Just in case we don't talk tomorrow...
... Christmas comes but once a year. And now it's here!
Merry Christmas. Peace and joy to everyone and theirs.
I've just baked my weight in ginger snaps.
I love a good snap. They're the best for coffee dunking and milk dipping. One of my favorite parts of the Christmas season--although closely tailed by Christmas Comes But Once a Year and my annual Christmas Eve trip to the market--is perhaps the exchange of Christmas baking. We make the standard macaroons (which I could eat until the cows come home...), Christmas cake, and grandma sends shortbread and mince meat pies. But then there are the peanut butter squares and Nanaimo bars from next door, and the ladies at church give us bacon buns, BSB shares his nuts with the neighbourhood (tee hee...) etc. etc. etc.
In Edmonton, a friend used to make butter tarts that were to die for, and were even better when kept frozen and eaten cold. Yum!
I'll now add to this annual mix my snaps, which considering the company I keep logically must be of the ginger variety. Being that my butters hardly needs 60 sugared cookies, my peeps best keep their eyes peeled for random deliveries. Speak 'nay' now or be sure to receive your fair share...
There is merit to organization...
... Says the librarian.
Because of the super duper Christmas spreadsheet I'm rocking, I was able to power through the mall tonight and in less than an hour cross nearly a third off my list. This isn't to say I'm not putting thought into my gift giving, 'cause no one loves surprising someone more than me, it's just trying to find the time to squeeze it all in.
And truth be told, I love being jammed into line with a million other people at Christmas time, routing around in piles for the right size or colour or scent. It's like a tamed-down version of The Amazing Race with a Feliz Navidad soundtrack and without the $250,000 grand prize or watermelon in the face...
p.s. Although we have a wood stove, I hesitate to use it when Orange is away because with my luck I'd cause some sort of damage to his newly varathaned floors. So in an effort to increase the festivity in the house I downloaded the fireplace app...
NetFlix blows my mind...
I've just spent the last 30 minutes perusing their ridiculous collection of offerings and I'm not sure where to start:
An Education?
Season one of Mad Men?
A PBS documentary on the Amish?
How is Blockbuster still in business? Hallelujah, Play Station 3.
And save your breath to cool your porridge, Beef... Yes, there's an app for that...
Things there are a lot of in our fridge:
1. Bags of lettuce
2. Bags of milk
3. Bags
4. Bars of cheese
5. Jars of peanut butter, both natural and the fake stuff
6. Ketchup (thank you CostCo...)
*sigh*
It's like I'm reverting to 2001. Next thing you know I'll be eating Kraft Macaroni and Cheese out of the pot.
Somebody... Intervene... Please... Before I end up in a diaper.
Decisions are gross.
Is it okay to admit that?
But after 31 years I'm coming to the conclusion that I need to get better at making them, because what I have to say can be pretty good (from time to time... Although the decision to back shave my hair when I was 11 was perhaps not one of my best [thanks mom...])
What truly impresses me, though, is watching my friends and the decisions they've made over the last few years and the places they've gone because of it. Not always comfortable choices, not always popular choices, but decisions they had to make, for lifestyle, happiness, and opportunity.
So this one goes out to all y'all, and you know who you are. Thank you for having the b*lls to stand tall for what you want and need. You've inspired me in many ways, some of which you'll never know.
Thank you for being brave, peeps.
"I'll I want is what is coming to me! All I want is... My fair share!"
This past summer I had the pleasure of a play date with Belly's baby girl, who's not so much a baby anymore, especially now that she's packing her own backpack to bring with her where she goes (the contents of which include a stuffed bunny, some Goldfish crackers, and one purple plastic princess high heel.)
I can't make this sh*t up.
It would seem Belly's baby is not alone, however. I guess princess accessories are what all good girls are as asking for this Christmas... This gem comes to me courtesy of Fingers and her ridiculously adorable quasi-niece whom I haven't seen in quite sometime, but judging by this letter, is someone I'd like to hang out with:
Dear Edie:
Please come visit sometime soon, and please bring your ridiculous cuteness with you.
Sincerely,
Library Lady.
I played Guess Who for the first time in many moons last night.
It's a classic game, really. Totally fun, and totally ridiculous. We laughed our pants off. You know how to play, right? Two players, both holding a board with flip-up tiles, each tile with a different face. Choose a card from the deck of faces, and take turns asking descriptive questions to determine which face your partner is holding.
Seeing the face tiles again for the first time brought back a lot of memories. There's Max, the Mario-esque character; Bill, the jaunty red-head; Susan, who wears too much make-up; Richard, the sinister prick; and my favourite, Herman.
While the premise of the game is totally simple, you can really shake things up based on the questions you ask. The way I see it, there are three ways to play Guess Who:
1. Take the classic route, and ask the generic questions that, provided your brain-to-trigger finger synapses are functioning properly, will win you the game in the most direct manner possible. If it's the thrill of the win that fuels your fire, take this path of least resistance and you'll surely capture the Guess Who cup. Stick with questions like:
- Are you a man?
- Do you wear a hat?
- Are your eyes blue?
- Do you have free hanging lobes?
- Does your person have crows feet?
- Does your person appear genuinely surprised?
- Was your person ever part of the military? If yes, consider flipping down those tiles wearing a beret (obviously), those with a snarly face, and those with a moustache (I'm just sayin'...)
- If your person was in an orchestra, would they sit in the brass section or the string? If your opponent says "string", consider flipping down those persons with large lips, puffed cheeks, and/or a red face ( from blowing on those horns...)
- Does your person have a substance abuse problem? If yes, consider flipping those tiles with shifty eyes, those who appear either too happy or too sad, and the dishevelled (David)
p.s. THIS clip made me laugh. A lot...
It never rains but it pours...
FYI, I had to double check the exact phrasing of that saying before titling this post... I often get these types of things wrong:
- "Play it by year..."
- "Per say..."
- "Possession is five eighths of the law..."
You know when your brain reaches maximum capacity, and you're thinking about a million things at once, trying to cram as much into a single day as possible? "Can I get to the bank at lunch after I get that shower gift but before I run to the grocery store for that frozen pizza I need for tonight, and do you think I can eat soup at my desk?" This is how it is right now. I make lists of lists. And then I staple the lists together. And then I stare at my lists and wonder when in this poop hurricane I'll find time to suck back the stack of leadership books I promised to have digested by December 1st?
Today I left work 30 minutes early, with the promise of taking a 30 minute lunch tomorrow. I'm literally running on borrowed time...
The worst part? I feel like I've lost all ability to make small talk, because in the middle of a smile or laugh or simple conversation I'm thinking "will I have time to put in laundry when I get home and dry it before 7:30 am, because I don't really have anything to wear to work tomorrow..." And then I feel bad, because I truly do care, and I like the small talk, but my brain feels like a deep fried chicken ball.
And I don't even have a child! How you baby mama's do it, I'm not quite sure...
Bottom line: there are a lot of people out there who currently feel exactly... the same... way. I know it. In fact, one of the reasons I feel like a Chinese take-out staple is because you people are all in your own poo hurricane and I want so badly to help. So let's all do as Byron, the yogi, instructs dearest Fingers and I every Tuesday night: connect with our breath, relax our shoulders, feel compassion for our knees, and focus on something that's dear to us.
