Summer GTs

I was going through my camera tonight, and rediscovered pictures from the summer. It feels like a lifetime ago! May 24, girls weekend, Labour day... Le sigh.

Some of the goodies:

Memories of a beautiful day, a 60km Bike Race, numbness from the waist down, coming close to losing control of my bodily functions, and crying through the last 5km. Would you believe I've had nightmares of this bike race? 'Tis true. Hopefully Paris-Ancaster 2010 will see me break the 4.5 hour mark *blush*


Mid-day patio drinks in T.O. with Poomobile and Free Samples. Yummers. Is there anything better than shopping and lunch? Someday I'll be retired and I'll spend afternoons with my ladies "lunching". But girls, why didn't someone tell me my bangs looked uber greasy? Hmm?


Beach volleyball, backyard BBQs, "Average Sized Men" (and maybe one too many banana drinks for Big Guy...?)

Winning big ($2.40) at the Dog Races. Could I be any more excited? Could it have been any hotter? Could it have been anymore fun?


Floating meat... Fresh, hot, hand delivered floating meat, to boot! Who she's delivering it too, I'm not quite sure. But she was bound and determined to egg-beater her way over there!

Paddle boating with Cowtown Heather. I'm in clear violation of the boating laws... Note the beer in the cup holder... Meh.

Orange being mistaken for a flower... Again... W00t w00t! Can you see the Segwun in the background!?

Sunset in Port Carling... Taken from another patio... After patio beers... And fries (eeee... oh but they taste so good!)

Family portrait. Minus Bert. But plus my rock awesome slippers, purchased from the alwasy fantastic Stedman's V&S.

Thanks for the good summer, peeps.

And he's a parent?

This is one of those few instances where the unfortunate minority ruin it for the well intentioned majority.

This morning on my drive into work, I passed a man "doubling" on his bike with his young son (maybe 5... 6 years old?) along one of the busiest roads in the Hammer (buses, trucks, and an insane amount of cross-city traffic.) For those unfamiliar with doubling, this is the process whereby the bike driver (in this case, the father) sits on the bike seat and the "doubler" (the child) sits on the cross bar. It not only looks but feels awkward, because the driver has to pedal around the body of the doubler. We did it a lot in elementary school when you wanted to get somewhere fast with a friend.

I have no problem "sharing the road" (as the latest environmental campaign requests), but I will not share the road with @ssholes like this. I won't share the road with bikers who bust through stop signs or red lights. I won't share the road with bikers who ride the road and hope the curb onto the sidewalk when it's convenient for them. Because if I collide with you when you breeze through a traffic signal it's MY fault.

And p.s. grow up and wear a helmet, for farks sake. If it's law I wear a seat belt, it should be law you wear a helmet. Because when you choose to ignore the rules of the road and I smush you in my sewing-machine-on-wheels, it'll be you going through my windshield, not me.

D*ck.

Dear Nestle:

Having spent the past twenty minutes aimlessly navigating your newly revamped yet ironically annoying website for a comment form, I have decided to abandon the idea and will try emailing you instead. Perhaps you would be so kind as to pass this on to your colleagues in the Smartie department by means of smoke signal, carrier pigeon or ouija board.

As I'm writing this e-mail, an individually sized box of so called "Smarties" sits in front of me, open, and yet disturbingly full. It would seem you've not only spent obscene amounts of money redesigning your website, but you've decided to "touch up" your product as well.

Let me preface by saying that I am a huge fan of the original Smartie product--your chocolate, your sweet candy coating, you clever yet effective early-1990s marketing campaign, and the always amusing bi-product of the infamous red Smartie: the Smartie lipstick applique.

That being said, while I have always been excited to "eat my red ones last", it would seem the product that currently sits before me consists of 12 failed medical experiments. Am I to understand you've added flavourings to your Smarties? Purple Smarties now taste like the unpleasant-in-any-circumstance-let-alone-in-a-Halloween-treat CK One; the orange like indelible marker; the yellow like Tide detergent. Although not a scientist, and as I always eat my Smarties in colour order, I have no idea if the other colours carry the same foul flavour, although the numbers (three out of eight) support the inevitable.

What I suggest is this. After replying to this email with worthless assurances that the matter was sufficiently researched via focus groups, targeted market research, and client input, why not leave it until the one night of the year (Halloween) when your product will reach the largest number of ideal clientele, and we'll see where your so-called "improvements" have taken you. Children the world over will sift through their candy, sadly passing by your happy blue box looking for anything other than the upsetting perfumed Smartie. Your once addicting popular sweet treat worthy of sucking very slowly and crunching very fast will fall to the bottom of the bag alongside the raisins and mini Eat Mores. Years from now, when our landfills are overflowing with tiny oblate spheroids of red, orange, yellow, green, blue, purple, pink, and brown perhaps you'll realize the magnitude of your horrific error and regret messing with perfection. Shame on you.

So the next time you consider improving your product, I seriously suggest you consult the people at Thrills. Who, you ask? Exactly. Ahh, the popularity of the detergent-flavoured candy.

All my best,
Library Lady

Fingers and I are enrolled in a Boot Camp...

...and we're rounding the start of week two. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday for a month we're up at dawn's crack (literally... 5:30 am) to bust our chops. We lift weights, run obstacle courses, do sit-ups and push-ups, and try our best to emulate the Gladiators (minus the g-strings and nicknames like Blaze, Nitro, and Diamond...)

This honestly couldn't come at a better time, because the temptation of miniature chocolate bars and individually packaged chips is redonk. On Friday night, three otherwise normal adults and I sat around a bar discussing Halloween treats: those worthy of trade, those needing to be smuggled into secret hiding spots, and those you'd take or leave (or would stuff in the freezer for desperate times...)

