FACEBOOK.

Maybe it was because I was brought up in the 90's, but as a young girl I dreamed of being a teen and spending night after night on the telephone with friends and boyfriends. All the movies and TV shows depicted teenagers bogging down the phone line, and parents stomping around loudly, complaining that the phone was never free.

What did my actual teen years bring me? Facebook. A website originally designed as a college dating service that quickly grew into a "social networking website". Facebook is so well known, you can find it in online dictionarys and my guess is that it will be making an appearance in Websters before the end of my life time. I finally "logged on" after a lot of nagging from a friend and I was thoroughly confused. I could not find my way around Facebook to save my life, so I dubbed it "stupid" and walked away. But, like an addiction, Facebook was calling me back within weeks. I have heard many a smoker say that they didn't like cigarettes the first time they inhaled but that their longing to like them kept smoking until it became something they enjoyed, something they needed. I feel the same way about Facebook.

Friend Request, confirm.

Status Update, like.

Picture Posted, comment.

Honesty Box, delete.

Inbox Message, reply.

Relationship Request, accept.

To be continued...

The Living Room of Many Arguments

Through the door, there is a large room with one dark red wall and three pale walls. The floor is covered in cat hair and the piano is out of tune. In contrast, there are three well cared for and loved guitars hanging on in front of the creamy fireplace. Above the mantle is a large mirror that reflects the view of the window across from it. There are two other mirrors in the room: one by the door, on your way out of the house and one as you leave the room and enter the hallway. In the corner there is an untouched cello that is precariously placed, as if hovering above the dark coffee table beneath it. On the wall adjacent to the cello, hangs a mandolin and a box full of percussion instruments sits below it. The room has been arranged around two large, new couches with large suffocating pillows and no love. They are new to the room and have yet to be accepted. A bamboo blind sits, rolled up, above the window but the curtain rod remains bare. There are many dusty picture frames around the room; on the mantle, the piano and hanging on the walls. They all hold smiling faces of the people who live there and their family members. A wide, unsuitable TV faces the couch demanding attention to anyone who enters the room. The cove ceilings create a warm feeling in the room, as does the colours of the walls and the dark wood of the furniture. But it's not the room it once was. Many of the same objects still reside there but not in the same way that they used to. It is no longer a room I am familiar with, no longer one I connect with.

I find this song inspiring.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0npq1MKg-MA

Seriously Mrs. Rioux,

I can't be sure if you saw the last post I left for you.
I'd love comments :)

Make Time.

Over and over again
I hear you say
"When oh when
Will I see you?"

Over and over again
You complain

You whine all the time
about missing him
yet I never see you try
to be with him

You refuse to go with him
You insist on going out
When he's home

So Make Time
Try a little harder
To share the weight
Of your relationship.

I`m sick of hearing about it.

It's not about the couches...

It's about you, making decsions without me.

It's not about the couches.

It's about thinking this isn't my home too.

It's not about the couches.

It's about change. You used to think this was my home too.

It's not about the couches.

It's about finally tearing apart the last thing that we all built together, as a family.

It's not about the couches.

It's about her liking them.

It's about losing my home to a woman I don't know. Losing my dad to a woman I don't know.

It's about throwing away what we built together, just us.

It's not about the couches.

Sometimes you just have to listen to your heart.

It's my birthday, so we wander down to the corner store, hand in hand, and buy yummy, pre-made sandwiches and chips before heading over to the park. Most of the grass is brown and crunchy so we snuggle up under a tree where the grass in greener and we can look out at the water. Unfortunately the grass is also damp, because though it is nearly the end of June it was not yet summer. We take off our jackets and lay them on the grass next to each other and then settle down on them. The wind is sharp and sends shivers down both of are backs. We're so cold, but trying so hard to have a good time.

After stuffing myself silly with a sandwich full of crunchy chips, I turn and look into those I that care so much about me. The eyes I care so much about.

And every time I look back, I wonder why I didn't just lay you down on the grass and kiss you until my lips went numb. Why I didn't just give in to my fear of being seen, being judged and let you know how I felt in that moment.

But I didn't. We walked home, hand in hand, and warmed our numb fingers.

And I don't even remember how we spent the rest of the day.