I'm nothing if not traditional...
Merry Christmas, everybody!
According to the hotly contested Mayan prophecies, tomorrow is world's end.
Dear, sweet Orange has spent a considerable amount of time worrying about this day. Correction: he has worried about this day with the vigor and magnitude only a ginger could muster. We have had countless conversations about the pothole (or "sinkhole" as he would call it) at the base of our driveway, and whether or not I'm at all concerned that it will one day (i.e. December 21st) devour our cars. Or if I, like him, think that if tomorrow brings a strong storm could it wash half the side yard into our ravine? Or do I think the maple in our yard looks diseased and maybe should we proactively cut it down so to avoid any scenario in which branches penetrate our roof?
He bought a generator. No sh*t. A generator.
For the record, I don't share Orange's concerns about December 21st, and while I don't necessarily validate them, I do listen because... well... I have what could be coined "silly" concerns too, and it's nice to know you're not alone in your paranoia. So in honor of Orange's worry, let's celebrate the clip clop of the four horseman with a blog post on irrational things to worry about**:
1. Do I have a wonky eye? Fingers was married recently, and I noticed in some of the photos from the big day that my eye appears wonky. As in, I resemble a beluga whale with my eyeball going left when it should be front and center. This is the first thing I look for in pictures of myself... Where my eyeball at? I fear my beluga eye come the big WD (wedding day).
2. Do I have a potato chip addiction? If there is a bag in the house, I eat them. Like, all of 'em. So I just don't buy them. But if we have a party, or if we rent a movie, or if for any reason I want to celebrate something (birth, death, Remembrance Day, the season finale of Dexter, a random Tuesday...) I buy chips. I don't get chip sweats so this is a plus, I suppose as I guess I could deduce I've never gone into any form of withdrawal (like during Lent, for example, when I'm off 'em cold turkey.) But legitimately if I have a chip, I have to have them all.
3. Where would I hide if someone broke into my house? This occupies a lot of time when I can't sleep. Obvi I can't go under the bed because that's the first place they'd look. The closet, a logical second, also a no-go. The way I figure it all depends on how much time I have, and thus at what stage of the break-in I'm alerted to the intrusion. If I had my druthers I'd glide down the stairs to the basement and shimmy out the spare room window (no screen.) Otherwise I think I'd play dead.
4. When I'm running, and I'm on a busy street for example, and I run past a group of people waiting for a bus or something, are my hinders jiggling about back there? And concern #2 does nothing to help. I know, totally vein. But there you have it. I have no problem blowing snot rockets, slouching about, and hiking up my spandex when I'm on a trail but on a city street I always adjust my stance and stride worrying that people are laughing as I run by. This also adds to another concern, which we'll call 4 (b) are my spandex pants too thin and can you see my butters through them?
5. If the house was burning down, what would I grab? That cat. I don't really have to think about this one, but I worry about the stuff I'd be leaving behind and is there anyway I could go back and get it. Like my baby blanket, and the pictures of my dad when he was little, and my 2nd edition of Anne of Green Gables... And Orange, of course.
6. Speaking of the cat, does he poo enough? And that's all I'm going to say about that...
7. Did I turn off my hair straightener? I relived this worry daily when I was living in the apartment. Even though I'd purposefully check to ensure I'd turned it off (and unplugged it) I still worried I'd somehow left it on. I'd get half way to work and think "was today the one morning I forgot?" It never got so bad that I'd double back, but throughout the day I'd wonder about it. And as a result I no longer straighten my bangs in the morning.
And last but not least:
8. If I have a really vivid dream, and I can recall many details of the dream including calling people and/or sending them emails , was it really a dream or did I in fact call that person at 3:00 in the morning to tell them I disagree with their decision to stop talking to me (part of the dream) or don't understand why their hair is now grass (also part of the dream...)
Your turn. Anyone care to confess an irrational worry?
**I realize all of these worries revolve around me. Trust, I have many other worries that revolve around other people, too. And yes, there are things the world over to be legitimately concerned about (like poverty, environmental degradation, and war, for example...) By no means is this post meant to diminish the validity of those concerns. I also realize that, as Grandma LL would say, "I've had many problems in my life most of which have never happened." This is meant to be funny... So don't get all emotional and/or "no-you-don't-look-like-a-Beluga-whale" on me here...
All I want for Christmas...
Is THIS b*tch! Thanks to Poomobile for sending this gem my way. How I made it through 33 years of life without this item is beyond me, especially considering how often I can be found involuntarily wearing the real life version. Seriously, though, Santa... If I can't have a Keyboard Cat, I need this. Seriously. Like, bad.
Sh*t my boyfriend says...
"Marry me and we'll spend the next 30 years together (37 if I ease up on the dairy... )"
p.s. Of course I said 'yes'... How could I say 'no' to someone who knows me well enough to hide a ring at the bottom of a bag of cheesies?
*jumpy clappy hands*
The things we do for love...
Having a pet is like inviting a small tragedy into your life. A good friend of mine said that once and it's starting to make a bit more sense.
