tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25503868792192507452011-08-27T18:13:49.024-06:00Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comBlogger6921100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-72512165246410625252009-12-30T19:27:00.002-07:002009-12-30T19:28:55.113-07:00

I'm not here any more, I've moved.www.mrsspit.caMake sure you change your bookmarks and your blog readers.Come Saturday, I won't update at all here anymore.Stop on by, the coffee's on.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-47113006359798157832009-12-28T10:26:00.002-07:002009-12-28T10:29:15.635-07:00

Remember, I'm not here any more. I've moved towww.mrsspit.caCome and join me there, making sure you update your bookmarks and re-direct your readers. Also, if you are so inclined, it would be great if you could be my friend!********* This is the man that I am married to.Now, don’t get me wrong. I love him, I adore him, and I will stand by my statement: Marrying Mr. Spit was, by far, the smartest

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-79657076082750837232009-12-26T23:42:00.005-07:002009-12-27T00:36:29.483-07:00

Mrs. Spit is moving. . .She has her very own domain name.www.mrsspit.caI'll cross post until January 2, 2010, and then this blog will be completely re-directed to the new domain.I've already shut off the comments here.It's been a pleasure knowing you here, and I hope that you'll join me in my new home. Everything is moved in, and I'm unpacked enough to know where the coffee pot is.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-33419360412437445942009-12-26T07:00:00.001-07:002009-12-26T07:00:01.895-07:00

To mrsspit.caYou will see that it is "parked"Which is fancy-pants internet talk for:"Mrs. Spit owns this website, but she only got it yesterday, for Christmas, and she hasn't at all set it up yet." But, ahh. I am a website owner.Happy Geek-mas.(Why yes, if you have information about web hosting that you would like to share, I'd love to hear from you!)

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-17909500147329766222009-12-24T07:00:00.001-07:002009-12-24T07:00:02.112-07:00

Perhaps I should tell you that I was young, very young. Barely 23? At any rate, I was young and image mattered a great deal, far too much. The very notion that we had so little money for Christmas, and that there would not be days of celebration was not at all in keeping with what I wanted, wished or imagined. A limit of $30 each was not how I imagined our first Christmas together.Christmas Eve

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-27084963472306146512009-12-23T10:13:00.004-07:002009-12-23T10:32:53.297-07:00

My mother always taught me to be polite and not make waves. She also taught me to never, ever be rude or crass. These 2 things are warring in my head. I'm fuming. I tried to ignore it, but frankly, I'm mad as hell. I'm not willing to stay silent. Someone needs to speak up.Someone should be celebrating her second daughter's birthday, and instead she's remembering that her daughter couldn't stay.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-91869996002375085382009-12-23T07:00:00.000-07:002009-12-22T23:15:49.751-07:00

Ahem. . .This has post has been kicking around, for, well awhile. But, I was doing some Christmas baking, and my mum came for coffee, and now it's late and my teeth really hurt and I don't have a post for today. So, consider this a burst of summer memories, in a wintry moment, would you?*******************Slate has Obama's summer reading list up. Now, it seems to me, but asking to see someone's

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-17016722711062089462009-12-22T07:00:00.000-07:002009-12-22T07:00:03.119-07:00

I have never celebrated the Solstice in any sort of formal way. I am a Christian, and that means that my meaning for this time of year is different, and the solstice, while forming the impetus for choosing this time of year to celebrate, is very much subsumed in Christmas.The first year, the year we buried Gabe, I was content to do so in the dark. Last year, I lived in the middle, and this year,

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-82817164803632335512009-12-21T07:00:00.001-07:002009-12-21T07:00:02.633-07:00

Gabriel's funeral was 2 years ago today. It is hard to believe that I have come this far, that this much time has passed, that he has been gone for so very long. I remember this day not with sorrow, but rather joy at the promise of the resurrection. I remember tears that last for a moment, and eternity forever. If I struggle with anything, it was a death so close to a birth. It is hard to

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-52481594987058223292009-12-20T17:43:00.002-07:002009-12-20T17:44:05.877-07:00

Ladies and Gentlemen:By an almost country mile, the winner is:Gidget!

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-12516814472818860142009-12-19T09:16:00.000-07:002009-12-19T09:18:54.081-07:00

Contrary to popular notion, truck drivers know nothing about good restaurants. If you want a reliable tip, drive into a town, go to the nearest appliance store and seek out the dishwasher repair man. He spends a lot of time in restaurant kitchens and usually has strong opinions about them.Bryan Miller

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-88800717507380118692009-12-18T07:00:00.001-07:002009-12-18T07:00:02.338-07:00

I haven't talked about why I started to run again, not really. I jokingly (and on nights like tonight, not so jokingly) say that my goal for running is not to die.No, I'm not trying to live longer, I'm trying to not die while running. So far, I have succeeded. But, really, every time is a new adventure. I'm, dare I say it, getting a bit into this. Oh, I don't like it much, and the first 2

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-34681558121626963692009-12-17T13:16:00.003-07:002009-12-17T13:28:11.783-07:00

Warning. . .There's a Poll.Could you click to open the post, so that you can participate in the poll?Yes, that means you. Even if you just lurk.The iPhone needs a name.The name options (in the poll on the side) are:GidgetSteveEstelleDigit512Bingley-BeepHave I mentioned that you really should vote in the poll on your left?Thanks.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-28185566003323419142009-12-17T07:00:00.000-07:002009-12-17T07:00:04.346-07:00

I had the start of a long, rambly post about isolation.Except, umm, I kept picking up my new iPhone, to marvel at it.I think this is love.If you'll excuse me, I'll be back tomorrow.I have to go find more apps.Surely, there must be some good blogging ones.(yes, I am completely pathetic. I can live with that.)