Me? I'll focus on you people and channel my positive energy your way. [[[[[{}]]]]]
(That's a computer generated interpretation of my positive energy flowing your way... Can't you just feel the chi?)
I don't usually post sh*t like this...
... So forgive. But this puppy is way too cute. Seriously. He'll make your day, whether you like dogs (Beef) or not (Library Lady). This chunky little dude melts even my cold, unfeeling heart.
Click HERE to be overwhelmed with squishy paws, golden rolls, and ridiculousness.
And as they say, happy Monday.
Raise your right hand and say it with me kids:
"I promise to keep away from lead paint dust and lead paint flakes."
Thanks to Hurr_ah for this gem. Hey, Lil' Fingers! Maybe Mother Bear's Game could replace Boxhead at your next Camp party?
Just an idea... Lead is everywhere, you know.
Three things that did not improve the day:
- Getting the recommended flu shot and the subsequent flu-like symptoms that the nice public nurse ladies insist you won't get, including that creepy bruised feeling in your arm where the needle went in.
- Left over salmon and peas for lunch that you really never wanted to eat when it was fresh salmon and peas.
- The Little Couple marathon on TLC.
- Tooting three times in yoga class.
Thank you to...
... Lil'Fingers for bringing this crucially cerebral article to my attention: Dogs Looking Depressed in their Halloween Costumes.
The hands down winner in this sad competition is the pug.
-----
October really is the best month--the return of sweaters and jeans without sweating, candy apples once again become socially acceptable, and we celebrate Thanksgiving, closely followed by my second (near first) favourite holiday: Halloween.
Like Claire, I'm a bit fanatical when it comes to Halloween, driving all over the countryside looking for a collection of white pumpkins for my ghostly jack-o-lantern display, forcing Orange to buy full-sized chocolate bars to hand to perfect strangers just so we can be "the good house" on the street, spending hours perfecting a ghoulish motif in the front yard. While I haven't gone so far as to dress dearest Bert in his own costume (tuxedo aside...) don't think I didn't contemplate it.
I thought turning 30 last year would have put an end to this foolishness, but every year I come back with an excited bubble in my tummy. I think I've come to the conclusion I will never be too old for this holiday, nor will the excitement of costume planning ever get lame...
... However lame that might make me.
I'm sceptical to a fault
As previously mentioned, I heart Mumford.
Knowing I was desperate to see them, Orange scouted out three tickets online on the Mumford website from what appears to be a very sweet girl/fan who herself is not able to make the show. Orange has made this sort of transaction before, and is willing to go ahead with the sale on a hope and a whim that the tickets will indeed arrive in the mail next week. I, of course, am sceptical of the entire situation. I poked holes in her story and my inner "Thomas" doubted all over him:
Why isn't she able to go? Where does she live? It's convenient she's four hours away, huh? What if we EMT her the money and she never sends the tickets? What's her motivation to send them after we give her the money? How do we know she even has tickets?Needless to say, Orange backed off the expense.
Bottom line: I work hard for the money I have and don't want to throw it away. Especially not an amount that would seriously put a dent in our "basement fund". But I realize I'm also being very negative. So taking a page from dearest Orange's book, I took a chance and emailed her myself. I got the same sort of information from her, offered her $50 less a ticket than Orange did and she gladly excepted. In fact, in reality, she could be selling these on Kijiji for ten times the amount I'm offering her... As it is, she'll only be making $15 a piece off us. Unless of course, she's scamming us entirely... Le sigh.
Blarg.
Anywho, I'm taking the chance and chalking it up to a "learning experience". Either I'll EMT her the money and in a few short days receive my Canada Post Priority mail package with three hard copy Mumford and Sons tickets, and my faith in humanity will be restored. Or I'll EMT her the money and in a few short days I'll be broke and broken hearted, my faith in humanity confirmed. I'll start filling my mattresses with cold hard cash, wandering around places like Walmart shouting things like "Get off the grid! Trust no one! Beware of Satan, he lurks on the Mumford and Sons website!"
I have many talented friends...
- Poo takes amazing, candid photographs.
- Free Samples can do taxes using long division.
- Fingers could organize a herd of cats.
- Orange plays a ridiculous guitar (although he's very bashful about this, and will probably throttle me for even mentioning it...)
- Pants paints beautifully.
- Beef's soup is out of this world.
- Both Susie and Belly can dance like they're on Electric Circus.
- Sleeves is a beautiful writer.
- Hurr_ah is the best customer designer I know.
When we first started our "hanging out" so to speak, he lived in a hovel down the street from my apartment. Being a Contractor with his own business, he was kept busy improving other people's homes--additions, renovations, garage-mahals, etc. Although I'd heard about his legendary skill, I'd never seen his handy work myself.
Then a few summers ago he built a bunky at his parents cabin.
From the ground up.
Without a drawing, beyond the one in his head.
While he had an assistant at the time, the work was primarily his--from the design, to the construction, to the finishing touches. To this day, I'm blown away when I pull up to their cottage get-away and see this brand new building blending perfectly with its surroundings as though it's been there the last 100 years. What blows me even further away, is that he's built by hand a structure that (2012 notwithstanding...) will still be kickin' 100 years from now, long after me and my career-esque contributions have faded into the abyss...
BSB has since turned his attention to his own home which I've come to love as if it were my own. Both he and Fingers have put so much love and effort into it, it's simply unrecognizable: they did away with walls, built a brand new kitchen, installed a second floor where before there was none, and a finished basements with *gasp* (working) closet doors!
*wink*
Up for sale and ready for a new owner, this is one house I'll be sad to see go (where are we going to have our Cinco de Mayo parties now!?) But while I'm playing the little black rain cloud "pining" for the coziest house around (excuse the pun...), I am proud as a parent at how hard the two of them--in particular BSB--have worked. His skill truly amazes me.
(although I still wouldn't call him to refinish my antique chest... *wink*)
Yoga x2 = 3x the comedy!
This is math even I can do.
I (thought I) started two different yoga classes this week.
First up, a surprise birthday gift from dearest Fingers: 10-weeks of yoga at a local studio. When Fingers registered us with (get this...) "Saffron", the studio owner, she was given two strict instructions:
- No revealing clothing--shorts, tank tops, etc. Nothing immodest. In other words, no yoga clothes.
- No eating 3 hours prior to the class. Apparently flatulence is a problem.
Needless to say we were both expecting (for lack of a better phrase) a bit of a sh*t show last night. What we got was an amazing, relaxing, semi-private class with an hour of poses that will eventually, over the course of the ten weeks, turn into flow yoga. I'm pretty excited. After a high-impact weekend (helping Fingers with a move, extensive yard work on a three-tiered lawn, and a long run) I could literally feel the aches and pains melting out of my back and legs.
That said, Shavashna yoga included two of three yoga surprises:
- Byron, the yoga instructor, had a moustache.
- Mid warrior pose, a cat came strolling into the room. I gather he's Saffron's cat, and has the run of the studio. Judging by his size, I'd say he could use a bit of yoga himself... Fingers said during savasana he was licking her fingers.
Well puff my cheeks and call me gopher (as Dad used to say). Wouldn't you know it, our classes start next week! So here I am at work at 7:40am wearing yoga pants and flip flops, ready and excited to downward dog.
