It's Not Like I'm Watching The Clock

or even counting the minutes.

Really.

I'm not.

10 hours and 13 minutes just happens to be a random count of time that just happens to coincide with the return of Supernatural at 8 pm (CST) this evening.

Honest.

You believe me, right?

*sigh*  Yeah, yeah, yeah.  Okay.  I'm a fan.  Dedicated and true - that's me for the last nine years, four months and seven days, since it's premiere September 13, 2005.  Again ... not that I'm counting.  ;)

One thing I love about television is that, given the particular show, you can take an adventure into another world, another time, another place, another person's life.  It is an temporary escape for me.  I'm not one for a lot of 30 minute comedies with canned laughter, caricatures of characters, and talking directly to the camera.  The same goes for reality shows and game shows.  I just don't like spending my time with them.  That's not to say that I don't have some occasional exceptions, but for the majority of my viewing, I prefer the well written, character driven, thought provoking and entertaining drama.  The ones that have banter & conversation, a bit of plot and overall storyline, and don't always rely on tricky, glitzy, time consuming camera shots & posing (CSI:Miami, anyone?).

Now in it's tenth season, Supernatural continues to provide that for me.  Sure it has had it's ups and it's downs.   What show does not?  Yet over the years, I still find each episode provides me with something that makes it worth watching.

Nine hours and 56 minutes.

If you have lived under a rock and are still, after all this time, unaware of this little show with a BIG fan base, then Google "Supernatural - the television show".   Don't be scared by the number of results.  And don't be led astray into all the facets of the Supernatural Fandom until you take the opportunity to actually watch the show and judge it's merits for yourself.  The fandom can get a bit crazy for a new person.  (FYI: If you really aren't aware of this show and you are curious, previous seasons 1 thru 9 are currently available on Netflix.  That is, if you are able to get internet under your rock.)

The bottom line for me is, and always has been, that Supernatural is about family.  The monsters of the week are secondary.  Family is what drives this show.  The story of the two Winchester brothers is the basis, the foundation of the series, however the building blocks continue in ways that only family can - through the closeness, the fractures, the laughter, the anger, the heartache ... and the fact that family isn't just biology.  As Bobby Singer tells Dean Winchester in episode 3.16 (No Rest for the Wicked), "Family don't end in blood, boy!"  The cast of characters in this show is small, and yet vast, with a revolving set of fan favorites, and even not-so-favorites, that continue to crop up from time to time, season to season ... some even after they are dead.  It seems everyone becomes a part of the dysfunctional Winchester family in some fashion.  Even the demon Crowley, King of Hell, thorn in the Winchester side, is yet still familiar and loved after his debut as King of the Crossroads in season 5 (although he was actually mentioned a couple of times in season 3).  Well, maybe not loved by Dean & Sam Winchester, but definitely by the fans.

And family doesn't end with characters on the show.

Nine hours and 12 minutes.

I won't go into the complexity of the characters and the rich tapestry of woven lore and storytelling that Supernatural has created.  I also won't go into the talents of the cast and crew that have allowed the characters to become "real" to it's viewers.  That would take too long and I only have nine hours and 4 minutes.

Yet the characters can't become "real" without the actors involved.  And the actors involved with the making of this television series are unique and inspiring in their ability to be "stars" and to be grounded, down-to-earth people who share their lives with their fans in positive and entertaining ways.  Not to mention the fans, themselves, who join together and become family.

Tabloids and fan magazines used to be the way fans could keep up with the comings and goings, loves and lives of their favorite actors.  By the time an actress announced in a magazine she was pregnant and the magazine was distributed, the baby was born.  Now the internet and social media keep everyone instantly informed and fandoms can join together at one time, in one place, from around the world.  When I first started watching Supernatural, blogging was new and limited but I ventured in and made friends with like-minded people that also enjoyed watching Supernatural.  We became a little group of "virtual family", several of whom I have continued contact - even these 9 years later - celebrating and discussing, not just Supernatural, but all facets of our lives.  

Then came the conventions.  A place where fans can come together, to meet in person, to meet the actors, to simply celebrate the opportunity to put real life faces with online and television personalities.  I attended my first and only convention in Chicago 6 years ago.  Memories of that time are still as fresh as they were the week after, such an impression was made.  Meeting the "stars" of the show, hearing them laugh and talk and tell stories of episodes & personal snippets, made it become so real - in a positive way.  Yes it was/is still simply a television program, but the feel of it had changed.  My imagination was caught by the characters, Dean & Sam Winchester.  My inner fangirl was caught by the actors that portrayed them, Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki.  The friends I had made in the fandom became more than virtual, they became real.

Over the years the conventions have evolved, they've increased in number and locations, reaching fans literally around the world.  And with the use of the internet and YouTube, not to mention Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter, (plus the world of Tumbler which I've still not fallen into but may have to one day explore), a fan doesn't even have to attend a convention in person in order to experience the laughter and fun as Jensen and Jared, as well as a host of other regular fan favorites, sing, laugh, tell stories, answer questions, and share their lives with the lives of their fans and, in a sense, becoming family - in a virtual, fandom, reality.  They are who they are, just folks working a job that results in entertaining the rest of us.