Top five favs:

1. Individually packaged cheesie bags.
2. Mini Crispy Crunch
3. Mini Crunchy
4. Mini Butterfinger
5. Molasses Halloween candies

Bottom five ew-gross-blech:

1. Rockets
2. Twizzlers/Nibs
3. Individual caramels
4. Those random foam-jelly candies shaped like tiny hamburgers or fries or vampire teeth
5. Candy corn

Take 'em or leave 'em:

1. Mini Kit Kat
2. Mini Coffee Crisp
3. Double Bubble
4. Tootsie Roll
5. Suckers of any kind...

You?

I've always been a terrible sleeper...

I've been having a lot of vivid dreams lately. Don't know what that's all about. I'm talkin' wake-me-up-in-the-middle-of-the-night-because-they-seem-so-real dreams. Recently, I woke up convinced I had H1N1. I was so convinced I had to get up and check the symptoms online to confirm my oncoming cold wasn't swine flu.

Well... *shifty eyes*... It seems I could learn a thing or two about online research, because after a visit to the doctor Monday night following two days of fever, aches, and a smoker's cough, it turns out my initial nocturnal diagnosis was correct: I do in fact have H1N1.

Now, before we go all loco here I should clarify: I have "low grade influenza". This is a fancy way of saying I have a bad flu. I'm not in quarantine, although I've been told to stay away from work until the symptoms (fever and aches) pass. Lets keep our fingers crossed that's Thursday. Although I'm feeling substantially better than I was yesterday, I think another day away is probably best for all involved--I sound A LOT worse than I feel and nobody needs me hacking and sneezing all over the keyboards and phones.

That said, being inside watching TV all day is... boring. Thankfully dearest Beef made a drive-by drop off with Lil C', leaving enough soup, Kleenex, and trashy mags to sink a ship. And Mama LL always knows the right thing to say and do (god bless the microwavable heating bag...) My biggest concern is the possibility of my having infected Orange, Beef, Mom, and Fingers because I've spent a lot of time with all as of late. I've told them all to stock up on vitamin C and to get lots of rest... With a seven day incubation period, I've got all extremities crossed. Pray Shiloh no one else gets sick.

Ugh.
*sniff*
*cough*
Blarg.

My Favorite Memories of Dad--Part III

When we were kids, we used to spend 2-3 weeks in Southampton at a cottage we rented. Dad spent the night before leaving packing the car to the t*ts (pardon my French.) He was a packing genius, completely spatially adept able to cram thousands of pounds of stuff into all spaces left unoccupied by passengers.

Somehow, mid-car ride (the majority of which was spent listening to AM 900 CHML Toronto Blue Jays baseball), we'd stop and pick up a tiny rental TV and VHS player and one of us would sit with it on our laps. Dad used the TV to expose his girls to "good movies" like Mash or Cannonball Run, and the original Around the World in 80 Days. He'd wear track suits and get the fireplace going and sit watching with us toasting marshmallows, showing us that the perfect golden 'mallow came with a combination of patience and rotation.

I vividly remember BBQ-ing with him in the sandy yard. We'd come up early from the beach because "the men" (me being a dude until the age of 13 made me an honorary part of this twosome...) had to heat the charcoal. Dad spent hours trying to lite the damn thing, for which I'm surprised there haven't been serious chemical repercussions (*shifty eyes*). He was always proud of his q-ing skills, and never let the grill defeat him. The smell of a charcoal is still one of my favorite summer scents.

It was also Dad's idea to teach us euchre. His patience was unending, as 9 and 13 year-olds are not the best strategists. I remember the year he taught Beef Rummy 500 and I was so jealous I made mom promise to play 500 games of Crazy 8s. Whether or not he wanted to, he always agreed to play games with us, and that continued to today always humoring me with Phase 10 and Yatzee.

He taught us to windsurf at the cottage, and took us sailing in the neighbor's tiny Laser boat. He taught us badminton and bought kites to fly on the beach. He explained the tides of Lake Huron, and used the flags that lead down the main street to teach us the Provinces, Territories, and capital cities.

He'd walk with us down the boardwalk and buy his daughters french fries. He'd walk us the other way down the boardwalk to buy his daughters ice cream.

And every summer we'd have a day to ourselves. Mom and Beef did girly things, like lunch and shopping, and dad and I went golfing (and he'd let me drive the cart.) We'd pack lunches and he'd have beer and I'd have root beer. In the afternoon we went to the pond and in our rubber boots we'd walk through the marsh and he'd point out the ducks and their eggs, the water spiders, and the tadpoles.

In the evenings we'd watch the sunsets from the boardwalk. After thunderstorms he'd get us up early to see the holes in the sand where the lightning hit. If we couldn't sleep he'd sit on the side of the bed and build you a nest of pillows and blankets and talk you to sleep from the toes up. He was always the first one up, on the deck with is coffee and crossword. And he was usually the last one to bed, with his scotch and sh*tty mystery paperback (broken spine and all...)

He's so vivid in these memories, you'd swear I could reach out and touch him.

25 of Dad's silliest Pet Peeves--Part II

1. The fact you could no longer buy Herring Roe at Denningers.

2. The song Around the World, by Daft Punk.

3. Standing in lines.

4. Pledge breaks on PBS.

5. Much like my mother, the new layout of our neighbourhood grocery store--"why is the toilet paper in the same aisle as the BBQ sauce?" We talked about this on the 13th.

6. Lou Presutti.

7. Expensive things. My grandmother always said "he would drive all over town to save $0.25 on a head of cabbage."

8. Mini vans and subsequently their drivers.

9. "Mr. Sincerity" as he called him, or Joel Matlin and his Alarm Force commercials.

10. Thick spines on books, making them difficult to hold open, leading him to crack the spines, making him one of the best-meaning, worst library customers of all time.

11. Head bands on babies.

12. The song Gift of Finest Wheat in the Catholic Book of Worship.

13. Shoes with stiff backs (which lead him to walk on the backs of most of his shoes, driving my mother loopy... "But they're such nice shooooooes... Why do you have to do thaaaaaaat? Gahd, Peder...")

