Ladies First?

I found this in a 1966 magazine at work:

"Lady's First"
Q: Why do ladies always go first? (From a teen-age boy)

A: It is simply a matter of courtesy. You may be surprised to learn that ladies do not always go first, however. It is a common mistake on the part of men to know when to go first themselves under certain circumstances. These are:

On the steps of a train in order to help the lady alight;
Through the corrider of a train, so taht he may open heavy doors;
Out of a taxi, so he may assist her in alighting;
Through a crowd, so he may make a path for her;
In a restaurant when there is no headwaiter to guide them to their seats;
Down stairs, to break her fall if she trips;
Into the theatre, if there is no usher;
Into a darkened room or any other place where a lady entering alone might have difficulty or encounter danger.

Life is a curious thing

It's funny, too. For instance: ever since I can remember, I've had brothers. And these brothers have always taken a long time in the bathroom. This has always annoyed me. Well, tonight, just now actually, I was about to get in the shower - but guess who's in the bathroom? However, because my brother is in the bathroom, and I can't take a shower, I now have time to blog. And now I'm someone contented. Funny, isn't it?

What's even funnier is the fact that I have absolutely nothing I want to share with you. Oh, there's plenty going on in my life. But nothing I want to share with people I hardly know. Actually, there is one thing in particular that I wish I could get off my chest. However, I couldn't possibly tell it to the one person who matters, because that would just be awkward. Because it kind of involves him a lot. Now, how can I pour my heart out to internet gurus, who don't care about my problems? Maybe I'll put them in the third person.

I have this friend....

You know what, never mind.

My parents are in Italy right now. Mom's always wanted to go to Europe. I guess she's deserved this little holiday, but I wish I could fast forward the next thirteen years, until I'm rich and famous and have a hotel in Paris and have to travel there regularly.

Until then, all I can do is blog, and try and figure out little life puzzles, such as:

How am I going to get rich and famous during the next thirteen years? And why does it have to be thirteen years?

Think about it. In thirteen years, I will be the ripe old age of thirty-five. Not so young to be called reckless, yet not so old to be called senile. Middle-aged. The prime of my life. Yadda yadda...

Let's say next year (2012-2013) I take off from school to work hard and make enough money for hair-styling-manicure-and-cosmetics school (because I want to be a hair stylist-manicurist-costmetic-artist). The fall of 2013, and perhaps the spring of 2014, I will busy myself at said school. By the time I finish there, I will be twenty-four going on twenty-five.

[I just realized, twenty-four was the limit I gave myself for marriage. If I am not married by the age of twenty-four, I will submit myself to the life of an old cat lady. But a rich old cat lady, remember?]

Now, we can look at my life after 2014 in two different ways: Miss Rich-and-Famous Jet-setter, or Mrs. Rich-and-Famous Jet-setter.

Miss Rich-and-Famous: From 2014 until I gain the required hours needed, I will work at small hair salons here and there (most likely in my own home town, where rent seems to be cheaper for some reason). Let us say I gain the hours I need to open up my own hair salon by, I suppose 2017. By then, I shall be twenty-eight. So far so good. I open up a hair salon, the motive and idea for which I shall keep secret in this blog. This hair salon becomes such a hit that I quickly make lots of money and fame. I invest in a growing hotel in Paris. End of story.

Now, for
Mrs. Rich-and-Famous: I start working at my home town hair salon to gain hours I need to open up my own business. In 2015 I meet a rich man, whose own business I haven't conjured up in my imagination yet. We get married in 2016 (I love quick romances).
[This is a little later than my twenty-four deadline, but I think a one year difference is of little importance]
With his steady income, we are certainly both well-off enough to travel to Paris every so often if we so desire. But I really want that business of mine. We buy a big house, I set up an area in which to open up my business, and we are now a two-income family. While our four or five children (which I shall have by the time I am thirty-five years old) are enjoying swimming lessons at home with Grandma and Grandpa, me and my wealthy husband shall parade around Paris to our heart's delight.

My family and friends gets free haircuts, giving my name fame throughout the land.


I don't seem to mind the Mrs. Rich-and-Famous so much.

We're not overpopulated

Do the math.

"I like old people"

Says my 71 year-old co-worker at the museum. I don't think he knows why I laugh every time he says that.

