck out of here, I can't climb the walls! 
Me: that's bad dude, Amber doesn't like spiders
Spider: help help help help
Me: want a hot shower? 
Spider: no! that will kill me
Amber: don't wash it down the sink, it will come back!
Spider: come back and do what? I can't climb the fuck out of the sink! 
Me: I've selected the method of death for this spider, if I can't kill him this way, you'll have to do it.
Amber: (grabs 18 feet of paper towel, throws it on the spider, and then hits the four inches of cushion with the dish soap bottle)
Me: laughing
Spider: missed me, I'm going down the drain! YOU'LL NEVER CATCH ME!
Amber: No you're not. (grabs scrub brush, throws down less paper towel cushion) die die die
Spider: silence
Me: laughing still
Amber: wipes up spider goo with 18' of paper towel

Moral of the story:  Chivalry is dead. And spiders are gross. And don't belong in kitchens.

Stay tuned, the bug tales are not over.

...

You greeted me every single time with an, "Oh hello!!", like you were truly greeting an old friend.  You always had a genuine smile on your face.  Every single time I passed through the drive-thru to your greeting and smile you took the time to chat before I pulled away.  I remember how excited you were when you found out I, too, had an affection for flavored coffee.  I remember the look of anticipation on your face as you urged me to try the latest flavor, offering it to me free if I could guess.

I barely knew you.

You were the 'coffee guy'.  The guy that was working every.single.time I went there.  You knew me by my car and had my regular order on your tongue before I had a chance to give it.

I didn't even know your name until I saw it on your obituary.

My heart breaks for your family and friends.  And I'm truly sorry I never got to know you better.

Rest in peace, Andrew.

I celebrate him in memory always...

Every single time.  Every single star.

Sunday night I had a message from a friend - a simple, yet poignant, "So....Father's Day kinda sucks!".  She lost her father less than 3 months ago.  I had no sugary 'make you feel better' comments to send back to her. Comiserate, yes, I could do that.  Because it does suck. It's sucked for the past 11 years for me.  11 years have gone by since I've had a father to celebrate on the one day that is established to do just that.  So for anyone out there who's estranged from their father, I implore you to mend your relationship before it's too late. Before he's no longer in the chair in front of you.  Before you no longer have the opportunity to lay a kiss upon his forehead.  Before the feel and strength of his hug is just a faded memory.  Before the sound of his voice and his laugh get harder to remember. You don't know how lucky you are to still make a new memory on Father's Day - any day.

When my father was in the hospital and I was in denial, I interrupted him.  I interrupted his conversation with me on what he wanted to do with some video clips he'd been saving.  I stopped him from explaining his intents for those clippings. I was scared to lose him.  I didn't like to even fathom that he wouldn't get out of that hospital bed.  My dad.  My big teddy bear of a man.  My hero.  There was no way he'd not make it out of there to continue on with what he wanted to do himself with those clippings.  I put my finger up to his lips and shushed him... "I don't want to hear it, Dad", I said,"because you're going to have an opportunity to do all that yourself when you get out of here".  Even though it wasn't even a remote possibility at the time, I also reminded him that I needed him around to walk me down the aisle when I eventually got married.  He looked me in the eye with a pained expression, simply agreeing with me to appease my mind, and said, "Yeah".  This conversation was even before we knew that it was cancer.  Before we had known it had spread and that his outlook was dismal at best.  Despite having no concrete proof, though, Dad had started that same conversation that day with, "You know a man shouldn't have to spend his final days like this...".

They say that you know when your time is nearing.  Despite the others around you being in complete and utter denial, you know yourself.  So you sometimes have that opportunity to express what your intents and wants are for any unfinished business you won't be able to take care of.  To say what you need to say.  I stifled it though.  I could have finished up the clipping project if I'd taken the time to hear him out and let him fnish.  I could have spent a longer time by his side that day and had a conversation with him when he still had his mind and his wits about him - before all the medication. I could have asked him so many questions about his thoughts, his childhood, his desire for how he wanted to be remembered.  I had been given the opportunity but I'd strangled it off without a second thought because I was scared to think of the end. My final memory of my father talking to me was a simple, "Good bye", before his eyes filled up with tears.  Everything else he'd said that day was inaudible because the medication had burned his mouth so badly that it made it impossible to understand. I'd lost my chance. Then, I lost my father.

Say whatever it is you want to say.  Before it's too late.  Call your father --- right now.  Tell him you love him - before you no longer have the chance.

In my heart always, xoxoxo

After Dad passed and we were going through some of his papers we'd come across a photocopy of the following verse.  It helped, somewhat, and for any of you still struggling with your own losses out there, I can't say anything to make you feel better.  It does suck.  It will always suck on the 'special' days, and the anniversary days.  Even the ordinary days when he's just more in mind and heart than usual.  There will be tears.  Let them flow.  Perhaps these words might take a bit of the sting away, or at the very least, let you realize that the feelings you have right now are felt and understood by someone else out there: