'Twas a Good Weekend

Friday night, Orange sent me a packing list via text message with directions to have myself ready for 11:00 Saturday morning. I needed "an outfit I would feel comfortable eating nachos in, clothes for lounging around, and $40 in cash (a $20 bill, and the rest in small bills and change)". Being of an organized sort, I did what I was told dropping my spare keys at ma's house so Bert could meet his daily cuddle quota while we were away.

At 11:00 a.m., we set out for eggs and coffee and promptly hit the highway. I had no idea where we were going, and no amount of prying was going to get that information from him.

Around 2:00 we're motoring along the 400 North when we decide to pull into the Highway Market--a massively random flea market we've both always wondered about.

And I'm pleased to say it was exactly what one would expect, right down to the variety of smoked meats, leather goods, and a wide selection of Nascar jackets! Orange, as you can see, is modeling 'Team Pillsbury Dough Boy'. It was a collective decision to leave the jacket behind, however ill-fitting and priceless it may have been.

We did, however, choose to purchase fries from Friendly Chip's Chip Truck. Well worth the caloric intake. My mouth is actually watering thinking about them.

Next stop was the Highway Recyclers, substantially less commercial than the first stop. This place is literally spilling out onto the highway, and has always been a source of awe for me. It's been there since the dawn of time, and while from the road it looks like a junk heap, there are always oodles of cars parked outside. So we pulled over, and fished out our wallets. This, I'm told, is why I needed my small change, because Mr. Antique Market doesn't have a lot of cash on hand.

Dudes. This place is awesome. Between the selection of windows, and more windows, and then the additional piles of windows out back, it was hard to choose. Then there were the boxes of LPs to sort through. I was tempted to bring home a couple, but of course realized I'd first most likely need a record player in order to play said records. I eventually went with a glass door stopper, and decided to sit on the purchase of an old wooden rocking chair (excuse the pun).


The money I saved not buying doors and windows, I spent on sweets at the Candy Shoppe. Hot Dogs and sour grape blasters, Pop Rocks and dark chocolate KitKat.

Back on the road, and in another 45 minutes we pull into Gravenhurst so I assume we're heading to Orange's cottage (which would have been beyond lovely and gorgeous and yum). Turns out Orange has other plans. We turn into a driveway and we end up at what used to be called The Muskoka Sands, or what is now referred to as Taboo.

Spoiled. The place is amazing and beautiful. The weather is warm and sunny, and the view from the room is gorgeous. We head out for nachos for dinner, as promised (extra cheese, no onions...) and then back to the resort for movies and a sky full of stars.

In the morning we drive into town for breakfast at the Gravenhurst diner. Orange picked up a sick new outfit at Stedman's V&S (two t-shirts with a giant bass fish and some deer on the front of 'em), and I try on a pair of 'convertible overalls' just for a laugh (don't ask...). We finish the tour with giant ice cream cups at Kawartha Dairy, and truck on home to reality and Southern Ontario traffic.

'Tis disappointing to be home, regardless of cuddles with Little B (Bertimus Maximus). The Sunday night run, my Yaris, and the apartment I've always loved feel sort of... Empty. And seriously lacking in Orange.

'Tis Friday...

Someone just came in and asked for our copy of Eve Ensler's, The Vagina Monocles.

Think about that one for a minute.

Just think about it.

Last call!

Anyone within driving distance interested in purchasing a Betty Blogger t-shirt? Last calls when out at work this week, and randomly I thought I'd see if anyone in the blog-o-sphere wanted one of their own. No pressure, obvi. But they're cute tees.

Details are as follows:

1. CHOCOLATE BROWN t-shirt
2. RED chest logo
3. WHITE sleeve logo.

$15.00 per shirt

All t-shirts are crew neck, 100% pre-shrunk cotton, and available in both men’s and women’s styles (shorter sleeves/body length) ranging in size from small-2XL.

Let me know by tomorrow.

Orange = Chrysanthemum?

I finally caved and bought my new kicks, much to my cheap chagrin. Paris to Ancaster officially killed the last ones. I went with the same pair as my originals, with the added bonus of an updated color scheme (which happily, I prefer).

Still, it kills me to think I could probs sponsor a small Nicaraguan family for the amount of money I pay for them. Had Cousin Toque not regaled me with the story of his big toe turning black and nail falling off when he made the decision to switch runners, I would have reconsidered the purchase. But I'm sticking with what I know, and I'm sure my knees and joints will thank me for it. Not to mention my toes (black doesn't really go with sandal season).

In other news, Orange told me a funny story last night. Apparently, what with his living in the country and all, there's a large field behind his house where he was once swarmed by bees as a child.

"Whoa" I said. "What happened? Did you just stumble upon the nest or something?"

"Nah. Look at me *pointing to orange curls* Scientifically speaking, I'm pretty sure they wanted to pollinate in my hair. They must have thought I was a flower".

My grandmother puts me to shame.

I made the bi-weekly sojourn to her house last night, and over dinner (what she referred to has "Impossible Cheeseburger Pie"...*sigh*) she asked me about the bike race. So I gave her the run down, and mentioned my tiny mental breakdown, and ended with "yeah, it was tough..."

To which she replied, "I know what tough is. When I was 21 my girlfriend Piercy and I rode our bikes from Toronto to Niagara Falls along HWY 2. It took us two days. We stopped for lunch and water in Oakville at what we thought was a diner, but was in fact an unlicensed gambling ring. Come to think of it, we were probably pretty lucky to make it out of there..."

Wow. So... What you're saying is I'm a giant baby? Excellent. Yes. Excellent.

Never mess with Grandma Library Lady. She'll tell you what's what three times over and twice on a Monday.

Confucius says:

Cats who play with tin foil balls, poop tin foil balls.

Sick-a-licious

I stayed home from work today with a cold. A much needed rest, not to mention a reprieve for my coworkers who were forced to shovel me out from my Kleenex on Monday.

Some observations on being home during the day:

1. Daytime TV is bizarre. I don't need one episode of Family Feud, let alone multiple episodes back-to-back.

2. Rice paper wrappers are not as easy to work with as the package implies.

3. Napping is something you never grow out of.

4. Bert has a routine he doesn't like me interfering with:

6:00-7:30 a.m. -- bug Library Lady until she gets up.
7:30-10:00 a.m. -- monitor the tub to make sure all shower water is disposed of properly, and mess about in the shoes at the front door.
10:00-noon -- nap.
noon-1:30 p.m. -- eat, poo.
1:30-5:00 p.m. -- nap.
5:00-6:30 p.m. -- sit in window seat observing traffic flow and watching for Library Lady (even if she has been home all day *eye roll*).
6:30-8:00 p.m. -- eat, poo, wander around yelling at the (newly found) Library Lady.
8:00-bedtime -- act like a d*ck.

For all intensive purposes I'm back at work tomorrow. Although I'm still legitimately sick, there's too much to do to stick around home for another day. And I don't think I'm contagious anymore, which means the coworkers can remove their masks and stop giving me the hairy eyeball.

Enquiring minds want to know...

The Fugi Bicycles Paris to Ancaster 60km race is done. And it seriously kicked my butters.

Momma Orange drove us to Paris at 9:00 a.m. where Orange promptly assembled our bikes and got our plates attached. We posed for pre-race photos, had one last pee break, and pedaled down to the start line to get into the gate with the other racers. At 10:45 we were off!

5 minutes into the event, my seat collapsed, so we had to make an emergency pit stop to re-position it, avoiding near death at the onslaught of bikes. In the process, I managed to lose my water bottle, which meant I was reliant on dearest Orange for hydration. The first 1/3 of the race was largely dirt track = mud and slop, or gravel roads. Regardless, we were up and down hills faster than you can say "my legs are screaming". But I was having fun, and the sun was wonderful, and in the trees there was very little wind.

By the time we'd reached the half way point, we'd already split one of the Cliff bars, and finished a water bottle. Orange was convinced we were actually further than half way, but one of the little girls manning the apple station confirmed with us we were in fact only... half... way. So we ate the remaining Cliff bar, I inhaled an apple, Orange downed two maple cookies, and we were back to pedaling.