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-49085564329594987812009-12-16T00:10:00.001-07:002009-12-16T00:16:18.322-07:00

These aren't the droids you're looking for. . . .

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-10584826847619033772009-12-14T20:32:00.002-07:002009-12-14T20:50:37.519-07:00

I am sitting with my computer in my lap, typing away in the departures lounge, staring at slot machines. I have told Mr. Spit to go and take the last of our American money and see what he can win us back (I'm not going to participate, and Mr. T, you are buying coffee on Wednesday, I gambled away my coffee money!). I'm going to ramble on a bit about the tripI managed to get through security

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-32327942919708491802009-12-14T00:37:00.002-07:002009-12-14T00:46:37.266-07:00

Ahem.I have decided. I am not going to be a jelly bean saleswoman (selling only the black ones, because any other kinds are revolting)I am not going to design firework shows. (Although, this was the most tempting career I could think of for a long time.)I will not become a blast engineer. (Hello, the fact I didn't know you could divide by zero was always going to be a limiting factor)I am not

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-34400685392663031162009-12-13T00:56:00.002-07:002009-12-13T01:07:09.340-07:00

Maybe I'm cheap, maybe I'm missing the fun gene, maybe I got dropped on the head as a baby (actually, I'm pretty sure that happened)I decided to try my hand at the slots today. I showed up with my 24 dollars (and remind me to pay Martha back her $2 tomorrow, would you?). And I put $2 in the machine.I don't "get" this whole gambling thing.It went something like this. . .Mrs. S: How do I use this

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-83637639251294895882009-12-12T01:03:00.002-07:002009-12-12T01:07:35.370-07:00

I knew that the economy was still bad in the states. Really bad in some places.But I had no idea how bad it was in Vegas. None. I'm so sorry, if only I had known.These poor, poor young women. And the cocktail waitresses.They aren't being paid enough.There is Dior, Gucci, Armani, Fendi, Prada, D and G, BCBG, Zara, Kenneth Cole, Kate Spade, all of these stores, it must be so painful to walk by.To

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-71521522393341055822009-12-11T07:00:00.001-07:002009-12-11T07:00:02.005-07:00

My father always told me that everyone had a game, and that you shouldn't play another man's game until you knew his rules.Which is, on the whole of it, not bad advice for a woman in Vegas. I have been surprised how much game playing their really is. Oh, there's the Casino, where you expect the games. There's the men (and women!) handing out cards for prostitutes, there's the rodeo ticket sellers

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-35084273114127170112009-12-10T07:00:00.002-07:002009-12-10T07:00:08.187-07:00

GabrielLife and death are born togetherOne brother sucking the other's thumbNeither brother able to relinquish his embraceFor all of this has happened too early, too soonAnd you, who have looked at the sky all your life,Have never understood how distant are the starsNor how brilliant their lightAnd you, who have stood so long upon this cinder,The earth, have never known how sweet and lushHer new

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-29055287244627148642009-12-09T15:00:00.000-07:002009-12-09T15:00:01.017-07:00

So, the Mister and I are on our way Vegas today. . .One of the things we are going to do is go to the Hoover Dam with Martha and her family. (Tickets are bought. Also, you may have heard, they are building a bridge there. Mr. Spit is vibrating, he's so happy).Anyway, you know me (well, you don't, not in the real world, but let's move on, shall we?) I like to research stuff. So, I go on to the

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-50848345676481777082009-12-09T07:00:00.002-07:002009-12-09T07:00:06.387-07:00

It’s true what some people say, that when you lay your eyes on your child for the first time you love them with your entire being. The first glimpse of my son was in the form of double pink lines on a home pregnancy test. Later I heard his amazing heartbeat and viewed his cute, little fetal self via ultrasound. When I held him for the first time a huge wave of calm and

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-79202773445059836842009-12-08T07:00:00.004-07:002009-12-08T07:00:01.516-07:00

When you actually read the text, you carry along, 35 verses into the second chapter of Luke, and you've gotten through the "no room at the Inn" and you're past the Shepherds' arrival, and you get to the presentation at the Temple 8 days after the birth of Christ, and you get to the "Glory to God" that we still say every Sunday morning, in one version or another, and then, well, then time slows

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-82897761924182420232009-12-07T07:00:00.000-07:002009-12-07T07:00:02.525-07:00

I went to the Vinyl Cafe Christmas Concert last night. I went, enjoyed myself annnnnnnd. . . . that's not where this story starts.A few weeks ago I wrote Stuart McLean an email. Well, I went to his website and I filled out a comment email. Which is a strange sort of thing for me, I'm not so much about the fan thing. I have all his books, and several CD's, including the Christmas one, Dave and I