14. Cheesies (or 'cheese encrusted farts' as he commonly referred to them.)

15. The inability to find a good malted chocolate milkshake anywhere in the city.

16. Adults (or anyone outside of the "baby" age category) who use baby talk.

17. Hard butter.

18. The Buffalonian accent.

19. People who use the emergency room for colds, loose teeth, planters warts, work notes, aches and pains they've had for 8 weeks and then decide at 3:00 in the morning they want them fixed, etc.

20. Channel surfing during commercials.

21. Bob Saget.

22. Pleated pants.

23. Feta cheese.

24. People who take the parking spots in front of your house when you don't own a driveway.

25. Stupidity.

25 things about my Dad--Part I

1. He loved to bake. Especially bread. And he always thought a graham cracker crust would make a nice addition to an apple pie.

2. His favorite movie was A Christmas Carol starring Alastair Sim.

3. When we lived in Nova Scotia back in the 1980s, he was the Halifax coroner.

4. He liked to cut our lawn in geometric patterns, like squares or perfect circles. Much to mother's better judgement.

5. He thought Nigella Lawson was the most beautiful woman on television.

6. If he hadn't emigrated back to Canada with his mother and father, his dream was to be in the British Navy.

7. He liked to watch the planes take off from the airport, and would often take a spot of lunch up to the HIP parking lot to spend the afternoon... watching.

8. When I was in high school, we went to Mount Tremblant over March break. It was so warm that in between the ski lessons we took together, we spent most of our week sitting on the porch of the main chalet sunning our faces and drinking hot chocolate (which he made me order for us in French.)

9. He always ate a peanut butter and jam sandwich after Sunday night roast beef dinner. Usually followed by a bowl of ice cream or cereal.

10. He never liked wearing jeans.

11. One summer when we were in Southampton (where we rented a cottage), we were out for dinner and he saved a toddler from choking on a grilled cheese sandwich.

12. He could play Jeopardy and beat anyone in the room while simultaneously napping on the TV room couch.

13. He wasn't Catholic, but if you had a question about one of the Catholic Saints, Popes, or the Bible, he was your man.

14. He preferred wearing pink Oxford cloth button down shirts.

15. He loathed mini vans, and if he could find a reason to blame one of the world's problems on their existence he would.

16. He often watched CPAC.

17. His favorite food was little sandwiches.

18. He worried people didn't like him.

19. This past February we went skiing in Ellicottville for his birthday and stayed overnight at a Bed and Breakfast in the "family room" and we stayed up late watching The Godfather and eating caramel popcorn and stealing the Hershey kisses from all of the common rooms.

20. If he wanted to take you for ice cream, he'd ask you if you wanted to "Queen the Bean?"

21. He failed grade 13 math and had to repeat the year but was still only 16 when he started at Queens University.

22. If he made something for dinner, he liked to watch you take the first bite and would be nothing short of disappointed if you didn't fuss over how wonderful it tasted.

23. When he was four years-old he declared he wanted to be the King of France and when questioned why, he replied "because when one grows up one gets a family and one doesn't want to work."

24. On Christmas Eve he and I go together to the Farmer's Market and tour the stalls finding just the right fruits (veggies) and sweet treats for stockings, and he always stops to talk to the Jamaican lady who owns one of the stalls whom he once treated in Emergency. And he always gave all his pocket money to whom ever was asking for it out front.

25. He collected marzipan pigs.

Not ready. On many levels.

I'm not ready to do the post I want to post. I'm working up to it. It's going to take awhile, because I want each word to be perfect and each picture to be in place. My spelling needs to be triple checked because otherwise, even from heaven, I'll hear his teasing laugh. He deserves my best, and I'll settle for nothing less.

Until then.

Who knew there were so many sympathy cards in print?

There have been so many sent, it's truly overwhelming. I am touched (not literally) by your kindness and your love. You're all such good people--each encouragement means more than you'll ever know. And of course, you know my thoughts on receiving mail...

But still. It has to be said. I'm amazed at the fact each card is different. I think there's maybe been one duplicate? And that includes the cards mom has received, which are climbing into the hundreds.

That's A LOT of cards.

Lesson for the day? When my library career crumbles, there's money to be made in sympathy cards.

*blows into microphone*

Testing. Testing.

*taps microphone*

Is this thing on?

*ahem*

I have an announcement to make, people. This is big news.

*drum roll*

As of 5:00pm today, I am officially on VAY.CAY.TION.

*excited dance*

While there have been mini breaks here and there, this is the first extended vacation I've had since Ireland near a year ago. Dear me. Does it get any better than this? My plans for the week include: doing nothing, perfecting the art of paint-by-numbers, campfires, s'more making, boat rides, sunning oneself, sleeping, sleeping, sleeping, sleeping, taking pictures of my nephew in his bathing suit (that's not as creepy as it sounds...), making sap boats, getting back on my bike (the first time since the *shudder* 60km bike race), and midnight swimming.

Jamie's cottage might as well be Shangri-La for all I care. Just as long as I'm far, far away from a computer.

*sigh*

And on a completely different note: do people actually buy expensive fabric softeners? 'Cause I don't. I buy whatever is on sale or whatever is No Name. And do people really buy separate detergents for darks and lights? Because again... I don't. I'm going with whatevers on sale or No Name.

*sigh*

I remember in Uni I knew a girl who lurved Shakira. Like, lurved her. She bought clothes because she thought they looked "Shakira-ish". She accessorized her Shakira clothes with Shakira-ish earrings and big blonde hair. And she danced her @ss off to Hips Don't Lie.

At the times I thought it was kinda silly. Shakira? Really?

But.

I'm sorry.

Have you seen THIS video?

Girl's body is sick. I'm more than jealous, I'm green with envy. And regardless of what others may say, I also love the song (the howl is the best part...)

Don't judge. And Amelia? If you're out there? I'm sorry I judged you.

*blush*

No big deal...

... Except it is!

Omg. Last night was the last Ultimate Frisbee game of the season, and my final game as team captain. It's been a scary summer--not knowing if we'd have enough of our 20+ roster to field a team, and worrying people were planning a coup because our record was looking less than stellar.