Now, this is where it gets interesting. The second 1/3 of the race is largely comprised of rail trail or farmer's fields = squishy, swamp-like track. The wind is HOWLING. So each pedal you take is like taking 3 or 4 because, of course, we're going straight into a monster headwind. At one point I had visions of that scene from Doctor Zhivago where Yuri is fighting and pushing against the snow and sleet to get to Lara. Same thing, minus the snow and sleet.

Side note: There were no trail markers to tell you how far you'd gone. You had no concept of how far you'd made it or how much you had left. All you had were the police officers closing the road and volunteers directing you to turn left here, or turn right there. We were clueless as to where we were.

Orange is far and above a better biker than I, as he should be what with his years of profesh downhilling. So although he so very kindly stuck it out beside me (on the off chance I popped a tire or careened into a guard rail), he could very easily have motored on ahead. I'm now defs starting to slow down, feeling hungry and thirsty. I'm passed by a UNICYCLER. Yes, a boy on a unicycle whose done the majority of the race with us (minus the muddy dirt tracks, because for those he took the shorter road ways). But as you know, I'm competitive, and I'll be damned if I'm going to be beaten by a kid on a unicycle.

So I step it up a notch, passing Uni and the woman with the pink streamers on her handlebars.

At 50km, I'm done. I start crying. Seriously crying. Poor Orange. But to be fair, I'm exhausted and seriously undernourished (as there have been no race stops for food since the 30km mark). But I'll be damned if Uni and Pink Streamers are going to beat me, and I'm certainly not stopping.

The volunteer Kiddies keep telling us we have 3km left. "Only 3km left!"... "Only 3km left!"... "Only 3km left!"... So frustrating. YOU SAID THAT 6KM AGO! And the last 10km of the ride are mud, slop, and hills. Orange tells me even the professional bikers and Olympians don't make it up the last hill without getting off their bikes. Through the tears and snot careening out of my nose, I apologize profusely to him for my babyish crying, however fitting, as I'm wearing pants that make me look like I'm in a diaper. I also manage to praise the long lasting taste of what I've come to refer to Orange's "designer gum".

Seeing the finish line was orgasmic. It took me 4:54:07 to cross it, but I did it, nonetheless. My body was in shut-down mode, and it took all I had to get to the car and lay down on the back seat. Orangey organized the bikes, and discussed the size and taste of the cheeseburger he planned on inhaling later in the evening. I focused on not wetting my pants or going into pulmonary embolism.

All in all, a successful event. Much like childbirth, I assume I will forget the back pain, leg pain, intense cold, total exhaustion, and mental breakdown and promptly register for it again next year. Thank you to everyone for your encouragement. I'm alive. I made it. I'm sick as a dog because of it. But it was well worth the effort, and I'm feeling vair puff puff because of it.

Mea culpa?

More on that all important decision to come, folks. Trust. Sorry for being so "riddle me this, riddle me that" yesterday. But I'm trying to be more cautious of what I say on here, and blathering about an issue that may or may not seriously affect my future in some way, shape, or form is probs not a good idea. Regardless, I still need a place to jot these thoughts, and Bread and Jam serves this purpose. So occasionally you'll get the Riddler and not Library Lady. Savvy?

Thank you for all the worried texts and emails, but rest assured: I have no plans to cut my hair, I'm not preggers, I'm not moving, considering plastic surgery, or running away with BJ. Orange is still the sh*t (so take a big whiff...)

In other news, Sunday is the Fuji Bicycles Paris To Ancaster 60K bike race. And the article written about it in this morning's newspaper certainly doesn't have me pumped. There are far too many references to "hills", "difficult stretches", and "Olympic racers competing".

Orange took my bike on Wednesday and fixed it all up for me. He oiled it, greased it, fiddled with the shocks, puffed up my tires, and put something called "clipless pedals" on. I told him I wasn't so keen on having my feet locked in place, but he told me I needed to grow up and take the training wheels off. Not really. But he did remove the bell. And he's prepared to lend me all his biking gear from his pro-star days, including (as dad so eloquently put it), those shorts that make me look like I took a big dump.

I'm pretty sure I'm going to look like Sheila Kelley from the movie Singles? Anyone with me on that reference? Hurr_ah? I know you love that movie...

It's big decision time, folks...

I can't necessarily share the decision with you, what with this being the "world wide web" and all (and yes, I just made the finger quotation motion). But it's big enough to have me chewing my nails and twisting my hair nubbin.

It's the kind of choice I can't take back, either. Once it's made, I'm full steam ahead. I think my nervousness stems from the fact I don't necessarily like what one would technically consider the positive outcome of said decision. On one hand, there's the immediate puff-puff, pat-on-back, and general hurrah. But right around the corner is the dumpy reality of what many would say is the exact opposite of what I typically celebrate.

I hate decision times. Because decision times mean change, and change means different, and different means moving outside comfort zones.

But decision times could also mean good things. And it's those good things that have me thinking...

'Tis the Easter long weekend!

Finally! 40 days and nights sans chips and popcorn has been dire. Poor Orange keeps asking, "how much longer?" I think he misses the popcorn pot more than I do. What can I say? Stove top popcorn is a gift, and the sweet baby Jesus gave it to me. We all have our talents. Mine just happen to be of the Poaceae variety.

Plans for the weekend include an egg hunt. Yes, I'm almost 30. More importantly, Beef is near 34! But Papa loves the tradition, and takes great pride in his ability to confound his daughters and son-in-law with his master hiding skills. So we can expect three different coloured eggs to be hidden in each room Sunday morning. And we can expect Beef will cry and stomp her feet until Dad tells her where her pink ones are hiding. And we can expect my total domination and overall awesome victory.

And don't think just because there's a baby involved this year I'll let him win! Son's got some learning to do. I'm the best at games, and the early he learns to lose to me the better. Even if he is a cleaver sausage breaking in two front teeth, sitting upright in his Bumbo like a good boy, and playing peek-a-boo all aloney-on-his-owney.

Princess feet

I went for my first outside run tonight in... Ooo... I don't know... Maybe two or three months? I gave up just after Christmas when I ran 3km and nearly died on a side road (hyperventilation due to over stuffage in the nasal region, and muscular dislo-soreness resulting from extreme exposure to snow, slush, and a little known weather system called "I hate this and I don't want to do it anymore.")

So I bought a YMCA membership, settled in on the spin bike (with dearest, Nina, the workout machine) and made due with a treadmill.

But let me tell ya. Running outside is sooo much harder than running on a treadmill, and then in some ways, sooo much easier, because you're not staring at the same spot thinking "ugh, how many minutes do I have left?" You actually have a destination, and a perceivable destination.

Either way, the run pointed out how completely beat my sneakers are, and how badly I need to invest in a new pair. My cheap side (which makes up about 90% of me) says I can't do it. My sneakers still look relatively new. But my spoiled knees and thighs are screaming, demanding I spend big bucks on my overpronation.

Damn you, princess feet! Damn you!

Orange is far, far away from me:

Poo.

This week...

... On The Rock of Love Bus!

The episode starts with a sweet three way date between Brett, Ashley, and Cammie. Things become physical pretty quickly and this makes Cammie uncomfortable. She's pretty into Brett. But she's not into taking off her clothes. And when the four of them journey to the private room in the back of the bus, she's not expecting the other girls to take their clothes off. Needless to say, she's hurt. So the next day,she and Brett sit down for a heart to heart and they decide she's just not into the rocker lifestyle. They unload her luggage, and leave her behind on the side of the road.

That afternoon, Brett takes Laurie, Kelsey, and Farrah to an amusement park. He shares a kiss with Kelsey by the bumper cars, but worries she might think kissing him is like kissing her dad. Regardless, he's into her knee high soccer socks so he decides to continue "digging her". Farrah spends her special alone time with Brett in the farris wheel, discussing the other girls on the bus. She thinks Laurie is fake, and Brett agrees. But he also reminds her that so are her breasts.