Four years ago a chunky tuxedo-wearing snugglepuss stuck his paw out of a cage at the Humane Society, hooking his claws into my sweater, and subsequently my heart. Since then, Dr. Albert McMeowsers has wooed his way into my life and later, into that of Orange (although publically he'll declare he thinks Bert is an @sshole, privately he has more photos on his phone of Bert than I do...) Albert is very much a member of our little family. Where we are, he is. On the couch? He's in between us. Chatting in the kitchen? He's on the floor behind us. Outside in the yard? He's pressed against the glass, watching. He has his faults to be sure (tunneling through the furniture with his claws, for example, and drinking from the toilet...) but we love him nonetheless. His funny little personality more than makes up for the early morning wake up calls and all-season allergies.
This weekend things took a bit of a wacky turn when Little B stopped eating and became crazy nauseous. Orange thought he'd taken our "fatty" comments to heart and was working his way into an eating disorder. I worried the vet's were going to start thinking I had Munchausen Syndrome. Either way, he's back at the vet again for an extended stay this time, and our house feels pretty empty.
I know it's silly, even though you're all going to tell me it's not. He's a cat, for crying out loud, not a child. Orange jokes that we're like ET and Elliot... When Bert's sick, I'm sick with worry ("I'll be right here...") But for those of us who have fur forever friends, you might get it when I say it's hard not to be smitten with them when all they give is unconditional love, and all they want is unconditional love in return. You come to rely on those little faces at the door when you come home, their little snuggles on the couch. So... I'll do whatever he needs me to do, including worrying like a crazy person until he's tucked back in beside me, paws up.Night night, Little B.
So proud!
Cousin Toque is a cool dude. He's also kind of a big deal... People know him. He has many leather bound books. His house smells like rich mahogany. I'm making most of this up, except seriously... He's cool and people really do know him. Like the Canadian Olympic Team, for example, for whom he is the official videographer. Amazeballs!
The Olympics have been Toque's schtick for a couple of years now, not to mention the Commonwealth and PanAm Games. But this year was the first year he was "in 'yo face" with the team for the entire three weeks, stationed in and around Canada House for the duration of the event, interviewing athletes and other personalities.
 |
| (I spy Toque in this picture of Hot Harry from Hello Canada... Do you?!) |
For those who might not know, last week/end was the parade of champions of sorts in Ottawa with the Canadian Olympic Teams, which they then took on the road to Toronto and into the ACC for a grand "hurrah, we're awesome!" party. As part of his duties (hee hee... 'duties'...) Toque was asked to create a Call Me Maybe meme of the team. Hilarious. Apparently the men's rowing team was crazy keen to be part of it (?!?!?) which then led to the rest of the athletes eagerly tracking Toque down to get their lipsync on camera. Hilarious and awesome.
Great stuff, Toque!
Sh*t my boyfriend says...
While watching 'Prometheus':
"Why is everyone in outer space so angry? No one's ever glad to see us up there..."
Uke
I'm taking ukulele lessons. Have I told you this?
Last Christmas I gave Fingers lessons, and she gave me a uke (sort of a "Gift of the Magi" thing, as neither of us knew what the other had planned...) Anywho, we were so excited not only did we upgrade our ukes to profesh-ish models (mines a slightly different colour), but Poo decided to get in on the action, and the three of us started up with the beginner group from String Along Ukulele last February.
First off, it has to be said ukulele (pronounced 'ook-oo-lele') lessons are hysterical. We are easily the youngest in the group by about 20-years. Add to this the lessons take place in the recreation room of an old folks home, and you have the makings for a good night. Except, of course, every third lesson which is our jam night. Yes, I said it. That's right. Our jam night. Every third Tuesday about 50 ukulele players gather in the back room of a pub to eat, drink, play, and sing along to classic tunes like:
Ain't She Sweet
Sway
Jamaica Farewell
What's that? You don't recognize these smash hits? That's because no one reading this blog was born before 1920, whereas most of our classmates were...
I literally can't stop smiling on jam nights because the entire thing is so surreal. My classmates come with bags full of kazoos, maracas, spoons, and harmonicas to play on those special songs that require accompaniment. Some nights there's a banjo, others a bassist. I've recently noticed that some come with pint glass holders on their music stands (I asked the grey haired lady next to me where you get one and she whispered "in the drummers section of the music store, dear.") Inevitable after ever song someone says "they don't make songs like that anymore..." or "Oh, that one's my favorite!"
Jam nights have become so popular they stopped allowing spectators into the room because they were crowding out the players. I mean, seriously, think about... If you knew there was a secret room full of ukuleles in your neighborhood rocking out to the theme song from the Flinstones and Blue Moon wouldn't you want to sit in? It's like slipping through Platform 9 3/4 into another world. A totally ridiculous world, albeit, but in the best possible sense.
Anywho, lessons have started up again, and in honour of our second year I bought myself a bad-ass strap and tuner and have been practicing my favorite tunes. My goal is to one day make the switch to the banjolele and then eventually into my real banjo, but I'm working my way up to that. For my birthday, Fingers, Poo and I are going to a ukulele concert at the Legion--seriously, I can't make this up--with Ralph Shaw, whom were told is legendary in the uke world. He wears a bow tie. I'm hoping to get him to sign my uke... Either that or my chest. But although we share the same music stand accoutrement, I don't think the Ralph Shaw's of the world share much else with the Rick Allen's...
I'll have my Sharpie marker at the ready, just in case!
*wink*
Ugh. I know, I KNOW!
Stop yelling at me, I know I'm behind in my updates.