My job is a mixture of boring and exciting at the same time. All in all, I love it. If you ever get the chance to work at a small-town museum, go for it. It's an unforgettable experience, to be sure.

My musuem is run by seniors. Every year on Canada Day they have a huge open-house type thing, with the steamer, well-driller, thresher, and clay oven going all day long so people can see how things were done "in the old days". In preparation for that day, I got to know the old helpers quite well - they always came for coffee every day, at 10am and 3pm, sharp. The coffee always had to be made on time. And there had to be plenty of cookies, too.

The men sat at one end of the table, while the woman (and I) sat at the other. I had the advantage of being able to hear both ends of the conversation: the men would talk or argue over machinery, the DC Case, how to fix the well-driller, etc. The women would chat about their flowers, what they planned to do at the lake that weekend, their quilting projects, and whether it's worth buying a rechargable battery for their husbands' hearing aids.

In just two months, Monday till Friday, coffee time sometimes extending to over and hour and a half long, I've gained an extensive knowledge of all the above, as well as how to trap a mole, that banana goes quite nicely with rhubarb, that we need more dummies so we can show off all those old clothes in the storage room, that it's good for plants to pick off the dead flowers every once in awhile, that Mrs. So-and-so has bought a new condo and is moving in by the end of the month and must downsize a lot so she might need more than one garage sale, that people need to stop bringing in their mother's sewing machines or old type-writers because we have more than we can store, and that goes for old pump organs too, that that one brand of ant killer really does the trick, and apparently using seven-up in your pie crust in place of vinegar works just as good.

Things have slowed down a little, now that the Canada Day celebrations are over and the clean-up is almost done. I'm going to miss our frequent coffee-chats. But I'm sure they'll keep coming back every so often, if they think I should know that the rechargable battery in Mr. So-and-so's hearing aid was worth it.

su-su-su-sugar town

I've recently discovered the beautiful voice Nancy Sinatra jr. holds.



I love looking at pictures of her and her daddy - don't they look adorable together?

Old-Fashioned Daydreamer

This picture of Jean Arthur gets me every time I look at it. I guess it's the dreamy expression in her eyes - it brings back so many of my daydreaming moments, where my imagination transcends time and space itself. I've always been an avid daydreamer - I think "avid" is the right word - but you know what? I think you already know that. I'm sure I must have mentioned in detail my many imaginings as a child, and how these daydreams still exist, even through college.

Well, you don't need to hear all that again. Really, you don't need to hear anything again. But, as long as I like to write, and as long as dopes like you (I say that in the most endearing way, of course) continue to subscribe to my silly blog, I'm going to keep on writing about things you don't need to know.

Like books, for instance. Talk about stimulation for avid daydreamer!
(again, hoping that "avid" is the correct term)
I just love books. All books -- that is, all old books, all classic books, all books that have satisfied millions of hopeless romantics like me in their endeavors to push the daydream button in our brains. I recently obtained a nice little collection (four or five little books) of poetry, the author of which I have never heard of, so I think it unneccessary to point him out. Here is one way in which books have the power to hold my imagination. Not knowing the author, and not being particularly partial to any types of poetry myself, I don't look inside these books for their content. Rather, I look at them for their history, for the story they tell. Because, you see, these books are mostly over one hundred years old. And I love old books.

Some of them have been through fire, and are a little scarred; one has paper covers added to hide the missing original; one, published in 1952, says, "First Edition: This book is a collector's item. Don't part with it." Another is a French religious work dated 1893. Now, with books like these sitting on my shelf, do you wonder that I'm so proud of them? So willing to glance at them, in them, every now and then, and look at the many notes written inside by their previous owners? In this is the history, not the content. And I love it.

Anyways. I'm going to go daydream.

So it's been awhile...

but that's alright. I only wish I had something interesting to share with you, other than the news that I am now at home and working hard (sometimes) at our local museum.

Also, the town of Nipawin here is the site of a new tv show featured on History Channel called "Dust Up". It's about three of our local dust-croppers on their very important job of ensuring the farmers' fields are looked after. The first episode starts this Thursday, June 2nd. I'm not sure of the time, so be on the lookout for it and check out some beautiful scenery and cultural history that I see every day! Here is the series trailer:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34ZJ5AKHWe8

I've redecorated my room a bit as well. A new shelf, jam-packed with books already. And my walls are arranged in a more organized manner.

