The last few weeks have been full of beginning and ending writings that haven’t made it to the blog. I noticed the theme trended with A, B and C titles.

A is for Airports, as I begun a journal entry about the emotions that airport conjure up in me. A is also for Agony, a blog I begun writing at the end of my trip last week, a twenty six person trip with busting seams of irritations, issues and ah-ha moments (also an unpublished blog title). I wrote on Asanas of a Utah yoga practice that I contrasted with the trip for the Agony section. Clever, I can't help thinking to myself, smirking. However, I am unable to wrap up the rambling as is becomes a lengthy unending monologue with absolutely no point.

B is for babies, babes and bay area. Babies, because they seem to be cropping up everywhere in my life (but not my own, Mum! Ha ha, exhale here!) in my dreams as I keep dreaming I am pregnant (and am relieved to know the possible meaning of that doesn't actually have anything to do with babies) but also because my dearest friend Crystal and her husband Apoorve are expecting a wee one themselves. B is for babes, a tongue in cheek piece I tried to spin off of an article I wrote for the Gateway ages ago but ended up as a self inflation effort that read more like a sixteen year old girl dancing in front of a mirror in her Mom's heels, trying to convince herself she is Sexy. Bay Area because I spent the weekend observing, cheering and being present at a full athletic event that had everything to do with men in helmets but not a field, end zones and a final score, the kind of athletics I am usually used to. We could compound Bay Area with Boyfriend's Bloody Toes, Boyfriends Bike and race, being in Berkeley, or Blissful time removed from life. But those aren't my Bs to share. Not this time anyway.

C was for Camping, but I revised that based on June's Utah Camping blogs, as I feared beating a dead horse. I also considered writing about the Calgary Stampede, a perennial favourite of mine since I understood that Stampede Pancakes are different than my Mum's pancakes (sorry Mom) and that I had the delusional childhood feeling of thinking all children grow up with fancy scarfs, cowboy hats and outfits with exorbitant amounts of plaid. That and the ability to watch Super Dogs, stuff themselves on mini donuts and watch the duck races for ten days in July every year.

I struggled to continue on with the alphabet and with the writers dilemma of having somuchtosay but so little space and time to say it in. I struggled to be succinct and continued to poke my own eyeballs out with the inability to pull a blog together to properly justify that which is currently occurring until this moment at my sisters computer when I have actually somewhat given up on it (for now) and am going to let pop culture finish the blog and I am going to hit the hay.

As my girl Lacy reminds me, sometimes Country Music has the answers to everything in life. Travis Tritt reminds me this on a bi-weekly basis with the early morning favourite It's a Great Day to Be Alive, but it's the Dixie Chicks that sum up this moment the best.