Meh. Perhaps this is Buddha's way of getting back at me for thinking about dinner during last night's meditations...?
Cow bell isn't enough anymore...
I'm currently pretty much obsessed with Mumford and Sons.
I'm not sure if it's their totally unique sound or what. The lyrics? Maybe it's the banjo? You know my thoughts on banjos. But I literally can't get enough. They are on my permanent play list. I have a sickness, and the only cure is more Mumford and Sons.
They're playing the Sound Academy on November 13th and while tickets are completely, totally, and irrevocably sold out (they're sold out everywhere...) I'm committed to standing outside the venue willing to exchange large amounts of cash for any kind of seat that will get me through the door. It's rare I get this kind of musical inclination so I'm going for it (and hope Orange will tag along, being that he's beyond musically versed and has scalped many a seat.) While I've seen my fare share of concerts, I haven't been this jazzed about someone for awhile. And h*ll, if I can do it for Octoberfest and Walter Ostanek I can certainly do it for modern talent.
If you haven't already, go out and get yourself Sigh No More. You won't regret it.
If I was on Facebook, I'd start a group called "I'm sorry your house was destroyed during that hurricane/tsunami/earthquake... Hate to say I told you so, but you should'a let FritoLay keep it's noisy bag."
I read in the Globe and Mail yesterday that Frito Lay was pulling it's SunChip biodegradable bags from the shelves of all US distributors because of customer complaints over the bag being "too noisy."
While I have first hand knowledge of this noise level (in Florida, Orange and I tried desperately to open a bag of Harvest Cheddar on the sly with dearest Fingers asleep in the room next door... needless to say our covert cover was blown...) the occasional *crinkle crinkle* is hardly something to complain about. And sweet baby Shiloh, it's hardly something to post dozen of YouTube videos about or start social networking groups over! Nearly 50,000 people are boycotting SunChips on Facebook. Clearly, time to these idiots is worth about as much as our planet.
I'm happy to report Canadians are not so cochlear sensitive, nor so feckin' stupid. The SunChip bags on Canadian shelves will remain both delicious and biodegradable. So the next time you're in your local Quickie Mart, pick yourself up a bag of French Onion or Peppercorn Ranch and give them a *crinkle crinkle* just for me. Then pat yourself on the back and congratulate yourself on being of superior citizenship.
"Having a pet is like buying a small tragedy for your family..."--Chewbecca
After weeks of barely eating and drinking, his wee fuzzy body finally said "I think I'm done." And although a tough call to make, mom finally brought in the vet who did all the right things. After 15 years of being our runt, it was time to let him go. And we know he's up there in heaven with dad, lying in his lap, kneading and purring and drooling just like his old ridiculous self. The cat who was more routine oriented than a rooster, who took ten minutes to get comfortable on the couch, who pulled Liberace-esque shenanigans to get his way, but who liked his cuddle more than I like cheesies (and that's a lot...)
----------
A good friend of mine has always said, "having a pet is like buying a small tragedy for your family." So true. There's never been a time I haven't had or desperately wanted something fuzzy in my life--Mittens (19 years), Hobbes (5) and Goose (15), Gary (*shifty eyes*), Dr. Bert (3 and counting!) We all know we'll most likely outlive these pets, and yet they worm their way so far into your heart so fast, they become another family member. They unconditionally love you, slobber you with love and affection, all for a few pieces of kibble, a splash of water, and the occasional snuggle/foil ball...
And so, regardless of the heartbreak they bring when they do in fact punch out, I'll continue to have/want/beg for a pet. Their comedy alone is priceless. And if you're reading this and your fur ball is somewhere close, pull them in for a squish and kiss and thank Baby Shiloh for bringing us pets.
RIP, Goosey.
And none of those "Swarovski Crystal" figurines, either...
There was a time when the ongoing joke amongst friends was that with every new relationship I began, I would inevitably receive the gift of Sea Monkeys. For real. Three separate relationships started (and subsequently ended) wherein the first gift was that of brine shrimp. And while I appreciate the novelty of Sea Monkeys, my curiosity more or less peaked at the age of 12. So I'm left wondering: what was it about me that screamed "dehydrated shell fish"?
Along the same lines, I'm now currently the owner of multiple... Nay, numerous... miniature personal library kits. At the moment, I probably have half a dozen of these little gems in my possession, all of which have been gifts from very well intentioned friends. And while I made active use of my first personal library kit, I'm not quite sure what to do with the rest...? Wallpaper the spare room? Line the litter tray? Label and date my sweaters?
I'm slightly concerned what the third gift phase of my life will bring. Pray Shiloh my Carlsberg years don't bring with them a body language that screams "Royal Doulton"...
"Deep Thoughts by Orange" will likely become a reoccuring theme on B&J because the kid is so damn funny, I can't resist:
A random statement at 7:30 this morning:
"Besides mythical creatures, does anyone really play the harp?"
I can't make THIS STUFF up.
So many random thoughts...
1. Fall TV is killing me. Now that I'm installed a l'Orange, I'm blessed (cursed?) with satellite and consequently the ability to record any show I might want to watch. Going for a run? We can start House an hour late. Need to grocery shop? No problem... I can record Community and watch it tomorrow. UGH! Now there's, like, 12 hours of recorded TV I have to catch up on before the new week's episodes start. And Obama thought he had problems...
2. Cousin Toque, my personal Ottawa Superstar, has travelled half way across the planet to ride elephants, fill up on tandoori, and cheer on our Canadian athletes as an ambassador to Canada at the Commonwealth Games. His official title is "Media Attaché". I have no idea what that is (I thought an attaché was some form of briefcase...?) but it sounds very impressive. More impressive, however, is how hard CT has worked to get this position--a true example of what perseverance will get you. Conquering Kilimanjaro, the Ottawa Marathon, the Vancouver Olympics, and now Delhi... I mean this in all seriousness: is there anything you can't do?! Totally and completely inspiring.
Follow his footsteps HERE.
3. Thanks to Manrissa for introducing me to THIS LITTLE GEM. For a good laugh, click away... I recommend starting with "The Party".
4. My workplace is really into Book Trailers. Specifically, having staff/me create them. I don't mind, though, because it's a random opportunity to play at something creative in an otherwise left brain environment. This is the latest trailer of my creation for the newest Anne Brashares novel, My Name is Memory. Although a little "history heavy" at times, I'd recommend it for sure!
5. During my last week of holiday's, Orange gave me the best surprise. After five days of totally miserable cottage weather (cold and wet), we woke up on the Friday to sun. Totally amazing! I was just getting ready to head down to the dock, book in hand, primed for some much needed sun time when...
"Damn," says Orange. "I forgot to pay my credit card bill. I'm going to need to go into town to the bank. Will you come with me?"
Say what? Nah uh, I'm not going anywhere. I've been waiting all week for some heat and now that it's here I'm going to stuff my self with it. But of course after several minutes of "Please? Don't make me go alone..." I caved, throwing on my grubbiest clothes worn all week in front of dock fires, and topping my greasy hair with a toque. I hardly needed to dress for a car ride...