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-50083125241704060472009-12-06T07:00:00.000-07:002009-12-06T10:13:50.809-07:00

"That I am a woman. I cannot ignore that fact. I realize that I am fragile. I always thought that I was tough. After, I realized that I was very fragile, emotionally, physically, even psychologically."Nathalie Provost, Survivor of the Montreal Massacre, December 6, 1989.I am fortunate: There are many men in my life that like women. My husband, several of my friends. I do not know many men who

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-23422431949132119232009-12-04T23:17:00.003-07:002009-12-04T23:21:44.124-07:00

Cat Haiku In deep sleep hear soundCat vomit hairball somewhere.Will find in morning.(With your foot. You will find it in the dark, with your foot) You're always typingWell, let's see you ignore meSitting on your hands.(as I feed my hands around Coda's body, to reach my mouse)We're almost equalsI purr to show I love youWant to smell my butt?(trying to duck out of the way. . .) I have to stop now,

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-52273490326424111262009-12-04T07:00:00.001-07:002009-12-04T07:00:09.366-07:00

I've been thinking back to this time last year, more than this time 2 years ago. I was, consumed, last year, with remembering the year before. In that terrible year between Gabe's birth and the first anniversary of his death, I spent a lot of time thinking about what I had done at that time, the year before.Remembering, framing and re framing memories. Trying to come to terms with what happened.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-79627518814268714822009-12-03T07:00:00.002-07:002009-12-03T07:00:04.926-07:00

Alright, I'm planning my Christmas baking, and more or less, I realized that all the baking I do is "Canadian". Butter tarts, Nanaimo Bars, and possibly shortbread (which is Scottish, but whatever).Which makes me wonder.Umm, what do you do for Christmas baking, in your part of the world?C'mon, fess up, are you a fruit cake fanatic?

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-79336375196029080312009-12-02T07:00:00.002-07:002009-12-02T07:00:02.138-07:00

I heard the word pre-eclampsia for the first time on this day, 2 years ago. I didn't understand why there was so much activity, I didn't understand why everyone was so concerned, I didn't understand the tests, the ultrasounds, the concern. I didn't know what a perinatologist did, or why they were involved. I didn't understand why that nurse kept saying "in case you need to not be pregnant any

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-69989789277449113522009-12-01T07:00:00.001-07:002009-12-01T07:00:11.623-07:00

I have a coworker who is pregnant. Which is not all that remarkable. We have had 5 pregnancies in 18 months, including 2 sets of twins. (And about all that means is that we may be quite clear, pregnancy is not catching, even when you are trying.)This particular co-worker, with this particular pregnancy has been an interesting experience. Her due date is the same as mine. Until last week, I really

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-84565671545928075752009-11-30T07:00:00.000-07:002009-11-30T07:00:12.228-07:00

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-1905406779539002122009-11-29T07:00:00.001-07:002009-11-29T07:00:02.599-07:00

"Have you ever been to a Greek wedding?" he asked.And suddenly I was not in a crowded restaurant, on the eve of December, struggling to find my Christmas Spirit.I was in Wyoming, a family wedding. We were dancing in lines, kicking out our legs, throwing up our hands. Opa!Standing in circles, and passing opened bottles of ouzo, drinking in swallows, puffing on cigars and cigarettes. Bright and

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-37352607097771917872009-11-27T20:59:00.002-07:002009-11-28T09:56:09.846-07:00

When you are asked if you can do a job, tell 'em, 'Certainly I can!' Then get busy and find out how to do it.Theodore RooseveltMany thanks for your kind words, they have been much appreciated. Mrs. Spit, Business Analyst. ;-)

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-54860045580223967002009-11-27T07:00:00.000-07:002009-11-27T07:00:01.927-07:00

Yesterday did not start auspiciously. Unless auspicious means that it began with the jangling crash of heck(1) and went down hill from there.It began in fact, by waking up 35 minutes before my alarm was due to go off, needing to visit the loo. I don't know about you, but at this point, an internal war begins. One side insists that I should simply get up, have a nice shower, drink a leisurely cup

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-68789969790377198892009-11-26T07:00:00.001-07:002009-11-26T07:00:07.932-07:00

People run because they like the runner's high.Runners high? It's caused by hyperventilation.You know what happens when you hyperventilate?Your brain cells die.Runners high is caused by brain death.You must be brain dead to like running.I must be brain dead to find this a bit fulfilling.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-40671317239409971732009-11-25T07:00:00.001-07:002009-11-25T07:00:07.178-07:00

Mr. T is looking for a new house, and occasionally I look over my shoulder at him and he's surfing the MLS website, so I go over and look. I'm sure he totally does not appreciates my comments on the houses he looks at, and I'm sure he totally does not appreciates my comments on townhouses in the suburbs.And he was raving about this town house in the suburbs, which sounds like a living hell

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-19881980251614069632009-11-24T07:00:00.001-07:002009-11-24T07:00:09.732-07:00