But all the worrying was for naught because... WE WON!

Well, sort of.

*scuffs toe*

Not a game, per se. But we won the league spirit award, which includes a wall plaque (which I took home with me with plans to hang it from Yaris' rear mirror) and pink, red, and black visors for the team! Three cheers for I'm With Stoopid:

Hip hip hurray!
Hip hip hurray!
Hip hip hurray!

I'm pleased as punch dudes, and proud as a mother hen. Nice work, I'm With Stoopid. Thanks for sticking with BJ and I and seeing it through to the end. You're real chums.

*blush*

p.s. And thank the sweet baby Jesus we finally won something!
p.p.s. Could I look more excited in this picture? Ugh, and I swear I have a wonky eye... *sigh*

Orange, come on down!

For those of you not in the know, Orange bought a house and takes possession Friday.

*hurrah for Orange*

We gots to talking about it last night, and how exciting it is, and "what will you do first?" and "will you paint?" and then the more serious things like being nervous mowing ones lawn and the irrational fear that the house next door is a *gasp* student house, and then of course the always scary topic of paying one's mortgage.

"I'm gonna have to get going on my pumpkin patch so I can a jump on my pumpkin farm" he said. "Think we can grow some of those magic money making pun'kins?"

I said I thought there was more money in Cabbage Patches. "Grow some Cabbage Patch Kids," I said. "Everyone will want one. The next thing you know Angelina Jolie will be at your door looking for one to add to her brood. Hot commodities, those Cabbage Patch Kids. I'll start drafting the adoption papers and coming up with rand-o names like 'Malcolm Shane' and 'Georgia Carmen'. You'll be rich and famous in no time."

He thought about it.

"Yeah..." he said. "Seems like a lot of work. What about meth? Or maybe I'll win both showcases in the showcase showdown."

You're trippin. Stop your trippin.

Pet peeve #864

I find driving behind cars with DVD players or GPS systems seriously distracting. Especially at night when they're all lite up like little glowing billboards. However hard I try, I constantly catch myself watching the teeny-yet-ridiculously-addictive screens of the cars in front of me rather than the road.

Annoying.

Beware

My second year in University I took a Physical Anthropology class. For those unfamiliar with introductory P.A., the class revolved around the various evolutionary stages of man.

Although completely unrelated, at some point in the semester we got to talking about dinosaurs and my professor made the sly remark that evolutionary speaking, whomever or whatever was due to replace the dino (man) was quietly evolving on the sidelines while the dinos stupidly ruled the planet. 'Twas true. We were evolving. From amoeba to fish to reptile to ape, etc. etc. etc. Grossly rough description, but true nonetheless.

Turning the tables back to human evolution, he discreetly reminded us that whomever or whatever was due to replace us was itself evolving, in the present, right now, while we [stupidly rule the planet...]

Kind of creepy, when you really think about it. Somewhere, somehow, something on Earth is planning a coup. They're... *shifty eyes*... Organizing. So I became determined to grasp the upper hand, seeking out my competition for a stand off.

*que Western standoff whistle*

For awhile there I was pretty sure I had it figured out.

Ants.

There are billions of billions of them under our lawns, after all. And we've all seen 'em, crawling out from the sidewalk cracks to silently dismember a blob of gum. Gross.

I'm scared of ants. Truly. I once found an army of the apartment sized ones in the carpet of an apartment I shared with Free Samples. I went ballistic with Fantastic spraying every inch of the 6' x 6' room, placing traps in every corner. I'm surprised I didn't poison dearest FS. Since that episode I've lost faith in the collective power of the little guys, regardless of their creepiness. A bottle of Fantastic shouldn't be that traumatic.

Last weekend, however, I made a breakthrough in my investigation. It came mid-patio beer when what I perceive to be our competition silently approached our table, begging for scraps. Ha! Scraps? I think not. I refuse to help you establish yourself, sir.

The chipmunk.

Wiley, capable hands? Check.
Unassuming looks? Check.
Cardiovascular endurance? Check.
Ability to survive extensive cold and heat? Check.

World dominance? Only a matter of time.

Trust.

Or rather, don't trust. The next time you cast aside your pistachio nut, think carefully. You're empowering our competition.

Let's talk about the ridiculous, shall we?

Ridiculous is:

1. Dogs in purses.
2. Hair weaves on small children.
3. Three patties on a hamburger.
4. The price of a house in Vaughan. I'm sorry, but who wants to pay $300,000+ to live next to Canada's Wonderland?
5. The number of Weight Watchers points in movie theatre popcorn.
6. The cost of office furniture.
7. The amount of hair one cat can lose.
8. The fact Michael Jackson has only just "passed," and there's already a Michael Jackson's Last Days book on the new book truck at work...
9. Paula Dean. Full stop.
10. The newly advertised Domino's Pasta in a Bread Bowl. Who asked for this?

This is war, Peackcok!

In an attempt to do something nice for Far-Away-Orange, I put together a package of goodies and tra la's and general nicey nicey (including a Lotto 649 ticket) and mailed them East, tout de suite (that's Francais for "at once") to Orangey.

Being that Orange was technically supposed to be home on Saturday, and being that I had to wait until Tuesday to find out exactly where he was staying, the package had to be mailed priority mail to make sure it met up with Orange before he boarded the plane to So'Oh. For those of you unfamiliar with the various shipping levels of Canada Post, priority mail is what one might otherwise call the VIP of Canada Post (regular mail, xpress post, and the creme de la creme, priority mail.) I'm guaranteed my package will be received in 2 business days or less = Friday at 5:00.

Needless to say, I paid a hefty chunk to get my goodies to Orange. More than one piggy bank was robbed. But it's worth it. He's Orange, after all... So I mail, and I sit, and I wait. And I talk to Orange and hope the next time he calls he'll say, "Guess what I got today?!"

No such luck.