Needless to say, our trip to the bank was a beard for the real purpose beyond our drive to Gravenhurst: a birthday trip on the RMS Segwun! There's nothing more fun than the "boop boop booooooop" of the Segwun steamship tooting it's way past the cottage, and here I was getting my very own 2 1/2 hour lunch cruise, complete with turkey dinner! Hands down, the best part of our vacation. It's just too bad I didn't think to slap on deoderant... Thank heaven's I remembered a bra...
*blush*
Here's a video of a drive-by boating and the Segwun's subsequent courtesy toot. I'm losing my mind... Orange is... Well... Losing patience with my camera work:
"Damnit, Library Lady!"
If you have two minutes to waste, do it with this:
Right in the kisser, indeed.
"They don't call it the Amazing Race for nothing..."
This is why I'm not an accountant.
I bought THESE boots on a whim a couple of weekends ago from my new favourite hole-in-the-wall shoe store, feeling the need to treat myself to something lavish. I can be what some might call "cheap," especially when it comes to spending a ridiculous amount of money on something that isn't a necessity.
This trait certainly wasn't inherited from my mother, who replaces her throw pillows faster than I can say "gold tassel". Perhaps it comes from my grandmother, who reuses everything from old pantyhose to butter wrappers, who was once shamed for driving 20 km to save $0.10 on a head of cabbage? Or perhaps a leftover from my 'nickel and dime' days of University. I can remember being down to my last $20, taking a road trip to the mall with my girlfriends, wandering around thinking "Hmm... Do I want to spend my $20 on this? Or what about this?" and ultimately choosing to leave empty handed (no doubt later p*ssing the cash away on a pitcher of beer...)
Another example of this is my tendency for cheap sunglasses. I continued to covet a pair of Ray Bans for so long, repeatedly convincing myself I simply couldn't spend $150 on something I would inevitably loose or break, until Free Samples eventually broke down (no doubt disgusted by my contrasting thriftiness to her spendthrift) and got them for me as a 3-0 gift.
I have since lost these sunglasses.
While I don't necessarily worry I'll lose these boots, I still have to justify them to myself. My goal is thus to find someway of wearing these boots with as many outfits as humanely possible. It's not enough that I love them to death, and take any excuse to eek out to the basement to casually stroll by my walk-in to catch a glimpse of them in the moonlight. It's not enough that I love them to death, wearing them today and secretly stroking the buttery leather any chance I get. I couldn't possible afford to pass them up if I wear them 3/5 work days, could I?
Ironically, I think I could actually justify spending the money to redesign my wardrobe around these boots.
And this is why I'm not an accountant.
Well, this and my inability to add, multiple, or do long division...
If you're crazy and you know it stomp your feet!
If you don't watch Dexter, you're crazy. Start.
If you haven't bought the Veggie Patch falafel balls from Costco, you're crazy. Do it.
If you're calling the library to find out where you can go to get your umbrella fixed, you're crazy. Stop calling.
My Dad--the end
Since it happened I've had trouble saying the words. Even now, I don't even like the idea of typing them. When I describe it I say things like:
"Since last September..."
"Since my dad..."
"After last Fall..."
The words get stuck in my mouth. I can seriously feel them on my tongue, filling in my cheeks, itching my teeth.
---
I'm at work, and it's around 2:00. I've just come back from lunch, and I'm sitting at my desk checking emails or some other such nonsense. I glance up from my computer and see my sister standing at the reference desk outside the workroom. She looks at me through the window and I give her a toothy smile thinking she's brought my nephew in for a visit. She shakes her head and frowns. My coworker lets her in.
"What is it? Is it Grandma?"
"No," she says.
"Then what is it? Tell me!"
I can't look out that window now and not picture her standing there; see her face, puffy eyed like she's spent the morning in a barn mucking stables, allergic as sh*t to the horses she loved to ride. I can't drive past the road I know he was found on without thinking "this is where he was." Truthfully, I don't even know exactly where he was, choosing not to remember the specifics so I can go on thinking "I wonder if he was here? I hope so, because it's nicer here than over there..."
---
We still have his voice on our answering machine.
It's unnerving to call and have it go to voicemail. When it hits the 5th ring and I know mom's not going to answer because she's out (or more likely because the TV is so flippin' loud she can't hear it... *wink*) there's always that split second when I think "I should hang up" because I don't want to hear him. But like a junky, I always hang onto the line. And I always listen to the entire thing. And I always end up looking for something in that voice... Something that sounds familiar, or comforting, or funny. It's the same message and the same words, but I keep doing the same thing looking for a different reaction.
Hmm... Isn't that the definition of insanity?
---
A few weeks ago I was at my sister's house for dinner flipping through pictures on her camera when I came to one of him with my nephew on his knee. It was a random visit... I "pop in" so to speak (excuse the pun), as he showed up one afternoon looking for a little baby love.
"That one's a video" she said.
Turns out the camera was on video mode and she hadn't realized it. So when she went to take the picture it took a few seconds of film before she stopped it to snap the photo. That junky in me hit play and for those few fleeting moments he was moving and smiling.
I remember last October desperately asking a family friend if they still had those VHS tapes of him skiing, from way back when we were kids and our families used to spend weekends together in Ellicottville. While they promised to look, turns out they had just finished cleaning out those closets and the tapes had been one of the first things to go.
Rumour has it my sister has a handful of videos of him. And even though that junky nags for me to break in to her house like an addict and rummage through the camera and computer for another hit of PJL home movies, I don't want to see them.
Because I like the idea there are still memories of him I have yet to make.
---
365 days ago today my dad died of a massive aortic aneurysm. And I miss him every day. But his being there now makes me less scared about what's to eventually come. And for that I'm grateful.
My Dad--Part IV
365 days ago I was driving home from a week's vacation at the cottage. I called home to let my parents know I was on my way. "Want to come for dinner?" mom asked.
"Heck yes I would!"
I parked in front of their house and tread my way up the walk. I sat in their warm sun room watching mom cook, sharing stories about my week and the last two days spent with my sister and her family. They talked about their weekend in Southampton, and the day spent at a local street festival. I checked my emails, dad watched golf.
We sat down to a huge roast beef dinner--roast, buttered potatoes, candied carrots, Yorkshire pudding, gravy, and fresh baked pie purchased at the street fair. "We were supposed to have Beef Stroganoff" mom said, "but I know you don't like Beef Stroganoff so *sigh* we're having roast beef instead..." While I know the jab is meant in jest (she loves roast beef as much as the rest of us) when she gets up to refill the gravy dad leans across the table and whispers "I hate Beef Stroganoff..." He winks, and we share a secret laugh with mom sighing from the kitchen, "Are you laughing at me? What are you laughing at?"
After pie, I roll out the door to unpack, settle in, and prepare for the next day at work. Mom and dad sit on the front step, dad with a stack of Ritz crackers (required to fill that last little pocket left empty by pudding and pie). "I'm sorry I can't come to your program on Tuesday" dad says... a library event he was originally scheduled to attend. "I'm working the afternoon shift, but I'll be there in spirit!" I hug, and kiss, and leave them smiling on the front steps, turning back to thank them again for a yummy dinner and to tell them one last time I missed them during my week away.
He was wearing plaid shorts, of that I'm sure. But I can't for the life of me remember what colour his shirt was.
Ugh.
Officially on vacation in seven minutes (not that I'm counting or anything...) I'm taking myself as far away from a computer as humanely possible, and couldn't be happier. So long weirdos! So long customers with bizarre behaviour! So long people who stay here far too many hours in the day!
