In the words of Cute Overload:
Vote vote vote!
Like a baby stoat.
Stoat stoat stoat!
Cast a leetle vote!
Now get thee butters to Pants' blog and post thee comments on this month's book, Uglies by Scott Westerfield.
Dooooo eeeet!
And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming.
Do you ever think about what you wanted to be when you were a kid? Is it anything like the job you currently do? If not, do you ever see yourself doing what it is you thought you were going to be?
When I was little (like, really little) I was pretty fixated on the Peace Corps. I have no idea where this idea came from. I might have chalked it up to Dirty Dancing, but that movie didn't come out until we were on Hess Street (I remember the argument between Beef and mum and whether or not she would be allowed to see it.) That, and I distinctly recall telling my ECE teacher, Mrs. Settle (except with my lisp I pronounced it Mithith Thettle...) that I was going to go around the world with the Peace Corps.
Then in grade six, I decided to be a Zoologist. Mr. Grey asked us to draw ourselves 20 years in the future (pfft...) and to describe our lives as we thought they would be. I envisioned a very "green" house, complete with compost, veggie patch (I remember painstakingly drawing the carrots with dull crayons), and a wrap-around porch.
I was lost in high school. No plans. Panic ensued.
University. Developed a mild obsession with the Lonely Planet (and... le sigh... Ian) and decided (again) that I would travel the world as a tour guide, a boyfriend in every country.
It took seven years shelving books, six summers as a literacy worker, and a manager in a pear tree to convince me that library is as library does--and hence, a librarian was born. Although substantially more planted than originally intended, I do have plans for a veggie patch on my veranda (porch? deck? balcony?) And September holidays will take me somewhere... As for the boyfriend... Hee!
And for the record, I don't regret the decision, no matter how far from the original plan I've come.
Does anyone understand why in the movie Grease, during the song "Grease Lightning", Danny Zuko runs around with a roll of plastic wrap? Is it in connection to his hair, or is it in reference to the car? See minute 2:26:
I'm so confused...
p.s. I'm totally a Kenickie girl.
1. You know how some music just speaks to you? Well, I'm telling you, the Kate Nash album "Made of Bricks" is one of the best farking things to land in my lap since the cheesie and Belly's baby, Isa-bun (I'm calling her Isa-bun because she smells yummy, and she's warm like fresh, hot buns.) Do yourself a favour and get your hands on it--specifically songs 8 and 9: "Shit Song" and "Pumpkin Soup."
2. This one's kinda gross, so cover your eyes or stop reading here if you're of a weak constitution: have you ever driven by highway road kill and wondered how in the name of heaven that raccoon GOT in the middle of the entrance ramp to the QEW/403? I mean, honestly, these are animals that thrive on garbage... What could they possibly have been searching for on the highway clover? It's gotta be gang related.
3. I think this business with the new boy has to end. He got a bit mad at me on the phone yesterday because of a mis-communication (he thought we had plans, I thought we had plans to talk...) I felt like saying to him, "Um, I've met you three times... I'm pretty sure there's a statute of limitations on when you can start getting mad at a potential boyfriend/girlfriend." That, and where exactly did he think we were going to mini-putt at 8:30 pm on a Sunday?
The last thing I need is guilt (I put plenty of that on myself without others contributing, thank you very much.) Not to mention the things he's said that make me go "hmmm..." (to quote C&C Music Factory.) Sketch city, Man. He may be a looker, and he may smell really (really) good, but there's nothing kosher about uncomfortables...
This dating thing is vair confus-a-mundo.
1. Ignorez vousing.
2. Sniffing (in an "I told you so" way).
3. Head tossing and fringe fiddling.
4. Cold shoulderosity work.
5. Midget gems all round, but not for you.
6. Pretendy deafnosity.
7. Walking on ahead.
8. The quarter humpty (evils).
9. The half humpty dumpty (evils and withdrawal of all snacks).
10. The full humpty dumpty (walking away with dignitosity at all times).
Movie is due out late 2008, Chums. Click HERE for previews and a Stiff Dylans video.
p.s. Please hit me if I ever become as irritating as Jas with my fringe.
p.p.s. The new book is titled Stop in the Name of Pants!!!
I'm trying this new gig where I don't blog at night, to see if it helps with my sleeping--something my doctor said about getting my mind to relax before I actually crawl into bedders. So for the next little while, look for new posts shortly after 9:00 am, k?
On that note (me being an old woman with sleep issues), I'm on a new "classic rock" kick. Maybe it's BSB's influence, I don't know (although there's not much Parliament on my repertoire...) Specifically, I'm digging Elvis. Even more specifically, I like to get up in the morning and rock out to "That's Alright, Mama" in the shower:
I know for shizzle if I was around when Elvis looked as he did in that black catsuit, I would have been smitten as a kitten. Like me moms.
Anyone with me?
I'm a slacker! I know, I know. Forgive?
What? No? You won't forgive? C'mon... Forgive... Stop pouting, Susie!
How 'bout a list to make up for it?
1. As many of you might already know, a coworker graciously made me an apple cozy. And then of course after seeing my apple cozy, everyone in the lunchroom wanted one too. So another coworker took it upon herself to mass produce cozies, and now, what with our cozies and the library switchblades we were all given during renovations (more like faux Swiss Army knives, but I think it's funnier to call them switchblades), I've suggested we start a gang. A cozy gang. Because that's the way we roll. Word.
2. I'm determined to be more bike-ly this summer. I have a perfectly nice bicycle that was tuned up and spiffed up and shined up last season, yet sat lonely and sad in my basement. I'm going to actively start riding again (I say again because before Yaris, it was my bike or bust). Not only because I'm a friend of David Suzuki's (WWDSD), but because I think it will help maintain my healthy butters and movie star legs (thanks again, mom!)
3. Something else I'm going to start doing on a regular basis: watching National Geographic. Fingers and I got to discussin' this the other day (over falafel). There are so many fantastic NG films out there, most of which the library owns. I'm hoping they'll expand my horizons, and my trivia skills.
4. I came in second in the euchre tourney, b*tches. Much to Poomobile's dismay. I think she's worried her chick has flown the nest. Little does she know I still have so much to learn. I hope she'll still be my sensei...?
5. And that's it.
There's only one thing I loath more than people who tell me to "relax"...
... Searching for my mother in a big box store.
Today, while I was sampling the shoe department, mother casually mentioned she'd be "over there". By the time I'd looked up, she'd beetled off "over there", White Shoulders lingering in the air.
I spent the next 25 minutes roaming the store for her. In between the clothing racks, up and down the walkways, standing in the open areas combing the display cases for a spiky haired woman dressed in black and metallics.
I try her cell phone. It's not on. Of course.
I move to the front of the store near the cash. I have her things, so she can't check out without me.
Nothing.
I move to the back of the store, near the shoes where I'd left her.
She has me paged: "Will Library Lady please meet her party at the front of the store. Library Lady, your party is waiting for you at the front of the store."
I turn pink. I hear her... "Library Lady?!"... "Liiiiibrary Lady..."
We're reunited. "Where have you BEEN?!" she asks.
*grits teeth*
Every. Time. Every time. Always.
In light of my current sleep issues, I thought I'd put down the vampire and secret society fiction for something a bit... mmm... "lighter".