Geohede does it much better, but I was looking at the search terms, and since I started tracking:A very large group of people have shown up looking for some sort of information (?) about naked women and spitting. You're gross. Really gross. Go away now. 57 people have shown up at my blog, wondering some variant of whether or not Rob Lowe is bald. First off, I have written one post about Rob Lowe.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-72000258018380428692009-11-23T07:00:00.000-07:002009-11-23T07:00:08.937-07:00

I have a post about men who don't like women that was going to go today, except, well, it's a crappy piece of writing. So, let me see about fixing it from some random bits of prose to something with a point. Mr. Spit went snowboarding. He has not broken anything, and thinks he might go again. He's also hobbling like an old man, but don't tell him I said so. I spent the entire weekend knitting and

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-16775591278398707062009-11-22T07:00:00.000-07:002009-11-22T07:00:01.929-07:00

I woke up this morning to snow. And there's something about snow in November that makes me blue.Amidst the swirling snow did I leave the hospital that day 2 years ago. In an almost blizzard I left the hospital, and the swirling snow became an atmospheric metaphor for the loss in my soul.I have long maintained that I can handle a cold Alberta winter. It may be bitter cold, but there is bright blue

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-21520685102950154882009-11-21T12:32:00.000-07:002009-11-21T12:33:07.960-07:00

When he shall dieTake him and cut him out in little starsAnd he will make the face of heav'n so fineThat all the world will be in love with night And pay no worship to the garish sun.William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-49307766374832857782009-11-20T07:00:00.000-07:002009-11-20T07:00:03.695-07:00

I have long maintained that no one needs to know Pythagorean Theorem. I was *that* kid, in the back of the class, who put up her hand, and lazily asked the teacher not why we needed to learn this crap, but asked exactly when he had used it in his own life. Generally speaking, it makes sense to memorize things you are going to use. Thus, I will always remember things like 2.2 KM to a Mile and the

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-23159638534706644672009-11-19T07:00:00.003-07:002009-11-19T10:11:57.077-07:00

In less than a month, Gabriel will have been dead for 2 years. He will have been gone for 4 times as long as he was ever here. And I am pondering how I feel about this. How I feel about him, about me, about this life I am living.I met a woman on Saturday, and we were talking about prostitution, and I made a comment about teaching our sons that women were not for sale. I wasn't talking about my

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-42952440966002962362009-11-18T07:00:00.001-07:002009-11-18T07:00:00.898-07:00

I find that it is helpful to set very low expectations for myself, when it comes to any sort of physical exercise. I find that I should take my expectations, and then I should reduce them, and reduce them still. When asked what I hoped to get out of this running business, I answered that I wanted not to die. Oh, no, don't misunderstand, I didn't want to live longer, I wanted not to die. While

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-23488442579905556412009-11-17T07:00:00.004-07:002009-11-17T07:00:05.294-07:00

the hell with the fee for service agreement I should be vetting andthe course notes for a seed starting workshop. The New Blue Rodeo Album, and a new bottle of Maker's Mark.To quote the song . . .Summer makes me restlessAnd I can’t get by aloneI know that’s you that’s callingBut I don’t pick up the phoneThe day you started wanderingI guess I lost my faithI sit here now to wait and seeWhat’s

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-32715498031847095082009-11-16T07:00:00.000-07:002009-11-16T07:00:05.249-07:00

This carefully written blog is not brought to you by Mrs. Spit. Rather, it is brought to you by the delight of the season, the return of Top Gear.Because BBC is so much more sensibly funded than CBC, and because through the wonders of the internets, and Mr. Spit's delightful skill at stealing television programming off the back of the internet, I get to watch Top Gear, even though I am not

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-52703857535510884672009-11-14T22:21:00.003-07:002009-11-14T22:49:49.819-07:00

Suddenly, it is thrown to you, and you hold this grief in your own two hands, and you begin to look at it. And at first, you think it is an ornament, frail, tender, fragile, some sort of flower and you wonder what can be done with it. And then you realize it is art glass, this grief. And you hold glass, and it moves, throbs, ebbs in your hands, and you realize that it is not just life that has

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-35606126043154196292009-11-14T09:51:00.002-07:002009-11-14T09:54:48.375-07:00

Once again we find ourselves enmeshed in the Holiday Season, that very special time of year when we join with our loved ones in sharing centuries-old traditions such as trying to find a parking space at the mall. We traditionally do this in my family by driving around the parking lot until we see a shopper emerge from the mall, then we follow her, in very much the same spirit as the Three Wise

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-85180498761712517522009-11-13T07:00:00.003-07:002009-11-13T07:00:01.313-07:00

Because life is not like this, and I do not live in a romantic movie, my hair was short, frizzy, out of control, and I had acne. My maternity jeans kept falling down, and I was at that really awful stage, where it not entirely clear if you are pregnant, or merely fat. At any rate, my breasts were huge, so I suppose I had that going for me.About 2 years ago, I ran into an old flame at a guest

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-19176673013186005412009-11-12T07:00:00.001-07:002009-11-12T07:00:03.848-07:00

