None of these are my pen.

I have a serious stationary problem. Actually I have two serious stationary problems.

The first is that I, for whatever reason, have a deep need to purchase stationary. I light up when I see a Staples store. I once made jewelry out of Post-It Notes, and when I cleaned out one of the junk drawers in my house I found enough perfectly functional pens to fill a 2 litre storage container.  Yet, with this abundance of supply I can still be driven to distraction by losing my favourite pen, which leads me to my second stationary problem; I lost my favourite pen.

It was green. It had a flamingo on the clip and it went missing at Vancouver’s Folk Fest this weekend (just in case anyone happens to find it). I’m fairly sure I owe the loss to some sort of pen karma. I just haven’t figured out if it was my bad pen karma, or someone else’s excellent pen karma. I’m hoping for the latter, and imagining some free spirited folk musician writing lyrics I wont understand with my green, flamingo pen.

Write on folksy maestro; it’s an excellent pen.

PS. My new favourite pen is blue. It has a constellation on the pen clip. We’re still building our relationship, but it looks promising.

PPS. There is nothing like writing about a small problem to take your mind off a big problem.

PPPS. It makes me feel super dumb to say I have a big problem, when my actual problem is invisible when compared to everything I saw on the news today. Must. Find. Perspective.

I don’t know why it works. At this point I don’t even care. I’m considering burying something under a crossroads. What sort of sacrifice do you think the old age fairy would like?

Apparently ignoring pain doesn’t make it go away. Who knew?

In other potentially unrelated news I’ve screwed up my shoulder so badly that the doctor can’t even say what’s wrong with it until the inflammation goes down.

The prescription is ice and rest. And according to Andre (which is usually frustratingly correct) rest means not using my arm even when he’s not around to enforce the doctor’s orders.

PS. I have no idea how I managed to hurt myself this time. (Yesterday’s wood chopping picture was from months ago.) Random injuries seem to be one of the gifts from the getting old fairy. Bitch.

Writing Exercise:

I’m going to assume there is a magical fairy at fault for basically everything I can’t explain or refuse to accept including calculus, random injuries as I get older and how fish oil can be good for me when fish makes me want to yak. So I’m also going to assume that each of those fairies has a price. What do you suppose the fairies take as bribes? Like in order for the fish fairy to make fish taste less horrible I bet she would want some sort of aquatic reward…like buying several gold fish and then managing to keep them alive for more than three days. Happy writing.

Painting stuff waiting for me to be finished everything else.

On our cruise I tried a few painting classes. I loved them.

I  loved the colours. I loved the creative outlet and I loved that unlike other art forms, if you don’t like your painting, it doesn’t mean you’ve failed, it just means you’re not finished yet.

I liked painting so much that I came home and bought supplies to continue my new creative endeavour. And there they sit, waiting. Not for inspiration, but rather for the confidence to get going…

Maybe I won’t be as good when I’m not on the high seas. I’ll do the dishes first.  Or the laundry…

Sigh. This feels very familiar. Maybe if I start enough projects I’ll accidentally finish one of them while I’m avoiding the others…

Sad movies should have a disclaimer so you don’t start them on an airplane, then get so involved in the story that you forget where you are and start sobbing in public. On the flight over people stopped trying to hide their disapproval of my blubbering, soggy self. I fully recommend The Fault in Our Stars by the way…when you’re alone, with a box of tissue.

But you know what’s even more distressing than crying in public and having people stare and judge? Crying in public and having no one seem to notice or care. Hello, airline staff?

Sure, when I’m watching a movie I don’t really want the attention, but when we’re landing and my eardrums feel like they are about to burst because apparently I’m not over my cold yet? You know, I’d like someone to ask if I’m ok…like maybe the stewardess…so I can ask if ear drums can burst because you have a cold.  Not that knowing would actually help, but I like to be prepared.

How bad does your condition have to be before they send a military helicopter to pick you up? They sent three people up. I’m hoping the other two were family members… I’m proud to say that my first thought was “I hope they’re ok” and not “were they in a suite”?