So I went to my bookshelves this evening and looked for a tried, tested, and true friend: There's a Bat in Bunk Five, by Paula Danzinger.
And I gots to say... I think this is the first time I've really ever LOOKED at the cover. Honestly. It has to be the most unattractive cover. Like, ever. Since the dawn of time. How could I ever have possibly picked this up and think, "hmm... yes, that looks good!"
What do you think?
Move over, folks, there's a new bebeh in town. And this time, I think I can safely say I have some legitimate claims. Not just "oh, yeah, okay, just let her hold the bebeh for a minute because we sort of know her and she looks strong enough to support the head..."
*ahem*
Mr. and Mrs. Beef are having... a calf.
Holla!
I'm sort of excited. Only sort of. Hardly at all. Except all the time when I'm jumping up and down and cheering and buying ridiculous things like tiny pairs of jeans and wee cowboy boots.
I hope the bebeh has ham hock legs like Isabelle.
I hope the bebeh smells like warm buns.
I hope the bebeh has snack-pack cheeks that I want to smooch and eat.
I hope the bebeh likes me...
... What if they don't like me? What if they're too cool for me? What if they can smell the desperate, and how badly I want them to love me the mostest out of all they're assorted relatives?
*wrings hands*
Beef, you better make sure your fat bebeh likes his/HER auntie pork chop best of all...
*jumps up and down a bit more*
Like, big trouble. Like, we're talking, it's 3:00 in the morning and I'm still *plink plink* wide awake. Who knows what's going on in this head of mine. It's not the apartment--I feel ridiculously safe and cosy (and the sleeplessness started before I moved out). It's not the job--same old, same old there. It's not money--FS worked me an extra $1300 from the government and I just got a raise. And Fingers is moving home so clearly I can't chalk it up to missing her...
But last night at 1:20 a.m. I realized it was going to be another sleepless night. So I got up, drove to Shoppers Drug Mart in my strawberry pajamas (sans underwear I might add... I'm sure I was a delightful sight...) and bought Graval. I popped two in the store while I was pulling out my cash.
All in all, I was pretty impressed with myself, especially when I realized that round trip, it only took 7 minutes. An hour and a half later (is it possible to have a Graval immunity?) I was fast asleep.
*uses hands as scales*
7 minutes in bed, tossing and turning? 7 minutes in the car, buying drugs?
I think I made the right choice.
Tonight I ran hard uphill for nearly an hour. I've proactively taken three herbal sleep inducers (note I said "natural"), a cup of Sleepy Time Tea, plans are in place for a pre-sleep hot shower, and a of course, my warm bedders. Here's hoping I make it through the night.
And if anyone out there has had this issue before, please, please, please share your wisdom-osity with me... While I'm hoping I can ride this out without becoming an herbal addict, I'd like to do this without taking these supplements, full stop. I'm wondering if white noise would help? Maybe a fan, or that CD I used to love of thunderstorms?
p.s. Fingers talked me into the Octoberfest vacay. Although I'm still contemplating getting my tragus pierced on Saturday, I'm nervous it's going to affect the wearing of my ear buds.
There's something incredibly comfortable about the familiar. Those routines and schedules and orders in which we do things. I crave my routines: putting the conditioner in my hair and soaping around while waiting for the "aloe and pomegranate extracts" to set in; putting the milk in my large cup before the coffee; running after work; reading before bed; naps on Sundays; and dinner at 6:00.
I'll admit, I'm totally a creature of habit. Sometimes (usually?) to my own detriment. And I have no idea why I'm like this.
Well, no, that's a lie. I do know why I'm like this. Mama y papa come to mind--two lovely individuals who have sat in the same seat at church for the last 20 years. I know they account for some of my neurosis. The other misfit bits and pieces? Who knows... But whatever the origins, these habits stop me from trying things I otherwise should.
Susie and I gots to talking about this last night, and while I won't speak for her, I know I for one am in a bit of rut. Same old, same old. Bad habits, if you will, that need serious cleaning up. Problem being, I'm not too sure where to begin.
Part of me is a wee bit scared of what I don't know. Part of me is nervous I won't fit wherever it is I feel I need to be. Part of me just plain doesn't think the change will help--that whatever it is I'm waiting for while find me on its own.
Part of me is kinda excited.
Part of me knows I need this.
Part of me is still a sucker for the routine.
But now I'm babbling.
*sigh*
Maybe I'll wait for a sign. Until then, maybe I'll just make my lunch for tomorrow and put on Pride and Prejudice and... Good god, and I wonder why I'm in a FARKING RUT?!
'Twas a gooder of a night. The bestest kind, really. I did two loads of laundry AND my taxes!
Wo0t!
Well, to be fair FS did my taxes. She gets giggly over adding and multiplying so we busted out the paper forms and an extra sharp pencil and spent two hours getting crazy with the government. Holla for $1330 back!
Double wo0t!
FS and I should really get married. In the 1950s. I think I'd make a good June Cleaver, and she a handsome Ward. Tonight, while she rested her feet, I made dinner (tuna casserole and chocolate pudding). And then while she crunched my numbers, I folded her socks, worked up some dish pan hands, and entertained her friends (well, Fingers... more of a mutual friend, really.)
In other news, it's Friday. I'm 'cited. I lub the weekends. And much like the $1330, here's hoping there are a few pleasant weekend surprises coming my way. I guess you're gonna have to wait for Monday's post to find out!
Too funny.
Pants' suggestion was for me to post about SNL skits that I find funny. And wouldn't you know it, last night before I posted my writer's block entry, I was contemplating writing about my favorite SNL skits. Which as of late include:
Rock of Love II
AND
The Googly Eyes Gardner
Pretty much anything with Christopher Walken makes me laugh... His census sketch is one of the funniest things I've ever seen. But Amy Poehler is coming on strong with her portrayal of the guy from the Six Flags commercials in her Celebrity Apprentice sketch.
That's it.
No post tonight.
Writer's block.
*saunters off in general direction of kitchen...*
I love a good laugh.
And I mean honestly. It's not only, like, the most attractive thing (someone who makes me laugh basically owns me...) but it's just good sh*t. I love the feeling of my stomach hurting, cheeks aching, and eyes watering from a good ole' fashioned belly laugh.
So here are some SNL skits that as of late have made me laugh to the point of going incommunicato:
Christopher Walken's Googly Eyes Gardner
Rock of Love Parady
I still make a wish at 11:11 (a.m. and p.m.) And I usually always wish for the same thing...
You?
"Relax..."
"Gentlemen, start your boners."
"I just don't 'get' kittens."
"Law and Order: Criminal Intent is better than Law and Order: Special Victims Unit." (Alright, fine. You can be friends with me, but only under the condition you admit you're stupid.)
"I know I shouldn't because he's married/in a relationship, but..."
"Okay, obviously the Indians are upset we took their land. But stop complaining already, and get a job."
"I eat to sustain."
Trivia brings out the stupid in all of us:
Trivia Lady: In Margaret Atwood's famous futuristic novel, what name is given to women who are permitted to give birth?
Me: Oh wait! I know this... Um, what are the names of those chicks in the Handmaid's Tale?
Sparkle Motion Teammate: Handmaids?
Trivia Lady: In the classic Peanuts cartoon, what are the names of the three Van Pelt children?
Me: Hmmm... Would Charlie Brown be a Van Pelt?
