My apartment smells of rich mahogany...

I'm kind of a big deal. People know me.

I had an appointment with Cogeco Cable tonight to do a "piece" on Betty Blogger for their FYI segment. If you're wondering what the fark an 'FYI segment' is, think the TV guide channel and the interviews that take place in between weather, traffic, and life insurance advertisements. My interview was about 2 minutes long, and featured me and FYI Lady sitting at a fake coffee table, with fake coffee mugs and fake pomegranates (wtf?), while a repeating tape of city buses on main street played behind us (in a fake windowpane, of course...)

And this wasn't my first run at stardom, either. This was my 2nd FYI segment.

Yes. My 2nd.

So I was ready for the spotlight. I knew where to find the Green Room (don't be fooled by the name... it wasn't green, and there was no rider, unless you count the instant coffee and water cooler) and I was comfortable chillaxing and mingling with the other FYI-ers: a dentist, a volunteer from next Saturday's "fine art" art show, and a local politician.

Yup. Big time.

*pats self on back*

While waiting for fame, I was desperate for something to read. And besides back issues of Ontario Broadcast, I was tapped out. So I rooted through the bag of discards in my trunk and pinched one from the pile ready to send to Pants. And let me tell you, this sh*t was gold: Last Fling by Alison Page. The synopsis from one particular Amazon reviewer is as follows:

"Megan goes to the beach on spring break hoping to find a thrilling romance. But the only guy she seems to spend any kind of quality time with is her hometown friend, Tom Hooper. He's cute and sweet and they have a lot in common, but Megan has known him so long that she doesn't realize what other, impartial girls can see--Tom is a major catch. Tom likes Megan, but he is insecure because he knows that she is too blind to notice him as boyfriend material. Will Megan realize that true love is right under her nose?"

This reviewer gives Last Fling 4 stars out of 5. Not so much for me. But it did the job while waiting for my time to shine.

In celebration of my found fame I bought myself some corn on the cob and did it up BBQ styles while Bert heavy breathed at me through the screen door. We talked about my celebrity status and whether I should get my 8"x10" head shots in glossy or mat. He discussed his plans to bedazzle his catnip cardinal with Swarovski Crystals with my soon-to-be Hollywood money. I told him he was being ridiculous. He said I was neglecting his needs. I told him to grow up. He sat with his back to me.

I apologized for letting the fame go to my head, and we agreed to stay humble.

Needless to say, stardom has been moved to the back burner while I focus on re-building our relationship. He's so moody. In the meantime, I'm determined to get my hands on the two precursor books in my Spring Break series: Road Trip and Beach Boys. I'll keep you posted on Megan and Tom's relationship status.

Slippery surface to paw ratio

My new favorite thing is a good celery boat.

I take a nice crisp stick-o-celery, layer it with P.B. and PC original granola, and eat it aside a big glass of milk. Perfection. Last night after the bi-weekly apartment cleaning, I had four celery boats for dinner.

Yummers.

Speaking of apartment cleaning, I took away the carpet in the hallway because it was starting to look nasty and ragged. This puts a serious cramp in Bert's foil ball-ing and general cardio workout. His slippery surface to paw ratio is way up and he doesn't quite know how to stop once he's half way down the hall. This morning he slid into the door twice, got disorientated, and jumped into the tub while the shower was running.

Needless to say, he spent the rest of the morning with his back to me.

Le sigh.

Ew.

Have you seen THIS?

I don't even know what to say. Except that I thought that child on the left was photo shopped, because her head looks disgustingly too small for her body?

Is it just me? Nah, I don't think it's just me... I think most will agree this is gross on so many levels.

So. Many. Levels.

In the words of Lainey, "Yay for child stars!"

I'm going to put this out there:

This season's Bachelorette is bunk.

I don't watch the show, but it's on when I get home from Ultimate Frisbee and I happened to catch the always intense Rose Ceremony last night while eating my beans and brown bread.

That said, I think the show is doing wonders for the faux beard.

"What's a faux beard", you ask?

Well...

*puts on glasses and adjusts lab coat*

A faux beard is the kind of beard boys grow when they say they aren't growing a beard, but rather they 'just got lazy'. Reality is such that keeping the faux beard in its natural state requires upkeep and trimming. Greg, for example, sports a sophisticated faux beard. Adam also has a faux beard. And Kiptyn has perhaps the best working example of the FB.

Side note: David is totally bizarre and defs into some redonk drugs. Maybe glue. I don't know. I don't think he's picky.

Bert and I discussed the results and we decided not to continue watching the show. He thinks Jaun is in it for the wrong reasons and reminded me of my commitment to cancel cable so he wouldn't have to suffer through such trash. I told him to stop riding my @ss. He told me to grow up. I told him I didn't appreciate his attitude. He sat with his back to me, and wouldn't let me squeeze his paws. I apologized. We snuggled. He purred.

I hate it when we fight.

You mean I have to go back?

Mini breaks, no matter how mini, are always a good idea.

Orange and I motored up north on Saturday. Just for the night. But the break was so necessary and so worthwhile, I can't tell you how much I enjoyed it.

It rained, it was cold, there was hail. We cleaned, we burnt our dinner, and I feel asleep before the campfire. There was bad traffic on the way up, there was bad traffic on the way home, and the entire event was saddled with two family functions, both of which we were late getting to, which of course stressed both of us out.

But the cottage is beautiful. And the cottage is quiet. And the cottage is in the middle of nowhere, down a nowhere road. And as much as I love him, there's no Bert meowing at the bedroom door, no buses rattling my windows, and no neighbors gearing up their trance music at 4:00 a.m. There are no phones to answer or computers to check or work we can do anything about.

A boat ride in the rain, filling jerry cans with gasoline, raking leaves, splitting wood, folding laundry, siphoning grey water from a dishwasher... I take pleasure in tasks that in a city would otherwise cause me grief.