That night Brett has a gig at a State Fair, so he leaves the girls to get ready for his performance. His extensions need tending to. Ashley, Farrah, and Kelsey prepare for the evening with vodka and Redbull, while Laurie fiddles with the fringe on her t-shirt. Big John reminds the girls they should be on their best behaviour because they're representing Brett. He escorts them to their V.I.P. area (the space next to the stage fenced in with hay bales).

Poor girls... They aren't able to handle their liquor. It might have been the berries they ate off the planter in front of the bus. But maybe it was just the liquor. The next thing you know Kelsey is sobbing and lying on a speed bump. Big John finds her on the speed bump and reminds her "he's seen all her good stuffs that she's done [sic]. She needs to focus on her." Kelsey decides not to give up, and proclaims all people who like basil to be lame.

Ashley, Farrah, and Kelsey are told they need to go back to the bus and calm down. They think Big John is a dink. So they warm up some TV dinners and crawl around on all fours for awhile just to prove him wrong. At the backstage pass ceremony, Brett calls Kelsey out on the speed bump incident. He knows she's not the first girl to pass out on a speed bump, but he worries her passing out on a speed bump is an indication there might be bigger issues at play. So he takes away her backstage pass.

What will happen next? The tension is almost too much...

Pfft...

*taps toe*

I'm sorry, but...

*hands on hips*

... These cats aren't cute.

*wagging finger*

Bert is cute!

Bert is handsome!

Bert has more charm in his over sized paw than that poker playing kitty has in his entire chip stack! And don't get me started on the cat wearing a cowboy hat... WTF?! C'mon people! If cats were meant to wear clothes, they'd have been born with thumbs so they could work the buttons. I mean, what is this, a glitz pageant? Just because some cats are born already dressed for success (*coughTUXEDOCATScough*) doesn't mean other cats should try and steal their thunder with cheap props and tacky polyester collars.

Someone in that voting panel really dropped the ball.

Someone on that voting panel clearly couldn't find cute and/or 'star quality' if they were punched in the neck with it.

Someone on that voting panel must have missed Bert's picture.

*harrumph*
*scuffs toe*
*sniff*

*sob*

Pancakes and sausages in the woods

Last Sunday I made the annual pilgrimage to Mountsberg Conservation Area with momma, pops, and Beef. We make this trip every year at the same time to enjoy maple syrup, pancakes, and sausages in the woods. And when I say every year, I mean every year... Beef was in a backpack when dad started taking her.

Ordinarily it's dad, Beef, and I making the walk in the cold and damp to sit in a log cabin hugging our apple cider, sucking on our maple candy, watching the guy talk us through the syrup making process (did you know it takes 40 gallons of sap to make 1 gallon of syrup?) But this year was the first year we welcomed our chubby nephew. So it was extra special.

While Mountsberg might not seem like the most exciting place, there's something very comforting about it. Not much has changed, besides the new signage and the fact you now have to pay for a Clydesdale hay ride (no matter... we always walked the trail, anyway). We visit the animal barn, pet the bunnies, learn about the boiling process, pretend we haven't already sampled the free candy in the sampling hut, and go back in for seconds (hee!).

We pass over the same train tracks on every trip and make the same horrible joke ("A train just went by... Oh, how can you tell?... Because it left it's tracks behind it!" *collective groan*). We stand in the same line up and wait for our turn to order breakfast. I hum and haw over what to order but always get the regular meal, and soon after regret the decision (piles of pancakes are rediculously filling, and to quote Mitch Hedburg "pancakes: all exciting at first, but by the end, you're f*cking sick of 'em).


And then dad being dad, he always orders the large meal, complains about the hard butter, asks "are you going to use all your syrup?" to which we always reply "yes," leaving at least one of the pancakes behind uneaten claiming "I always do this... I always order too much..." He's like Bear in this picture, vibrating with excitement at the idea of eating his pancake pile.

I am a self admitting creature of habit, I know this. I know I'm nearly 30 and I should probs grow up and get a life. But with the exception of the Rocton Fair, I can't think of another time of year I enjoy more.

p.s. A great big "hidey ho" to Cousin Toque!

More coming soon. Promise. Will stop being a bad blogger lady ASAP.

Toddlers and Tiaras can kiss my butters...

... My boy's going to win his first beauty pageant!

That's right, peeps, Bert has been accepted into the Canadian Living Pet Contest!

W00t w00t!

Please click HERE to view his profile page, share it with the world, and comment if you like. The more shameless self promotion we can do here, the better our odds of winning... If you'd like to link to him from your blog (*cough All Y'ALL cough*) please do.

We'll find out April 1 if he's been chosen as a finalist. But he's so handsome in his tuxedo, I just know he's going to win the whole damn thing. I mean, look at him!? Mimi the jumping cat doesn't hold a candle to those paws. And I think my caption adds a little somethin' somethin'...

But don't worry. We won't let the fame go to our heads. I won't be a pageant mom, and there will be no spray tans or fake claws. And when we do win--because we will win--I'll be sure to come over and Dyson Ball DC25 Animal vacuum all of your homes (eat your heart out, Mr. Beef!)

60 km?

So.

I'm doing THIS.

Bit nervous doodles 'bout the whole thing, really. But I figured, what the McHeckersons, right? If I don't make it the 2.15 hour cut-off, I get a free shuttle to the finish line.

It's amazing what an orange-haired person can talk you into.

You may remember from such previous entries...

... Such as "Kitty Got Crack, and He Don't Care," that 7:00 a.m. is an interesting time at the YMCA. Mostly old chicks in large bathing suits. This morning, after almost falling to my death on the treadmill and getting yelled at "for not paying attention" when only I was paying attention see, but my foot fell onto the wrong part of the... Oh, never mind, that's another story all together...

Anywho, as I was saying, this morning, after the treadmill at the YMCA, I was showering and getting ready for work. I was sharing the shower area with two of the aforementioned ladies (from here on referred to as OCLBS) who spent the entire time talking about the other ladies they "work out with".

"She will have left by the time we're done in here..."
"Well of course she'll have left. She won't wait for us."
"Mm hmm."
"Not very nice if you ask me."
"Not very nice, indeed."
"I hope you noticed she only did 15-minutes on the calibrated bike."
"And did you see how winded she was?"
"Mm hmm. I saw."
"Well that's what happens when you only come once a week..."
*smirk*
*smirk*

I'm happy to report the other ladies were gone when we got back to the locker area. Can't say I blame them. I'd be gone too if my workout buddies were judging me for being 80 and not staying on the GD calibrated bike for more than 15 minutes!

And to think I used to fear the MAC gym for this very reason, the tiny Kinesiology girls in their booty shorts and crop tops judging my jiggly butters on the elliptical. Now I have to worry about the elderly secretly scoffing at my semi-committed bench presses.

Gawd. Does it get any worse?

Top of the mornin' to ya!

'Tis St. Paddy's day, to be sure, to be sure! And to think not 5 months ago I was myself a wee leprechaun travelling 'round the Irish countryside in a bus built for carsickness. Oh, how I miss it. Not the food, mind you. But a pint of Bulmers would slide down quite nicely 'bout now. And there's something about the music that just makes me smile...

In honour of this fabulous day, some photos from my Irish jaunt (click on the Guinness goodness for more):

Ireland

Beannachtaí na Féile Pádraig oraibh!

Ahhh, the joys of being a woman...

Good weekend, all around, regardless of the foul mood cloud simmering over my head for most of it. Cheers, Mother Nature.

Friday night, Orange and I hit up the YMCA and after vigorously running out the frustrations of 7-hours of reference desk questions, I nearly passed out. Orange is quick on his feet, though, offering me the Luna Bar he keeps in his backpack for just these occasions. To which I reply:

"A Luna bar? Dude. These are for girls. This is a girl's granola bar..."

To which he replied:

"What? No. Pfft. What? No. Liar. You're a liar. What? No. Pfft. Pfft. Pfft. What? Really? No..."

To which I replied:

"See the pictures of the girls on it? See how it says "the whole nutrition bar for women"? See how it's full of folic acid? See how it's pink?"

...