Apologies to all for not updating more frequently. Now that summer is over and summer school has officially come to an end, perhaps I'll be more diligent.
Healing Hugs
Hugs are good for you.
And I'm not just talking the obvious "ooo, this feels nice" goodness, because of course we've all felt that instant *sigh* of relief when you sink into a real solid hug (none of this "fake hug" business my mom sometimes tries to sluff off on me when she's trying to get dinner ready or something...) But I digress..
Seriously, though. It's finally been proven. Apparently a study was released back in 2005 citing that hugs increase oxytocin levels, a "bonding" hormone that reduces blood pressure which in turn cuts the risk of heart disease.
Now this is a study I can get behind. Because I literally will hug anything if it's standing still long enough (with the exception of our customers...) My mom, Lil' C, Beef, the cat (good Lord, the cat...) Three months into our relationship Orange finally had to ask me why I needed to hug so much.
"I just do," I said. "Hugging is nice."
Hugs feel good. They make you smile. They're comforting. They're soft and warm, and are shared between people who care about each other (you generally aren't hugging if you don't care, right?) Hugs make me feel like a kiddy again, regardless of the tears or the sick or the sad that required the hug in the first place.
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There are lots of you out there right now who need real, good hugs. And I really wish I was there to do the hugging. So this video goes out to all those who are reading this, who I'm thinking about, who I'm wishing I could be there to help, and of course hug:Original Hug Campaign Video
Moving is the worst. But after procrastinating for the last month I seriously needed to man up and get packing. Hence my spending the better portion of tonight sorting though sh*t I dragged home from Edmonton and then bizarrely moved into the apartment... WTF? Why do I still have a sticker book in my possession?!
I'm beyond lucky in that Fingers and BSB are quasi-sort of-kinda moving themselves, so we're jointly renting a truck together on Sunday to do the actually shipping and/or receiving of goodies. Scratch "rent a UHaul" off my to-do list--check! Unfortunately that still leaves me with sorting, filling garbage bags, throwing out, weeding out, boxing up, and shuttling. And it's possible these last six tasks are the worst tasks.
After tonight's escapades and the subsequent hives (from all the dust and cat hair behind the "relocating" furniture...) the idea of spending one of the last glorious summer Saturdays indoors like one of those people on the hoarding shows, shuffling between rooms through my piled belongings, is just plain gross. And I don't have music because I've already packed the radio *sad face*
I'm not all about asking friends for help, either. That's not what this post is about. Please don't think this is my passive aggressive way of asking you to Sherpa my winter clothes Tupperware or church sale paintings. Because I won't help you when you move. Sorry hooker, but that's how I role. Unfortunately, the only other person who potentially benefits from this move (besides myself and Sir Handsome-a-lot, Bert) is away for work (aptly timed...) So it looks like I'm doomed to a weekend of packing tape and newspaper cuts. Aces.
If you have a tiny violin, feel free to play it now.
My Grandmother emails me.
Usually every other day, but occasionally we'll exchange quips back and forth throughout the day if I'm planning a visit in the near future, or more so now with her live-in daughter away on vacation.
Grandma turns 90 on October 1st. 90! This is awesome for many reason:
- She is three times as old as I am, and perhaps 10 times as forward thinking. While she remains a voting Conservative (I won't hold that against her...) she's more liberal than I am and has no problems telling you/me/the postman what she thinks about a situation. In fact, she's always proclaimed "LL, you can be Catholic, and you can be Liberal... but I won't abide an Argo's fan" (you can take the Rough Riders out of Ottawa but you can't take the Ottawa Rough Riders out of the girl...)
- Think of the changes she's seen in her life time, would ya? She has memories of being pulled in a horse drawn sleigh with bear skin blankets, and now we're talking touch-down landings on Mars. Amidst all of that she stays current through the CBC (*eye roll*), the newspaper magnified on her crazy CNIB machine, and an active letter writing campaign to admonish bad customer service (she refers to these letters as the "angry housewife strikes again!"
- She's completely self-sufficient, makes a mean chicken enchilada, has read and remembers the plot lines for more books thank I can imagine, "scoots" up to the mall to buy breaded shrimp for dinner and visit Dollerama ("It's ruined me for every other store, LL!"), and forwards jokes like they're going out of style.
"Peggy had to cancel," she reported. "She's been unwell for a few days, down with back pain. Although somehow she still found time to clean up after the dog. What a sl*t!"
*jaw drops*
*shock*
I did a quick double take and re-read the email to see if I'd missed something. Nope. That's right. My Grandmother just referred to her best friend as a "slut". I had to pull an Inigo Montoya and tell her "I do not think that means what you think it means..." While I get that in the 50's a sl*t might be someone slovenly, today's meaning has an entirely different connotation and one Peggy probably wouldn't take kindly to.
Hey Premier McGuinty! Hear this: my Grandma might oppose regulated mixed martial arts in Ontario (and is probably formatting a letter against it as we speak...) but damn hooker! Don't even think about cancelling lunch with her! Or else!
What a hoot.
Pictures from Florida
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| Orange enjoying an orange Bahamarita at Bahama Breeze... Brain freeze much? |
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| Fingers polishing off a fish bowl at Iguana Mia... And she was the DD! |
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| Airboat Tours in the Everglades. |
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| Doing the Miami dog races in style. Lost $25 and no sign of Dexter anywhere, but damn, it was fun! |
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| Poo sittin' pretty at Miami Ink. You could only wear a dress like this in Florida... |
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| Big Guy ruining what would have been an awesome picture at South Beach. He will argue he improved the scenery... |
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| The picture that nearly cost me my life... Well worth it. |
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| We played trivia at the condo community centre... The youngest by 30 years and we were the only table that came with our own beer cooler. We lost dismally, winning the "booby prize" but what can you expect when the categories included "medications" and "big band music"? |
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| Coolest mini golf EVER! |
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| Please note this is a buffet KFC... Who asked for this?! Ew... |
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| The beautiful Floridian beach... I'm sweating just looking at it... |
This is going to sound super duper cheesy, but...
... It's really easy to throw the word "love" around, huh?
I love cheesies. I love Modern Family. I love working up a good sweat during a run. I love euchre. I love flip flops. I love log fires in the winter. I love the sun on my face. I love chocolate milk, and my slippers, and skinny dipping, and hugging people, and, and, and...
I think I love a lot of things.
The contestants on The Bachelorette claim to love each other. So do those dips on the e-Harmony commercials I'm so convinced by. Who knows whether or not they do.
But all of these things probably aren't really love, per se. I like cheesies... a lot... I like seeing that big orange bag in my cupboard... Little orange smiles, I call 'em. But do I love them? Nah. Not really. And Modern Family is a really good show, but I won't cry when/if it comes to an end. Chocolate milk, slippers, euchre, flip flops... Heck, even hugs! I could do without all of these things if I had to. Meh. They're just things.
......................................
My parents would have been married for 38 years today. 38 years! While never part and partial to the inner workings of their marriage (beyond sitting on the landing listening to their conversations when they thought I was upstairs in my room) I'm sure they had their ups and downs. Heck, I've only been at Orange's for a week or so and he's already saying "there will be days I really, really bug you... And there will be days where you really, really bug me..." And I'm sure, after nearly four decades, there were days they really, really bugged each other.