In trade, I get the smell of wood smoke in my hair, the sound of loons at night, acorns in my pocket, sun on my cheeks, s'mores, boardgames, and memories.

One night is not enough. One night is a tease.

One night makes me dream of hot summers and sleep-ins and no plans whatsoever. One night makes me think I'm more of a country bumpkin than a city dweller. One night makes me realize how long the weekday can seem.

One night makes me realize how lucky I am someone would share something like this with me.

And I do realize I'm lucky. Because I am.

So if you're reading this, Orange... Thank you.

Ho hum

Why don't I own a home in the Caribbean? I don't understand. I have all the credentials: I tan well, I enjoy the heat, I like Samba, I'm not allergic to shellfish, turquoise is my favorite color, and I don't like socks. What more can I do? I work and work and yet still, no lanai.

*sigh*

TV Crack

It's someone's birthday today, but I'm not pointing Fingers...

*giggle*

In other news, apparently all the creativity kegs have been tapped, so to speak, because someone in LA has given Carla Collins her own reality show, Carlawood. While disastrous for the planet at large, it adds fuel to the already raging fire that is my decision to cancel cable. In the last week or so, I've managed to sit through the season finale of A Shot at Love with Tilla Tequila, portions of an 18 Kids and Counting marathon, and an episode of RuPaul's Drag Race...

I'm 'b*tch please-ing' myself right now. I'm punching my own face. Am I drunk? No. Not unless chocolate milk and Sleepy Time tea are now being sold at the LCBO (Pants, that's Ontario speak for Liquor Control Bureau of Ontario--think 'Liquor Barn'.)

*sigh*

I'm just lazy. I turn the boob tube on, and Bert settles in for a purr and a paw squeeze, and the next thing you know it's 11:20 pm and I'm glued to some horrible toddler pageant show on TLC.

I'm a monster.

Someone, help me. Please. Cut the cord. Literally. I can't do it.

But I will.

But maybe after the summer? So You Think You Can Dance and Big Brother look really good...

And finally, a Friday Funny to brighten your day, courtesy of our pals over at Fail:

I love receiving mail in any form, as you all know.

I once had a pen pal, and that was nice for the whole two weeks or so we exchanged letters. Until she got lazy. But I'm not naming names (Poomobile).

Pants and I haven't seen each other in going on three plus years, but we send daily emails back and forth, mostly about her ridiculous baby and my ridiculous life. She'll randomly send me packages in the mail filled with calendars of hot priests (no, that's not a type) and sock monkey magnets. It's nice to know she's on the other end.

Orange likes to send me engineering-type movies through email. Mostly stories of drilling gone wrong, resulting in gigantic gas line explosions or lakes being sucked down into salt mines. I think he's trying to make sure I'm putting health and safety first in the workplace, but I don't do much heavy drilling at the library. I watch them anyway and we talk about them, and he uses big science words to describe the geological processes, and I mostly just nod and say "amazing". I like these conversations best.

Free Samples sends lots-o-emails. Mostly over the course of one day, and then none for days on end. But I can always tell they're from her because her religion forbids her use of punctuation, resulting in some gigantic sentences.

Sleeves is good with the email, usually ending her story with a warm and fuzzy salutation like, "I think you're nice." Brings me back to elementary school when your secret buddy would leave little folded notes in your desk next to your eraser and printing pencil.

Lucky sends cards. They're always sealed with a paw.

Bert sends foil balls.

Grandma sends birthday cards, but she never signs them because she likes to think that we can reuse them. She also lines her baking pans with butter wrappers instead of greasing them, and saves every elastic band she's ever received. I get weekly emails from her, too, mostly in 72 point font detailing the size of her tomatoes and the deals she gets from Dollerama.

As of late, my favorite emails are from Beef. What's not to love about this shizzle:



The last one is my favorite. I think someone's kinda proud of his teeth...

Odds and ends...

Last night after scrubbing my wee apartment top to bottom and sitting down with a pot of mint tea, I bawled my eyes out through The Biggest Loser finale. Redonk. I'm such a spazz. But for shizzle, that show is super inspiring. A 63 year-old man lost 47% of his weight?! Amazing.

And I think Bob Green and Ryan Seacrest would make a handsome couple.

Speaking of couples, the much older Upstairs Lady and her new beau woke me up yesterday morning. You can imagine how. The disturbance was brief (*giggle*) but nonetheless.

Walking and Talking

Fingers and I went a'walking last night, and we got to a'talking.

Talkin' about jobs.

We've both worked pretty hard to get to where we are, and we both like to think of ourselves as successful at what we do. And I have many friends who are in the same boat.

But there's something in me, and I think in many of us starting out in our careers, that keeps pushing me to apply for bigger things. For some reason I can't relax and enjoy where I am. What is that? Why can't I sit still for 1, 2, 5 years and get really good at what I do? I thrive in my nesting and routine, and yet for some reason this is the one venue where all the other life rules I set for myself are thrown aside.

Is it because I worry they'll forget me? Is it because I don't want to appear lazy or uninterested? Is it because I want to get as much in as I can before I slow down entirely to do "girly things" like *gasp* have babies?

Is it money?

Maybe Big Guy shouldn't try so hard, hmm?

I'm just saying.

Maybe if he didn't try so hard everyone would have had a swing, hmm?

I'm just saying.

I'm just saying.

I would have liked a swing.

Happy Cinco de Mayo, Peeps

In honor of the Mexican army's unlikely defeat of French forces at the Battle of Puebla, a clip from one of my top five movies of all time, Three Amigos. There are few films I laugh at each and every time I see them. This happens to be one of them. It's a toss up for favorite scene, so I'll give you both. Enjoy!

'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.