Saturday, Bert and I babysat Little C while Beef got her hair did. 'Twas my first time. So we hung out, watched Sex and the City: The Movie, had some tummy time, cried, cried some more, cried a lot, wet our pants, ate some formula, and slept the slumber of someone who had been fake-crying for our mommy for an hour. All in all, a great success (no sarcasm intended, for reals). And I'm seriously looking forward to my next stint of aloney-on-my-owney time with my baked ham of a nephew.

Sunday I slept in. Much needed. I also hit up Winners with momma for some retail therapy. But while she stocked up on black capris, I tried on hats. And shoes. Bloated is never a good way to shop. I then ate my weight in chocolate brownies at family dinner, drank an entire pot of mint tea, and went to bed.

And then this morning I woke up with the world's largest bladder, due in large part to the aforementioned pot of tea. The good news is, my water weight will help with tonight's swimming regime with Fingers. The bad news is, Fingers now has to put up with my bloat and my foul mood cloud at tonight's swimming regime.

Good times.

p.s. Hi, Fingers!

As requested by Pants... And because I lurve him the mostest...

Desperate times call for desperate measures...

What was he was thinking? Seriously, what was he thinking?

I'm crushed. Totally and completely crushed.

And to think this was someone I actually trusted. Someone I thought would make the right choice. He's an adult, for feckin' sake! A grown man! A sensible man!

But all this time he had me fooled. No indicators... Nothing to say he would turn around and do something this... This... Rancid. This disgusting.

And don't get me started on how fake he is! He couldn't be more fake if he was a puka shell necklace being sold for "cheapy cheapy" on the beach of some 3-star Mexican resort. I loath fake, and I loath liars. And from where I stand, he completely sold out. Did what all the kids are doing these days. Threw away what we had... The relationship we were building... All because he wanted to be "cool"... To be "in".

Grasping at straws, man. You're grasping at straws.

Seriously. I really thought this was going to work out.

Kanye, how could you have been so Heartless?

Bed sores and Listerine

I'm not nearly as uncomfortable as I thought I would be after yesterday's spin class. That said, my @ss took a work out from the seat and it feels like I have bed sores.

TMI?

In other news, Orange has started to leave/bring things to the apartment, which is cute in many ways. Mostly because he qualifies everything before he puts it down...

"I'm just putting this here for now, just because I might need it later today, but I can take it with me when I go... If you don't want it? Or you won't use it? Are you mad?"

For the record, no, I'm not mad. It's difficult to get mad at someone who willingly plays boardgames with you, even though you've told them again and again that you cheat. And I never make him take it with him. I like that he's leaving his giant bottle of Listerine and tooth pick dental floss thingys here, even though I'm slightly concerned he's trying to politely tell me I have halitosis.

Which I don't.

Do I?

*twiddles thumbs*

p.s. Do you know how difficult it is to teach a 92 year-old how to use a computer? 'Cause I do.

Spinning class this morning.

Almost.

Killed me.

Legs.

Like jello.

Wobbly.

Thank you, Nina.

*wobbles off*

To quote Foghorn Leghorn: "Lookit here son, I say son, did ya see them feets attached to that there baby?"

Le Sarah baby foot crack.

Delectables.

15 hours and counting...

Isn't it true, when something's right in front of you it's often hard to see it's there. But man... As soon as you take it away... Blam! You realize how much you needed it.

What's that expression? Absence makes the heart grow fonder?

Mattresses, etc.

Last night, after dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Beef and the calf, I trotted off to Home Sense. The bed "situation", as I like to refer to it, was becoming dire. While I don't begrudge my free mattress and box spring (with or without the mouse poop), I do find myself caving into the centre quite a bit. It's annoying, and because I'm 30 this year I feel I'm qualified to admit it's also bad for my back (le sigh...)

I bought myself a mattress topper for $60. It's this big, poofy, faux-down pillow that I strap to the mattress. Add to that my mattress pad, freshly washed linen (which, I might add, my gramma gave me when I moved in to my apartment, and it comes from her trousseau so it's super old and a billion thread count and so lovely soft and crisp...), the fleece blanket my Aunt Margie made me some 10 years ago, and my new-from-Santy-Clause duvet, and I was actually giddy to get into bed last night.

Seriously. Giddy. I did a little "oooo" dance before I got in.

Totally worth the $60. Ohmygoshponies!!1!!! I woke up this morning in a giant cloud of mattress topper love. Even Bert was impressed when I let him in for a pre-shower snuggle. He burrowed in for his spoon a bit deeper, talking the whole time... "Meow meow meow." And if Bert agrees, it must be good. He's even cheaper than I am.

Being cheap...

I've mastered the coffee machine at work.

While we have a "Seattle's Best" cafe in the library, I feel guilty buying myself a coffee every morning, especially when they sit at $1.85 a pop. It doesn't really go with my whole "lack of guilty pleasures" Lenten resolution. So my fall back is the coffee machine in the lunch room, which ordinarily dispenses acidic brown water. But at $0.50 a mug, you can't beat it.

*ahem*

The trick is to hold your mug off to the side to avoid the superfluous water dumpage. All you get is the brown stuff (and some rogue coffee grounds.)

*adjusts smart person glasses*

Yup.

I'm basically awesome.

The Secret of Spaghetti Cat

Has anyone heard the legend of Spaghetti Cat?

Okay, here's the scoop, as found originally on The Modern Materialist website. This sh*t is gold, Jerry. Seriously. It can't get any funnier on a Tuesday.

There’s a clip making the rounds surfacing from a New York FOX morning show called the Mike & Juliet Show where, during a segment about young women binge drinking, a picture of a cat eating spaghetti was inexplicably played. The original clip:

*wipes tears from eyes*

It doesn't matter how many times I see it, I still laugh.

Sources say the picture was totally, one hundred percent played on purpose. Apparently, an anonymous Mike & Juliet staff member reports spaghetti cat was originally from a segment on their Pet Talent Show. This particular cat ate spaghetti with a fork, but when the cameras were on, it completely froze up. As one can appreciate, this made the people working on the show laugh… A lot.

Cut to several months later and the staffers are talking about the Dump Button. TV shows, I'm told, have a five second delay in the event something goes wrong--a lawyer sits in the control booth, and in the event someone swears or falls or goofs or whatever they'll hit the button which cuts the audio, and goes to a different camera.

Normally, when they hit the button, it would cut to a shot of Times Square or the audience. But the Mike and Juliet staff thought it would be hilarious to cut to the shot of the Cat Eating Spaghetti, and, when the girl in the segment cursed, that’s exactly what happened.

*sigh*

Such genius.

Topped only by Winnebago Man... "I f*cked up the word rear..."

Woo doggy!

It was an important night on the Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels*.

We started the night on a group date, playing a high energy game of tube-top ice hockey, a baby doll standing in for the puck. Unfortunately, Melissa was body checked by an opposing team member and the impact caused her implant to leak. But don't worry, she was well enough to make it on her three way date later that evening.

Together with Beverly, Brittaney (don't confuse here with Brittanya) and Maria, Melissa went with Brett in the Rock of Love Bus for a romantic evening at Big Al's, the best strip joint in the South. Brittaney and Melissa used to be strippers, see, so they got their moment to shine up on stage. Beverly wasn't impressed, though, I think because she was worried her three kids might see her on TV with her hoo-hoo on parade. Although Brett "doesn't like to pressure girls into doing what they don't want to do" he thinks Beverly is being a big of a "buzz kill".

Needless to say, Melissa had a bit too much to drink and when she got back on the bus she drunk dialed her BOYFRIEND to tell him she thought Brett Michael's had hair extensions... That maybe his hair wasn't real.

Well. Gasp, etc.!

The other girls took the moment to further their own interests and immediately informed Brett of Melissa's infidelity and lack of commitment to the Love Bus. He called her on it. She said she felt he didn't appreciate her. He said "we haven't even had sex yet" so why were they wasting time being so serious? Why can't they just have fun? She made some important points about how the leaking silicone might be impairing her judgement, and they agreed to continue "rocking each other's worlds".