But for 38 years they shared a double bed, never wanting to upgrade to a queen or king that might give them more room because it would move them further apart. They took vacations together, alone, twice a year. They split the paper in the morning. They cuddled on the couch at night. They had dates on Fridays.
For 38 years.
Man. Talk about love...
If I hear that Rihanna and Eminem song one more time I'm going to punch something...
I'm back from vacation, y'all!
While there are no pictures to post as of yet (I left my connector cord at the apartment...) there are lots of goodies to share, not the least of which is a story involving Fingers leaving me for dead in the middle of the Everglades with a Panther hot on my tail. And I have the bruises to prove it!
All in all, it was a great trip, although I can now safely say that Florida in August is a hot mess of humidity and mosquitoes. Until such time as I get my act together, these tid bits will have to do:
1. Never try and move a dresser past 7:00 at night on the Sunday after you've returned from holidays. That is, if you value your relationship more than a walk in closet...
2. Speaking of walk in closets, I feel like one of those people on MTV Cribs with a big glorious room to put all their shoes and sweaters and jewlery out on display... "What should I wear today? Oh I don't know... Why don't I take a spin around my new glorious walk in closet and think about it!" Sorry Orange, but the sweat, tears, and your curse words were well worth it to this gal *doe eyed smile*
3. There's nothing like the purr of a cat to tell you you've been missed.
4. I don't know what those rap guys are talking about... Hennessy is not all it's cracked up to be. But then, nothing you can buy at CostCo by the case is really all it's cracked up to be... With the exception of bulk Kettle Corn...
5. My mom and Beef are away at a cottage and I miss them like I miss wearing flip flops in the winter. And that's a lot!
6. I bought this t-shirt while I was away and part of me isn't ashamed. What's wrong with me?!
When did he get so big?
I don't like it.
Wait! I mean... I do like it! Don't get me wrong... I love that he can talk to me know, and ask me "what'cha doin?" and on Sunday at dinner I'm pretty sure he said my name. But I also don't like it, you know?
I mean, what happened to these days?
I miss my lil' potato, you know?
Pecan Pie Pressure
Orange has been working on a job site that neighbours a well known large-scale Canadian bakery. His role is begin the detoxification of the neighbouring site so to ensure the bakery's water supply doesn't wind up laced with TCE. Nice, huh? Just your average day in the life of Captain Planet...
Last Saturday, Orange worked overtime. And on a number of occasions the bakery supervisor--a slight, white-haired moustached man--wandered out to the lot, flustered and anxious. Hair net and lab coat clad, supervisor man was very stressed and felt the need to vent his frustrations to Orange:
It would seem the bakery has been asked by a supplier to "clean up" their pecan pie... "The pecans aren't crunchy enough and the crust isn't crusty enough." So the bakery boys were working overtime. First they tried adding super shine mix to the pecans to increase the crunch, but batch number one was a dud. "Tasted like plastic." Then they tried "impregnating" (his word, not mine...) the crust with liquid CO2 to increase the freezing speed of the crust froze off the assembly line. Also a dud. By mid afternoon the bakery supervisor was at his wits end, claiming the problem lay in his convection test kitchen vs. the conveyor product kitchen and not in the crunchy or the crusty.
At 3:00 when Orange was punching out of his own job site, the air overwhelmingly smelled of pie and bakery supervisor man was sending the boys on a grocery run for more butter and eggs. Where do you suppose you buy butter by the truck load?
I'd like to learn Kung Fu.
Karate sounds so lame in comparison...
"I'm a karate black belt..."
"I'm a Kung Fu master..."
See? Sh*t yea.
Mega drama at Orange's house tonight.
He called about 5:30 while I was in the midst of digging out my cleats and pulling on my jersey for Ultimate Frisbee, and hung up shortly after so I could zoom out to Fingers' house. Not two minutes later he called back:
Orange (panicked): "Uh, yeah we got a situation over here..."
Library Lady: "What's wrong buddy?! Are you okay?"
Orange: "Uh, we have a baby raccoon trapped in the green bin, and he is less than pleased with me!"
Library Lady: "I'm on it!"
I zoomed over to the house and found Orange stationed at the back gate, baby raccoon still snug as a smelly, garbage covered bug. Literally. After wheeling the bin into the middle of the lawn (insert angry tiny baby raccoon scratching and howling), I slowly laid it on the ground and pulled open the lid.
And then I ran like the dickens. Both of us did.
We hid in the sun room overlooking the backyard, and waited, watching. We could certainly smell the little dude (ew), but we couldn't see him. Slowly but surely we crept back out the door and sidled up to the side of the bin. Yup. He was still there. Staring at us with his beady little eyes from the bottom of the box. Like it's my fault he was entranced by the smell of rotting coffee grinds, banana peels, stale pita wraps, and an old pizza slice.
That's when Orange let me in on the latest ravine drama: I guess the raccoon parents recently split and are now sleeping in different trees. He assumes there is residual anger weighing on our baby raccoon, and his acting out (partying in our green bin) was no doubt a result of his broken home life. So we took pity on the little dude, and rather than shake him out of the bin so we could Javex the sh*t out of it, we let him be, scared as he was, assuming come dark he'd probably scurry his way home.
Let's hope he gets the counseling he needs. Because the next time he ends up dumping in my green bin he's going to have some explaining to do...
Random thoughts:
I watched a documentary on heavy metal last night. Not mercury, iron, or aluminum, but Slip Knot, Twisted Sister, and Black Sabbath. Totally insightful. While I have no plans of rushing out to devil horn at the next Alice in Chains concert, I'll look with less scorn at the leather clad dude who spends his days at the library rocking out and chatting online with fellow metal heads. A little less...
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As I spend more time at Orange's house, I spend less time running. Sad but true. Ultimate Frisbee has been my weekly exercise for the last couple of weeks. And while my new UF team and the position I play within it kicks butters, my legs still crave the pavement. Last Sunday I watched a jogger blast pass me at a red light in 30 degree heat, and from the comfort of my air conditioned Yaris I actually looked at him with jealousy. Gross. Baby Shiloh brought the smite last night when I went for a long overdue run along my favorite waterfront trail and I literally gagged at the end of it. Not cool, Shiloh. Not cool.
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Bert and I are back at the apartment after the aforementioned couple of weeks in and out of Orange's place. With only a month left before the "corporate merger" of the accumulated households, he'd made himself quite comfortable with his swish new digs. I'd be lying if I said he was less than displeased with me for bringing him back to chez Library Lady. While I'll try not to take his snubbing personally, you know I'll still coax him out from under the bed with a spoon full of vanilla yogurt.
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A Babybelle can make or break a lunch.
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Mom and I are heading up North this weekend for a mini-break. Pictures and commentary to come. Stay tuned.
Camping 2010
The girls and I had 4th annual mini-break last weekend. You may recall past adventures camping in the wilds of Bon Echo, and last year's Florida extravaganza, complete with Muumuus, dog races, et al. This year's time frame was slightly tighter, so we decided to stick closer to home to make things easier for all involved, reserving a campsite at the Elora Gorge.
Totally fun and exciting, right?
Sunshine and sandy beaches? Check.