I work with a bunch of fitness freaks. No seriously. We are talking people that come into the office after a work out and can't walk for days. We are talking about people who go mountain biking and come back covered with bruises and slashes and great bloody scabs.We are talking about people who run 100KM DEATH races. Yes, you read that right, it has the word DEATH in it, and they did if for

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-2830992480203181792009-11-11T07:00:00.002-07:002009-11-11T07:00:08.027-07:00

I objected, in the heat of the summer, to a blogger who made fun of Harry Patch's name. Henry John Patch, for those of you who don't know, was one of the last surviving soldiers from World War I, and he died on July 25th. He was 111. He was our last link to trench warfare and trench foot. He was the last link to what we used to call Shell Shock, and now we call hell. He was the link to mustard

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-12978998643840788632009-11-10T07:00:00.001-07:002009-11-10T07:00:09.617-07:00

I think what Mr. T was trying to say was that I was entitled to whine. I bet (although Mr. T wouldn't, and that's another story). He's fine at communicating, but I'm perhaps not always good at listening. And he's probably not wrong. But I think I'm too good at whining as it is. I whined a lot this weekend. About how my back hurt, a headache, how I was doing something for others and no one was

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-26941507314126864762009-11-09T07:00:00.001-07:002009-11-09T07:00:07.962-07:00

"How far along were you dear? Are you sure? This has happened before? Was the pregnancy confirmed? What's the longest you've carried?"I had to go to the hospital on Friday, when suddenly I started bleeding a whole bunch more. I stood in a crowded waiting room, explaining my sorry and pathetic obstetrical history. It's not that I'm bleeding, it's that there's so much, and I don't even know if you

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-40866478674251421692009-11-07T07:00:00.000-07:002009-11-07T07:00:01.960-07:00

For I know that my Redeemer lives, and that in the end he will stand upon the earth. And after my skin has been destroyed, yet in my flesh I will see God. I myself will see him with my own eyes—I, and not another. How my heart yearns within me!Job 19: 25-27Amen.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-24442775871069501742009-11-06T07:00:00.001-07:002009-11-06T07:00:05.486-07:00

I went to Audrey's, our local book store, last night, to buy a copy of Sense and Sensibility. I am only buying this book because I bought Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters, and I started reading that, and I realized that I don't think I've read Sense and Sensibility, and I think, in the entire spirit of parody, you should read one before the other. (Also, this explanation for Mr. Spit, who

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-853194640936541122009-11-05T07:00:00.005-07:002009-11-05T07:00:00.100-07:00

It is not the sheer physicality of another miscarriage that's distressing me. It's not all this damn blood and the wincing pain and the hormone induced emotional crash. I cry, but tears of frustration and rage as much as sorrow. Probably, if I am honest, more frustration and rage. All of this is but a nuisance. It's not pleasant and I could do without it, but that's not the thing of it, at least

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-48908833475434340952009-11-03T21:01:00.006-07:002009-11-04T08:12:33.986-07:00

There are times, even now, that I have to stop myself. I have to stop myself from typing Anna's name into Outlook, stop myself from picking up my work phone and calling her. We have an instant message client at work now, and I can imagine sending her random smilies.There are times, even now, when I wonder what she thinks about something, and I am so very close to asking her, that I can almost

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-6743863926389454542009-11-03T07:00:00.002-07:002009-11-03T07:00:04.858-07:00

Anyway, the story starts with a grumpy faculty chair and ends with a furnace dying on Easter.As I talked about a while back, I stumbled my way through University, from start to finish. Maybe by 3rd year I had made some friends, and I knew and was known by my prof's. I had certainly established that 8 am classes were of the devil, and that existentialist philosophers had way too much time on their

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-87312690850653970272009-11-02T07:00:00.001-07:002009-11-02T07:00:19.568-07:00

We could call this the "I have enough enviro-guilt to share" episode.I would rather buy stuff that's made to last. Mostly, I think it's what I grew up with. Our TV lasted 25 years. Our microwave 15. My mother retired her old Electrolux vacuum just 2 years old. The vacuum was a present from her first marriage, making it over 35 years old.I wasn't raised to throw stuff out. I was raised to buy

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-70376314478761006302009-10-31T09:49:00.002-06:002009-10-31T09:54:39.494-06:00

When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightening, or in rain? When the hurly-burly's done, when the battle's lost and won. ~~~~~Fair is foul, and foul is fair, hover through the fog and filthy air. Wm Shakespeare, Macbeth, Act 1:Scene 1 1-4, 11,12. Wishing you all a fair and fog free hallowe'en.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-64858934269519011582009-10-30T07:00:00.001-06:002009-10-30T07:00:01.159-06:00

So, what are you going as?