• Table Tennis (Classic!)
• Bocce Ball
  (We have a lawn.  If I didn’t already feel like this trip was a frivolous extravagance, the presence of a lawn at sea would have convinced me.)
• Karaoke (After my cough went away. “Don’t tell my heart, my achy…never mind”)
• Self Directed Wine Tasting (Isn’t that just drinking?)
  And…
• Long lining into a helicopter?

Day six on the cruise we woke up to the thrumming sound of helicopter blades outside our window.

Since I have nose problems I dashed upstairs and watched what looked like a military helicopter long line three people off the ship. Apparently some time in the night the ship had actually turned around to get us close enough to shore so that the helicopter could reach us for the evacuation. And I thought racing a sailboat was an expensive excursion.

This church is the only tourist site I actually saw in Barcelona. Probably one of the most stunning churches I’ve ever seen.

Barcelona isn’t looking as promising. I’m fairly sure I’m cursed. But in good news the pharmacist totally recognized the Tylenol cold package so I’m medicated (hooray for consistent chemical names).

In other good news the Niwinski guest room is totally comfortable and the whole point in being in Barcelona was to see Alice and family and I can totally do that with a fever.

Alice patting a turtle…kinda.

Andre patting the same turtle. I love this place.

Bye bye and hushabye, Can you see the swans fly? Now half asleep in bed I lie, Awake with half an eye. Heyho and welladay, Over hills and far away, That’s where the little children stray To find the lambs at play.

To get to Paris, we took Iceland Air. The seats were amazing. The food was great and because we were in comfort class we had blankets and little lullaby pillows. It was truly luxurious and I have been ruined for coach travel.

Taking Iceland Air was a fluke. They just happened to offer the best times to fly for a reasonable price. I didn’t even know Iceland had an airline before we went. But they do, and I’m hooked. Not just on the airline, but on Iceland. Iceland Air has the best on-board advertising ever. Their safety video doesn’t just show you how to survive the unlikely water landing airlines are always cheerfully telling is about, it uses the instructions as an opportunity to show you the beautiful landscape and amazing activities available in Iceland. (A pony ride to hot springs? How could I say no?)

I get a chill when I see truly effective advertising. (I’m such a geek.) Why show a cartoon of someone sliding down a safety slide, when you can show people cliff jumping into hot springs (over a helpful line drawing of a safety slide).

We took off from Iceland and landed in Logan’s Run.

NB. Totally small world moment on the flight. A familiar looking guy came up to me and asked if I was Laura. Coincidentally I was and after a few seconds I realized why he looked familiar. He was a Cariboo Hill Secondary alumni. One of the nice ones that I’m sure would have been very fun to hang around with if I hadn’t been a so paralyzingly shy. He was on his honeymoon, and recognized me from a distance. What are the chances of meeting someone you haven’t seen in two decades on a flight to Iceland? (“Is that a rhetorical question, or would you like to do that math?” – Name that show!)

At church today the homily was about how Jesus was just like us, except for the sin part because he was perfect.

Basically Jesus is like the kid down the block that could play oboe at 6, never talked back and always got straight As, even when math started being about letters. (Seriously…how is X ever anything but X?)  Thanks. No pressure.

But at least the take-away was simple. Jesus = perfect.

No sin. Gotcha.

Then it got confusing. They trotted out the whole life story of Jesus, leading up to the big Easter event. (The rising from the dead miracle part, not the rabbit that somehow lays eggs part.)

The priest was all, “Jesus was born, did some stuff, got baptized, made a mess of a temple…”

And I was all, “Wait, baptized? Ummm, if he was perfect and without sin, why did he need to get baptized?”.

Because I’ve learned my lesson, I didn’t put my hand up and ask. (That totally doesn’t go well.)  I waited patiently to ask my much more theologically experienced in-laws over Easter breakfast.  (I’m full of fun conversation topics.)  Cut to awkward silence. “Pass the ham please.” I’m super popular there.

So I decided to do what all curious minds do, get their husband to Google the answer on the drive home. What did we do before Google?

Apparently there are two leading theories about why Jesus got baptized.  One is marketing. (Biblical times product placement.)

Hypothetical Jesus:  “Hey John, I like this baptism thing you’ve started.”

Hypothetical John:  “Thanks, Jesus. But I’m worried it won’t really take off. Big fan, by the way.”