An exciting day tubing down the gorge? Check.
S'mores and beer and pita pizzas roasted over the fire? Check.
Good friends and good gossip? Check.
We loaded Poo's car to the t*ts (literally... I sat with my feet on two bags of wood with a bag full of breakfast food on my lap, while Free Samples and Fingers squished awkwardly in the back in and amongst the air mattresses, coolers, and camp chairs and Poo trying desperately to drive slowly, what with her inability to see out any of the windows...). We hit the road Friday after work and with a little luck, we'd be snug in our campsite singing Kumbaya around a raging blaze by 9:00.
What could go wrong?
1. A total alcohol ban at the park.
2. A dangerously high water level resulting in the cancellation of all tubing and tubing-related activities.
3. $8 for a bag of beyond dry kindling, and the Conservation Authority's monopoly on area firewood, at that.
4. A campsite on a round-about. Literally... Cars could pass on all sides, not to mention our view of the highway from the flap of the tent.
5. A suspicious poo smell...
6. A forgotten pump for the air mattresses.
7. A hole in one said air mattress.
8. One long walk in inappropriate footwear and subsequent blisters (serves me right, I suppose...?)
9. Deer flies and mosquitoes the size of llamas.
But my girls are not those who take challenges lying down (well, maybe Free Samples *wink*) so after laughing to the point of tears and potential pant wetting, we made the most of our weekend, got ourselves set right and comfortable, and enjoyed every second of our "camping extravaganza"...
*shifty eyes*
What could possibly top this next year, ladies?
"Swimming, swimming, in the swimming pool!"
In an attempt to beat the heat last night, Fingers and I tried to take a swim at the local pool. Orange lives around the corner from an Olympic sized in-ground that has in the past looked crystal blue and lovely. For some reason it had been drained yesterday... Why? I'm not sure. So we retraced our tracks and took our butters to the next closest location.
The check-in girl gave us the family rate ($7.00). Because we're a family, obviously. After changing into our suits, hosing down in the cold, gross shower room, we made our way onto the deck to join the pool party. I wore my flip-flops for as long as possible on deck because of my fear of hair off the head and in general bare feet in public spaces.
Ahh, relief! It's amazing what a little chlorine can do for the soul. Fingers dove right in while I inched my way into the turquoise abyss, savouring the dip of each toe into the cool water.
As expected, no sooner had I submerged myself when the thunder clapped and the teenage twat sitting in the lifeguard stand blew his whistle for us to evacuate the area. Huddled under the enclosure with the rest of the pool-goers waiting out the storm, Fingers looked over to ask if I wanted to stay the 30 minute minimum wait when the little girl standing next to me began to howl to get back in the pool. "No. I don't" I replied. I'm pretty sure only dogs and bees could hear her screams, she was that high pitched in her wailing. We couldn't even be bothered to dress ourselves, just got back into our car soaking wet to take our "family rate" @sses back to the hot house.
Zut alors!
Could I be more boring?
Come summertime, when once again the monkey on my back rears it's ugly head, I find I have no energy for a) computers and b) blogging when I get home from "the shop", so to speak. Sitting pants-less on the couch watching PVR'd episodes of The Hills, however, has real appeal. Hence my lack of posts.
Updates:
- For the doubters in the crowd, my garden is still scrumptious. It's odd looking, in that the perennials haven't quite filled out as I hoped and this torrential heat has the lilly's flopping and the daisy's praying to the sweet baby Shiloh for rain, but it's a happy garden all the same. Orange and I tried to transplant ferns from the cottage to his house this weekend but by the time we'd made our way through four hours of wall-to-wall cottage country traffic poor Monsieur Fern was deader than dead.
- Speaking of the cottage, I am officially a pack mule. I spent Canada Day working as a Sherpa schlepping old deck wood from the cottage to the dock one floor joist/board at a time and stacking it neatly in a burn pile, whilst Orange diligently cut and screwed his way to an (almost complete) new deck off the bunk house. Being the anal librarian type, I of course then organized my piles from large wood to small wood and burned them accordingly... Stop laughing.
- This weekend is our annual girl's camping trip. You may remember said extravaganza's from 2007 and 2008, and then of course the infamous 2009 Florida trip. I'm super pumped. There's something to be said for a vacation without boys...
- Lunchtime isn't as exciting when you don't have a good lunch to look forward to.
This was the kind of weekend I had...
Deep thoughts by Orange:
"I worry about the day they decide to stop making sour soothers. What are we going to do? I mean, look at Bonkers. Everyone loved Bonkers. And then one day, poof! They're gone. Now you go those classic candy stores on Highway 400 and they're selling you expensive retro Bonkers. But we all know they aren't really Bonkers. They're just repackaged Fruit'ella [sic]...
Why are you looking at me like that? I'm trying to be serious. Sh*t."
It's hot and sticky and I my underpants are sticking to my butt.
TMI? Perhaps. But the windows are open and the sun is setting, and the most glorious breeze is coming through the open window, so there's hope for me yet. I've never had air conditioning, nor has it ever appealed. I leave the frozen hallways of work and crank open my car windows letting the wind whip my hair and stick to my lip balm. I like being hot, and thus the process of cooling down. Far easier to do than to warm up, I say. I'm contemplating serving myself the Creemore chilling in the fridge and chasing it with oat cookies.Why not? I went for a run and hobbled up the Dundurn stairs... I deserve it. It was that foolish errand, after all, that got me into this butt-sticking, humid mess in the first place.
Bert, on the other hand, lays sprawled on the wood floor dreaming of a sunroom and his place on the couch under the screened in windows. September, buddy. September.
Two things need to go:
1. Karl Wolf? Really? Two words:
Dou.Che.
2. I'm not a fan of mattress commercials. Nothing says "crack house" to me quite like a mattress without sheets, and yet every mattress commercial I see there's some Chiquita Banana sprawled out or faux-sleeping on a sheet-less mattress! Ew. A child's bed is one thing, but even in my darkest days as a student I managed to track down a bottom sheet to save me from the Whiskey Tango. Sheets come and go, but a mattress is an investment--for heaven's sake, dress it up and treat it to a nice steak dinner.
Tomorrow is Father's Day.
About a week ago I was routing through my storage cupboard at work where I store all the discarded books I've bought from the book sale tables, my Mrs. Potato Head (don't ask...), and various gift bags and wrapping for the prizes I occasionally give out. I came across a "Happy Father's Day, Grandpa" card I'd picked up at from the staff 'give and take table' sometime before last September. It's blue, it has a fish on the front, and is no doubt from one of those card bundles people buy so they always have a card on hand if/when a birthday, sick day, and/or anniversary strikes. I guess that makes two of us with no reason for a Father`s Day card.
Unlike a lot of holidays, I've never thought of Mother`s Day and Father`s Day as "Hallmark holidays" per se, regardless of my jump-the-gun card. I like letting people know how much they mean to me. Subconsciously I think I've been celebrating him for awhile. Yaris' stereo has been set to the Rolling Stones on repeat, I recorded Harry Potter on PVR, reserved a tee time for this past afternoon, and tomorrow we've already decided to go to Port Dover for fried clams and chocolate milk shakes.