But Melissa got punked, because Brett called her on her lies in the middle of the backstage pass ceremony! Oh snap! Yes he did! Surprisingly, Brett chose buzz kill Beverly to continue the tour, as well as Taya, whom Brett said he needed more time with because all he knew about her was the she was Brazilian and drank too much. But poor Brittaney was sent packing. He said he thought she was stealing the other girls socks, and although he enjoyed her porn films, she wasn't the rocker girl for him.

*I watched this show for research purposes. I am a true journalist, digging for the facts, and reporting on the stories that matter to you.

"Kitty got crack, and he don't care..."

The gym in the morning is not usually something I'm into. But when a busy week of grandmothers and volunteering and parental trips to Panama call, running is not my priority. So when always smiley, happy Nina (of Nina's Bistro and Wine Bar fame...) asked me to go with her on Tuesday morning, I stepped to the challenge.

7:00 a.m. is an interesting time at the YMCA. Mostly old chicks in large bathing suits. The occasional young professional getting sweaty before work. But the relief of leaving work at night and thinking "I should go for a run..." and then realizing... "Ooo. Wait... I've already been for a run..." was phenomenal.

In other news, I'm offish detoxing Bert. The laser pointer has become the cat equivalent of crack, and I can no longer enable his addiction. Catnip is one thing, but laser crack is unacceptable in the Library Lady household.

And the countdown begins...

Today is Ash Wednesday, and for us Catholics in the bunch (holla!) we know this means the start of Lent, and for me, the start of no chips, popcorn (movie or otherwise), and a general attempt to be a nicer, better person.

This year, I've copied Poomobile and ordered 100 bracelets from the Complaint Free World campaign, which ironically arrived today. The whole idea began with a minister in the U.S. who challenged his community to a month of no complaining--no whines or grumbles or negativity. And the idea took off! The bracelet is to act as a reminder to you of how much/little you complain. When you catch your self in a complaint, you move the bracelet from one wrist to the other (which I'm assuming for me will actually cause carpal tunnel, because I sometimes feel weighed down by my negativity.)

Eventually, you'll recognize how much you're complaining, and make a more conscious effort to focus on the positive. Which is the challenge I'm going to extend to my coworkers. I'm also going to add in a change box, and every time I complain I'll try dropping a dime or nickle into the box to see how much I generate for charity. All in all, coupled with an overall lack of chips and popcorn, I should come out of Lent a more positive (broke, skinnier) me.

So today is day one. No complaining. Especially in blog posts.

No pet peeves during Lent.
No lists of things that bug me.
No mention of silly coworkers or irrational customers.

Think I can do it? Anyone want to try it with me? I'm raising money for the United Way

Side note: NO, you don't have to be Catholic. NO, you don't have to be religious. Sheesh. I'm not going all "Catholic" on your @ss. There will be no religious posts, or biblical references. Accepting the baby Jesus as your Lord and Saviour is not a requirement here at Bread and Jam (but being a nice person is... And that means you Innapropriate Lurker!)

*shifty eyes*

The Oscars, but not really...

In honour of the Oscars, without having to actually watch the Oscars, Orange and I rented The Changeling last night.

So what did I think of Angelina's Academy nominated performance? Orange captured it best:

"What? That's it? Way too long. And Tomb Raider was so much better. Two words: T n' A."

Family Day 2009

Ahhh. Sweet refuge.

Family Day long weekend was spent en la cabaña. Orange and I did the 2 1/2 hour drive up North after work on Friday, and although "rustic" is a slight understatement, the weekend was totally fantastic and well worth the effort.

The traffic coming through T.O. was redonk, but my singing along to crappy Top 40 hits kept us moving and really made the ride fly by *snort* Orange forgot his boots, so an emergency stop at Marks Work Warehouse was scheduled, where he bought himself the largest pair of Sorels on the face of the earth. I heart (and slightly covet) his Sorels.

After a quick Happy Meal, we made the rest of the trip under the cover of night, arriving to find the driveway impassible. So it was a 100 meter hike up the snow covered path carrying coolers, gear, and food. Ehn. Although no one broke a leg, more than one person stumbled and a few curse words were bellowed into the night.

The cottage is lovely... Lovelier still in the summer when there's running water and the blazing sun. The cottage is sweet in the winter, although toilets are not an option, and the only heat to be had is that which comes from the wood stove. So it took an hour or so for me to be able to take my mitts off... And then my toque... And then my jacket... And then hey! It's warm! The toilets were never actually activated, but the beautiful thing about Northern Ontario is that no one is actually in Northern Ontario after Labour Day. So tra la... Everywhere was my toilet.

Saturday was spent snoozing, eating, snoozing, and watching 40 Year-Old Virgin on satellite. We eventually got motivated to do something active, and Orange tracked down a KOA with cross country skiing. Although the day was crisp and clear and warmer than it's been all winter, not another skier was to be seen, so we geared ourselves up with rentals and hit the trails.

Note: Cross country skiing is not as easy as it looks.

An hour later, we'd had enough of the sun and the so-called "exercise" and we returned to the cabin for cheesies and beer. Sweet, sweet cheesies and beer.

It was difficult to get motivated on Sunday to get up and packing for home. It was another beautiful morning, and we spent an hour or so traipsing around the lake, spotting animal tracks, listening to the ice crack under us (!!!) and surveying the damage done by two gigantic felled trees. Looks like he will be making another trip up before spring thaw for some serious lumber jacking.

He promised to wear a plaid shirt and eat Raisin Bran, though, so I'm totally game for another road trip... If he can stand my Top 40 singing...

Attention all readers:

I'm in need of a good "Adventurous Life" book. I'd prefer fiction, but I'd take non-fiction, too. Feel free to interpret the theme for yourself. I've already got A Country Called Home, by Kim Barnes, but I need another title. I'd prefer something recent, as well.

It's for our Beans and Books program where we invite the public to hear us book talk several books on a theme while they enjoy coffee and biscuits.

Thank you!

3 reasons to eat Pants' baby... Exhibit C:

Tummy time...

And because I couldn't stop squeezing him, and snacking on his cheeks, and smelling him, and making him smile, and waiting to hear what noise he would make next, Connor:

3 reasons to eat Pants' baby... Exhibit B:

From Pants:

"When she's super hungry she does this thing where she opens her mouth super wide, like a baby bird, and she vibrates with excitement. Like we've been starving her. This is us trying to capture that..."

Stay tuned for reason C...

3 reasons to eat Pants' baby... Exhibit A:

Stay tuned for reasons B & C.

Psst...

... I won the award!

Well, tied with KW, but regardless...

I won.

Hee!

Oh kitty... I lub you.

My cat likes to lie on the living room table and stretch his toes. While he's staring at me. Staring at me, flexing his toes. Occasionally he'll mew, but only a little wee one, as if he's saying "Yup. That was a good stretch. Did you see those toes? Bet you've never seen toes as sweet as those, eh? Tell 'ya what... Wait 5 minutes and I'll stretch 'em again, just for you."

My cat also likes to touch the TV screen when it's on, which often causes a shock. So he mews again. And then he touches it. Shock. Mew. Touch. Shock. Mew. Repeat.

My cat likes to eat, but he doesn't care to stand up much. So he often lays down to have his kibble. He'll lay in front of his food bowl with his face in the dish.

Kitty likes to carry his toys in his mouth. Especially bird on a stick, which is (aptly named) a bird attached to a stick. But the stick is also about the same size as the kitty, which means he has to lift his head while walking with B.O.A.S. Which means he can't see while he's walking. Which means he often trips and falls = funny.

Kitty likes to spread himself out on the bathmat, pressed against the tub, under the shower curtain while I'm showering. He's hoping to catch some of the water droplets that often run off the side. This usually results in a serious drenching when I finish my shower, pull back the curtain, and get out of the tub. There's only so much bathmat to be shared between girl and cat, and I have to ring my hair out somewhere, right? You'd think he'd learn.

My kitty is defs cheaper than cable, and is seriously way more entertaining.

I'm addicted to online dominoes.

Thank you, Bek.