Now, being that I chose priority mail my goodies came with a tracking number. So I dutifully go online and check the status of my mailing, and according to Canada Post my priority package is still sitting in the post office from which I mailed it.

Hmmm...

I'm told by the nice people on the customer service end of things that my package has "no doubt been mailed and is well on it's way, but being that Orange is stuck in some teeny tiny town, they don't have the materials to scan the package at it's destination."

Hmmm...

So I wait, and I talk to Orange, and there's no hurrah or yay or woo hoo or thank you...

Hmmm...

Finally I break down.

"Don't suppose you've checked with the Concierge today?"
"Yea, all the time, why?"
"Oh. Um. No reason..."
"Okay..."
"Well, um, nothing... came... for you?"
"You mean besides about 100 faxes?"
"Um, yeah. Like, maybe a... package?"
"Wha? No..."

Poo.

Being that it'd been a rough few days, the news that my well intentioned party-in-an-envelope went astray only added to my crustiness. Have you seen that SNL skit for Annuale? Yup. That was me on Friday. So I left work at 5:00 and drove well over the speed limit to the Post Office from whence I mailed my goodies and laid into the poor, well-intentioned Postal Clerk who of course "doesn't handle lost packages... please call the customer service number..."

Which I do. From the Post Office. Waiting 15 minutes listening to public service announcements reminding people to keep their dogs locked up away from mail carriers until "the next available agent could take my call."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear your package wasn't delivered. Let me track it on www.canadapost.com. Do you have the tracking number?"
"Yes. Of course. That's what I've been using to track the package myself."
"Oh, yes, I see that it was mailed Tuesday."
"Uh, yeah. That's why I'm calling you... "
"Oh, yes, I see there's no more information on the movement of your package."
"Uh, yeah. Again, that's why I'm calling you..."
"Well I'm sorry, but we need the package to be lost for a full 24-business hours before we can launch an investigation."

Being that it was Friday, "24-business hours" translates into 5:00 Monday which translates into Tuesday morning, before I can begin the ridiculous process of tracking a tracked package.

*eye roll*

So consider this war, Peacock. I'm going to the mattresses for my goodies. Challenge extended.

*right hook*
*left jab*
*floats like a butterfly, stings like a bee*

And if I don't at the very least get my package back, Canada Post will forever be blamed for my losing the Lotto 649 because I'm sure the winning ticket is in that GD envelope.

'Twas a bad day today...

* ...A bad day.

The kind that starts with an uncomfortable hunt through the closet to find something you don't feel huge in, burnt coffee, and a wicked headache. Follow that up with an emergency run to the grocery store for certain female unmentionables, a shortened lunch, general grumpiness, and too many people asking too many questions. Top it off with no parking in front of the house, an inopportune phone call resulting in an irritating change of plans, and dinner not tasting like you imagined it would.

And for the record, because it has to be said, the whipped cream on the crap sundae is taking off your pants before bed and finding yourself pocked with underwear seam marks. I knew those pants were too tight...

Arg.

In the words of Hurr_ah, "I'm a whole basket of cuddly today". Let's hope for everyone's sake things look up tomorrow. Babysitting my peanut should help.

* Although this picture is not flattering in the slightest, and although it's a few years old taken in the Balkans, directed at Fingers no doubt for annoying me (usually with the whistling...) it perfectly illustrates how irritating today was.

Poor Femmy...

I told Nancy to relax and take a few days for herself, and Femmy agreed with me. After all, she's leaving in 2 weeks and the last thing she needs is to be worrying after her mother! Michael hasn't done anything for her since he was 25, so give him a chance. I wrote Nancy an email that said, "there's this book you should read called Sabbatical 101 and there's an entire chapter written about not taking on extra jobs before your trip." She wrote back, "Oh thank you Ruth, you made me laugh." I was pleased I could cheer her.

But really now, she drove all the way over and picked me up and then turned around and drove back to her house, and Femmy said "Why are you going this way?" and Nancy said, "Because this is the way I know!" She's lived here for 20 years! If you were going to Cambridge you'd take highway 8. But not Nancy. Imagine that...

Poor Lynne's daughter, you know the one in the ballet school, she has a deformed bone in her foot and can't dance. They're at the centre this week teaching a Chinese class... Either Chinese people learning to speak English, or English people learning to speak Chinese. She's such a nice girl. And about her mother-in-law, I said to Lynne, "Lynne, you need to relax and know you're doing the best you can. And it's only 6 months!" I don't envy her, I tell you.

Anyway, I wanted to have Nancy for lunch and not Femmy, because I think Nancy could use the break but I don't know how to call her and suggest she come without Femmy. And Peggy has a gift certificate for Swiss Chalet that she said she'd like to treat me to, which would be lovely. But she's sick now, and I can't call her because she'll think I'm calling to hint that I'd like to go for lunch and Peggy being Peggy she's probably take me out if she was on deaths door, when really all I want to know is if she's feeling better!

...

...

...

Is this conversation confusing to you?

It was for me too. But Gramma gets mad when you ask who Femmy and Nancy are ("What? Oh you remember Femmy! Femmy lived next door to Ursula and Nancy is Femmy's daughter.") So I usually just nod and say things like "Poor so-and-so" and "I agree" and "good advice, Gramma." She likes it best that way.

I've got something you want...

"Clap clap!"

Far away from me...

Orange and I took a whirlwind tour to Brock-apolco this weekend to visit Granny Library Lady in condo-land. We rocked the kite show, talked smoothie makers, got crazy in the sprinklers with a couple of hooligans, and took a couple of "old biddies" (they're descriptive, not mine) to a post-church breakfast. 8 hours of long weekend driving in 24-hours. A lot of driving? Yes. But totally worth it. Granny Library Lady rocks the house with or without chocolate brownies and the world's largest collection of Fisher Price Little People.

Sadly, however, I'm now Orange-less again. He's off saving the planet one marshland at a time.

*sigh*

Lots of time for me to clean out my drawers, I guess? Maybe I'll start that cross stitch I've been thinking about...

Meh.