Eight hours, 38 minutes.

And just like family relatives that can only visit occasionally, Supernatural, due to the nature of the business, is not able to visit our televisions each and every single week, 52 weeks a year.  As much as we would like the favorite uncle, or cousin, or brother to be with us as often as possible all year long, it just can not be done.  Rationally we the fans understand that a show must go on hiatus.  Doesn't mean we have to like it.

So, we count the hours from the last time we met until the next.

Last night I sent a text to a friend with the exclamation of "TWENTY-TWO HOURS!!!!"  Being a fan, and also being tolerant of me, she knew right what I was talking about and replied, "Really?  That was faster than expected."  I, of course, disagreed with the every polite "Thppt" response.  My friend said that it "seems like just last week you were saying how long the wait was".  Since the last new episode was on December 9, 2014. and it had been 41 days since last the Winchesters came to my house to visit, I made known my feelings with a text of "It has been sooooooooooo loooooooooong!"

Her response was "You're going to be a joy this summer".  *insert snort of laughter here*

This hiatus I have contented myself with real life and all it entails daily, with repeat episodes from the current and previous seasons, and with snips and snaps from Twitter and Instagram.  I am blindly disregarding the fact that there will be a summer.  I have been imagining for 41 days where the story will go since last we left Dean and Sam.  It is time for them to visit my house again.

And they will ... tonight ... in eight hours and 3 minutes.

But who's counting.  Right?

Car Smiles

Our local Nissan dealership currently has a fun advertising relationship with my favorite morning radio program.  In the advertisement, the radio personality talks about having a car that looks good in your driveway.  A car that makes you smile when you see it each morning.  Of course, they are trying to sell me a new Nissan.

Yet, here's the thing.

My sweet little red Baby is 7 years old now (technically 8 because she came out the end of 2006 and was a dealer lease car for a year before I got her) and, in my opinion, she still looks good and, without a doubt, she still makes me smile when I see her each morning.  Personally speaking, I believe 2007 was a very good year for the Pontiac Grand Prix and the color of red paint they used that year wavers between bright maraschino cherry in the sunshine and dark pitted cherry shiny in the twilight.   Yes, she has been dinged and scraped in a few places over the years but she is a beauty and continues to get her share of compliments.  And so, yes, she makes me smile when I see her each morning.

Especially during the winter when I come out of the house in my bright red coat with the big black buttons.  I'm not saying I purposefully dress to match my car, but seriously, my wardrobe, especially in the fall and winter, is 70% black and of my colored shirts, a good 50% of them are either red or red/black.  So chances run high that I'm going to match my clothing and my car.  Do I do it on purpose?  No.  Red has always been a favorite color and black/red have always been a staple in my closet.  Does anyone notice my clothes/coats tend to match my car?  I have no idea, nor do I care.  It makes me smile and a smile at the start of the day is a good thing, in my opinion.  Besides, how many of you taupe colored car drivers come out and greet the day with a giggle because your clothing matches your car?

Nope.  I don't need a new car - Nissan or other model - to start my day with a smile.  She may be older.  She may be an irreplaceable make/model - thank you so very not much GM for discontinuing my beloved Pontiac brand.  She may have some mileage - we're fixing to roll over to 100K, I think we'll have a party!

Yep, even with all her dings, her quirks, her coloring, and her age ... when I slide into her seat, turn over the engine, open up the sunroof, and turn on the radio ... I smile.

Dressing Up is Hard To Do

According to the morning news program I watch/listen to while hustling through my morning routine, today is National Dress Up Your Pet Day.  I was sitting on the side of the bed, putting on my socks and shoes when this was announced.  I have to admit I gave a chuckle of laughter as I looked over at my angelpup, poised to jump from the corner of the bed, watching me intently as I tied my last shoe, knowing that as soon as that foot hit the ground it would be time to head outside for our morning walk.

My chuckle of laughter came from the fact that I knew once my foot hit the ground, while he might be ready for his walk, I would be facing our morning battle ... putting on his heavy sweater.

Forget "dressing up" my little pup, when the simple act of putting on a sweater is a matter of seeing whose will is stronger.

It goes like this ...

My foot goes down and Castiel leaps from the bed to the doorway, watching me and dancing in place.

I reach for my glasses on the bedside table, to clean and put on for the day.

Castiel dances in circles between the bed and the doorway, excited yips breaking out, trying to get my attention, tail wagging like a rear-end propeller getting ready for take off.

I stand up and ask if he's ready to go.  (Redundant, I know, but I do it anyway.  Every. Single. Morning.)

He runs to the front door.

I reach for my coat.  It is 20-something degrees outside.  A quick bush inspection outside the door is one thing, a walk down the street is another.  There WILL be a coat on.