He really is still so very much apart of my life. I hear his voice, ask him questions, consult him on tough decisions, and often find myself laughing at the joke he would have made had he been here in person. He was right about so many things, beyond the importance of basic math skills, not the least of which is 'there is always a reason to pun'. Teeing up today I could hear him saying:
"Keep your head down... Don't try and kill it... Keep your head down... Choke up... I told you to keep your head down... Nice swing, kid. Now if only we could see you drive like that on the road..."
Har dee har har, dad. Happy Father's Day, old man.
[insert joke about hip replacements, dentures, and old age homes...]
*blows into microphone*
*ahem*
Attention please!
I have an important announcement to make:
Pants is coming to visit, July 23-25th.
*jumpy, clappy hands*
ING Ottawa Marathon
Friday night after work, Free Samples and I made our to Ottawa--me for the ING 1/2 marathon and she to party, party, party. Six and a half hours of frustrating traffic and even more frustrating radio music later ("Cal-i-forn-ia girls are undeniable, daisy dukes, bikinis on top...") we pulled into chez destination.
So good to see Cousin Toque and his sidekick (Toque, the original)! After pleasantries and some chit-chat we hit the hay. CT has the cutest little house with hands down the most comfortable guest room... I literally slept like a baby, minus the bed wetting and onesie. Although I secretly wish I had a onesie...
Saturday morning, the nerves were seriously starting to set in. What seemed like a good idea three months ago had quickly become a scary reality. CT snapped me out of it, taking me to the health expo where we picked up our race bibs and digs, mapped out the course in the car, and combined drank approximately 400L of Gatorade and water. CT made us a kick-butters dinner of stuffed pasta and salad... Washed down with Gatorade, of course.
That night we went to cheer on CT's friends in the 5 and 10km races. Although he'd warned me the city was very into this race weekend, I had no idea what to expect. The Bay was my first major event, and we had our fair share of spectators (more so on the swish side, and less so on the "don't get shived" side...)
Overwhelming, is the only word to describe it. People lined the treed streets, cheering and clapping and encouraging runners as they zoomed by. The elite runners were amazing to watch... Their feet barely touch the ground. With the sun shining we screamed and yelled encouragements. It was amazing to be part of it, and overwhelming to think that in 12 hours I would be one of the racers...
Cousin Toque planned to run the marathon (like a crazy person) and his race was due to begin at 7:00am. Needless to say, I took the extra couple of hours sleep, with my half-marathon start time set for 9:00. After the usual pre-race routine (water, coffee, oatmeal, banana, water, Lara bar, water) I got myself did up, and called my cab for the start line. By 8:15am I was in my corral, fiddling with my water belt, worrying I'd pinned my race bib too high. I got worked up to my "heck yes" music (Imma Be, Carry Out, Jump...), and waited for the gun.
Bang! And we're off, 9,000 runners funnelling past the Parliament Buildings and the National War Memorial. The race course is amazing, rolling hills into Hull, zooming back into Ottawa past the University and through the downtown core, with the last 10km along the canal. The chute back into Ottawa at the 10km mark was unreal--people 5-6 deep lining the streets cheering and encouraging, holding signs that say things like "you're feet hurt because you're kicking @ss" and "toe nails are for sissies".
By this time I'm well ahead of the two hour pace bunny and feeling fantastic. At 12 km or so I can hear Free Samples chanting my name from the sidelines, hung over as sh*t and out on the streets cheering me on all the same. Her "go LL's" pump me up even more, and I sail on through with a big smile on my face. I'm feeling great!
Ehn.
At 16km, I'm done. The two hour pace bunny waltzes by and I'm sad as a little black raincloud. I should have listened to CT who warned me never to pace myself with one of these dudes because it's the most depressing thing in the world to see them blow by. And it was. Plod, plod, plodding along. I'd give my life for a cheeseburger. I'd give my life for a bathroom not made out of florescent green plastic...
Finally, I'm done! Even though I would have sworn a strip the 2-hour pace bunny is long past me, I cross the finish line in (*drum roll*) 2:00:12 seconds! Not to get too puff puff on y'all, but that's near top 30%. Say wha?!
- I was runner 3884 out of 9208 registered half marathon runners
- I placed 1432 out of 5329 women
- I placed 275 out of the 868 in my age bracket
An amazing day. And some amazing lessons:
- A water belt isn't necessary in a well organized race. While I lugged 2 bottles of hydration all 21.2km, there was plenty of water and Gatorade at every 3km mark, and relatively disgusting gels at the 8km mark. I barely touched my belt with the exception of the pocket I kept my Kleenex in... Damn you, seasonal allergies!
- READ about marathons and half marathons before you do them... Some seriously helpful tidbits I could have used pre-race, like avoiding ibuprofen, keeping fibrous foods out of my diet at least three days before the race, taken 'er ease on the Gatorade because the sugar can mess you up... *shifty eyes*
- If it's your first one, stick close to home. In retrospect, a six hour car ride post race was perhaps not the best of ideas. Thank Shiloh for dearest Free Samples, who patiently drove my butters back to the Hammer.
- And finally, don't be scared! It's really not that far to go! Whether you walk it or run it or do some combination of the two, you're accomplishing something unreal. And if you choose a pretty course, at the very least you've spent a beautiful day (fingers crossed) outdoors.
Two sweet treats
It's been an exciting but vair busy week.
The trip to Ottawa and my first, competitive half marathon was beyond exciting. I'm waiting for the photos to arrive in my in-box from the organization, and to get five minutes on my own computer to sort through my own thoughts before I post on it. But have no fear... The details are coming!
Until then, in a word, the race was: amazing.
More on that later.
Since the weekend I've been fending off the repercussions of running 21km, getting to work early and staying late, playing 2 and 1/2 hour Ultimate Frisbee games, masticating fruit, and running around like a mad-woman trying to sort through last minute details before yet another road trip to Collingwood for a weekend wedding (Orange is in the wedding party...) Mon Dieu! But yesterday brought two vair sweet treats:
1. My Plan B deliveries began yesterday!
Plan B is a local organic farm organization delivering fresh, locally grown and/or organic fruit and vegetables to your workplace based on orders. Fingers took part in Plan B at a former workplace, and based on her success I suggested the organization to our Green Team who in turn organized our drop-off. I ordered a half-share of fruit which means once every two weeks I receive a shipment of locally grown fruit delivered to the library--enough to keep me satiated until my next shipment! And to keep it interesting, if it can't be locally grown they pull from international organic, fair trade suppliers.
This week I got blackberries, bananas, apples, peaches, and rhubarb (which I quickly gave away because I'll never use it...)
I'm so excited about this! Not only will it mean I'll never run out of breakfast, but it also means that for 20 weeks I'll be doing the world a little bit of good. It's like a fruit hug.
2. Just the other day I talked about my favourite running trail being made that much better by the birth and migration of mama and papa duck and their family of babes.
Well, yesterday a mother duck popped her head out of the island in the middle of our staff parking lot and smartly marched her 11 ducklings (11!!!) across the parking lot, past the library compound, through the Central park rose garden, and across a major intersection to the lake. And I just happened to be on my break (and then some...) so I got to watch the entire ridiculous parade.
The best part? No joke, two staff members from Bibliographic Services held traffic for her while she marched her troops across the road. We were so worried after all her efforts one of them would get smooshed! But they made it safe and sound.
Tra la.
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