Sparkle Motion Teammate: No. Because his last name would be BROWN...
Trivia Lady: What cat food uses the slogan, "It's so good, cat's ask for it by name"?
Free Samples: Oscar?
Me: When was the last time you heard a cat say "Oscar"?
Sparkle Motion Teammate: I'm going to go with Meow Mix on this one...
Also, Hurrah, I've just realized something... No more mini pizzas? No more ketchup? No more hang over McDonald's and fries with too much salt? Hurrah... I'm sad for you.
Sniff...
Let's all have a moment for Hurrah and her mini pizzas.
*moment*
And last but not least, I've decided to start giving my age in months. Today, I am 342 months old. This weekend, when I'm shopping in Toronto, I'm going to ask the sales clerk if "this shirt comes in sizes for a 342 month old? Or maybe for a 344 month old, because I don't want to buy this and grow out of it in two months, so maybe I should buy it a couple months too big..."
I'm so domestic, it's ridiculous. Tonight after running, I grocery shopped, made manicotti, baked bran muffins, boiled a half dozen eggs, and cross stitched. Seriously? I mean, really? I basically look just like this chick. I even have her bangs (sort of...)
I then went into my room to put on my pjs (the pink, strawberry ones), and I saw my bed. Sitting there. All puffy and smelling of warm and yum, and all "Oh heylerhe there, Library Lady..." Literally... It was talking to me...
So I kept inching closer and closer... And the next thing I knew I was tucked under the covers, and my feet were going, and I was giggling. And it was 8:30.
So now I'm in my bed, and my feet are still going, and I'm still giggling.
All I need is a G n' T (or twelve), some valium, a vintage party dress, and a passive agressive attitude and I could actually be this woman. Complete with that funky @ss smile...
This was a big weekend for me. Lots of important self revelations. One in particular that comes to mind. And this time at least, I'm pretty satisfied I made the right life commitment:
If I was going to become a stripper, my stripper song would be Pour Some Sugar On Me, by Def Leopard.
It was a tough choice, but I feel confident. There's something about it that just screams "slutty". Not that a stripper is necessarily slutty, because that's not what I'm saying at all. But I think my stripper routine in particular would be extra slutty, given that if I was going to actually be a stripper, I would want to go all out. Ipso facto (eh, BG...) my song needs to be slutty. Go big or go home, right?
So. The big question is: what would your stripper song be?
Mr. Beef already claimed Sweet Child O' Mine, by GNR. And Beef went with Save a Horse [Ride a Cowboy], Big and Rich *rolls eyes*. And we all know FS is going to choose Hungry Eyes. And I'm quasi-confident the Dark Horse will go with Gimme More, Britney. But what about the rest of you? Dig deep on this one. Reach into those dark facets of your heart, and really think about your inner stripper.
p.s. For dinner tonight, Fingers, BSB, and Lucky made me a panzarotti that was as big as my dinner plate. And it was a unanimous decision that it looked like an inner body part, we're just not sure which one...
'Tis Friday, and you know what that means, kiddies...
That's right! It's time for a LIST!
1. I love SoOh traffic. A drive that usually takes me 20 minutes took me two hours last night. Wicked. Wo0t!
2. I'm sorry to report the man who invented the Egg McMuffin died yesterday at the ripe old age of 89. Surprisingly, not of heart disease, a heart attack, or obesity.
3. I hate cookbooks that don't have colour photos of all their recipes. Seeing the end product is essential. While I recognize they date, as per the Gallery of Regrettable Food, I can't visualize what it is they're asking me to make... I mean, what does a Five Spice Beef Satay look like? What's in it? What do I serve it beside? Does it look good, or does it look like poo on a stick?
4. Pants is starting an online book club--one book, one month to read, she'll post a summary/review, and we'll discuss through the comments. If you're interested in participating, check out her blog at http://pantsatlarge.blogspot.com/. We're starting with Scott Westerfeld's "Uglies".
5. Speaking of books... Reading in bed is so hot right now. I can't get enough of it. I used to be lulled to sleep by the "Food Network Challenge" or the "Girls Next Door" (both excellent shows, by the by...) but now I actually look forward to crawling into my pillow puff bed with my book. It helps me... RELAX. And if you don't like it, you can derelick my balls (name that movie? A shiny penny for anyone who can name that movie...)
6. Why do cheesies sweat? Is there a scientist in the room who can explain this to me?
Tra la. And that's it.
I picked up my police clearance for my volunteer position tonight.
And even though I know I'm not a sexual predator, and I have no criminal record, walking into the police station is still super intimidating. I checked and re-checked my parking like 300 times, double took the parking meter to make sure I had enough time, and put on my glasses so I looked more responsible (or "booky" according to my mother...)
I've come to the decision the police station is like the dentist and the US border. Although it has a safe, clean reputation, each has this omnipotent power to unleash hells-ya on me--imprisonment for something I don't understand or know I did, like J-walking or tax evasion; drills and metal pointy things poking me in the teeth and possible gingivitis-y gums; full cavity searches.
I mean, we're literally at their mercy. Because although I talk a big game, I crumble like a Saltine when push comes to shove (except if I'm fighting Big John in the street, ghetto styles, because then I kick butters *kung-fu kicks the air*) But I still get the cold sweats when I get to Fort Eerie. And I still cry in the dentist chair. And I'm still on my best, smiley, "look-at-me-I'm-a-good-Catholic-girl" behaviour when I'm anywhere near the PoPo.
It's weird, you know. I've written in this blog almost everyday--a kind of therapy, if you will--over the course of the last, hmm... last four years, making most of these bizarro comings and goings I call my existence faithfully documented in some form or another (slightly toned down, slightly less detailed, slightly less serious, perhaps?) And even though I have all you peeps, it's odd to actually think about people reading and knowing and having opinions (even if they are about what part of the chicken the crown comes from.)
Side note: my hot water radiator just farted.
So, let's get down to it. If you're still here, you're informed, because in the case of Bread and Jam, you really can believe everything you read. I'm choosing to add a new feature to the blog: a survey. A question... Needing a response. It's just a pilot. Maybe you won't have anything to say... Maybe you will? But it's anonymous, so vote away.
Give it to me good.
And thanks.
Sorry about the hiatus, folks. I was as ill as a dingo last week (even cashed in on a few of those sick days...) I managed to catch up on way too much television, the happenings on the back of my eyelids, and the way a bed feels in the middle of the day--tres magnifique *kisses fingertips*
But it's offish. I'm solo--living it up apartment styles. I spent my first night here last Thursday at the height of the illness, and the double bed was well worth the wait (thanks BSB!) I will have pictures for you sometime in the near future, but for now, rest assured the place is comfy and cosy and ripe for visitors. "The neighborhood gang" already has a block crawl planned for Hurrah's visit, including a stop at the Fingers family home, BSBs, etc. Look out, Hurrah--a train wreck will ensue.
The annual Great Friday celebrations were a riot. After Big Buck Hunter with Poo etc. it was off to the Westtown for Harrison Kennedy. I love anyone who wears a belt of harmonicas.
Side note: "The Bodyguard" is on. What happened to Kevin Costner?
Side-side note: I spent the majority of today in my strawberry pajamas, sitting in a quasi cat-basket trading Ralph Wiggum-ism texts with Beef. Um... Awesome?