"Not refreshing one's blog" has been added to the (growing) list of things my mom can now nag me about, alongside the length of my hair ("I don't like it when you pin your bangs back... Just get it cut for heaven's sake..."), fiddling with the candles on the dining room table, and not returning Tupperware containers. In my defense, there's been a lot happening as of late and I've been on the road most weekends (and to be honest, blogging on an iPad is b@lls... they need an app for that... and until they do I'm too lazy to pull the laptop out at night. Sorry, friends.)
1. Big C, Beef and I had a whirlwind trip to NYC a few weeks back. We shopped uncontrollably (and yet all I bought was a handmade ring from a street vender). We ate obscenely, including a memorable meal at a michelin star restaurant where we were treated to something called "ballet service" and I ate things that included "foam" and "jus" in the list of ingredients. And we saw Raven Symone sing her teets off in Sister Act. While having a nice smelling man in a suit serve me lunch while I drank ice wine that cost an astonishing amount (considering how much it tasted like blue cheese [it could be argued, I suppose, that my pallet is not refined enough to appreciate such niceties]) was certainly a treat, highlights from this ridiculous trip include:
- Fancy Cousin being accosted on the street in broad daylight by a large man who felt the sudden urge to compliment both FC's handbag (vintage Yves, beautiful to be sure) and his "fine @ss".
- Big C commenting on the number of "Es-caa-la-days" on the road (read: Escalades)--sorry, mom... But you're so damn cute I can't not tell that story.
- Standing in FAO Schwartz waiting for Beef to use the loo (yet again...) and subsequently watching a young girl give birth to a doll. Some things you can't unsee...
- The most amazing 4-hour home cooked meal I've ever eaten, created by none other than FC and his roommate, Mary, shared with Mary's extended family, the quintessential Italian American's: Louretta, Louie, Pauly, Frankie, Serg, and Candido (who tells you to "just call me Tony" because he knows no one can pronounce his name.) Oh, and Louretta has a daughter married to a man named Fabio (of course) who owns a pizzeria in the Bronx (I can't make this sh*t up...) There was a lot of this, and this, and food I'm still dreaming about. I ate in shifts to cram it all in, and cram I did: pasta made with brie, oil and balsamic grilled veggies, fresh olive bread, platters of cheese and meat, three different deserts, hot espresso, and the largest container of Coffee Mate I've ever seen (*sing song* one of these is not like the other...)
 |
| Preggers Beef at Jean Georges... |
2. Bert has Tourettes, or something like that.
Fo' shizzle. Our fatty has been taken over as of late by some strange OCD-type behaviour that has him obsessively licking, frantically running, and hiding most days under our bed. It's sad to watch. My all-star vet, however, is trying her hardest to puzzle out his problems. But getting a straight answer from a cat is like trying to get a straight answer from a cat = très impossible.
Being a self-diagnosed "Crazy Cat Lady", I have of course gone out and purchased a fancy water fountain to entice him out from under the bed from time to time (which he lubs.) I suppose it's also a reward (read: guilt gift) for the twice daily oral needles he's forced to endure. Neither of us enjoy this daily routine, but the reminders I serve alongside his anti depressant/seizure medication that we're lucky these syringes are going in his mouth and not another unspeakable entrance bring little comfort.
Fingers crossed my little fur football.
3. I was an Olympic slut, passing myself between CTV, NBC, and TSN's coverage trying to catch a glimpse of whatever was being covered. It really doesn't matter when or what or who... I'm interested. Velodrome team sprint? Sure. Women's badminton? Yes please. Men's trampoline? Yup. I draw the line at indoor volleyball because it's boring (save your breath to cool your porridge, don't try arguing with me, my mind is firmly made up on the matter.) I have some observations to make, however:
- The curvature of a female gymnists spine creeps me out.
- I don't like the new "ladies" swimsuits.
- Sports with artistic components decided upon by a judge assigning a mark should not be in the Olympics. The motto is "faster, higher, stronger" not "faster, higher, stronger, and with more artistic merit." There. Feel free to argue with me about that one...
FYI, getting a good picture of yourself on the Maid of the Mist is really hard.
It's silly times if you're in the area and haven't ridden this beeatch. But I also recommend keeping your mouth closed for the duration of the trip unlike the wieners at the front of the boat screaming into the mist "OMG this is so much fuuuuuuuuun" who probably took home a bad case of e-coli alongside their souvenir key chain.
And finally...
5. Following last year's universal acceptance of "meh" as an official Scrabble-legal word, both "F-Bomb" and "sexting" were added to the Oxford English Dictionary in 2012. It gives me pleasure to imagine the folks who work for OED as stuffy old British men in monocles and cravats looking down their long pointed noses from their smoking room arm chairs:
"All in favor of 'sexting' as a word say 'aye'"
This is library humor I can get behind.
Spartan Sprint
Sunday was the much anticipated Spartan Race. Heck yes, it was.
Sandwiched between two beautiful days, Sunday rained cats and dogs (not literally) which didn't exactly add to the experience, but certainly made things interesting. Hardwood Hills is well known for it's "difficult terrain" (home to the Canadian national mountain bike competition) and provided quite the challenge in and of itself. While 5km doesn't seem like much of a hike anymore, add a continuous cycle of hills, 15 random obsticles, and torrential downpour and you have yourself a race.
In and amongst the running and competitor dodging we had:
Rope ladders
Camouflage nets
Sandbags
Various walls of different sizes and materials
Spear tosses
Weight pulls
Confined spaces
And mud. Lots and lots (and lots) of hip deep, thick, squishy mud.