I'm reading through the entire Jane Austen collection. Just finished Mansfield Park, and now I'm on Emma. So far, so good!

The Three Stooges are awesome.

The pellet with the poison's in the flagon with the dragon! The vessel with the pestle has the brew that is true

I've recently been on a huge Danny Kaye kick. I think in the last two days I've watched about four of his movies: The Court Jester, The Secret Life of Walter Mitty, On the Riviera, and Wonder Man. Ok, maybe that doesn't seem like a lot - but remember, I was supposedly in the middle of exams. Watching funny dancers and singers is much more better than studying, in my point of view. Especially when Danny Kaye is the funny dancer and singer.
When I first saw The Inspector General I was amazed at his talent. His voice is more than decent, he dances like a dream (when he isn't goofing off), and he has the ability to make everyone laugh hytserically with his face twitches.
The Secret Life of Walter Mitty is, I think, my new favourite film of his. Not only because I particularly enjoyed his performance of shy Walter Mitty with an overprotective mother, but because I truly can relate to his character. My mind is always going through some daydream or other.
I must admit, until recently the only Danny Kaye movies I had seen were White Christmas (with Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Clooney, and Vera Ellen), and The Inspector General (a classic comedy!). With the viewings of the above-mentioned films, my respect for this talented actor has gone up, and I believe, will have a very difficult time finding reason to go down the scale.
Thank you for saving my stressed-out, exam-ridden mind, Danny Kaye. May you rest in peace.

Voices In My Head

This morning, after writing a midterm exam for Political Philosophy, I stumbled upon an astounding realization. I hear voices in my head that help me to write better.

No, don't walk away. I'm not crazy -- at least, not that crazy. That is, I'm not crazy enough to actually hear schizophrenic-type voices and believe they help to perfect my academic abilities.

What I mean by voices is, well, while I write something, while I read something, while I do most things that involve words, I read or write with a certain voice. Usually it's some distortation or other of my own voice. But sometimes, especially if the piece of writing is particularly intellectual or thought-stimulating, the voice in my head obtains an English-accent characteristic to give it a more professional and academic effect. I call this English voice the "little British novelist". Every time I have written an essay or story, with this voice in my mind, I accepted the fact that whatever it is I had just written was, well, damned good if I do say so myself.

This very phenomenon just happened to me this morning as I wrote the long essay for the exam. The question was a comparison between Aristotle's and Rousseau's political philosophies. And I must say, I am more than pleased with my results. That is to say, I have not yet received any feedback whatsoever; but the feeling of extreme satisfaction and joy with my own writing proved quite sufficient in my thinking that I had just written a rather enjoyable essay. Even though my professor might think I missed a fact or two, or that I know nothing whatsoever about political philosophy, I am happy to say that I put a reasonable amount of effort in making it an easy, fun, and overall a "nice" read. Thank you, British Novelist.

(Note: I did not hear his voice during this blog. If you did walk away in the beginning, it was not because I was weird; but because this blog sucks).

The one I love belongs to somebody else...

"You know, I think I was in love with you then, hunk."
"I know you were."
"...YOUUU!"

Dear dead movie stars: I love you, in the plural sense.

I have always loved old movies. Old movie stars adorn my bedroom walls back home. My movie collection doesn't contain anything made later than 1970. My favourite t.v. channel is TCM. I think you get the point...
But my obsession with vintage-ness doesn't end there. Along with the movies and movie stars, comes a love of their glamor, and an obsession to be as glamorous as them. I've studied the various fashions, hair styles, and applications of makeup from the 1930's through to the 1960's. 70% of my music collection consists mainly of swing music or crooners. My favourite magazine is Reminisce, with each issue holding a collection of stories and pictures sent in by people who have experienced that very era.

Why do I love the past so much? Not just any past -- but that past? I honestly don't know. There is something more than just glamor that attracts me. I learned how to walk gracefully, how to talk decently, how to appear as though I have charm, poise, and grace, by watching and listening to these ideals of mine. I have learned how to gain respect from men, and how to respect other people. Above all, I've learned that I was definitely born 90 years too late.

*sigh*

Another year over, a new one soon begun...