Poo on cross stitch. I'd rather hold hands.

MSG

I'm frequenting a new movie store. It's actually not new, it's rather old, but I abandoned ship for awhile when the new and shiny Blockbuster dropped into the neighbourhood (that and my sister managed to accrue some serious fines at the little shop and I was scared to show my face for fear they'd take my thumbs...)

But there's a statute of limitations on movie fines, and Orange and I tested the waters some weeks ago. We haven't looked back since.

Some things to note:

1. The place smells like gyro (because of the gyro store next door.)
2. They still rent VHS. Hundreds of them.
3. They sell penny candy.
4. You can buy used movie posters from the old-new movies they once rented and advertised, and they're kept rolled up in a cardboard box next to the door.
5. They have groovy movie categories besides the cliche "drama" and "comedy" including "special interest" and "cult favorites".

The best part? The dude who runs/owns the place is priceless... He's exactly what you want in a corner store movie guy. A long haired emo dude who really couldn't give two craps what you're renting or what you're looking for. He answers your questions and gets your movies together and rings out the receipts, but is otherwise uninterested in everything about you.

"Do you have the new Russell Peter's movie?"
"Last aisle, third shelf down on the right, fifth movie in."
"Thanks..."
*glare*

"Have you seen this?"
"No."

"Thanks very much. This is great!"
"Yup."

He strikes me as someone who ironically wouldn't watch movies either for political reasons or because he's choosing to take a stand against "the machine". He probably prefers to read and talk quietly over double shot espressos about Obama and capitalism and genetically modified foods.

I'm determined to get him to like me. It's weird. Every time I go in I aim to make him smile. So far, zero success. But I'll keep you posted. Perhaps a regular update? My success with the movie store guy? MSG? Gold.

FYI: Event Horizon is some scary sh*t.

Awkward.

Orange and I got into a uncomfortable discussion about cats tonight.

While he's warming to Bertimus Maximus, he has concerns about my level of enthusiasm for all things "kitty". His fears stem from my excitement over the newly advertised Wear Him Off, Keyboard Cat t-shirts (FYI, if you're not familiar with Keyboard Cat, check out my addictions links... Priceless...)

*wanders off to watch the latest Play Him Off, Keyboard Cat videos*

But I digress..

I may also have mentioned my interest in attaining a Kit-Cat clock. For obvious reasons... Namely, monsieur Kit-Cat clock's disturbing likeness to that of monsieur Bert. And while I have no plans to frantically comb eBay or Kijiji for the latest Kit-Cat clock uploads, I'd purchase one at the 400 Market Flea Market if/when we stop there again. He seemed to think my collection of "cat things" was growing, citing my cat magnets, Faux Gary, and Sarajevo tee that may or may not have a cat on it.

He said he was worried I was going to be one of those people who surfed the Internet looking for cute cat pictures (does CuteOverload count?), commenting on cat blogs (I Can Has Cheeseburger and Stuff on my Cat?) and asking other people for cat advice (omg it was one time...)

He considered this.

"What I meant was, as long as it's not a regular thing, it's okay..."
"Is 'daily' too regular?"
"Well, what I mean is, as long as it's not a habit, it's okay..."
"What if I said I once entered Bert in an online cat contest?"

He considered this.

"This is weird..." he said.
"I feel dirty" I said.

We agreed not to talk about my online habits. And I agreed if I purchased my Wear Him Off, Keyboard Cat t-shirt I'd only wear it when he wasn't around.

*pfft*

Prude.

This is seriously something I would consider doing...

How fun are these people? The guy who walks on his hands is by far my favorite. I love his serious expression. Clearly someone dedicated to his craft.

p.s. Is this the largest wedding party every?
p.p.s. I wouldn't use a sh*tty Chris Brown song...

I had dinner with mom and dad last night...

*shakes head*

Dear me. I love them to pieces, but they're too funny for words. The word 'routine' doesn't begin to describe it. It's clockwork...

---

We had BBQ'd hamburgers. I'd say, in nice weather, Dad likes to BBQ at least once a week. We usually have one of three things: hamburgers, steak, or chicken. And every night we BBQ we go through the same routine:

At 5:30, after we've cut up the veg and scooped the coleslaw into something nice, and put the condiments in tiny bowls with little spoons (don't ask...) mom calls up to dad "P, do you want to start the BBQ?" to which dad replies "In a minute."

Dad eventually makes his way down stairs, looks at the hamburgers and reshapes them. Mom says "P, I already did that" to which dad replies "I know that... But that's not how they should be!" to which mom replies "don't forget to flatten them on the grill because Library Lady and I don't like our hamburgers too big" to which dad replies "I know dear..." finishing with an eye roll.

At 5:45 when dad puts the burgers on the grill mom bellows out the door "P, do you want your bun toasted?" (no he doesn't) to which dad replies (surprise surprise) "No thanks." Mom then walks to the kitchen, quickly turning around... "Do you want cheese, P?" (yes he does) to which dad replies "Yes, thank you."

At 5:50 when mom's getting fussy about the corn, because naturally the corn is ready and mom is hungry, she'll bellow out the door again "P, how much longer?" (maybe 5 minutes?) to which dad replies (naturally) "I dunno, four or five minutes?"

At 5:55 mom starts to pace. "How much longer is he going to be?" she asks. "We've had dinner at 6:00 every year of my life. I'd say they're almost ready." And while mom is making her way to the door to yell at dad "How much longer?" she'll note he's already making his way up the stairs.

"Did you flip the foil on the plate so you weren't putting the cooked burgers on the same foil as the raw meat?" to which dad replies "Yes dear..." followed by further eye rolls.

Mom will dish out the burgers. Dad will make chocolate milk. And when we sit down and say grace and dig in, mom will turn to dad and say "Great burgers, P. You did a great job."

And dad will puff up.

---

Love it. They are too good to be true.