I'm not selling this race very well, but seriously: it was so much fun! Everyone was so excited to be there, helping each other along the way and sharing in the explitives ("Holy f*ck, did I just lose my shoe?") Someone was kind enough to unhook my hair from the barbed wire I was army crawling under, and in return I flicked a beatle off the girl in the mud in front of me. Nice, huh?
By the time we were through (1:04 for me, 1:13 for Orange... girls rule... sorry, had to say it) I was head-to-toe muck. The shoes were a write off but a quick rinse under the fire hose and I was ready for my close up!
If you get a chance, totally sign up for one of these events. Or, as my grandmother said in her email:
"Rather you than me in your choice of 'recreation' yesterday. In the same class as banging your head against a wall. It’s so nice when you can stop."
Why can I not buy a small can of black beans?
I don't want to spend 4 hours boiling my own, and I don't need 600 mL of them!? I'm one person (most of the time) and can't possibly eat 5000 of anything, let alone beans of any sort (and nor should I if you know what I mean...)
Has no one in the bean industry thought of this? I mean, seriously people.
I don't ask for much...
So, this is what I'm doing this weekend...
You?
*jumpy clappy hands*
I'm pretty pumped. Although I'm not sure how I feel about "electric shocks"...?
*shifty eyes*
Date night
It was a beautiful weekend, and as a surprise Orange arranged for a boat tour of the local "pond". It was a lovely sentiment, and would have been a lovely way to spend the evening if not for the two beast children sailing along beside us with their mother. Parenting tip from a non-mother: don't give your two and four year-old toddlers chocolate chip muffins the size of their heads before boarding a small water craft and then repeatedly plying them with the the promise of ice cream "if they behave themselves." The result?
"I WANT ICE CREAM! I. WANT. ICEEEEE CREEEEEEAMMMM!"
Like I said, beast children.
 |
| Sail boats in the harbour |
 |
| Sunset cruise |
 |
| Captain Byron |
After disembarking our 12' bathtub, we struggled to escape the howling children who were at this point literally (literally...) clinging to the ice cream stand wailing so loudly I'm sure only dogs and bees could hear them. We dodged left, and right, and found ourselves drawn to some hypnotizing rhythmic beat... where was it coming from, you ask?
The outdoor roller disco.
...
...
OMGPONIES?!?!!!
How did I not know this was in my city? Complete with live DJ, and roller pimps rocking their "high 'n' tights" and khaki pants, reliving their glory years. Amazing. If only Orange kept spare socks in his trunk instead of 40 lbs of protein powder and back issues of Maclean's magazine we would have jumped on board and rented us some old school skates (no inline skates permitted on this rink!)
I read a lot of book reviews...
Like, A LOT of book reviews. I probably work through 3 publishing journals a week not to mention a myriad of other sources. And this has to be one of the worst plot lines I have ever seen:
Playing with Matches by Carolyn Wall (July 2012)
Really? I'm not sure who should be punished for this: the reviewer or the publisher who sent it to print? Not even the cover can save this hot mess.
Of course I'm ordering it...
I have rebounded back into a relationship with Running.
It was too hard to stay away, what with the sun shining, the warm air smelling of yummy BBQ, and the trees heavy with fat green leaves. That and the funk I've been in was becoming a huge drag and getting my run on seems to have provided some much needed medicine. Because being outside in this weather is good for my soul; I can feel it from my tippie toes to my fringe. So we're both trying this time around: I have promised to give Running more
attention, and Running has promised to stop being such a d*ck. It's a
work in progress, clearly.
But the truth is I get itchy to strap on my sneaks when the sunshine bursts back on the scene. Amazingly, most other things take a back seat: TV, gossip blogs, gardening, eating... Truly, I think of nothing else when I'm in the mood to run. I liken it to a crack addict looking for her next score, only I'm not a crack addict and I likely won't have to pimp my goodies to pay for my habit. Speaking of which...
In an effort to hold up my end of the bargain I treated myself to a new pair of kicks. They're super pink, trust me I know. But for the record, I always by the same shoe so
don't really have much choice in the colour. I would say if more people
bought runners based on fit and feel than colour, style, or label, we'd all be much faster and have happier feet. But spending $170 on a single pair of shoes gives me the sweats (see HERE). This time around, however, while driving away from the store I managed to amortizing the cost in my head. This is how my elementary math skills justify the expense:
S = 1 pair of swish new kicks
K = supa' fast kilometers logged
D = days per week
W = weeks per year
S
_______________________ = $0.18 per K
(6K x 3D [per W]) x 52W
And this doesn't factor in my races. Speaking of which, Orange and his brother and I have registered ourselves for THIS. The video is a bit melodramatic, I know, but I'm pretty stoked. I have no idea what I've gotten myself into mind you, with the exception of the stories Cousin Toque has regaled on me from a similar race in the Capital. But I figure if I can survive being beaten by a unicyclist in the Paris to Ancaster bike race, I'm sure I can survive this (yes, yes, I know, I cried the entire last 5km of that bloody race, but I blame the volunteers... They kept telling me I was "near the end" when I so wasn't... stupid 10 year-olds and their damned enthusiasm...)