Back to the grind tomorrow. Le sigh, indeed. A matter of days before I'm in need of another le long weekend.
Moving is tough, tough work.
Honestly.
It might be worse than painting. It's like my brain hasn't stopped thinking about what I still need to do, and what I still need to get, and what still needs to be packed and/or cleaned out and shoved in boxes and will this box fit in Yaris next to the mop and pail, and oh yes it will as long as I put down the seats and crap, I forgot about that basket full of summer clothes I already had back there and that shoe rack that's still in my closet and the bulletin board still hanging on the wall, and oh yes wait I'll need screws and plugs to hang that mirror, and do I already have a garbage can for the bathroom because I think I do, but maybe I'm thinking of the one that's in my bedroom because really that would work best in there next to that table I want to use next to the bed, but then again I'll also need someplace to put my drink when I'm in that papasam chair and maybe I should use that table, because I can't ask people to get up and put their drink on the table across the room, and then I'll need coasters which were next to that cutting board that I liked at Ikea, but I think Fingers said she had one and didn't she also have pictures for me to hang in the dining room right next to that old cupboard that needs fixing which reminds me I should get screws to fix that shelf and curtain rods for those sheers I bought, and while I'm at the hardware store I should really get more paint, because that trim in the bedroom is looking rough and wow...
... Ehn.
Moving is hard work.
My subversive cross stitch arrived in the mail today.
Hip hip hurrah!
I tell ya. It was a real toss up between the one I got, and both the "Shut your whore mouth" or "beeyatch" packages. But I'm happy with my order.
Next up: learn to cross stitch.
If anyone reading this is planning a trip to Drumheller and the Royal Tyrrell in the near future, please buy me THESE salt and pepper shakers. I had a set in Alberta, and left them. And they're awesome wicked. And I need them. I need them like no one else.
I'm also going to make a concerted effort to actually buy those little wee things I see when I'm on vacation and pass up because they're "too expensive" or because "I don't need them." Because I do need them. And when I don't buy them, they nag at me like planets of regret. For example, I regret not buying MANY things at Hampton court not the lease of which:
Both can be foud HERE.
Ehn. I need these things. I want them.
Gimme. Now.
I'm cleaning my room and packing boxes of goodies to bring to my apartment, and I come across this little gem--a postcard left over from my first year at YMCA Wanakita sleep-over camp:
Nice, huh? Way to lay on the guilt there, champ. Like pizza rolls and tie dye were a death sentance or something. I mean, it couldn't have been that bad... I went back for 9 years, for a month at a time!
Please note the cards were self addressed (probably worried I wouldn't spell our last name right...)
I don't envy you gluten intolerant people. Seriously. It's the little things in life that make me happy, graham crackers and milk being one of them. And I would really, really miss graham crackers and milk. I'm angry about how much I would miss my graham crackers and milk. I'm angry for Lady G and Pants who can't have graham crackers and milk, damnit!
In other news, tonight I moved my TV, VCR/DVD combo, ladder-blanket-holder-thingy, side table, antique wash station, and papasan chair. A gigantically huge "holla" goes out to Mr. Beef tonight, who for two days in a row has been dragging my butters and my butters' belongings across the city.
He strong man.
Strong like bull.
*grunts*
Tomorrow night it's the bed from BSB and Punk, and then I'll get to work shaping my own headboard out of plywood and foam and fabric. It'll be like I'm on Trading Spaces, but without Mindy Paige or Hildy Santo-Tomas, or frantic neighbors who scream and cry and curse at me for hot gluing bottle caps to their back splash to make the room look more "contemporary" when really all it means is that $1000 doesn't get you much so you end up building a kitchen island out of MDF and we all know it won't last, and it just makes the place look junky and cluttered, and who really decorates with bottle caps anyway?
Anyone out there undertaken this before? The headboard, I mean?
Sunday afternoon, and I'm pissing away the hours waiting for cable man ("Sometime between 12:00 and 5:00," my butters. I don't think he's actually coming. It's all a big joke on me, and I bet there are a half dozen cable guys across the street watching me pace the place, giggling...) But I'm sitting in my apartment, like a cat stretched out in a sun beam on my new/old rug, drinking a stubby (not that cats drink beer...) And I've got the time to think. And I've got time to type. Two birds, one stone, etc.
I love this place. It's so bright and cheery. And I love being surrounded by all my favorite things. Colors, books, my photos, and crazy things that remind me of my friends, like three-legged pigs and sock monkeys and rubber camels.
I love my porch. I love thinking about the hanging baskets I'll have. Or maybe an attempt to grow tomatoes or beans? I like thinking about having a BBQ, and having people over for dinner. We'll sit on my porch with the music blaring, like that time in Edmonton when I stayed at Genevieve's house. Remember that, Hurrah? We kept calling across to Keri but she wouldn't answer us.
The music is playing on iTunes. Peter Gabriel and David Bowie and Nina Simone, and I think about the Westtown. As far as local dives go, nothing beats it. There are many a "stumble home" in my future. Not to mention the bakery and the library and the soon to be Starbucks.
I'm thinking about Fingers moving home, and only being a stones throw from me (again). Too bad 7-11 closed down. It would have been a good evening walk. And there's no problem a Slurpee can't solve. Maybe she'll have to start drinking hot beverages, and we'll meet for decaf lattes, instead.
I'm thinking about my season's ticket for the Ti-Cats, and the big question: do I buy a big cat paw foam hand to go with that ticket, or a jersey? I'm leaning towards the foam hand.
I'm thinking about my job, and the new glasses I'd like. Something with a thicker arm. Still square. But with a bit of oomph, too.
I'm thinking about the vacation plans I submitted on Friday--four days in July for the annual camping trip to Bon Echo, and two weeks in October. For Morocco. I'm thinking about Hurrah's visit in April, and where I should take her... Toronto? Port Dover? Niagara?
*rolling onto back* I'm thinking I'd like a chandelier for the living room.
I'm actually thinking there's not much missing right now. It all seems a bit too good. There are one or two things that could, of course, be added to the mix. One in particular. But I'm not in any rush. I'm happy. And I think I just realized that. I'm really stinking happy.
I'm settling. But in the bestest sense of the word. Not for anyone, or any thing, or any situation. I'm just plain settling. And I love it.
I hate it when there's nothing on the radio. I hate it so much, I'd put it right up there on the scale with being eaten by a bear. Because I would imagine I would hate being eaten by a bear about as much as I hate it when there's nothing on the radio.
I mean, it's the morning/evening rush-hour commute, people! I want to get geared-up/un-wind! I don't want talking! I don't want "Billy's Biz"! I want songs! You're the radio! Isn't that your shtick?! Stop trying to sell me a new car stereo, Hamilton Car Stereo, and let me hear something that would make buying a new car stereo more enticing! Ehn!
If I wanted to listen to boring talk talk talk I would flip to the CBC propaganda station. Or I would move to Manitoba. Because the CBC and Manitoba are about as equivalent as they come.
1. I hold my cards pretty close to my chest. And I do it for a reason. Reasons most of you (note I say "most") won't understand. Sue me.
2. I dropped the mother f-bomb, like, a hundred times shoveling the heaviest snow of the season tonight. Sue me.
3. Lame, I know. But it was on MM's The Shift. Has anyone seen the Justin Timberlake video,"My Love"? Specifically the scene where he rips the fishnets off girly?