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-24840181693367231542009-10-29T07:00:00.000-06:002009-10-29T07:00:50.058-06:00

I sent my tailoring to Sigrun, 3 or 4 suits, a few skirts and some pants taken in, and she did a spectacular job. One of the suits was the suit I bought for Gabe's funeral. The suit fitted me badly, and so Sigrun has tailored it beautifully, finishing the corners, tucking in the ends - making it an ideal fit. It is the most remarkable work of sewing I have seen in a long time. I saw myself in the

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-25894957824634191182009-10-28T07:00:00.001-06:002009-10-28T07:00:00.782-06:00

So, I met Kuri for lunch yesterday, for the Tuesday meeting of the Knitting Philosopher's Club. And I'm sitting down (I had spent so much time talking to the server operating the cash register that my soup arrived at the table before I did).Anyway, I sat down and Kuri looks at me and says "I have to ask my friend Mrs. Spit(1) for help on V-lookup tables"And my first thought, honest to goodness,

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-78138293309600421582009-10-27T07:00:00.001-06:002009-10-27T07:00:00.143-06:00

Dog the Smaller is lying on the futon, in her mummy's craft room, snoozing away. The other dog, let's call her Dog the Stupider, is lying in the hallway. It is 2 am, and the felines and humans are sound asleep.Dog the Smaller begins to dream. Her legs are moving, she is running, she has almost got that bunny, and she lets out a really very small woof. A woof that says "Come here little dream

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-12960485399582073612009-10-26T11:38:00.003-06:002009-10-26T11:44:11.398-06:00

You probably aren't getting the vaccine for yourself. You are getting it for my mother, who is iummunosuppressed. You are getting it for my co-worker Joy, who is 20 weeks pregnant. You are getting it for wee Ivy that I saw last week, who is too small to get it yet.I can think of a hundred reasons, a hundred faces. Because sometimes it's not about us, it's about the people around us.So, Lindy is a

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-60922712688568863312009-10-26T07:00:00.001-06:002009-10-26T07:10:19.767-06:00

Mr. Spit went on a condiment cleaning binge. I'm pretty embarrassed by some of the stuff that was in my fridge. Quick, go take a look. Anyone have anything that expired in 2006 in their fridge?10 litre's of spaghetti sauce in the pot, makes a lot to go into ziploc bags. It's pretty nummy. But. .. . I still have about 20 pounds of tomatoes left. Anyone have a good cooked salsa recipe? It has to be

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-15333225281497626852009-10-24T11:09:00.001-06:002009-10-24T11:14:24.177-06:00

One is never sure, watching two cats washing each other, whether it's affection, the taste, or a trial run for the jugular. ~Helen Thomson(Not that the furry slugs woke me up at 6 this morning with brotherly affectiongone sadly astray, or anything)

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-29997831345996444712009-10-23T07:00:00.000-06:002009-10-23T07:00:06.717-06:00

For the last time, I got to the end of the agenda, past approving the minutes from last meeting and the reports, and dispensed with new business, tabled some ongoing old stuff, and for the last time, I looked up at a meeting for the little paper that could and I said:"I'll entertain a motion for adjournment". And someone motioned, and there was no seconder, because my board knows that you don't

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-56617209107614932192009-10-22T07:00:00.000-06:002009-10-22T07:00:04.655-06:00

When I tell people that I don't watch television, their eyes kind of bug out."Never?", they say.Well, no, not never. I watch the odd episode of Myth Busters. The odd thing on Egyptology. Sometimes I watch those real estate shows about flipping houses, and I really did like to watch those 2 British ladies who barge into people's houses and tell them off for being lousy housekeepers.My problem is

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-28990582396591856092009-10-21T07:00:00.000-06:002009-10-21T07:00:06.579-06:00

Nothing to see here.Go wish Mr. Spit a happy birthday, would you?

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-78745416882945016602009-10-20T07:00:00.000-06:002009-10-20T07:00:04.534-06:00

I got to do kind of a cool thing today. I had to go to the passport office today, to get my passport re-issued, and I got to talking to the passport officer.Now, I was looking around the office, while I was waiting in line, and I must confess, I was kind of wondering what your sins must be to have to work in the passport office. It's an honest job, but, oh my!Anyway, I was talking to the passport

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-51373723861106103192009-10-19T07:00:00.001-06:002009-10-19T07:00:04.015-06:00

Saturday will be spaghetti sauce saturday, because I now have 5 kitchen garbage bags of ripe tomatoes. (Should you be interested, you can find my recipe here) I'm making Shepherd's Pie to use up the last of the left over potatoes from Thanksgiving, but Mr. Spit and I are having one of our charming little spats discussions. I want to use up the left over green bean casserole, as the middle

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-42905401763009470392009-10-17T07:00:00.000-06:002009-10-17T07:00:01.944-06:00

A house without either a cat or a dog is the house of a scoundrel.- Portuguese Proverb(apparently the Spits are exceedingly virtuous then)

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-46675068635086178602009-10-15T07:00:00.007-06:002009-10-15T21:15:02.054-06:00

There are times that I think that friendship is really nothing more than an opportunity to take your neuroses and foist them off on someone else. Really, you can take the things you are paranoid about, and share them with your friends, and that way you won't be paranoid AND lonely. It's always better to be paranoid and neurotic in company.Kuri, months ago, commented that she was afraid, after

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-32071669566361670492009-10-15T07:00:00.004-06:002009-10-15T08:19:27.166-06:00

Pregnancy was bewildering. People didn't ask what I thought about being pregnant, they asked how I felt. And if that wasn't enough, what I felt was ill. Vilely sick. Nauseous. And truly, no amount of thought and rationalization makes up for vomiting so much you lose 20 pounds in 3 months.I was about 3 months along, feeling like I had re-subordinated my body to my brain, when I went to yoga for