Hamburgler
Lil C is a worrier. He comes by it naturally, though, what with the long line of worried people in our family (Pop, me, Beef... we all worry...) Why am I telling you this? Because it's pertinent information for the following hilaripuss story:
Last night the Beefs treated themselves to dinner out--the coziness of a McDonald's booth in celebration of McHappy Day. Happy Meals, play place, ice cream cones... All good, right? Not so much. Because it was McHappy Day, McDonald's brought out all the stops including a special visit from the McDonald's characters, i.e. Birdie, Grimace, Ronald, and the dreaded Hamburgler.
"Who's that?" asks Lil C.
"That's the Hamburgler," replies Mr. Beef. "He steals your hamburgers."
You don't tell a worried kid that the man with the uncomfortably oversized head and bandit mask is going to steal your meal.
I'm told Lil C spent the entire dinner with is left hand covering his nuggets (the fact the guy's name is "Hamburgler" and C was eating "nuggets" is a mute point) looking precariously over his shoulder for the dreaded thief, slipping his hand quietly underneath to grab a quick bite before returning to his watchful guard.
I can just imagine what will transpire when we get to the Tooth Fairy... "Oh yeah, she's the chick that sneaks into your room at night while you're sleeping and STEALS YOUR TEETH!"
Whales
I have trouble conceptualizing the size of a blue whale. I always have. I blame it on the fact they are so reclusive. You don't see a lot of blue whales in Telus commercials or modeling for Old Navy like you do your cheetah and your pot bellied pig. They're loners, those blue whales. They float around in parts of oceans I don't get to very often and do their "maaaaaoooooooooooohhhhhheeeeehhhnnnn" thing, eating their krill. I don't suppose I'll be seeing a blue whale anytime soon.
I get it, they're big. They're the biggest. But... What does that mean exactly? And please don't tell me I ought to "google" the answer. I've done this. And a picture comparing the size of a blue whale to a Tyrannosaurus Rex is not helpful because I won't be seeing one of those anytime soon either. They are elusive to me, and I appreciate that about them... Like they're not all "look at me, I'm a blue whale, I'm the biggest." They just are. And that makes them way cooler. Not like those show-off dolphins.
In my esteemed opinion...
... There is very little that Bill Murray can't do. Have you seen What About Bob? The Man Who Knew Too Little? Fantastic Mr. Fox? Ghost Busters? The Life Aquatic for crying out loud?
"Son of a b*tch, I'm sick of these dolphins."
Amazeballs.
He's totally bizarre in all of these films which is perhaps why I love him because secretly I know I"m bizarre, too. For example, sometimes in an effort to zone out I watch movie trailers on my iPad (if you don't have the IMDB app, get it). Weird, I know. There are a myriad of other things I could be doing with my time, like shopping for curtains or painting the back room or baking something nice for someone nice. Instead I watch movie trailers. And this little ditty co-staring Bill (amongst many other hilaripuss actors) immediately caught my eye:
Oh, I will be seeing this. Yes sir. Perhaps more than once.
Like mother like son.
At least I have an excuse... I worked that day! I hardly call militantly eyeballing the bird feeder and negotiating one's girth back and forth between the couch and food bowl a tiring series of events.
Oh, but I lurve him and all his pear-shaped chub.
Michael Lewis, I can't quit you!
I'm trying to listen to a "smart person's" book on CD during my commute to work instead of my regularly scheduled program of morning radio and traffic reports. But my facade is crumbling... I'm not a smart person, nor do I play one on TV, and my attention span for this particular subject matter (sub prime bonds and real estate derivative markets) is waning. The first CD is 50 minutes long and I have rewound it three times today alone.
What can I say? Economics are not my forte. But I am determined... Now if only I could convince BG to commute with me and explain what I don't understand (the majority) and pat me on the back when I do (not much).
p.s. I have changed something on the blog ever so slight but ever, ever, ever so important... Can you guess?!
Feed
I read a book for a Masters class called Feed by M.T. Anderson--an ironic satire set in a future world where a media feed is inserted directly into people's brains when they are babies. The result is a chilling consumer society where empty-headed teenagers are obsessively driven by fashion, shopping, the pursuit of entertainment, and by constant self-destructive customized murmurs in their brains of encouragement to buy, buy, buy...
Heavy, yeah? But so good. So, so good.
I remember the class discussion: those who argued the premise was too far fetched and completely science fiction, and on the flip, those who knew felt were weren't far off. I was with side B: we would eventually succumb to a world where we are joined literally and figuratively to our technology. And this was before every hand held a Blackberry, every smartphone was a charge card, and every person (and their dog) had a Facebook account.
For the record, you will never receive a poke from Bert nor I.
Today's Twitter feed (hmm... just noticing the irony there...) brought this little gem to my attention:
Google Owns Your Soul
*shivers*
This is f*cky. And so... I don't know... Wrong? Am I alone here?
S'rsly. Marshall McLuhan, if you could see us now.
Many things with no things in common
Sometimes I secretly worry I'm an elderly person in a 30-something body. I eat a lot of soup, for example, and am somewhat obsessive about my bran intake. I like to watch Antiques Roadshow (as I type it's on the TV in front of me, and two individuals in motorized wheelchairs are arguing over the age of a walnut pie safe..) And I spend a lot of time in my own head debating where exactly in my garden I should place my garden gnome (as it stands he's in a lilly patch but I'm not yet satisfied he's positioned for maximum exposure. He'll no doubt migrate to the daisies before week's end...)