Damn.
*gives self a much needed shake*
Love it. Sue me.
4. I often give the finger when I'm driving. Only I hide it below the dash so the target can't see it. But I give it real good. Sue me.
5. I litter with my apple cores and banana peels. Sue me.
6. I drink from the milk bag. Sue me.
7. When I read magazines and newspapers around other people, I say "Oh my gosh, did you know...?!" and then read the interesting bits out loud. Sue me.
Belly had a girl! Belly had a girl!
A round of onesies for everyone!
Side note: My cat's paws are going in/out as I type this. He's so happy for Belly and Wade, he's kneading the air.
Another mini-break come and gone. Wicked awesome.
Arrived at the cottage on Friday afternoon with Big Fingers (henceforth to be called "the Dark Horse"), only to find BSB up to his McNeckersons in exploding frozen water pipes. Aces. Err... Wondering if at this point it would be rude to excuse oneself and head to the nearest hotel for a warm bed and an excess of flushing toilets?
*collective nodding of heads*
Right. Well we didn't. Turns out BSB has mad plumbing skills as well as cougar skills, and after talking to me about outflows and valves (???) he set up some mini heaters and got the pipes a-cookin. We cracked a couple of beer and warmed ourselves by the raging fire (had to make it big... Needed the heat to bring the house temperature up from -20).
But there's nothing a pair of snow pants, pushing FS into the snow, and BSB's dancing won't fix. The cottage did warm up, and combine that with too many Red Stripes; winter pommel horse; jenga; Parliament (the band, not the Canadian Federal Headquarters); a really bad puzzle; dirty Scategories; Hudson's Bay blankets; s'mores; Fingers' bathroom spreadsheet; Punk fighting off the hibernating bears (yes, yes, and 4 deer *rolls eyes*) to get to us; krazy karpeting; Big Booty Hos; and breakfast mimosas; and you have one rockin' party.
It's 11:30 pm, and I've already blogged today.
But I can't stop thinking about it/him/that. And I hate myself for it. I'm not that girl. I'm not. I don't even want to be admitting this. I just want to scream. I was fine! That part of me was almost gone. And now all I can think is "Why now? Why at all? What's going on? Is everything okay? Should I be worried? Why did he do it?"
I hate myself for it. I can't help it. It's like an unanswered phone in the middle of the night. Or a hang-up on your machine. I want to know why or who or what.
I feel stupid and pathetic. He's managed to screw me again, but this time from 3000 km away.
F*ck you, Adam, for making me a cliche.
It's time for another discussion of gross things. You may recall past discussion re: the KFC Chicken Bowl and the Wendy's Mushroom Melt. Tonight, I'd like to put forward the Burger King Crown-Shaped chicken for discussion.
*ahem*
*looking over professor glasses*
First and foremost, what part of the chicken body do we suppose the crown-shape comes from? The obvious guess would be the comb, I suppose. It looks crown-y. But who really eats the chicken comb? My guess is the pantaloons area of the chickehn:
Second, what do we suppose the crown-shape adds to the chicken pantaloons? I dare say not too much. And I'm speaking from experience. In a silly lapse of better judgement, I ordered "chicken rings" from the Brown Owl up in the Kawartha area, and they made me vomit. Literally. In the middle of the night I got up and vomited chicken rings. So although my calculations tell me the crown is vair different than the ring (geometrically speaking), I'm pretty sure they're the same viscously.
Thus, therefore, moreover, ipso facto, heretofore...
... Ew.
Look at me! I got the job!
*puff puff*
Full time. Permanent. With clean teeth, new glasses, and sick days (should I need them.)
Beyond pumped to get things going with this life of mine. RRSPs, here I come. Pension, yup. Long term plans, uh huh. Knowing where I'll be in five years, fo sho.
It's funny, though. The week I get the apartment, the week I get the job, the week straddling my two winter "mini breaks" (E-ville and the cottage), the human sea cucumber emails me.
WTF?
It's honestly like he has some sort of sixth sense--'when she's happy, I'll swoop in with my fancy words and send her whirling.' It's beyond redonk, and not worth rehashing at all. So don't ask me to. But I've replied, and I've given my two cents. And I feel damn good about what I chose to say.
But I have to ask: is it horrible I take some pleasure in knowing he's still thinking about me? Because I do. I honestly do.
I guess I must be that good. Ha!
Fingers, BSB, Tiny Tim and I went to Ellicottville this past weekend. Spring weather, ski-in-ski-out, a turkey roasting in the oven. What more can a lady want?
The best part of the weekend (aside from going farking mad at Target Sunday afternoon buying everything I could find in turquoise), was taking BSB and Tiny Tim to the bar, Balloons. Both had enjoyed their fair share of libations *coughDRUNKcough* and were in the mood for some dancing. So, Fingers and I copped a spot on the bar stools with our waters and Red Stripes while BSB worked the room--and subsequently the cougars. He actually managed to get a "good for one hug" card from the oldest lady there, who wooed him with whispers of "you look like Tom Cruise".
Tiny Tim (or our very own "tiny dancer", as Finger so aptly nicknamed), got busy grooving to the beats, getting real low to the ground and making what can only be described as surfing motions. God bless him, he tried. I'd honestly put that kid in my pocket if he was a few inches smaller.
A few pictures to highlight the weekend, and a wee video of BSB showing off. Note the final picture though... We know who the real boss is!
It's time once again for my annual review of the Oscars. To refresh your memories:
If I got my wish, and I was made full time Queen of the Universe (but not including onions), what/who would I have nominated? Let's have a look, shall we? Hmmm?
1) "Hungry Eyes" for best original song, "Dirty Dancing."
2) Rodrigo Santoro, from the film "300", for the jewelry he wore in his portrayal of Xerxes. For which his earrings looked like microphones. For which FS and I couldn't stop laughing. You be the judge:
3) John Travolta's hair. For being the most unrecognizable recognizable spray hair I've ever seen. When will someone admit it's paint?
4) Again, the Gingerbread Man, for best actor in a supporting role. He's been overlooked for his remarkable performance in "Shrek the Third". The flashback scene is genius. Just ask Beef--we laughed so hard, we cried.
5) Gary Busey.
6) Have you seen "Point Break"? Gary Busey is talented. The man has skill.
7) I'm kidding. Not really Gary Busey. He has Chicklet teeth. Not that Chicklet teeth are grounds for not receiving an Oscar. Just ask Hilary Swank.
8) Oooo... Oh yes I did just slam Hilary Swank!
9) Poomobile and BG, for best performances in the roles of friends who convincingly suggest they have every intention of joining you at trivia, but then don't. Brava. But for the record, Sparkle Motion misses you. Get thee butters there, or I'll spank you. And only weirdos like a spanking. You bunch of weirdos.
And that's it.
Once again, your turn--who would you nominate?
The lesser known of Santa's two brothers, Sonti Clause, was at trivia last night. Equally as jolly. Bowl full of jelly, etc. He's younger, though, so there's still some grey in his beard.
Shame about the other one, though.
The dog show was on last night.
And although I was completely engrossed in my book, I managed to tune in for the pug. His name was Shoboat [sic], and his favorite food was sushi (wtf?). I'm sad to report he did not place first, but fourth in his group, although I was pleased to see the Brussels Griffon came in second. I don't think I need to restate my feelings on animals with beards. It's just good sh*t.