Some things I did this weekend:

1. Purchased cat food.
2. Made pita pizzas.
3. Worked.
4. Bought Tootsie Pops en masse.
5. Made a baby giggle.
6. Wished on a star.
7. Drank warm beer.
8. Cuddled. Bert.
9. Binged on breakfast.
10. Went 'antiquing' with me-moms.
11. Played the open house game...
12. Washed umpteen piles of clothes.
13. Walked the stairs. Again. And again. And again.
14. Loafed.
15. Tried to watch Twilight. Ugh.

Wow. This is officially a super, duper, boring post.

My apologies.

*sigh*

Got up super early this morning and did a few rounds of the stairs....

For those of you unfamiliar with my neighborhood, I live in the valley of an escarpment and there are varying sets of stairs across the city to allow pedestrians to easily access what we commonly refer to as "the mountain". I live about six blocks from a set and I like to try and do 'em every once and awhile.

There are 317 stairs in total and I know this because someone has kindly numbered each and every step. This particular set also gradually ascends to about an 80 degree angle, which makes the last 100 steps murder (not to mention the descent, when your legs go all wobbly doodles...)

So there I am at 6:30 am in my sweatpants and my new 20-minute-challenge Running Room hat, making my way up the stairs. It's finally getting hot in the So'oh, so I'm all sticky and sweating my cheeks off (literally...) My t-shirt is sticking to me, and conveniently I've forgotten my Kleenex (Mother Nature hates me this time of year and my allergies are out in full force.)

Needless to say I was a big 'ole hot mess. But I did them. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. Three times quickly. And the best part? I listened to this song the entire way down that last time:

"Jump in the line, rock your body in time..."

Gold.

How many times have I done this at the Post Office? Ridiculous.



"I was here on Wednesday, and there was also a line..."

Awkward is...

... Making a 10:00 pm one-stop-shop at Shoppers Drug Mart, and finding yourself in line behind a teenaged boy buying a pregnancy test.

Eee.

No more counting sheep!

Let's give a big "hey yah!" to Fingers and BSB for delivering my new bed yesterday!

W00t! W00t!

I slept so darn good (how's the for English?) I dreamt through my alarm, and at 8:30 was running around the apartment like a chicken with my head cut off. Bert continued to slumber on the bed, mind you. He gives the whole thing 4, gigantically squishy paws up. I'm pleased I no longer sleep in a crevasse and will ward of scoliosis for the next year or two.

Fingers, BSB: your payment arrives Saturday...

Fine.

I didn't want to play with you anyway.

Poo.

13 strange things you'll see on the way to Ontario cottage country:

1. Multiple wax candle outlets.
2. The 'Dock in a Box' store--did it come before the J.T. and Samburg SNL skit?
3. A line up approximately 1km long outside the Mandarin Chinese buffet restaurant in Barrie.
4. A condemned hotel and joint restaurant with the sign "WARNING: this building is condemned and is being torn down. Stay out." Not so weird? True. But the fact this sign has been there since the early 1970s? Kinda of weird.
5. The Big Curve Farm--home to every imaginable animal on the sun, all of whom are romping together in the same big field.
6. Two giant 24-7 Candy Shoppes.
7. What Orange refers to as the "Dick Boat" store, specializing in oddly named monster boats (like "Rock Hit Ship"... get it?)
8. A burger shop that gets so redonk busy with cottage country traffic they've built a walking overpass across the 400 N to avoid car accidents and traffic jams.
9. A used golf cart outlet.
10. A store specializing in neon plug-in palm trees.
11. The always familiar and exciting Highway Recyclers, which still narrowly manages to avoid spilling out onto the road.
12. Camp Hillbilly, whose 'luxury camp sites' boarder a major highway. Who's staying here?
13. A porn shop.

No, no... I know the word...

Happy Ka-Na-Da Day, peeps!

Small Golf

On Friday night, Poomobile, Big Guy, Orange and I played small golf. "Small golf?" you say. "Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

Small golf is serious miniature golf, sans windmills and banking walls. Small golf takes place on a course that is literally a smaller version of an 18-hole golf course, complete with sand traps, short cut grass, and water. We played it skins-styles, $0.25 per hole.

Big Guy kicked butters, regardless of the trash talk I ladled out earlier in the day. My golf glove did little to improve my game, and neither did the bank shots I hammered over the marshland (much to the course owner's chagrin.) It would appear Big Guy's decision to bring his own club and ball did, however...

What can I say? You can take the windmills out of mini-golf, but you can't take the florescent pink ball out of the girl.

In other news, T-minus 48 hours until vacation time. Dear me... Can it be true?

Poirot

Today is the launch of Summer Reading here at the library. In celebration of the event, we've been asked to dress in theme: "Agent 009". I'm told we're to dress as our favorite detective. Needless to say, there's a plethora of Nancy Drew's on the go, and a handful of Sherlocke Holmes', and one or two Harriet the Spy's.

I've chosen to dress as Hercule Poirot, which entails drawing a moustache on my finger and holding it up to my lip when asked "Who are you supposed to be?" For those of you not subjected to Saturday after Saturday of Mystery Television with your parents, this joke will mean nothing to you. To those of you who were, or perhaps for those who like Edward Gorey, enjoy the flashback!

Blarg.

I'm an emotional train wreck as of late. I'm either super pumped and laughing and excited and positive. Or I'm crying. Or thinking about crying. Or throwing away the Kleenex I used while I was crying.

Honestly. I'm a farking mess.

And don't even say it. Don't even think it. It's not that. There is no "leathery tail" in the works.

*eye roll*

Nothing more to say 'bout that, I guess...

Isn't it funny the routines we keep?

Granted, I'm a nester and I take after my mother which means I have more of a tendency towards routine then one might think humanely possible. But still, I pretty much do the same thing every morning. Not counting those mornings I sleep in (Bert permitting...)

1. Sometime in the night my cat will yowl. I get up. I open the door a crack and keep it ajar with the glass door stop I bought at the Highway Recyclers. No more than a foot, or my bed is flooded with light from the back fire escape. But some semblance of light vs. General Meow is a worthy trade.