"Garfield...it's Christmas Eve morning!"
Well, late afternoon anyway. Christmas is the time of year where our family spends many precious hours together, sipping fattening drinks, eating fattening food, and watching ridiculously cheesy and oh-so-much-older-than-you-were-born Christmas movies. I don't mean the old classics, It's A Wonderful Life or White Christmas - although those are ranked among my favourites - I mean the wonderful era of the 90's, when Garfield, Flinstones, Muppets, and Fraggles still roamed tv land. Among their Christmas specials (which we recorded years ago on those ancient things called tapes), are also those of Family Matters, Home Improvement, and Mr. Bean. Ah, such precious memories!
But hey, our lead-up to Christmas isn't only about watching tv. The first Sunday of advent begins with setting up the manger (on top of the tv...that's the only place it works!). After that - well, after I come home from school last week, in time for Mass for the fourth Sunday of advent - the week is made up of a plethora of gingerbread houses, baking, Christmas music, snowmobiling, sleigh rides, hockey, skiing, food, food, food, FOOD. There's SO much food here I can't handle it! And even more for tonight...ah, let me tell you how we celebrate Christmas!
My parents are both French, to begin with. They grew up in the same tiny French village in southern Saskatchewan (drive fifteen minutes and you hit the U.S. border). Naturally they have the same traditions in celebrating Christmas - a Reveillon. Don't know what that is? Google it. Most of France and Quebec don't do it anymore, but Saskatchewan French people are...well...different. Special. We still do it. Mass is never at midnight anymore, but tonight it's at 10pm. As soon as it and the festivities at the church are over, we'll drive back home, sit through a toast given by my parents, while one of the younger siblings (who are well into their teen years, might I add?) will sneak to the tree and let out a little "rrrriiip". That's when the gift opening begins - so joyous! My hands are shaking just thinking about it! After that's done, we'll go back into the kitchen. Mom pulls out her tourtiere (French meat-pies), and we all sit down to a real feast - tourtiere, butter tarts, nanaimo bars, fudge, truffles, food food food! And wine. So much wine.
When we were younger, we used to stay up till the sun came out, playing with our new toys while the adults would play cards. Now that we don't get toys for Christmas anymore, and many of my siblings are unfortunately not passionate about cards at 3 in the morning, we usually go to bed between 2 or 3. This year I hope to get a good game of ramoli or something started before everyone goes to bed.
The next morning we all sleep in. Christmas and New Years are two days out of the entire year we are allowed to sleep in past 9. However, most of us are up by then, because while we were sleeping, our parents will have stuffed our stockings we had laid out the night before! We each get oranges, chocolates, candy canes, and many other little gifts. After Mass (which is always at 11am - our church never changes), we'll go home again and sit down to the best treat of the season - homemade crepes (pronounced "creps", not "crapes", you easterners!)!! Mom's crepes are always amazing. Paper thin, we slather on some peanut butter, and spoonfulls of brown sugar, then roll of the delicious pastries. There are never leftovers, even though mom makes enough to feed an army.
The rest of the day is filled with visiting and card games or a hockey game outside, until supper time. This is where the turkey, mashed potatoes, vegetables, gravy, stuffing, cranberry sauce, cabbage rolls, ham, etc., etc., comes in. And tens upon tens of pies for desert!
I hope this helps you see why I get so excited for Christmas each year. It isn't the food, the gifts, the music, the traditions. Well, actually, yeah, it is.

Merry Christmas everyone.

It's been a long time since I've rambled. I'm sure some of you are wondering if this crazy individual is still alive. Yes, actually, I am alive, and kicking (metaphorically speaking, of course. I can't imagine the trouble I'd cause if I were literally kicking. Although it would look kind of cool, to go around kicking like a ninja. Hm. Now I want to go around and kick like a ninja.).
Allow me to recap the past year and a bit in as few words as I can. Let me see now...it was August, of '09, where I left off, am I correct? Well, since August '09, to September '10, I can sum up my experiences as thus:

Orientation. New Aquaintances. Almost late for class. I'm a heretic. Oops, I missed chores again. OhmanIhateLogic. Ack, exams! Ah, Christmas. Oh boy, new classes. Oh gosh I love this place. Oh no, essays! Oh no, exams! Die, papers, die, die! Oh wow, that went fast. Oh no, only a week left! Aw, I miss everybody. :( :( :( :( :( Gee my summer sucks. Wow my summer is long. Oh wow, my sister's married. Hey! I'm back at school!!!!! :) :) :) :) :) yaaaaaaaaay I LOVE MY CLASSES AND EVERYBODY!!!!