It's strange to me, though. Some of these dogs... Sometimes I wonder who would ever choose them. I hate to say it, but there you have it. Some of them are... Wanting, as my Grams would say. But I want to name my dog Dr. Bill Snuggles, so who am I to judge?
Also, there are a lot of men who work for the American Kennel Club who look like Santa. This was not a scientific study. There is no control group. This is just an observation I managed to jot down whilst watching Shoboat do his thang.
But!
All of this silliness did remind me of a rather funny conversation with a certain infamous person of late. When questioned as to the appeal of dog vs. cat, the response was hands down dog, claiming he owned a "cocker" (whom he continued to refer to as his "cocker"), and that for him, there was no other type of dog. He would always have a "cocker". Really, huh? A cocker spaniel?
*shifty eyes*
Really?
Because nothing says manly like a dude and his... Cocker...
Fingers introduced me to On Demand. And now it's like I'm some sort of My Super Sweet Sixteen junkie. I'm so ashamed. I'm basically Amy Winehouse, except without the tattoos or the incarcerated boyfriend.
Mr. Sun was misleading in his shiny sun beam-y-ness this morning. He was all "oh helleur there, LL... Come play in my warm goodness." So I got up all cheery like, pulled on my stuff (Cult jacket? Check. Gloves with the soft spot for wiping my runny nose? Check.) and got all set for a good long run. Only to be slammed into reality with a -24 wind chill. At one point, running along Herkimer, I was actually moving backwards against the wind. Nice. I did manage another first this morning, though: turf toe (excessive rubbing of the big little piggy against the material in your shoe causing bleeding, to the point that it actually oozed through the mesh top of my runner. Mmmm... Yum. Great Monday morning conversation, non?)
I joined the Legion on Friday.
Not really. But almost. I did sing karaoke at the Legion with BG, and BJ has the video to prove it. And I did fill out the membership application, so really now I'm just waiting on a sponsorship signature (any out there reading this a Legion member?!) But seriously... Where else can you go and get 2 pints, a bottle of beer, and a pepperette stick for $8.50? Maybe Inisfail, Alberta (sorry, Hurrah...) And they have bingo every Saturday afternoon. And the bathrooms were clean. And I'm going to have my next birthday party there. So don't be jealous, and maybe I'll invite you.
I don't work tomorrow. Suckas! Working 4 hours on a Sunday in exchange for a full day off later in the week is awesome with knobs on top. I'm glad I don't live in the Days of Yore when any form of "toil" on a Sunday was cause for total damnation into the firey pits of hells.
Watching the Food Networks "Sandwich Challenge" before bed is not a good idea. I now have an overwhelming urge to eat a panini. It makes me want to invite myself over to Fingers' house for a panzarotti. But I'm not sure if she'll be reading this in time (because she's all smart and at a conference) so I think I'm talking to myself...
p.s. In other news, I'm in love with falafel. Why did it take me so long to realize the potential of falafel?
I rocked it out at Value Village on Saturday and scored me two ridiculously cute chairs (old wood painted the same green as the couch I'm in love with, but very lovingly worn in all the right places), and some old china. I've decided to collect china plates, saucers, tea cups, and platters to make up my dinner wear set. So far, I'm off to a smokin' start. I'm hitting up the second hand store in Dundas tomorrow to root for more. Oh, and my grandma is giving me some of her tea cups collected at her "tea cup shower" thrown for her before she was married some 65 years ago--Beef, do you remember her pulling those out for us a few years ago? Did we take those home, or did we leave them there with her?
And finally, spell check is still not functioning. So stop telling me I've spelled something wrong.
I need some help.
Obvi with the new apartment, I am in need of new things, most of which I haven't even begun to think about (nor will I until I'm actually in the space, realizing how large it is and how little I have). A nice couch I gots, or soon will gots, thanks to Mama LL. Sleeping accommodations, however, are another thing. The twin bed I've been riding--as Poo so kindly pointed out--won't really cut it. So I'm in the market. And so far, I have three options:
Curtain #1
I have a futon. Although the mattress would need to be replaced (the old one has been rolled up in the basement for far too long), it is quite comfy, and quite big. I've always loved that futon, and it's done me well in the past, all the way through university. I also like a bit of a harder bed, and the futon is defs that. Tops, I'd be spending about $250. But--and this is a valid "but"--do I want to start fresh on a futon?
Curtain #2
Fingers has offered me a 3/4 bed from her house. This would be an actual bed with a box spring and mattress. But it's a bit smaller than a double. And I'm not sure I'm too down with that (coming off a twin, I want to maximize my sprawl space as much as possible). Although it's free, I would have to probably buy new sheets (although I might be able to fit double sheets on there... Not quite sure...)
Curtain #3
Purchase an entirely new bed. I don't think I'd be able to afford a set and a frame, so we'd just be talking a mattress and box spring. I also don't have $1000 to sink into a bed, so we're not talking top quality, either. But I'd be able to get a perfect fit, or quasi perfect fit, and I know I'd have it for down the road, be it in a spare room when I have more money to by THE perfect cozy place.
So... Tell me what to do. Does anyone have experience with a 3/4? Is there much of a size difference? Do I need new sheets? Do I buy an Ikea bed? Do I go to Sears or Leons and buy something I can't afford and pay for it later? Is there anything wrong with a futon? Do you have another option for me, maybe one I haven't even considered?
Thanks peeps!
I slamed it to the left. I shook it to the right. My chicas were to the front. Le sigh. Spice Girls, je t'aime vous.
No time for a new post last night--the weekend was long, fun, party filled, and I was mucho tired last night (and full of crap from the Super Bowl hurrah I attended [thanks BSB!]. One too many Sunchips and Dr. Peppers, me thinks...)
Tonight: Le Spice Girls!!! Full update to follow... Although not until Wednesday because it will be one McHeckersons of a late night tonight. Forgive?
Also: I have what FS describes as a "Stage 5 Clinger"--four phone calls, two message, and a text in one day?! It was one date. S'rsly.
*makes awkward gritted teeth, shiffty eyed, "eeee" face*
It's kinda like THIS, I guess (skip ahead to minute 6:55).
Have you given much thought to the Isle of Man?
*thinks to self*
Nope. Neither have I.
And that's why I'm going to start telling people I'm from there.
When you think about it, it's really such a sad and lonely island (I should say islands, because really it includes the Calf of Man, Chicken Rock, and St. Patrick's Isle), located smack in the middle of Scotland and Ireland.
The people are called Manx. That's cool. It used to be home to some vikings, and we all know I'm practically a viking (let's do a round of "Let's Go Down to the Disco" just to prove it...)
Finn McCool is from the Isle of Man. That's gotta be cool. It's in his name. And the flag:
I'm gonna have a t-shirt with this three legged man on it. Yes, uh huh, I will.
Also, no need to worry about capital gains tax, wealth tax, stamp duty or inheritance tax. Nope. Don't pay 'em. Don't drive by a speed limit, either. And the Bee Gees live there. Yup, those very same dancing queens we know and love.
Therefore, heretofore, ipsofacto, and really from now on, please refer to me as Library Lady, formerly of the Isle of Man. It's only fair. It's my herritage. I have a coat of arms and everything. First generation. Etc.