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-68777030421195609072009-10-14T07:00:00.000-06:002009-10-14T07:00:02.220-06:00

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-64355151513602118282009-10-13T07:00:00.001-06:002009-10-13T07:00:08.885-06:00

I read a fascinating article in the BBC magazine a few weeks ago, about central heating. Central heating, so the article says, only came to the UK about 50 years ago, so it's actually possible to remember what life without central heating was like.Now, I suppose all of this is interesting for 2 reasons, at least if you are me. Firstly, because the article indicated that October 1 was central

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-74745967956952088252009-10-12T07:00:00.000-06:002009-10-12T07:00:02.420-06:00

Eaton's was the department store of my childhood. We didn't go to the Bay, or even Sears, we shopped at Eaton's. Where winter coats and boots were purchased, where church clothes, and hats for Easter came from. Eaton's had the china department that gave me my life long love of pretty things - the china department you would walk through with your mother, in the china department position.You would

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-79045846920613173122009-10-10T09:07:00.001-06:002009-10-10T09:10:22.760-06:00

Snow and adolescence are the only problems that disappear if you ignore them long enough.Earl Wilson

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-34893825827159605512009-10-09T07:00:00.001-06:002009-10-09T10:01:45.840-06:00

Dear Blog Readers:I have decided to mine your brains for information, because my brain is decidedly empty. Completely empty. There is the sound of whistling between my ears. A good stiff breeze, well it will go right through me.So, 2 things, both to do with food.Thing the First - Bring on the Jello Salad. Another blog got me started on this, but really, I miss Jello salad. We had it every holiday

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-48936516578353223072009-10-08T07:00:00.000-06:002009-10-08T07:00:06.365-06:00

Dear Mr. Brown:I have to confess, I was a little bit embarrassed that I was looking forward to your book as much as I was. I refused to order it in advance, but really, I did want to read it. I was excited about it. I knew that I was going to do about the only thing I can do with your books, buy them, curl up on the couch, and read them in an entire sitting. Since I read extraordinarily quickly,

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-39158760014143259902009-10-07T07:00:00.000-06:002009-10-07T07:00:02.620-06:00

I have a 3/4 written post on past participles. But. . .I went to Costco tonight, and among other things I bought The Lost Symbol by Dan Brown.I intensely enjoyed the Da Vinci code, Demon's and Angels and Digital Fortress (haven't read Deception Point). Yes, I enjoyed them. Reading Dan Brown to get any sort of idea about theology is like watching a James Bond movie to understand how MI5 works, but

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-13738595556058868682009-10-06T07:00:00.002-06:002009-10-06T07:00:07.513-06:00

I don't think I've told you the story of Naked Lady yet, which is both unfair and strange, as she made such a huge impression on me, in the throes of post Gabriel Grief. The story goes like this: Not quite a month after Gabe died, I was on the phone with a friend, who called to see how I was doing. Suddenly Mr. Spit called out to get off the phone - that he needed me.There was a mostly naked lady

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-86668289816607061202009-10-05T07:00:00.000-06:002009-10-05T07:00:02.762-06:00

My 600th post was last 2 weeks ago Wednesday. I meant to do something to mark it, but, it snuck* past me.So, 600 posts.____Really, I didn't do anything to mark this, because I have just spent 30 minutes trying to decide if snuck is a real word, and if it is the past participle* of sneak, and if sneak has a past participle, and if I actually want to be using a past participle in this sentence.Yes

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-37404158756333183202009-10-02T07:00:00.000-06:002009-10-02T07:00:04.770-06:00

I am a time marker. I'm not talking about marking time with a watch, I'm talking about marking seasons, anniversaries. Making connections between what was then and what is now. Trying to spot differences, see changes.Kuri asked how Gabe's church came to be Gabe's church. I didn't have words for my voice, but I can type the story. It is too hard to explain in words. It makes less sense, it becomes

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-51000362452829901342009-10-01T07:00:00.001-06:002009-10-01T07:00:00.482-06:00

the bridge. . ..the Japanese tea gardensView from Bourdin'sYou know you want one. . .If you're going to San FranciscoWe hiked up the street, and suddenly turned aroundWhat else does one do on Alcatraz?'The Warden's house now. Nature's first green . . .AlcatrazPowell Street. If you embiggen, you can see the Old Navy at the bottom, where we started.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-24317382065117311422009-09-29T22:45:00.002-06:002009-09-29T23:12:45.438-06:00

I'm sorry, I'll post pictures tomorrow. Too tired tonight.Suitcase is unpacked. Going to have a bath and hit the sack.Anyone who knows anything about replacing a stolen Canadian Passport - could you leave a comment (don't even ask, it's a long story, which ends with me using my health care card and a business card and my visa and Kuri to get on the plane in Calgary.)It's good to be home.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-43716853484975808382009-09-28T22:55:00.004-06:002009-09-29T00:03:00.578-06:00