And there you have it.
See you next time.
-The Ramblenator.

Collective Soul's new album

Oh. My. Gosh. I haven't even heard the entire album yet, and already it's my new favourite. I mean, here I thought their last album, "Afterwards" was awesome. But the Rabbit album (release date August 25th!!!!) is even better! Their new drummer, Cheney Brannon, is just outstanding. The songs show originality, talent, and of course they contain that "stimulation" that kids these days are constantly searching for (I really don't understand that, and I could write an entire 5-page essay on it, but I won't get into it....for now).
My brother even said it's their best, next to the blue album. So Kudos to you, Ed, Dean, Joel, Cheney, Will....it's a job well done. :)

I just wish I could see you in concert! Just once!!

(Oh yeah, here's where you can hear the entire album http://www.vh1.com/artists/az/collective_soul/2449754/album.jhtml or http://watch.muchmusic.com/muchmore/first-spin/first-spin-collective-soul---rabbit/#clip204282

dance, dance, wherever you may be...everbody dances when they gotta pee...

Well, how do you like that. Doc said it'd take 4-6 weeks for my ankle to heel. I was walking in 2 weeks, walking without pain in 3, and without a limp in 4. By 5 weeks I could hop up and down the stairs normally, and by 6 I could run a very awkward type of run. So here I am, going into my 7th week. You'd think I could start dancing by now. and I don't mean the little 2-step, waltz, and tango etc, that take one or two minutes to finish. I mean the ridiculous type of dancing I would do, all by myself in my little room, with a huge imaginary audience watching me as the sound of Leahy blared out of my stereo.

That's right. Step-dancing.

I never did properly learn how, aside from a few steps shown to me by my future sister-in-law. That and watching the Leahy sisters and Natalie MacMaster are all I've had to teach me. And I must tell you, it definitely shows - which is why I never dance when there's anybody around. My imagination finds the pretence thrilling, and my body finds the exercise invigorating. I don't need to be an expert Cape Breton step-dancer. I'm perfectly happy dancing in my little room, trying to match my steps with the "tap tap" sound coming from various Leahy/Natalie recordings. I'm certainly no pro when it comes to the moonwalk, with Natalie does so nicely, but my imaginary agent seems to think so.

Alright. So maybe I dwell too much in my imaginary world, where nothing goes wrong (unless it's in the script....yes, I'm an actress, too). Maybe I should stick to REAL exercise that people do: jogging, biking, swimming, weights....but where's the fun in that? I suppose while jogging I could pretend I'm a secret agent chasing a dangerous criminal, or while I'm biking I could be a world-champion horse racer at the Kentucky Derby. Swimming...well, I'm afraid I spend too much time pretending I'm drowning after the ship explodes to focus on doing laps.

My point is, as much as I find these different imaginings.....different, maybe even exciting, I have always preferred dancing as my form of exercise. No, really, I have! When our family was expecting its first wedding, and I had to order a new outfit, what did I do to keep in shape? Why, I danced, of course! Back then I was obsessed with the '50's. Twists, hops, jives, etc...I didn't know how, but I had a ton of fun doing it.

So, again, on Monday it will be 7 weeks now since I sprained my ankle. And I still can't dance for more than a couple minutes. I can't even twist my foot properly, which is necessary for some of the steps I've learned.

Oh woe is me.

My loverly bedroom.

"Rheanne, why don't you do something with your life. All you ever do is sit in your room allllll day."

Uh huh. Sure, that's true some days. But as my older siblings and parents would, or at least should, recall, is that I have always spent a good portion of my time in my bedroom. Most of my childhood memories consist of me in my room, playing barbies. In my room, listening to music. In my room, imagining far-off worlds and different times. I have always loved having a room for myself to sneak away to, a room in which I can sit without being disturbed and imagine all sorts of adventures. A room to provide silence and solitude for my reading pleasure. This is the way it has always been.

Perhaps I should spend more time with my family. I don't know. I do know is that whenever I go upstairs to find some kind of activity, I either: (a) Find nothing interesting to do, (b) Find that nobody wants to play anything, (c) Get in trouble, or (d) Eat things that I really don't need to be eating. Might I also add, that in the summertime it can be dreadfully hot up there when the air conditioner isn't on. Can you really blame me if I prefer the cool air that sits in my humble bedroom to the stifling heat that sticks to you as soon as your foot reaches the top step?

