True confessions

(This was originally posted early January 2006, as an excuse for the lack of postings over a period of weeks. It is reposted now, in case I need an excuse at any time in the future.)

I, Sarah Elizabeth Crosbie, am a bad blogger.
I haven't written a thing on this site or my official blog at Osprey since Dec. 9.
I blame many things for my lack of fabulous contributions.

1. It was Christmastime.
2. It was New Year's Eve.
3. I went on vacation with the boyfriend and his two children to Cuba (see photo above).
4. Work has been ridiculously busy.
5. Househunting. Anyone have a cute bungalow they're looking to sell?
Perhaps the best way to sum up my outrageous busyness is to tell you a story that's fit for a Hallmark Card commercial.
One day, a few weeks ago, my father, a total luddite, decided to finally send me an e-mail. He wanted to know how I was, what I was up to, etc, etc, etc.
Well, I get hundreds of e-mails at work and so I decided I'd respond when I had time.
Well, apparently in my father's world, it should always be same-day service and because I didn't respond right away, he became concerned.
Fast forward a few days.
I get my snail mail from my mailbox and there's a handwritten letter from my father with just a few words: "I sent you an e-mail. Why didn't you respond yet?"
Ah, fathers. What can you do?

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Till the stars no longer shine

Every girl gets a few Valentine's Day cards and love notes in her life.
In high school, my boyfriend gave me sweet cards and little notes to say he cared and my father often attached one of those business-card size notes on the bouquets of red carnations he gave me on Valentine's Day but I didn't truly receive a real love note until Sept. 7, 1996.


It's a nine-page handwritten note on white paper that reads:
"My dearest Sarah. I was so disappointed when I got home, heard your message on the answering machine and realized I had missed your call."
The writer goes on to talk about a van repair that cost $250, a piano that had been in the family for years that had been sold, the muggy weather and a fire at the local Dairy Queen.
It then proceeds to talk about how much my father and brother miss me.
The note is from my mother, the first note she mailed me after I'd left home and moved to Kingston to go to university. There's nothing really interesting in it. It's just full of the little things a family would talk about over dinner or tidbits my mom and I would gab about over a coffee.
"This started out as a little note. Now it's grown. I guess I've rambled. I say a little prayer for you every morning and evening. Don't laugh! You're in my thoughts."
And then she ends her letter with what has become her special signature: "I love you till the stars no longer shine. Mom."
Since that first letter 10 years ago, my mother and father have mailed me - not e-mailed but mailed - hundreds of notes, comic strips they think are funny, care packages and cards on every occasion. My Valentine's Day card arrived weeks ago but I'm not allowed to open it until Tuesday.
There's one thing about all the notes, cards, packages and letters that is always the same. My mother always signs off in a similar fashion.
The first one was "I love you till the stars no longer shine."
The next signoff she scrawled reads: "Love you till I am no longer a klutz."
On a postcard she sent me from Prince Edward Island, she wrote: "Love you till I don't like travelling."
On another thinking-of-you card that was sent Jan. 19, 1999, my mother, who is an elementary school teacher, said: "Love you till I love bus duty when the buses are late!"
Another note was sent because she obviously needed a distraction: "Love you till I love doing report cards."
A little note decorated with bluebirds ended with: "Love you till I love driving home after leaving you."
And perhaps the quirkiest of them all, is in a small cream-coloured card that my mother sent to say she'd sold our boat at the cottage - and she missed me: "Love you till I love liver."
Till the stars no longer shine, mom.

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God and cars

I don't believe in God but I do sometimes think that there's someone, somewhere, who's looking out for me, trying to guide me in the right direction and lead me not into temptation. Next year, I'll turn 30 and so far, for almost three decades, I've lived an outrageously charmed life.

With the exception of a smoking addiction, I made it through high school unscathed - and I think it's a miracle for any kid to get through those years relatively intact - got my university degree, found a job I love, a man I love (who loves me) and have the two big Hs - health and happiness. A couple of years ago, when I was feeling dull, lifeless and unenthused, I thought about taking a two-week trip to England by myself but I wasn't quite sure it was the right thing to do. While I waivered over whether I should dish out a couple thousand dollars to take the trip, I was suddenly bombarded with gentle pushes, hints and signs I should go. I remember driving past a church in Collins Bay that summer. It's one of those churches that has a sign out front that posts inspirational messages and it said something about taking a risk, jumping in both feet, and living life to the fullest. I went to the travel agent after that and plunked down $684 for a roundtrip ticket to London. Now, whoever it is who's looking out for me has a new tactic. When she wants to send me a message - or give me a swift kick in the rear - she sends me to Kingston General Hospital. Earlier this year, the boyfriend and I had a ridiculous, ridiculous, ridiculous argument about my car. Minutes later, the boyfriend was bending down to tie his shoe so that he could run away from me and my craziness when he felt something pop in his back. Straight to the ER we went and at the ER we stayed for hours that night. It turned out just it was just a pulled muscle.We went home battered but blissful in the knowledge that we had been a taught a lesson. Nothing is as important as health. We shouldn't sweat the small stuff. Life is short. On Monday morning, when most people were easing into the week, the boyfriend and I had yet another fight about - you guessed it - the bloody car. We fought. And fought. And fought. And even though we called a truce that day, I felt badly that we fought about something so inconsequential, something so trivial, something so unimportant as a block of steel on wheels. And guess where we ended up that night? That's right, Kingston General Hospital's emergency room. This time, it was my turn to put on the backless robe and fill the uncomfortable two-hour wait with chatter about nothing and everything. Did we remember to buy cold cuts for lunches? Where did we want to live in 10 years? Two and a half hours later, I was sent home with a clean bill of health. And when we pulled in our driveway, I looked at the boyfriend and admitted that sitting there, in the waiting room that night, I looked up at the ceiling and asked someone, I don't know who, if she could please take care of me and my family.

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Back in biz

Hey, you might notice things look a bit different. I finally got the BF off his lazy ass, and he updated the site and created this new look. I don't know what his problem was.

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