Hypothetical Jesus:  “Thanks. I try.”

Hypothetical John:  “Hey, your fan base seems pretty big. What are you doing this afternoon?”

(Ok, so there’s some conjecture there… ’cause i’s not like I was there, but I’m pretty sure that’s how it went.)

I liked the marketing theory, but I like the second theory even better. Apparently Jesus purified the baptismal water by touching it…just like a Unicorn.

Before you ask, no the biblical scholars haven’t come out and said Jesus is a Unicorn (yet), and I don’t have actual proof that Jesus was a Unicorn. But the circumstantial evidence is pretty solid.

• Jesus, purified the water so it could be used for baptism.  – Unicorns use their horn to purify water so the animals can drink.
• Jesus liked virgins. – Unicorns super like virgins.
• Jesus, not so much around in person anymore.  – Unicorns, ditto.

My logic is unassailable.  (NB.  My husband says wild guesses and coincidences aren’t tools of logic.  But he also thinks X can equal a number, so…)

Happy Easter.

I heard NASA is one of the departments that shut down due to the US Budget problems. “Thanks for volunteering to go to space folks but we-out.” 

Just wondering, is only my office where “Big Picture Thinker” = “Operationally Useless”?

I love the work I’m doing now, just not the organizational problems that accompany it so I started to feel sorry for myself.

Then I read the news.

Wow, and I thought we had problems.

Writing Exercise:

Some of the best writing advice I ever received was to throw everything (bad) at your character that you can imagine then make it worse. I still struggle with introducing enough conflict in my writing but the advice helped. The advice has also helped me to see my problems in context. Things can always be worse.

For this exercise imagine your worst day in the last few months then think how you could make it worse.  Did you get a flat tire? Make that a flat in the worst neighborhood in town.  Once you’ve made it worse, repeat the process three more times making the situation incrementally worse.  This is the starting point for your story. Spend a twenty minutes exploring how that moment could have been so much worse.

Happy writing.

Because of an ankle injury this may be the closest I get to riding in the next little while. Stupid ankle.

Mounted combat at Carosella and a new season of Walking Dead is released on Netflix. It’s a good day.

Now I’m trying to decide if it is better to watch a few episodes before I go to sleep or just stay up all night watching them all.

Considering I have to work tomorrow staying up may sound like a bad choice. But I figure I’ll either go to work exhausted and happy or wake up and go to work exhausted after a night of zombie nightmares.

See, I’ll be exhausted either way…so staying up isn’t _that_ selfish and irresponsible.

Plus if I don’t watch them all tonight I know I will watch more tomorrow and repeat the nightmare cycle. (My relationship with cake should be sufficient proof that I don’t have enough will power to stay away from things that are bad for me.)

Besides, wouldn’t an exhausted but happy version of me be more productive than an exhausted me for the whole week.

Zombie marathon anyone?. (It’s the responsible choice.)

PS. I actually got some writing done this weekend. I think it’s the impending deadline of the Surrey International Writers’ Conference. I love me a deadline.

Writing Exercise:

I was watching the Walking Dead today and I have zombies on the brain. Not literally or it would be harder to write this. No one comes back to read alhjk;awnl;;  aewk;hjt9032buaekhjlf. (Totally how a zombie would type. Their dexterity leaves something to be desired.)

Anyway, sometimes people in the show die. (Not a spoiler right?  I mean it’s a zombie show called The Walking Dead, the dead have to come from somewhere.)

As the body count started to rise I started thinking about how you might choose to commemorate those of your group that died while you struggle to find a zombie safe zone. I thought of a journal. One whose only entries were descriptions of the lost and how they died. “{Name} died today. They were …” Not only a great memorial but a few generations post-zombie-apocalypse it would make a compelling read… But there could be other ways.  Maybe one of the survivors was a tattoo artist and could carry the faces and names of the lost permanently.

What would you do to remember your lost-to-the-horde comrades?  Happy writing.

NB. There simply must be a season 5 of The Walking Dead. If there isn’t I might have to do something drastic.  Like sign a petition. Or become an investment banker so I can fund a season privately. Totally a good reason to become an investment banker.