Another accusation made against me is that all I ever do is go on my computer. Well, unfortunately, for the first few months that I was home, and for that unspeakable period of slight depression in mid-April, this was quite true. I have since however learned to do other things to occupy my time. Lately I have come by some very good books, some of which would take me hours to put down. Last week I was able to buy some more paint-by-numbers, thus enabling me to practice my painting again. My violin continues to show off its glory, sitting on top of its case, and of course my writing, musings, and drawing has considerably doubled.

This is why my room constantly looks as if a tornado passed by. When I get into an artistic state of mind, all other cares and worries of life - food, cleanliness, society - pass from my mind, and all I can focus on is the deep satisfaction and joy I achieve from these simple hobbies.

I recall my teenage years. I often spent my hours - and they were many, believe me! - sitting on my bed or floor, eyes closed in a deep reverie, listening to some very enjoyable music. It was usually violin or fiddle music, and I was really imagining myself as the lead violinist. I still do that. Only now, while I listen to music, I can put my thoughts into words, and the words into blogs. Ok, so not all of my musings and thoughts are beneficial for all of mankind. But it is a hobby, and a rather enjoyable one at that.

Nobody laughs at or accuses a stamp-collector, a scrap-booker, a photographer, or a rock-painter, of being "lazy" or "unproductive". And if they do, they shouldn't. All people need some kind of escape from the real world, a place or a thing in which they can unleash their imaginations and show the world what they are capable of doing. Some work better alone in well-decorated studios, some prefer rooms full of noisy people, some prefer the outdoors.

I prefer my bedroom, thank you very much.

My uncle! I hurt my uncle!

As some of you know, I sprained my ankle last night while playing badminton with my sister. Actually, I took a break from the game to do a little Ukrainian victory dance with some Ukrainian singing - see, I started singing this song and it sounded Ukrainian so naturally that just made me dance Ukrainian.
Well, being barefoot, on uneven grass, and not know how to Ukrainian dance, my ankle turned pretty bad, and next thing I know I'm sprawling on the ground telling Lynda, "I just rolled my ankle!" Lynda, meanwhile, was laughing and my previous dance session and said, "Aw come on, I've rolled my ankle lots of times."
Nice sister.
My brother Danny had just driven in from work, and saw Lynda laughing and me on the ground. Luckily he figured something was wrong and came to help out. Boy I felt sick! Later Lynda made fun of how white I was when Danny and Mom brought me to the house. Apparently my lips were as white as that picture on my wall downstairs.
Last night was my first time in the hospital (outside of visiting). It was pretty interesting, and boring all at the same time. There weren't many waiting in the emergency room though so we were out of there within an hour.
So now my left ankle is nicely bandaged up and aching away. I'm stuck in the house because I don't have crutches yet. It'll take abotu 4-6 weeks to heal. 6 weeks!!! I can't live like this. I need to run around and bat some balls and run in the sprinkler and go for bike rides and walks...
My summer is ruined. *sigh*

We're all probably going to get old.

It's a fact of life. Deal with it.

I just came back from the nursing home - tagged along with Mom to see an old parishioner who just turned 100 years old. I really should bring my violin some there and play them a few tunes. After about 2 or 3 hours of good practise, of course. I used to go and play the piano sometimes, back when I was still taking lessons. But my piano skills have gone way down. The only thing I can do is read notes (even that is going down - with the left hand notes. Violin doesn't have bass clef and I'm forgetting fast) and play little kid's songs. Even then, I think they would prefer some old time fiddling to some gloomy Beethoven or overly-prissy Mozart or a mind-boggling piece by Chopin -- not that I ever played HIM, of course!

When I get old, if I get old, and am placed in a nursing home, I would want people to come by and play the music I listened to when I was younger. But then again, in this day and age so many people have such a wide taste in music, I highly doubt that the music I listen to now would be warmly welcomed in nursing homes of the future: Irish and Cape Breton fiddling, swing music, Josh Groban, Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby...my goodness, will the future generation even know who these people are?!?!?! I for one will do everything in my power to introduce this music into my children's heads and hope beyond all hope that they will grow to love it as I do. I mean really, how can you NOT love the fast-paced, dance-able, jigs and reels of Cape Breton? Or the minor-keyed off-beat tunes of Ireland?