Last night Bert made his way into the bedroom in the wee hours of the early morn to throw up a ribbon. He has a tendency to do this, particularly when he's been into my wrapping supplies or if he's spent a considerable amount of time in the back room with the plants. He can be clear on the other side of the house and he'll seek me out to make it known he's throwing up. On one hand, ew. On the other, I'm kind of flattered he feels the need to share this with me...? Afterall, when I'm sick I want my mommy, too...
This weekend we met a new addition to the family, and what a pumpkin she was. But perhaps my favorite part of meeting her was Lil' C's reaction: at one point we were sitting on the floor of the overstuffed living room, me with 7-month old baby Hannah in my lap, when he came real close and quietly sang the alphabet, followed by Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. He then proceeded around the room (in his cords and button down plaid shirt), introducing himself to those he didn't know ("So what is your name? My name is [Lil' C]" and when appropriate, slipping in his legendary knock-knock joke:
Lil C': Knock knock...
Unsuspecting victim: Who's there?
LC: Orange...
UV: Orange who?
LC: Orange banana!
[diabolical LC laughter]
For those of you concerned I have just sucked some of the joy out of a little boy's life by giving away the punch line of his favorite joke, have no fear. He will unabashedly share this gem with you over and over and over again, consecutively, every minute on the minute, regardless of how many times you've heard it. I am confident my leak won't affect his presentation.
p.s. What is it about oranges and bananas that little people find so funny? I'm more of a kumquat girl, myself.
Whistler 2012
So long overdue, I know. March is a gong show in the book hustling business so I'm blaming my lack of interest in blogging on my jam packed schedule. That and the beautiful sunshine in what I think we can safely start referring to as the So'On banana-belt.
Side note: I can't spell the word banana without thinking of that Gwen Stefani song, B-A-N-A-N-A-S.
Anywho... Our Whistler trip was ridiculous funtabulous. In the words of Penny, she be "ballsmazing."
Our flight left early Saturday and while we were there well within the required time to fly nationally, Air Canada continues to be one of the most inefficient airlines of all time. If you check in online the night before your flight and print your boarding pass, why should you then have to stand in a one-hour line up to check your bag? How is this efficient? This subsequent line up and the ridiculousness of Pearson actually required us to run for our flight as while Orange was being frisked by airport security for drugs et al they announced "all passengers on flight X direct to Vancouver should now be aboard the aircraft." Feck.
So I booked it and left Orange to totter on behind me, shoes in one hand, death grip on his pants with another, because yeah, he's hiding nitro glycerin in his belt buckle. Needless to say when the drink cart came around at 8:00 am we ordered beer.
Although I spent four years out West, I had never been to Vancouver. I am in love--a beautiful city full of beautiful people. One day tacked onto either end of our trip wasn't enough. Lady G, if you're still reading I'm totally jealous of your set up!
...
...
...
*ahem*
 |
| For the record, these aren't all ours... |
On Thursday we signed on for a snowmobile trip up through the mountains into a bowl where we zoomed around at high speeds. They took us for a BBQ lunch (who knew you could BBQ cookies?) and toured us back down through the sunshine--totally not something I would ordinarily do, but silly fun once I got the hang of it and stopped worrying I was going to zoom off the side of the track into the abyss below), and the day was so gorgeous and clear I can't imagine a better day to experience it.
Friday we had a late breakfast of Eggs Benny and strong coffee and grabbed the bus back to Vancouver for another hit of swank in our downtown hotel. Saturday we walked our buns off touring Kitsilano in the sunshine along with all the other 'hipster duffuses' (or hippycrites, as Oranges calls them) out and about downtown Vancouver on a Saturday morning, Starbuck coffees as far as the eye could see.
While it was a whirlwind seven days and I seriously can't believe it's over, I would do this trip again in a heartbeat (except maybe the hangover from those Margarita things... I could skip that.) What a blast! We ate, we drank, we enjoyed the sunshine and good weather. We did exactly what we wanted to do when we wanted to do it, no two days the same.
I can't wait to start planning next year's trip...
I am beside myself with excitement, our Whistler trip being only two days away!
And with only one day left of work, we are basically on vacation as of 5:00 tomorrow night. The both of us. Together. In the same place. For, like, 8 days. In a row. Together. And no cat (sorry, Bert...)
I'm seriously not sure what to do with myself. It's like I'm 6 years old again and it's Christmas Eve and Santa's coming and I've totally been good this year so I'm due for a pile of gifts under the Fraser Fir. Except swap out the gifts for a pint in the sunshine on Dusty's patio at the base of Whistler Mountain. I'm seriously this stupid silly. Because, ya see, while Orange's work travel is the pits for many reasons, there are some benefits befitting both of us (aside from the obvious...) Such as his approximate 1 billion air miles and hotel points. Meaning we're riding in style door to door, to and from, and pulling a Leon's on the world ('not paying a cent'--or very few cents, that is...) for the luxury.
So'cited...
No Frills
On this week's morning off I attempted to do a quick grocery shop so the house would be full of yummies when Orange got home (read: English muffins and cheese...)
It would seem, however, that No Frills on a weekday morning is not a "quick" option as the average customer is seriously 17 times older than Gallen Weston's oldest aged cheddar. Let's just say that should things in the book hustling business not work out, I have a future as a Stock Boy.