2. When my alarm goes off at 7:30 sharp, I not so sharply hit the snooze button and go back to sleep. Thrice. Until I get out of bed, on the right left hand side, at 7:45. I shut off the fan and stumble to the bathroom with my eyes closed, Berty following closely underfoot. Brushing of the teeth, shower, daily upkeep, etc.

3. I head to the kitchen, make up my coffee traveller, stop Bert from scratching the kitchen cabinets with belly rubs. I make him a foil ball, toss it, check his food and water levels, pour myself a half-and-half bowl of Multigrain Cherrios and All Bran with skim milk, and head back to the bedroom.

4. I make my bed. Starting with the left side, plumping the pillows and working the sheets. I smooth the duvet until it obsessively compulsively lies flat on the bed. I'm a big fan of getting into fresh sheets at night, so it's not an option to leave the bed unmade. Even if I'm running late, I'll still make my bed. I'll fluff, I'll straighten, I'll tuck. This is a huge source of comedy for Orange (not that he's been in my apartment in the morning or anything...)

*ahem*

Spoonful of cereal.

5. I pick out my clothes for the day, lay them on my tidy bed, and head back to the bathroom to comb my hair and blow dry. I hit myself with the pretty stick.

Spoonful of cereal.

6. I put on my shirt, go back to the bathroom and apply my deodorant. Nothing worse then realizing at your 11:00 a.m. break that the entire right hand side of your shirt is smeared with white, baby powder scented, Secret Antiperspirant regardless of what the commercials claim.

Spoonful of cereal.
Spoonful of cereal.
Spoonful of cereal.
Drink the milk.

7. Back to the bedroom to put on my pants, socks, shoes, and to make the biggest decision of the day: hair up or down? Up. Then down again. Some mornings I loath my bangs.

8. Stick time with Bert. This involves swinging his newly beloved cardinal on a stick back and forth across the bed while he chases it from side to side making tiny "mew" noises. He eventually drops to his tummy, exhausted from the frantic chasing and a bit dizzy from the back and forth. I snorgle his paws and (of course) straighten the bed.

9. I grab my purse, check for my keys, attach my security pass and name tag, and take my lunch from the fridge (made last night.) I wash my breakfast bowl. I open the reinforced screen window for Berty, pat him on this tum, kiss him goodbye, toss his foil ball so he won't try and escape out the door with me, and head out to Yaris by 8:30 a.m.

10. Unlock Yaris, pull away from the curb, and frantically worry the entire 15 minute drive that I've forgotten to turn off the coffee maker.

Such is the ridiculousness that is my life.

*blush*

Don't judge.

Brought to you by Sister Beef:

Babies Go!

My favorite might be Babies Go Guns n' Roses, Sweet Child of Mine... Or maybe Babies Go Bob Marley, Could You Be Love?

Hmm...

*taps finger to lips*

Or maybe Babies Go Rolling Stones, Harlem Shuffle?

Ooo. So hard to choose... So. Hard. To. Choose.

I couldn't fall asleep last night.

Nothing. Nada. Zip. Nope. Wasn't going to happen. I could feel the familiar panic attack rising inside--beat, beat, beat goes the heart in my chest, like it's about to pop out of me. I finally succumb to taking a Gravol, and drift into drowsy sleep around 2:00 a.m.

4:30 a.m., Bert starts meowing--paw, paw, pawing at the door to be let in. I get up, let him in. He brings his foil ball with him and wants to play. I'm not amused. I try and force him to settle, with pats and scritches but he's not interested. He gets up, comes back with his stick toy. Now I'm the one who's not interested. I boot him out.

5:10 a.m. he starts in at the paw, paw, pawing again. Now I'm cheesed. So I get up and push him away from the door.

5:30 a.m. he's back at it. I let him in, he won't stop meowing, so I smack his bottom. Maybe a bit harder than he would have liked.

I felt horrible.

This goes out to all the mom's out there who I can't even begin to sympathize with. Because one snuglepuss vs. a baby who won't settle is nothing to compare. How you deal with night after night of zero sleep is beyond me. I'm barely functioning today.

Thank the sweet baby Jesus for coffee.

Words can't explain the humongous suckage of THIS. Belch and blarg and ew and poo.

*sigh*

So completely and totally disappointing, because seriously this is a top 5 for me for sure, right up there with Summer Sisters. Even the poster is horrible. They make it look like Nights in Rodanthe or P.S. I Love You or some other sh*t romantic comedy staring Keanu Reeves and some random "I'm-so-tormented-or-I-have-a-fatal-disease-but-don't-worry-I'll-find-my-true-love-in-the-end" actress. And it's not. It's so not. Or at least the book isn't.

I agree with Lainey: they took on too much. They shouldn't have messed with this book.

Ugh.

Outside. All the time.

Saturday I did the annual Bronte run, taking on the 10km challenge, coming in 2nd in my age group and dropping 2 minutes off my time from last year (58:33.) Not bad. Not good either, though.

Sunday was so beautiful the girls and I busted out the clubs for some par 3 action. I golfed a 47 on 9 holes. Not too bad. Really not good either, though.

Monday we gave 'er on the Ultimate Frisbee field, losing to the opposing team 15-3. This time, not so good. But lots of fun, regardless.

Tomorrow I have a birfday date with Manrisa, walking into town for an ice cream cone. No losing here, just all around good times.

9 Things Bertimus Maximus and I don't understand:

1. Why do some houses have carpeted bathrooms? Who chooses this?
2. Is anyone really buying the iPone level ap?
3. Why do they advertise for feminine hygiene products? Their ads aren't going to convince me to switch.
5. Why are some eggs easy to peel and others aren't?
6. Do cats get bored of eating the same thing?
7. Engagement photos. Full stop.
8. The number of people who have asked me this year if the library offers line dancing classes. It's startling.
9. The appeal of omelets: is it the giggly hot pile or the jellied consistency you like best?

How much is too much to pay to board your cat? Has anyone out there done this before?

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.