I'm rambling.

Oooh, watermelon!!

On music, and awesome bands, and the like.

You know what bothers me the most? What bothers me the most is when I mention to a friend a musician or band I like, and instead of being met with "oh my gosh, they are SO cool!", I get strange, distorted stares, something not unlike my favourite smiley: o.O

But I suppose I shouldn't be so ticked off by that. After all, I COULD use this moment to reach out and teach said friend about that band or musician. And so, in the hopes of winning an autographed picture by Collective Soul in time for my 20th birthday on June 20th, I will take the time to inform you, my friends and dedicated readers, about the one rock band who means the most to me.

Ah, Collective Soul. The very name brings a smile to my face. While most kids in their early years (9, 10, 11) were listening to....whatever it is kids normally listened to back then, I was in my room, with my Collective Soul tapes, enjoying the harmonious orchestra playing in the background of their cleverly melodic songs. I included their music in a lot of my daily playing - barbie dances, doll concerts - I even, while pretending I was Sherlock Holmes' niece in England (um, long story), pretended that their softer songs ("World I Know", "Needs", "Not the One", "Run"...) would quietly play out of the gramophone while Uncle Sherlock listened to his clients' stories.

As the years went by, my musical tastes didn't necessarily change, but branched out to different areas. For years I listened to nothing but Swing, Celtic, and Frank Sinatra. Oh sure, I would dig out my Collective Soul cd's every once in awhile, but - well, I just wanted to dance, you know? Real dancing - jive, step-dancing, etc. Until last summer.

Last summer my brother, Dan, showed me their latest cd: "Afterwards" as we were driving to the lake one day. Wow, the energy! The lyrical beauty! The deep emotion and effort put into the writing of these songs! Being in a difficult situation personally, I found one song on there ("Good Morning Afterall") especially touching. That album became our "summer" cd, locking two monthfuls of cherished memories in with each song.

And theeeeen I got *cue the drumroll* yup: TWITTER. New to the growing website, confused, and wondering what the point of it was, I looked up "Collective Soul" under Search, and was happy to find out they were on there: @collective_soul, http://www.twitter.com/collective_soul. Yeah, that was pretty cool. And not only that, but they followed me back! I was stunned and started seeing stars in my eyes. Collective Soul, they KNOW I EXIST!!! There was even a Q&A session with them, and not only was I able to ask them some questions, but I got some replies back --not from management, not from some second cousin's girlfriend's aunt twice removed, but from the members of the band themselves! THAT totally rocked my world. I found out they are in the middle of making a new album (I believe it comes out sometime the end of summer), and will be going on tour soon! (check out if they're coming to your area! http://www.collectivesoul.com/live/)

So it's all because of them that I am becoming more and more obsessed with Twitter. I can at last interact with other fans on there, ask Will Turpin what his favourite ice cream flavor is (Vanilla - I agree. It IS the finest of flavours), and - even though the part I play is small indeed and may only exist in my overly active imagination - I can aid in getting Ed Roland to come to the dark side.

Really, when it comes down to good old rock music, with talented band members who can just play their hearts out, NOT TO MENTION my mom actually let me listen to them at such an early age - Collective Soul is definitely the greatest band in the whole. wide. world. And you definitely need to look them up. http://www.collectivesoul.com/blog/

Of colleges and the like

"Dear Miss _________: I am pleased to inform you formally of your acceptance to Our Lady Seat of Wisdom Academy for the 2009-2010 academic year. We are honoured that you have chosen the Academy as a possible place of study."

What do I say to that? "Gee whiz, golly gee, oh boy, how thrilling!"? I got the phone call at around 8:15 this morning, right after I woke up (slept through my alarm!), and I tried to sound excited but my mind just wasn't working. Then they sent me the email to make it official and formal and all that. So I'm all..."ok, guess this means I need to go shopping" and "I sure hope I can fit my violin in the car on the trip there."

And here I am rambling about the whole thing. I've posted the news on twitter, facebook, and "the board". I figured I might as well go all out and post it here too.

Oh, before I go, here's a song two of my brothers worked on around Easter, featuring my two nieces Marie (3) and Claire (1): http://dmillette.fastmail.fm/recording/Mirror%20of%20Eternity.mp3