I helped a woman make a difficult decision between a bag of baby spinach and spring mix. I read the indgrediants on a box of frozen pizza. I deciphered the green bananas from the yellow. I spent a lot of time trapped behind two terrible, terrible shopping cart drivers. I helped with bags into a car.
2 hours later...
Dodged Bullet
'Twis my weekly morning off, so up I go to Big C's house (as she refers to herself, nowadays...) to pick up the mail, empty the ice maker (don't ask) and do a general QA/QC on the place. All seemed well.
Heading back into the house after a quick sojourn to the mailbox, I'm stopped by two older ladies. Not unusual, being that the community is aimed at "adult living".
"Do you live here?" they ask me.
"No," I say. "But my mother does," as though I need to qualify my being there, afraid for some reason that this is the Adult Living Gestapo and they've identified me by my loud music and Ray Bans as an interloper.
"Oh, well, perhaps we could come in with you? [out come the Watchtower magazines] We'd love to talk with her about our nice new article on Armageddon."
At this time I do a quick side eye scan of the street and determine I am alone with no foreseeable out for this conversation, so I both physically and mentally restrain myself from asking what could possibly be "nice" about Armageddon.
"Nah," I say. "Mom's maxed out on Jebus. Thanks anyway."
"Another time then?"
"I don't think so. Besides what with the Armageddon and all..."
Dodged bullet, Big C. Dodged bullet.
Dear Running:
Have I caught you off guard? No? I hope this isn't a bad time...
Listen Running, I think it's time we talked. For awhile now I've been feeling as though we're growing apart; like there's a 'distance' between us (excuse the pun.) I just don't feel the same way about you anymore. And I know this is going to sound like a cliche, but it's really not you... It's me.
I'm sure you've noticed, Running, but I've really been trying lately. I keep thinking I can make things better: I buy cute new outfits and parade them around in front of you; I try to be spontaneous, going at you at different times of day; putting new music into our mix. But every time we're alone together my mind is elsewhere.
Because you see, Running, there's someone else. He's orange, and only home on weekends, and that's usually when you're calling wanting to hang out. I'm sorry you have to find out this way but I can't go on ignoring you.
And it has to be said... Sometimes you really suck. Sometimes I can't stand you. You're such a nag, what with your yammering in my ear to go farther, longer, faster. Can't a girl get a break? I mean, really Running, seriously... I work full time. You can't think I'm getting up early for you. It's bad enough you keep me up late...
I just wish we could go back to when we started. I mean, remember last night? Oh god, last night... We went for 6km and I was happy and singing along and really hittin' you hard. It felt good! There was no pressure! I mean, let's be honest. When we first started this thing we have I was only really looking for a tight @ss and a smaller pair of jeans. And then we got committed, we started planning for the future (races) and the next thing I knew being with you, Running, well... It just became work.
I want to go back to our relationship being fun and easy and something I looked forward to, Running. So I really hope we can work at it, find that sweet spot again... Get our "groove back", so to speak. I still love you, Running, and would be willing to try a (running) clinic if you thought it would help us get past this wall (excuse that last pun...)
Always and forever,
Library Lady
Perspective.
Busy, and cranky, and picking up the pieces. I'm trying to get it done, ok? I don't have that answer, and no I'm not sure why it's like that. Cleaning it up, putting it away, stop doing that and do more of this!
Ugh.
Blarg.
In the end, though, -6 and snow she has no where to go. And I've got flannel, and fluffy, and soft, and warm.
Perspective.
Haiku for everyday things:
On grilled cheese for dinner:
Crispy and golden,
Cheesy goodness in my tum,
Damn. Burnt it again.
On phone stocking my sister:
One ring, two ring, three.
Gasp! My TV talk bores her?!
Pfft. Hang up, redial.
On running in the cold and wet:
My nose is snotty.
No Kleenex? One last option...
Snot rockets, engaged!
On post holiday season radio music:
Bieber makes me scream.
Please, no more 'baby baby!"
My ears can't take it.
On flannel sheets:
Getting cosy, yay!
Pull the covers up and snug,
Warm and comfy bed.
On Bert's weight gain:
Belly round and full,
You're shaped like a plump pear.
I love my Berty.
Sh*t my boyfriend does...
I really do love him.
A few weeks back, Fingers tracked down an amazing deal at COSTCO. What isn't an amazing deal at COSTCO, you ask? Lots of stuff. Four dozen chiabata buns, for example, are only an amazing deal if your house doubles as a panini shop (or if you're Big Guy...) But a Philips Sonicare HealthyWhite toothbrush set with sanitizer is always an amazing deal.
Ever energized by the prospect of improving his oral hygiene, Orange set off this week to buy us our very own Philips Sonicare. Thank you, Orange. While there, however, he was seduced by the allure of aisle two and ended up purchasing our toothbrush alongside a barrel of jumbo sized sour keys. And apparently he received some sideways glances at the juxtaposition between the two items.
The (unsolicited) email I received with the subject line "Windsor, always be hatin'" is as follows:
"I have never received so many shifty/judging eyes... Why do they care I purchased some industrial toothbrushes with a vat of sour soothers? They don't know me." --an enraged Orange
No big deal...
... Me and my ukulele and our felt tipped picks learned to strum an A, B, C, B flat, and a C sharp today, and then worked 'em into a few melodies.
And now I can't feel my finger tips.
Bert hates my ukulele. I, on the other hand, love it!