*ahem*
Slane lhiat (that's Manx for "goodbye!")
Yesterday was post #500 on Bread and Jam. 'Tis a landmark, me thinks.
*quietly sings*
" congratulations to me, congratulations to me, congratulations to mee-eeee... congratulations to me"
In other news. I got an apartment.
Bha!
I'm so freakin' excited, it's ridiculous. This will be my first space devoid of things not mine: no arguments about where to hang the samurai swords! I've spent the last few days s'rsly researching "shabby chic" on the reference desk. I'm ahead of myself, because I don't take possession until March 1st, but I gotta think there's a whole lotta whitewashing I can do in a month, non?
Any tips from those current home/apartment owners?
I've eaten so many clementines, I now have a canker. Listen up, kids! Vitamin C is not all it's cracked up to be. I met the devil, and the devil's name was citrus.
In light of my current oral situation (hee hee... I said "oral"), I have forgone the clemmies and have picked up a new taste treat that s'rsly can't be beat: vanilla flavoured Silhouette yogurt, with frozen raspberries. Come lunch time, the raspberries are melty melty, and I'm all yummy yummy.
In other news, I might have a very exciting post to make tomorrow, but I don't want to jinx myself, sos I'll just hold my tongue for now. But I will say this: the 2008 Ikea catalogue is suddenly vair exciting.
Take from that what you will...
Ho hum... Tra la, and such.
*moves away from computer*
*excitedly jumps up and down with fists clenched*
*hops around in circles*
*slowly realizes blog peeps are watching*
*stops jumping*
*composes self*
*straightens clothes*
*clears throat*
*calmly and rationally returns to the computer*
Growing up, my sister had a crush on Viktor Petrenko.
I know *sigh* but it's true. She used to talk about the size of his thighs and how nice they looked in his tights. I should say at one point she also had a thing for Brian Orser. But you know, we all had our "thing". Hers just happened to be male figure skaters (and the band The Escape Club.)
But I digress.
Last night, the 2008 US Men's figure skating championships was on, and this was my first exposure to Mr. Johnny Weir. His costumes made me... Uncomfortable. And I'm left wondering:
Who dresses these men?
Last night's outfit tops even this monstrosity (I might have to do a mid-morning update should I find myself a picture.)
But I tell you. It's at times like these that even I yearn for the bulging thighs of Mr. Petrenko.
Note: Turns out Viktor is actually Johnny's coach... Coincidence?
UPDATE: Muchos gracias for THIS, Pants.
Does nobody dress up anymore?!
Holy mother, I swear every f&ckin' teenager on the planet seems to be wedged into a pair of sweatpants and Uggs! I'm sorry to be crass, but there you have it. All I see day in and day out is sweatpants, over sized Chanel bags, and Uggs! I mean, I'll GIVE you $50 to buy yourself a pair of pants with a waist and shoes with laces! And while you're at it, I totally know that "pony tail" sitting on the back of your head that should have looked as though it took you all of two seconds to pile up--as if it caused you some form of physical distress to clump that mane into a Goodie--took you longer. I've played that game, honey. Don't tell me you didn't spend hours getting those bangs sprayed perfectly into place. I know back combing when I see it.
...
Damn.
p.s. I want a pair of Uggs.
It's funny how the small things can make you nervous--like asking questions, or the possibility of a possibility (no, not a typo) of a crush, or your shirt making you look fat.
And then in the background, the larger things... The important things... Can roll off you like water on a duck's back--job stability, compounding student loans, your health.
Do you suppose it's a coping mechanism? I worry about back fat to avoid my OSAP bill?
That is to say, I'm a fairly crafty person.
The "busy hands" usually hit just after dinner when I'm feeling a bit restless and generally lumpy. Next thing you know I'm busting out my pencil crayons and acrylics and Sharpies (much to my mother's dismay) and working up a new card or a set of magnets or a giant gimp bracelet. It's like a nic fit, I suppose, but without the tar-in-the-lungs or receding gums. And it's at times like these that Micheals or Currey's becomes mucho dangerous--we're talking serious cash being dropped on ridiculous items, like embossing guns, and extra large knitting needles.
That's not to say I'm a GOOD crafter. I'm just crafty.
But I've fallen in love with a new HGTV show called "She's Crafty" and it seems to be soothing the itch. I think I might have a small crush on the poor girl. So far, I've managed to make the coffee cup sleeve out of the old necktie (s'cute...), attempted the Scrabble piece cuff links (although I don't wear man suits), and I have an order in with a lady I work with for an apple cozy (because I can't knit...)
Next up? The resin topped table made out of a picture frame, TV tray, and some retro picture books. I'll keep you posted...
In other news, I found another apartment to covet, but whereas the others were too ghetto or a bit too still-living-in-mom-and-dad's-but-with-my-own-entrance, this one was a bit too expensive. I'm like frickin' Goldilocks.
I might have been a big ambitious with my Test the Nation score, but I figured it was my best chance at beating dad at a trivia contest (he's a shoe-in for Jeopardy). So I "gave 're", as they say, and went all out. Should have known dad was hipper than appearances would lead you to believe... Turns out we both finished with the same score: 43/60. Not bad, but a bit too mhe considering my trash talk.
In other news, f&cking Stepmom was on tonight. Damn that movie. Damn that movie to h*ll. Every time it's on I cry. EVERY. TIME. Full on bawling my eyes out, runny nose, sobbing, snot-on-the-sleeve-of-my-favorite-pink-strawberry-pjs crying. That and Little Women with my girls Claire and Winona are the two films I love/hate: I hate watching them, but I can't stop myself. Like squeezing cat paws and eating chips--if they're there, in my face, I have to indulge; I can't turn the channel... I have to watch, but I always, always end up crying.
Anybody else have this relationship with a movie?
...I'm looking at apartments.
These are some exciting times, peeps. Exciting times. So far, I'm interested in THIS one, and THIS one. But that's just from what's online. The possibilities are endless this time of year, or so it would seem.
I think I might drive around this weekend and see what I can do... Wanna come with?
UPDATE: Fingers sent me a link to THIS one, too! Hurrah!
It was a long time coming, but Blogger finally got it's act together, and I finally gots me baby blog looking smokin' hot (to match my smokin' hot @ss).
*raises the roof*
*sighs*
Dear Xenu I'm lame.
*shakes head at lameness*
*curses living at home*
*racks said "lameness" up to abovementioned living conditions*
Regardless, I hope you like it... I do.
Do you ever get those niggles of regret in your tums? Those "maybe I shouldn't have said/done that" butterflies?
Because I do. And I hate that. I hate that feeling. I hate that at 28 I can still feel that way--still get self conscious about my choices. Still be affected by what others think.
Sometimes I wonder if that feeling is ever going to go away, and if I'm ever going to feel completely confident. Sometimes I wonder why I still let people get to me in that way in the first place; why it matters what they think.
And it's this feeling that makes my bed even cosier, and my books even better, and my home even more inviting. Its those feelings that make me crave my own company; why I begin to avoid those situations/conversations, full stop.
And holy Toledo, Batman!
(Not only is the game super funtastic, because it is), but she gave me a copy of the new YA Amnesty International fundraiser book, "Click" written by ten different authors. And my copy is signed by:
Linda Sue Park
Deborah Ellis
Roddy Doyle
Tim Wynne-Jones
Margo Lanagan
Nick Hornby
David Almond
And...