Cas sits by the front door, watching me put on my coat.

He knows what come next.

I go to the entry and gather his leash and his heavy sweater from his basket.

He ... BOLTS.

Never the same way.  Sometimes he heads back to the bedroom, sometimes he runs to the living room and jumps on my chair, sometimes he hovers, dancing just out of reach beyond the gate that separates the entry to the living room.

I stand there and tell him to come.  I refuse to chase.  I did in the beginning.  I regret that.  Now he thinks he knows who is in charge.  Yet I hold my ground.  I do not give in.  I tell him to come.

He slinks forward.  No longer dancing.  Head low, tail lower, he comes.

I reach down to put on the dreaded sweater.

He backs away, tilting his head, looking at me with the eyes that seem to beg "No, mom!  Not the sweater".

I tell him if he wants to go outside, to come and get his sweater on.

*** I should interject here that Castiel is little Maltese pup.  While he does hover around 10/11 pounds, which is a bit bigger than what is considered "normal" for the Maltese, he is still small and his hair is thin and fine.  When it is below freezing, as it has been every single one of the last month of mornings, I am one that believes he needs a bit of extra protection, even if he is a dog, if we spend more than a few seconds outside.  Even if he doesn't seem to think so. ***

He slinks forward again and rolls to his back.

I manhandle him into his sweater.  He resists the entire way, limp of body, stiff of legs ... unyielding and unbending ... letting me know the entire time that this is not what he wants.

Then I attach the leash and head to the door and he jumps up, dancing renewed, all is forgiven, ready to bound out the door to see if there is anyone out to play with, any new scent to be found on the ground, any new leaf to be tasted, etc.

As we walked this morning, I watched him with thoughts of the types of pet clothing I had seen in the pictures on the news.  Some were cute, some were funny, some were ... well ... embarrassing for the poor little animal.  I watched as Cas was racing around, to and fro, checking the sights, sniffing the grass and the fence and the light pole and the tree, tail wagging back and forth.  Cheeky little bugger sashaying down the street with his little blue sweater on.

Yeah.

Getting that sweater on for just the time it takes to walk down the street and back was enough "dressing up" for us today.

  

Scratching An Itch

I have had an itch.

It needs to be scratched.

Unfortunately, there is only one person who can do said scratching.

Me.  

*sigh*

Yep.  Me, myself and nobody else.  

See the dilemma?  No?  

Okay.  Let me see if I can explain.

It's not an easy living with an itch like this one.  It creeps up on you at the oddest, and sometimes most awkward, of times: driving to work ... eating lunch with co-workers ... standing in the produce section of the supermarket ... walking the dog ... even in the middle of the night when waking up and needing to visit the ... um ... well ... you get my drift.  At any moment of any day (or night), the itch can tickle, taunt, make a person crazy with need to scratch it.  Just a mere mention of "coulda/woulda/shoulda" causes this itch to flair and the need for satisfaction is unbearable. 

However, it's not always that easy to relieve.  

Certainly, it can not be done while driving or walking, let alone while standing in the produce section.  That would not only be inappropriate, it would/could also be intensely dangerous.  Then there is the rudeness factor while eating lunch with other people.  I suppose it could be taken care of in the middle of the night, but there is a coherency factor that needs to be taken into account.

So I have lived with this itch, finding relief in occasional snatches, brief respites.  Not every day and not completely satisfying, but I thought it was enough.  I thought that I could live with momentary appeasement.  

I was wrong.

As time passed, I knew it wasn't really enough.  I knew I had to have more.  So I plotted and planned the best way to derive the most pleasure.  Yet the decisions on the time and place to scratch my itch suddenly consuming and the plotting and the planning began to take on more importance than the actual act.  Pressure began to mount.  I began to procrastinate and ignore both the planning AND the need to scratch my itch.

And trust me when I say ... I could be the Queen of the Land of Procrastinators.  Especially when I am faced with an internal struggle of the personal type such as the one taking place in my brain.

My plan was to scratch my itch on New Year's Day.  It seemed appropriate to find the relief I sought at the beginning of a new year.  But then, well, I already noted my descent into pressure and procrastination.  

So, it is that it has taken twelve days for me to move forward, to put aside the plotting and the planning, and to simply ... scratch my itch.

Scratch out these words ... on this proverbial "paper" ... thereby alleviating my itch, my desire, my need to write down my thoughts where they can be read by people other than me.  To take the scribbles that have collected on the backs of napkins, on grocery receipts, in the notes column of my work calendar, on the back burner of my brain and put them together in a cohesive manner on a regular, or at least semi-regular, basis.  

I used to enjoy writing my scribbles and sharing my thoughts.  Sometimes we blame "real life" taking over as the reason we stop doing something we love, when in actuality it is we ourselves who have given up for whatever reason.   I gave up.

Now I'm taking back what I enjoy and scratching my itch ... this is just the beginning.