Resolutions, 2012
It's the end of the world so I gotta make this one count, right? I mean, how can I go contently into our impending rapture on December 21st with unresolved resolutions? This would be a problem, I would think. Do you think I could sleep for eternity with badly flossed teeth?
*sigh*
On that note, let's look at what I did and didn't accomplish in 2011:
1. Put more into investments and get more financially minded. I think I can cross this off the list as "successfully accomplished", at least to some extent. In another month I will have payed off my car (*knock on wood*) which will add to the wad stuffed under my mattress.
2. Take a risk. A big one. Totally. First, I ran Around the Bay which was a pretty significant check in the danger box, what with my getting so sick after the Ottawa half. I also took a scary new job with scary new responsibilities which actually turned out to be awesome bananas.
3. Learn something new. See #2. Lots of learning this year... Also took up hot yoga, which is disgustingly yummy. And Beef and I took a cooking course. Wow. So yeah, in retrospect I learned a lot!
4. Travel somewhere. Cuba! Or "Cubis" as Lil C' would say. Orange and I also did a fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants trip to New Jersey which was amazing-doodles. And lots of cottage-ing, of course.
5. Be more empathetic. The new job has helped with this but I'm definitely still working on it...
6. Run Around the Bay in less than 3 hours. Ha! Oh how naive we are... But I'm still pretty pumped about 3:06.
7. Get a better deal on car insurance (!!!) A never ending thorn in my side. As an aside, I was chatting with Orange about this just the other day and wondered out loud if my insurance would drop a bit once I was no longer financing my car (stupid thought, I know) to which he replied, "No, but when we get married we'll combine our insurance with the house and it'll drop substantially." To which I said, "yes, but I'll also be 65 by then, so I should already be expecting a major savings..." *drum roll* Thank you, thank you... I'll be here all night.
8. Start taking vitamins daily. Tried this, and got a rash. Turns out I'm allergic to Niacinamide. Who knew? But Orange has me hoped up on Vitamin B and C.
9. Lose the muffin top... Still working on it, but yoga is helping.
10. Get out of my reading comfort zone. For sure. The job has helped. Now that I select all of the adult fiction for the system I'm hit with the "Oo, that looks good" stick quite a bit. I'm also reading to facilitate the book clubs which is 8 books a year I ordinarily wouldn't go near, as well as a disgusting amount of Canadian fiction for our One Book One City program which I also organize. I rarely have fewer than two books on the go, and one book on CD in the car. But I love it.
11. Eat more locally. Meh.
For 2012, let's go big or go home, shall we?
1. Get better at saying 'no'.
2. Get financially organized and on track towards one day owning my own cottage. Armageddon aside, of course.
3. Learn to play the ukulele (baby steps towards the banjo...)
4. Get greener. *sigh* If the end of the world can't push me into recycling my empty toilet paper rolls, what will?
5. Do something professionally that I'm really, truly proud of.
6. Beat last year's ATB time.
7. Give more.
8. Hit my goal weight.
9. Get engaged. Boom. Yeah, that's right... I just said that... (p.s. for the record, #1 and #9 are totally unrelated.)
Sh*t my boyfriend says...
When he's in comfy-mode, Orange likes to lay on the couch and listen to the TV, rather than watch it. As in, he lays with his back to the big screen.
Upon walking into the living room to find Bert 'listening' to a movie (read: laying on the couch): "like father like son, I guess, eh buddy?"
Christmas Re-Cap
It's official: improbable life goals are no longer improbable. Mama LL/Santy Clause spoiled me this year, literally making all of my (improbable) dreams come true.
1. While I'm not actually keeping bees, I'm keeping the benefits of the bees. Dearest Fingers delivered pots of homemade creamed honey, spicy honey mustard, red pepper jelly, and beeswax lip balm. The mustard is aces on turkey sandwiches and my lips have been softer.
2. I am now the proud owner of a donkey. Well, sort of. I am the proud sponsor of a donkey from the Donkey Sanctuary. His name is Eeyore (of course) and he is busy in the UK providing companionship to children with special needs and disabilities as well as visiting residential homes, hospices and schools. Needless to say I'm a proud mama. I never thought I'd own a donkey (many donkey... donki?) let alone a philanthropic ass. Who wants a donkey who sits around eating grass and scaring off coyotes (they do that, you know...) when you can have a donkey with a job? He's the gift that keeps on giving, and one I hope to continue receiving for years to come!
3. While I don't yet know how to play it, I now posses a banjo. Yes, a banjo. To quote Clark Griswald, "if I woke up tomorrow with my face sewn to the carpet I couldn't be more surprised than I am now..." And it's not just any banjo, either. It's a vintage banjo in a vintage case with vintage sheet music. The best part? The story of how Mama LL tracked it down. She searched Kajiji high and low and drove into the city with a pocket full of cash. Walking into a stranger's house with no clue of what to look for or ask about with regards to stringed instruments, she bargained her little scrupulous heart out and walked away with a total gem at less than asking price. Papa would be proud.
I love my banjo. I take it out every night, open the case, and look at it. I plunk the strings. I turn the knobs. And yes, I know they're not actually called 'knobs'. One of the many things I have to learn about banjos I suppose...
First stop ukulele lessons (to commence the end of January), next stop banjo profesh!
Is it too presumptuous to start introducing myself to people as "Library Lady, bluegrass musician"? No? Yes? I guess I should return the 8x10 glossies of me and my banjo then, huh?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)