As mentioned, one of the Australian girls I travelled through Ireland with sent me her fav TV shows by airmail. While I only knew her a week, Beks is defs a kindred spirit. I can't remember the last time someone made me laugh like that. And she managed to talk me off the ledge that night we got lost in Killarney, and I was running on 3 hours sleep over two days, not to mention nursing a serious hangover that many pints of Guinness wasn't helping.

And with Monday night telly being as about as @ssy as it can get, I took my post-swim couch ride to watch a few episodes of the original Kath and Kim.

It's like the time I was introduced to Absolutely Fabulous.

Does it get any better than this?!

Yaris needs a new "front bumper assy" (whatever that is)

Little Y and I spent the morning zipping around town getting damage quotes for the scuffle he was in last Sunday.

Conclusion: much like the inside-outside car wash, auto body shops are not used to seeing "the women folk" (as Fingers so eloquently phrased it).

In all, although there wasn't much damage to Little Y, the damage that was caused basically covered one side of the car. Unfort for Bad-Driver-Dude, he's going to have to cough up $2600 for Yaris' spa treatment. While I feel bad for the guy, I can't help hoping that I get something fun as a rental!

"To Grandmother's house we go..."

Little Y and I drove to KW for a visit with Grandmama yesterday. I try and go for dinner every other Wednesday, but was put off last week because of the snow.

Now, keep in mind that although Grandmama is as sharp as a tack at the ripe age of 89, and although she's great company, pours a stiff G&T, and can tell a joke better than anyone I know, she has very limited vision. So when her back is turned, I often toss the fruit and mouldy bread she has sitting on her counters. Needless to say, this gives me cautionary confidence in what we actually eat those Wednesday nights.

Last night we had beef stew and homemade biscuits. After I'd tucked into my portion (and I always try and eat as much as I can because she's so cute and loves to spend the day cooking for our meal together), she tells me the funny "beef stew story".

Last week, when she was expecting me, she put the stew together and put it in the oven to heat. She put it on a baking tray, worried it would boil over. She pulled it out mid-day to stir, and pulled the baking tray out with the oven rack. When she pushed it back in, she pushed the baking tray in, not the oven rack, so the entire pot emptied into the bottom of the oven.

But don't worry! With what she could see, she scooped the pile up out of the oven, and stuck it right back into the pot. Then I called to say I couldn't get to KW because of the snow, so she took the stew out of the oven, froze it, and that's what we ate for dinner last night.

Ew.

I got an Air Mail package!

Guess what was inside?

If I could legally marry a TV show, it would be this one...

... So if you're not already watching it, just get on that, okay? And do it, like, yesterday. For reals. And then thank me, like I thank the sweet baby J. And Jeremy D.

p.s. This sh*t breaks me. Seriously. Just read the bottom caption... And where can I get one of these outfits for Bert?

I'm done.

Yaris was t-boned yesterday by some fool pulling out of his driveway. I couldn't stop because of the slippery roads, so I brake... Slide... Lay on the horn... And yet still, he continues out of his drive, watching me the entire time, and slams into dearest Little Y.

This makes it offish:

I am officially over winter.

I don't want to think about it anymore. Do you hear me?! I'M SICK OF WINTER!

I'm sick of shoveling out my car; of wearing boots; of having wet pant legs; of dealing with dry skin; of scraping my windows; of slow traffic; of snuffly noses; of getting stuck in snow banks and having to reverse/drive/reverse/drive until I can get out; of not being able to run; of hearing my brakes make that crunch-grind sound as I slide towards an intersection; of sweaters; of the heat in my apartment; of static; of running out of windshield washer fluid; of not being able to get to my BBQ because the snow has piled up inside my patio and I don't have a shovel to make a path.

I'm sick of it.

Go. AWAY.

Now.

p.s. I'm offish in a bad mood, arriving late to work because once again, my car was stuck and I had to accost some old lady to lend me a shovel, and because EVERYONE is driving as slow as poured molasses.

I heart Airstreams

Pet Peeve #4587

People who claim their dog is a "breed".

A Multipoo, Peekasso, Puggle, Yorkipoo, Labradoodle... These are not breeds, so don't try telling me they are. You don't see me walking around talking about Bert being a Blite, do you?

LL: "Oh yes. Nice to meet you. And this is Bert. He's a Blite."
You: "What's a Blite?"
LL: "It's a highly superior breed of cat. It's a combination of a black cat and a white cat. A Blite."

Let me lay it out for you, okay?

Dog A humped Dog B in the dog park, resulting in quasi-cute puppies, and greedy owners. Said owners sat around their houses and thought, "Hmm... Well our dog is a Cocker Spaniel, and their dog is a Poodle... So why not combine the two?" Enter crazy people looking to fork over thousands of dollars on ridiculous looking dogs. And voila! Such is born the Cockapoo.

Yesterday someone told me they owned two Shegles, "a breed of Sheep Dogs and Beagles." B*tch please. You own two mutts.

Galen Weston is a fox

Ordinarily, I'm against No Frills grocery stores. And for many reasons:

1. Although they have 14 different kinds of cheese, they never have the cheese I want. They have marble, and mild, and shredded mozzarella, and light medium... But not old cheddar. I can buy three packages of Cheese Stings for $2.99, but nary a block of old to be seen.

2. No Frills is home to the world's worst cart drivers. You know who you are. You're the same people who can't decide which way to go in a crowd--"Do I want to go this way? Yeah... Oops, wait no, I think I wanted to go left. Wait! Yes, left... No. No, it was right... I wanted to go right. Oh, wait. You know what? I think I'll just stop here in the middle of this crowd, blocking the only path through the mob, and think about it..." These are the same people who park their carts in the middle of the row, slowly meander the aisles, and stop to check out the shelves with their carts turned sideways so no one can get through.

3. No one needs 14,000 cans of Pork Beans.

4. I don't steal shopping carts, and rarely carry coins (I save 'em for laundry). So I'm generally sh*t out of luck when I need a basket at No Frills.

That said, in an effort to follow my New Year's Resolutions I'm trying to be more financially responsible. So last night I ignorez-vous'd my Fo'Tinos, and hit up the local No Frills.

The savings are redonk.

Thus, I'm a convert. I bought pitas that will go stale in three days (I'll just put 'em in the fridge...), President's Choice Vanilla Yogurt (instead of my Silhouette), lean ground beef (instead of extra lean), whole wheat Saltines (instead of Stone Wheat Thins), and 26 rolls (2 bonus rolls!!!) of toilet paper. I don't have storage for the paper, but I'll stick it under the bed until I can think of something to do with it. At $3.99, I couldn't pass it up, right?

Swimming, et al.

Fingers started me on a new swimming regime in training for my June Try-a-Tri. And I don't use the word "regime" lightly. She has me on a tight leash, and I'm working my buns off in that pool every Monday. Last night we swam a pyramid working our way up to 200 meters (eight lengths) in two minutes or less. In all, we swam about 1.75km in 45 minutes.

Side note: My cat is quickly eating me out of house and home. And when there was no milk in the fridge this morning for his daily fix, he backed me into a corner and assaulted me with his pillow paws and tiny nubbin teeth.

In other news, I've calmed down from yesterday--thank you to BG for his advice.

I am slowly going crazy, 1-2-3-4-5-6 switch...

How do you deal with a situation that's gotten so bad you literally have no idea what you can do to make it any better? How do you interact with someone who is so rigid and unapproachable you can't even begin to fathom talking to them? What do you do when you feel totally and completely backed against the wall? How do you move past the anger and frustration you feel at the inflexibility and selfishness, so you can begin to compromise with someone who has no interest in anything but themselves and their priorities?

I feel like I'm in Heidi's class all over again, and everything I say is followed by a "Yeah, but..."

Some random things:

1. The muscly armed landlord boy was over last night and will be fixing the heat ASAP. He walked in the front door and said "WOW! It's hot in here!" So that's a plus. No more having to stand in front of the fan for a cool down in between make-up applications and blow drying my hair.

2. I made flax muffins last night with cinnamon and cranberries. Super yum, and full of nature's laxative. If it hadn't been 10:30, I would have brought a few over to Fingers and left them in her doorway, just like she always does for me with her baking. I'll make a mental note to do that tonight.