I love vacations, but I must confess about this many days in - 5 for those of you who are counting - I find myself longing for home.I check the weather at home and I think about what it must be like. I pet the Inn Keeper's dog (and every other dog, I must be honest) and I miss my girls. I curl up in bed and imagine the cats on my feet. I buy dog bones and think earnestly of how I miss them.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-53015950210666861402009-09-28T00:09:00.002-06:002009-09-28T00:20:54.665-06:00

By a tired woman, who is filled with crab and shrimp and a mojito, and a brownie sundae with a B-52 coffee.She is slightly tipsy, and has a badly burned finger, where the screaming hot sparkler on her brownie sundae burnt her hand. It burnt her hand, as she was saying: these things usually get really hot - this one isn't. . . oh yes, it is.Spent dessert with my hand in my water glass.The problem

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-56320199527932951052009-09-27T00:00:00.003-06:002009-09-27T00:00:00.350-06:00

Why I'll never forget the first time that I met Mrs. Spit, it was....hm...wait a minute, that's funny...now that I think about it as hard as the remaining four brain cells I currently have knocking around my hollow skull allow, I can't remember the first time that I met Mrs. Spit. Honestly, and not just for the sake of illustrating my crappy memory or my rambling point, I cannot remember it.

Aunt Beckynoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-50418444662661218902009-09-26T07:00:00.000-06:002009-09-26T07:00:03.924-06:00

We each gave Lance, the cable car guy our business cards, because he said he'd send the pictures we took of each other, using his camera, to us. Actually, he said his wife would do it, which made me feel possibly more reassured, although the pictures are so boring that I can't fathom what he would do with them. He was bemused of our stories of Canada, and tried to insist that Canada's economic

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-74436144594349569232009-09-25T10:23:00.002-06:002009-09-25T10:30:43.915-06:00

The Edmonton airport selected me for random pat down, after they had searched my bag twice (they couldn't identify my knitting needles as what they kept seeing on the x-ray.) In Calgary, the baggage carousel would not work, leaving Kuri and I running hard to make our connection. The customs people are possibly still confused about exactly what we are shopping for yarn for, but there you have it.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-86936715619927630732009-09-24T07:00:00.001-06:002009-09-24T07:00:06.517-06:00

I'll have left my house before you read this.I'll be there about 12pm their time.Look for me.

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-2923622934091224502009-09-23T07:00:00.000-06:002009-09-23T07:00:01.298-06:00

I should know better than to go grocery shopping at 9 pm at night, when I have not eaten since lunch. (Not my fault, Board Meeting and then errands for trip).I buy stupid stuff. Over priced and just bad meatloaf, that may not stay in my tummy much longer. Expensive cookies that I love, but need like a hole in my head. Banana flavoured milk. Ornamental corn.But not, I maintain, the 2 boxes of

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-40584322626409810592009-09-21T13:15:00.006-06:002009-09-21T21:23:30.309-06:00

Some of you will recognize that I am writing about something specific. I will say this, and I will say it once. This place is not the place to discuss what you think is true or not.I want to talk about how we behave when others aren't "watching", I'm talking about the things we do and say when no one will find out who said them or did them. I have no interest in starting the conversation about

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-50697639137310220462009-09-21T07:00:00.000-06:002009-09-21T07:00:02.098-06:00

It is just possible we have the peeing cats under control for now- maybe? Please? Thanks for your excellent suggestions last week. I cannot fathom what set the furry slugs off.Delta does not have ear mites. She has a yeast infection in her ears. So, she gets her ears cleaned every night, and drops of monistat, for dogs. This is not going well.Lastly, the geolocator on Histats tells me that in the

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-6527344633430599212009-09-19T07:00:00.000-06:002009-09-19T07:00:05.035-06:00

“Now and then we had a hope that if we lived and were good, God would permit us to be pirates”Mark Twain(It's International Talk Like A Pirate Day, me matey's!)

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-14198159531700959312009-09-18T07:00:00.001-06:002009-09-18T07:00:08.214-06:00

I was getting dinner for the dogs, after eating my own (Mr. Spit is out of town still), and I got to thinking about all of you.I'm wondering. . . .What did you have for dinner last night? No, really, I'm curious.(I had fresh perogies from the Farmers' Market - potato, bacon and onion; sour cream, a BC nectarine, a glass of 1% milk and about 8 tootsie roll's.)Really, c'mon, dish. What did you eat?

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-54845799734848768602009-09-18T00:29:00.002-06:002009-09-18T00:55:10.226-06:00

There is only San Francisco, because there is no Gabriel. And I don't want to be one of those crazy dead baby mum's. I worry I make too much out of it already, I talk about him too much as it is. I worry that my friends, my neighbours, my colleagues, they are telling themselves that I am not quite right since his death, that I am touched in the head, on the long, slow decline. But, I wish I could

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2550386879219250745.post-47499341543528787912009-09-16T21:12:00.003-06:002009-09-16T22:52:51.034-06:00

I was thinking of Barbra Coloroso's concept about relationships today, in that she says you own 50% of a relationship, and you can influence 100% of it. We forget this some times. We forget we can only do so much in any interaction between 2 people.Others can't control what their words do, all the time. Yes, some words have more power than others. We know that some words have incredible power,

Mrs. Spitnoreply@blogger.com