Colin Farrell--the celebrity spokesperson for Amnesty.
Um, ohmygoshthankyou.
PBS is doing a multi-part Masterpiece Theatre series on the works of Jane Austen: The Complete Jane Austen. Their line-up includes:
"Persuasion"
"Northanger Abbey"
"Mansfield Park"
"Miss Austen Regrets"
"Pride and Prejudice"
"Emma"
"Sense and Sensibility"
Do yourself a favour and watch 'em. All of 'em. Because there are few things I enjoy more than a Jane Austen movie. And although for the most part, "Pride and Prejudice" remains the front runner, I still find it hard to choose which story I like best--the heartache, the costumes, the tension, the love stories, the complexities and even better, the subtleties. Each one better than the next. I'm a sucker for them all.
So in honor or Ms. Austen, tomorrow I will strive to use phrases like "utterly misinformed" and "secure his affections" and "good'ay to you sir" and "are you quite well, Miss ___?"
Tra la.
Now, please, pray excuse me. I'm off to... Iron my... Pinafore... Or something...
It's like a genocide out there.
I counted 27 dead Christmas trees lying on the side of the road on one street alone, cast aside like sad, lost souls. I feel horrible guilt for our own beloved tree outside on the front lawn waiting for his untimely garbage truck death. Lonely. Cold. So alone.
An Ode to my Tree:
Dear Fraser Fir.
You smelled nice.
My mom hung balls on you,
but I wasn't allowed to fiddle with your lights.
I also liked your silvery needles,
and that waterbottle you got me for Christmas.
Oops, that wasn't you.
That was Poomobile.
Oh well.
Hopefully next years tree,
will be just as nice.
But maybe a bit plumper.
Love,
Library Lady
Alright, let's talk "The Trip".
We arrive at the airport T-3 hours ahead of time to find the Sunwing desk unopened. Holy stand-around-Batman! Why in the lollipops do they tell you to be there so early if you can't check in? I'm not complaining, though, because as a result of our early-bird-ness we got the emergency exit seats--tra la! Over Protective Mother tried to rain on our Cuba parade by refusing take-off until her children were nestled in next to her as opposed to sitting alone five rows up from her, but we just sipped our complimentary champagne and practiced our Spanish.
Although our room wasn't ready when we arrived, we did manage to order three drinks each, and eat our first meal (fish and vegetables... Which we continued to eat... For almost every meal... Fish and vegetables... "What will be on the menu today? Oh yeah... Fish and vegetables. I forgot...").
Room #1 wasn't worth the wait, but room #2--the trade up--was defs better. Then it was off to exchange our Canadian loonies for Cuban Convertibles, which translates into standing around waiting for large German men to verbally assault the Cuban bank lady. Turns out he wanted to exchange 2000 Euros (wtf? It's an all inclusive resort?!) and she was having trouble with the counting--with all that money, we were left to assume he wanted to swim with the dolphins and eat one, too.
The beach was tres bon with a cherry on top. No getting up at dawn's crack to reserve a beach chair for this sun goddess. There were oodles to choose from. And as my travel mates were tan-o-phobic, I usually got the sunniest perch. Double tra la. My tan developed nicely. Too nicely, perhaps, because as a result of all the lotion I was slathering on to prevent peeling, I attracted ants. To my bed. And my clothes.
Not so tra la.
But there's nothing rum punches and cards can't fix. Especially when you're a Phase Ten guru, and everyone uses their skip cards to skip you, but you're all "Oooo, can't stop me, I'm Library Lady the Queen of Phase Ten!" When you're the Phase Ten guru, rum punches taste even sweater. Even when you're losing they taste good... Just ask Susie... Oooo... Did I just say that?
The disco was also ultra fun. Especially when you're tracking the moves of the resort's high school underbelly--secretly dubbed "The Laguna Beach Crew". Who's hooking up with who? She said what to him? Who are those people? Is that her dad? Is she seriously wearing that? Oh no she di'int! The drama was insatiable, and I tuned in whenever possible.
New Years was a blip on the radar for me. I suffered post-traumatic-drinking-disorder the morning of (too many rum punches the night before...) so I was S-O-B-R-E. But I still looked fab, even though--as someone chose to remind me hourly--"My bra was showing all night, and I'm burnt". Same girl tried to teach me some dance moves. Me?! Seriously? I mean... Seriously? Really? Because, I'm pretty sure I've gots me some dance moves [*does some dance moves in the chair*] Yeah, I'm pretty sure.
Thursday turned glum. But no worries. While Big Fingers and Susie were busy feeling up the dolphins, I collected shells and took beach glamour shots. I also made my way through the worlds largest beach book: "Pillars of the Earth" by Ken Follet. Do it. Now. It's good. But long...
We rode bikes through the Cuban countryside, bartered at the local market for bookmarks and wooden crabs, and I even went for a painful run (I'd had way too many rum punches to be effective).
The journey home was long and not as enjoyable as the ride there. But I did take a tiny bit of pleasure in seeing Overprotective Mother's Daughter (yes, the same one) get locked in the airplane bathroom. Ahh, the hilariousness that ensued. A dedicated Fingers met us at Pearson, and it was a happy ending for all--I with my ant-free bed; Susie with some distance between she and canned peas/beets; and Big Fingers spending time away from the two crazy girls who kept her out drinking and smokin' stogies until all hours of the night.
Thank you ladies. It was a blast.
I have to whisper because I'm at work and I'm sneaking this in...
... But much to my horror, the song "Faded" by Soul Decision--which once stalked my old roommate--is now stalking me... Every time I turn on the radio I hear it... Who requests this song? What DJ in their right mind plays it? Hmm? What's wrong with the world? I'd rather hear Michael Boobie or whatever his name is than that damned "Faded". Gawd.
Tonight at dinner, before tucking into left over roast beef and gravy, my mother said grace. And she made a special request. To the baby Jesus:
"Please help Library Lady with her 'man quest.'"
And she actually used the phrase, "man quest." And then she giggled.
Dear baby Jesus. Please help me to move out.
I'm back! Please, hold the applause. It's embarrassing...
But seriously... A good trip all around. I could literally marry the beach and the sun (if it was legal), I lub them that much. They're like crack (or what I would imagine crack to be like, because I've never done crack, I've only seen pictures of Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears all "cracked up" and that's how silly I act when I'm in the sun on the beach, moving my beach chair every 20 minutes or so to get away from the shade and back into the the almighty rays where I could continue to work on my burn tan.)
Praise Xenu, ah Theton.
But keep your pants on. I'm not going to give the full 7-day breakdown just yet. There will be a full holiday review with photos, commentary, etc. once Susie and Big Fingers (Thumb?) have posted their pictures to Flickr for us all to share. So hold on to your horses.
But! I will give you one, tiny tid-bit to tide you over:
*ahem*
I finally got my crack at a coconut drink.
For realsies. Some guy shook it down from a tree and cut a hole into it with a machete, and I got a pink bendy straw from the bartender, and took big huge sips, and then realized that coconut milk actually tastes more like @ss than yum and although they look cool, overall I'd rather drink crab juice than have another one. But tra la. It was a cool experience, and I almost peed my pants I was so excited to get my hands on it.
Tip or the week: Coconut milk is a natural laxative...