3. I'm getting my hair cut tonight. Which meant I had to dye it again, because I looked like a skunk and was worried the hairdresser lady would judge me. And I hate the "Oh... She box-dyes" look I get from the other salon women. I feel the shame... I go to the box... (p.s. name that movie?)

4. I need a coffee. Perhaps I'll go French Vanilla?

5. That's it.

Because I'm a proud Auntie and I want to show off and he's damn cute...

"Hermit crabs are wh*res" (BSB, 2009).

I'd like to thank Paul Wemple for an amazing New Years (regardless of the overall lack of drugs and firearms, as per his detailed cabin instructions...) The "Old Peterson Place" was everything we wanted it to be, complete with a sketchy heating system; odd selections of canned food, VHS tapes, and hair pieces; and the even odder collection of Omen-esque antique wheelchairs. The highlight of the weekend was defs the evening four of us hit the town in Sarah Jane's children's Christmas sweaters circa 1985. Although we managed to avoid taking our own picture, more than one group of party-goers stopped us for a family photo. BSB busted out his best dance moves that night, including what he likes to call his "yeah Orange, you want to f*ck me later" face.

Thank you to everyone for making the trip such a hit, especially Fingers and BSB for all the planning and yummies, and to Free Samples (even though she got a bit drunk and started hitting on her besty's husband...)

Side note: What's the deal with ski resorts being multi level? And I'm not talking two or three floors, I'm taking we parked on the third level of the parking lot, bought our lift tickets on the first level of the resort, purchased our coffees on the second floor, and used the bathroom on the basement level, not to mention the stairs that lead down to the first run and chairlift. Walking in ski boots is hardly an easy thing to do, let alone 4 dozen steep sets carrying heavy duty skis and poles! I realize snowboarders are better equipped and demand as much of the resort as we skiers, but these places were built back in the 1970s and 80s when skiing was all about giant constrictive boots! What were they thinking?

Regardless of the GTs had away, I'm happy to be back in my strawberry pajamas, snuggled down on my couch with my Sex and the City episodes (Christmas gift from Beef) and my kitty. I know Bert is pleased to be home again--being at mother's was exciting but exhausting, and it was stressful sharing Fluff with another kitty. I hope you were all good little peeps on the big 2009. And here's to another year of blogging and ridiculousness!

New Years 2008

It's time once again for New Year's resolutions, and I'm determined to actually keep mine this year!

I remember as a kid, my Aunt Wendy was the guardian of resolutions. We would record them on paper and store them in a jar and she'd deliver them the following year so we could check to see if we'd stuck any of 'em out. Mine, of course, were always filled with good Catholic guilt: be nicer to my sister (*snort*), share, etc. I'm not sure if I'm just more cynical or more selfish now, but this year's resolutions are more personal and less confessional:

1. Floss.
2. Get myself more financially stable, i.e. actually pay attention to my student loan statements and stop using the bank machines that charge me $1.75 to withdraw cash.
3. Be a positive person. Sometimes I feel weighed down by my negativity, and it's an icky feeling.
4. Do the Guelph Try-a-Tri.
5. Pop my RRSP cherry.
6. Be greener.
7. Push myself to do something I otherwise would not do.
8. Volunteer more.
9. Broaden my musical interests.

Anyone want to volunteer some resolutions? We can store them in a Bread and Jam jar and take a page from Sleeves' book--look back on them December 31st, 2009 and see how we did?

Otherwise, a happy and safe new year to all my Peeps. Woo to the hoo. Cheers. Tra la. Etc.

Pet Peeve #1762

When a cashier returns your change to you with the bill on the bottom and the change on top, especially when you're struggling with a coffee or food or bags or some other such thing. The change should clearly go in the palm of the hand first, followed by the bills, making the entire hand to wallet transfer more fluid and accessible.

So just do eet. Okay?

Christmas Extravaganza!

Le sigh. Christmas has once again come and gone. Twas a whirlwind, complete with Santy Claus, babies, old friends, new friends, and more goodies than you can shake a stick at.

Bert and I celebrated our faces off--I, indulging in any sweet treat that came my way, and he, chasing birds from one window to the next at mom's house. Bert and Goose have apparently become besties. This puts me in third place behind beloved Fluff and his new kitty palsie. I have pictures... Will post as soon as I can.

No drams to report. Am wearing my new sweater to work today. Fingers crossed the tie I bought dad is a lucky one.

Next up: New Years in E-town with Fingers, BSB, Poomobile, BG, Orange, and others. Fingers found us a wicked amazing deal so we've rented a chalet for 5 days. All signs point to this being an amazing trip, starting with the fact we originally rented a trailer until the guy upgraded us to his own personal historical farmhouse. Not to mention the directional map he drew us so to find the place... My fav part is either the US boarder warning, or the wildlife overview:

Some things you have time to think about when Christmas Eve is not really Christmas Eve...

1) Charlotte Church, although a lovely girl, gives me a bit of the heebie-jeebies. She suffers from what I like to call "Dakota Fanning Syndrome", i.e. talking and acting well beyond her 14 years.

2) Although I still dearly love my home, it doesn't feel the same as it used to. And that's the first time I've felt this way. Perhaps it's because Christmas is delayed, and we're all trying desperately not to think of other families snug in their beds, visions of sugar plums dancing in their heads? But part of me thinks it has something to do with the fact Beef is not in the twin bed next to me, and there's now a cradle in her place. A most favorite replacement, of course! Don't get me wrong! But I think I'll take tonight to offish mourn the end of what used to be... And then I'll eat her share of the BBQ chips...

3) Baby Jesus made (one of) my holiday wishes come true... He brought the rain and made it easier for us "street parkers" to find available spots. However, this also means the roads are relatively snow free, which eliminates any excuse I might find not to run. The three million macaroons I've consumed in the last week have finally reared their ugly head.

4) Christmas Eve is a really long night when it's not really Christmas Eve.

5) Will anyone really notice if I open just one present?

6) Yes, they will.

7) Bert likes the taste of pine needles.

8) Really? Just one? Ya think?

9) I can't do it. Ever since that year mom and dad were out and Beef and I unwrapped all our presents and wrapped them back up again, I haven't had the heart to peek. But I do remember Beef got a see-through telephone, and a really sweet Coconut Joe tracksuit. Dear me... Do you remember Coconut Joe?

10) Last year at this time I was gearing up for Cuba with Dark Horse and Susie. While I'll miss the sunshine and Phase Ten competitions (or lack there of *snort*) I will not miss the ants in my bed, nor the Vodka Sodas.

Christmas comes but once a year...

Although not technically my Christmas Eve, it's everyone else's... So... This one goes out to Fingers, who is offish a PEng; Mr. and Mrs. Beef, who have given me my chubby bubby; Susie, on the birth of her... *cough*; Belly, who looked like a rock star last night; Hurr_ah and PP who are in love; Pants, who is brave enough to host a family Christmas (gluten free styles!); Poo and BG, who are snug in their new home; FS who is the prettiest hobo you ever did see; and to me, 'cause I'm awesome.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYBODY!

Fluff

Bert has a fluff that he loves best. His bestie, if you will. I think he might even like it better than me. I have no idea where he got it, and I would otherwise consider it to be garbage if he wasn't so fixated on it, carrying it around in his mouth from one room to the next. It's a tiny scrap of white faux fur, and he can't live without it.

Case in point, yesterday I made the bed and as per usual, Bert and Fluff had to be in the bed while I was attempting my chore. Both got made into it. And while Bert made it out from the sheets safe and sound, Fluff did not. So he wandered from room to room making the most horrible crying sound, as if he was in serious physical distress, until eventually it got so irritating I took the bed apart and dug out Fluff from the bottom of the pillow topper.

He started purring and puffing as soon as he saw what I was holding.

I've been reduced to second best in my own house. Le sigh.

Do you have a favorite Christmas song?

