happy beaver

I’m a pretty terrible mom. I let my kid get away with too much. I have to teach her about being a woman without having the correct credentials for the job. I know when she looks good and is well-groomed and stylishly dressed, but I have no idea how to help her with such things. But I love her with the force of two parents, and she never gets a chance to forget who her real mother was and how much she was loved by her. And I do my best with the hair and the dresses and the bras and the makeup and the boy-crushes and the tears, and I may not be a good mom, but if she’s gotta be stuck with a dad for a mom, then she’s gonna get the best mom I can be. Happy freakin’ Mother’s Day to me.
— 

Jim Beaver, Mother’s Day, 2015 [x]

Happy Mother’s Day to Jim Beaver and every surrogate mother figure out there. You’re just as valid and important as any biological parent.

People Of Earth

The canoe returneth. What you see as happy beavers* are my cats in costumes. *Do not go there @sherrigamblin and assorted hooligans.

I did NOT expect to be back here this soon. In fact, I may be dreaming. Thank God I’m no longer enduring yesterday’s nightmare.

Wasn’t that horrible? I don’t think I’ll forget any time soon how completely shattered I felt after watching the Kristin Dos Santos Interview From Hell.

It may sound silly to you, and that would be on you, but I remember feeling that stunned only three other times in my life. First, when the love of my life “quickly” married another woman. Second, when my dad suddenly died and I lived 1300 kilometres away from home. Third, when Wayne Gretzky was sold to the Los Angeles Kings. Yes, Gretzky. What’s your point? I was an Edmonton Oilers season ticket holder, for crying in the sink. I couldn’t eat for two days. I met my brother’s first serious girlfriend and could hardly speak to her. Nice first impression, eh?

I did NOT expect to say this either – I think I’ll stick around for a while. I wrote a letter of resignation (really!) and thought I’d wait a day or two before posting it. I could barely see the keyboard through my tears and didn’t want to inadvertently post the letter on some weird festish dating site. NOT that there’s anything wrong with that.

However, still feeling like kaka, I spoke with a shipper I admire very much, and read a couple of very good, thorough, optimistic posts. I so much wanted to believe good things, that Ms Balfe and Mr. Heughan are together, are in love, and are happy, yet they needed to ask for privacy. (I’m working at coming to terms with their disconcerting way of asking for it.)

Now I do believe, cautiously. Very cautiously. But I will no longer ship. I’ll have fun. I’ll enjoy pictures and art and humour, and might comment on things that come directly from Ms Balfe and/or Mr. Heughan, but I will not speculate. I will not write any more scripts. I won’t draw stick people pictures of their pushing a stroller while touring Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum. And if I slip up, call me on it. Please. 

I’m going to blog that way for two reasons: to respect Ms Balfe and Mr. Heughan’s privacy, and to protect my broken brain. Stress sucks.

To that end, like other bloggers have said, if something pops onto my dashboard that I think disrespects the actors’ privacy, I won’t reblog it and I almost certainly will block the blogger who wrote it. I’m sure I won’t like doing that. 

If something pops up on my dashboard that hurts my brain, I won’t reblog it and I almost certainly will block the blogger who wrote it.

You might have heard me rant about bloggers’ using mental illness terms inappropriately. Block. Bloggers who call other bloggers fat or ugly or shrewish or anything else inappropriate and judgemental: Block. I don’t know if you can block anons who write the same kind of things, but I’ll fall off that bridge when I come to it.

I knew if I decided to abandon ship (hmm… don’t want to ship….), I would miss so many things about hanging out here. Something I never thought I would have the opportunity to miss? Followers. Who knew? It means the world to me My Followers have so much patience and the generous sense of humour required to enjoy reading what I have to say, which is usually pretty silly. I don’t understand you… but I’m very grateful for you.

I never want to feel again like I felt the moment Kristin Dos Santos asked thee question in the Interview From Hell. It was a brutal 24 hours or so. Let’s not go there again. 

I often don’t know what’s going on, and pretty much make everything up as I go along. If you can live with that, ask or DM me, wave at me, send me money, whatever spins your dime. I look forward to connecting with you.

For the record, I think it’s important to tell you I still think Too Much of Frank. I’m just not ready to let it go. Even if Mr. Menzies wins his well-deserved Golden Globe tomorrow night, it will still be Too Much of Frank. I think @veilsrus would feel a deep void in her life if I didn’t take every opportunity to remind her Too Much of Frank.

In conclusion, I’m done writing this particular piece of drivel. Truly.