Because I've decided that "Here Comes Santa Claus" by Gene Autry is my #1 favorite non-religious Christmas song. If Yaris had a theme for the yule season, it would be this song. Every time it comes on the radio, we bop along together down North Shore Boulevard or wherever it is we are, belting out the lyrics.

You seriously can't help but smile, right?

Side note: I think Yaris needs a big red bow for his grill.

Santy Clause Time

Tonight after regular obsessive compulsive activities, Bert and I put together our "12 Days of Christmas" wreath and watched Christmas cartoons (The Grinch Who Stole Christmas, and Frosty). So now together with my tiny tree (complete with paper decorations and hand painted Bert name ornament), two stockings, advent calendar, and new wreath, Bert says we're set for Santa.

Anyone want to volunteer what's #1 on their Christmas list?

The Inside-Outside

Some people are cranky I'm not posting as often as I used to...

Muchas apologies, peeps. The stomach flu and certain other "opportunities" have kept me otherwise absent from dearest Bread and Jam. But I promise to kick my butters into high gear for the yule season.

But while we're all making complaints: Some people should comment more... Then other people will know when some people are enjoying the literary repartee.

So let's talk about the inside-outside car wash.

Both Yaris and I enjoy a good inside-outside. We try and go twice a year. He gets all puffy and smells like pineapple, and I have the added joy of a clean car. And while there are few things in my life I can control, I take great pleasure in mastering the mess that accumulates around me. There's nothing like an inside-outside for $15 that gets a motor a-runnin.

That said, the inside-outside is definitely a man's place. While I don't like the idea of designating certain places "men's" or "women's", the inside-outside car wash is defs a man's place. Much like the feminine hygiene aisle at Shoppers is very much a women's place.

1) The inside-outside car men (and I say men, because I've never seen a woman working there), are salt of the earth. I'm sure they're very nice boys, but their leering makes me quasi-uncomfortables. Especially towards the end when you have to stand outside and watch them wipe down the inside of your car... Ehn.

Maybe this goes back to the days of the Human Sea Cucumber who once regaled me with tales of the City crews he worked with, who were quite possibly the most foul mouthed individuals on the planet. To this day, I slouch in my seat when I drive past a paving crew for fear of what dirty thoughts I KNOW are going through their heads... And for Pete's sake, it's not just me... From what I'm told, a monkey driving by could generate the same raunchiness.

2) The noise. 'Tis a loud place. And loud places = men's places.

3) Those scary octopus tentacle things that do the actually cleaning. When I was a kid I used to cry in the back seat and hide my face from the scary octopus tentacle things. Maybe that's why I choose to get out of the car for an inside-outside so I don't have to relieve the horror... THE HORROR... of the scary octopus tentacle things.

4) The Sunshine Girl is always posted somewhere in plain view.

So in all, for these reasons, regardless of how much I enjoy it, I will limit my inside-outside to twice a year (once when Hurr_ah came for a visit and Yaris and I wanted to look pretty for her, and once for the Christmas holiday's... Because it's a fancy time, and Orange gave us a new "Give'er" bumper sticker that needs to be applied to a clean, dry surface.)

I'm finally getting into the Christmas spirit...

• 105.7 is all Christmas tunes, all the time, and I rock out every commute.
• There's snow on the ground.
• Someone *coughOrangecough* bought me a mini pine tree and I made tiny paper balls and foil stars for it.
• I purchased my first three gifts.
• 7:00 is Christmas special time on the CBC (television, not radio...)
• We had a Christmas themed bake sale for UNICEF at work.
• Mum put up our Christmas tree and nativity sets (we have two, but she combines them in one manager, which makes things a bit crowded in and around the donkey and wise men, not to mention the egos between the two wee Jesus')
• HGTV is advertising their Christmas craft and home decorating special for Sunday.

Hurrah for Christmas. Hurrah for babies at Christmas. Hurrah for new kitties in front of fireplaces for Christmas. Hurrah for thinking about making someone else happy at Christmas.

Hurrah.

"Chestnuts roasting on an open fire..."

Why is this only a treat for children aged 2-92? What about 93 year-olds? I'm sure if someone offered her one, GT would love a nice soft hot chestnut. Hmm? She has all of her own teeth and drinks beer out of a bottle. And what goes best with beer? Nuts. Yeah, that's right.

What about my 96 year-old Aunt Isobel--who incidentally can play the harmonica and sent Beef and I kazoos one Christmas with a piece of music enclosed so we could start up a band... She would be all over hot chestnuts. She'd go to town on hot chestnuts. And I'm sure her 97 year-old progressive bridge partner would love to share them with her.

If you ask me, Nat King Cole is an exclusive d*ck.

"Mommy, why does Frosty smell funny?"

I had this whole post written and ready to publish, and Blogger crashed.

So now I'm p*ssed.

Don't expect another post.

BG says I'm boring for not posting, so here's a post:

The heat is once again pulsating through my apartment, making it virtually unbearable for Bert and I. This means I'm usually sweating as I leave the house in the morning, which also usually means I'm leaving without a coat on, because the idea of another layer is sickening. I then get outside to my car, and my teeth are chattering because I've got a cold sweat.

Lovely.

I think it's time I get the muscley armed Landlord boy to fix it.

p.s. Today is C-day for Connor... Keep on truckin' little dude! 'Tis for the best... However uncomfortables it makes me to think about it...

I say "Buffalo" you say "Bills"! Buffalo! Bills! Buffalo! Bills!

Does a repeat-after-me song ever get old?

Yes. Yes it does. And I speak from experience, because Fingers, BSB, Orange, and I were up at dawn's crack to attend Sunday's NFL game: Buffalo Bills vs. the Sanfrancisco 49'ers. It was my first experience at such an event, and I think I can safely say I had no idea what I was in for (however many times I may have watchedVarsity Blues.)

To start, there's the drive down to the border. Traffic was bonker doodles with crazy Bills fans--honking, signs, flags, etc. We were across the line and out of the icy grip of the power hungry Border Guard within 45 minutes, parked and ready to tailgate in another 45.

And tailgate we did! Imagine it... 4 West-Ed sized parking lots full of people, campers, and vehicles drinking and cooking various types of meat at 8:00 in the morning. More zubaz than the eye can see. And to be fair, 'twas cold in Buffalo, so even we were dressed for the weather in snow pants and ski hats, but no one needs a one piece florescent orange camouflage jumpsuit with matching boots, let alone the 40 or so grown men (and women!) we counted sporting them!

And remember: this is a team for whom the #1 most frequently asked question is "Are you allowed to get married at the Ralph Wilson stadium?"

Then there are the fires. People build fires in charcoal pits, garbage cans, and directly onto the asphalt. They burn dressers, folding camp chairs, and sweaters (yes, sweaters). They cook things over them, use them for warmth, and play games like everyone's favorite "Lets See What Else Will Burn!" Not surprisingly, the air is ripe with the distinctive tang of both lighter fluid and chemically treated wood.

Game time: 1:00. We start the long trek at 12:30 or so. Everyone carries a beer right up to the gate, possibly stuffing a few travellers down the inside pant leg. We watched a man on parade, proudly rocking his Bills zubaz, unconscious to the fact they'd fallen down around his ankles mid-stride. We were separated into girls and boys for the security clearance/full-body frisk. We removed our hats for the Color Guard. p.s. Who are the Color Guard exactly?

Inside, the stadium was smaller than I anticipated, having spent so much time at Ivor Wynne this summer. But that doesn't make it any less entertaining. The big screen was straight ahead so we got prime vantage points for the much anticipated Fries vs. Snackwich vs. Big Mac race, in which more than one fan was anxiously screaming "FRIIIIIIES!" (sadly, Fries came in last, but he put up a good race. Although I don't know who would bet on a trans fatty starch when there's a healthy alternative in the mix?)

Speaking of losing, so too did the Bills, escorting themselves out of the playoffs. The kicker missed two important field goals, one from the 10 yard line, so no doubt he'll end up in someone's trunk later this week.

The ride home was redonk, taking close to three hours. But Fingers was a super trooper and got us all there safe and sound, despite the torrential sleet, ride program, and silly parking lot drivers.

What a flippin' experience.