This is why I'm not an accountant.

I bought THESE boots on a whim a couple of weekends ago from my new favourite hole-in-the-wall shoe store, feeling the need to treat myself to something lavish. I can be what some might call "cheap," especially when it comes to spending a ridiculous amount of money on something that isn't a necessity.

This trait certainly wasn't inherited from my mother, who replaces her throw pillows faster than I can say "gold tassel". Perhaps it comes from my  grandmother, who reuses everything from old pantyhose to butter wrappers, who was once shamed for driving 20 km to save $0.10 on a head of cabbage? Or perhaps a leftover from  my 'nickel and dime' days of University. I can remember being down to my last $20, taking a road trip to the mall with my girlfriends, wandering around thinking "Hmm... Do I want to spend my $20 on this? Or what about this?" and ultimately choosing to leave empty handed (no doubt later p*ssing the cash away on a pitcher of beer...)

Another example of this is my tendency for cheap sunglasses. I continued to covet a pair of Ray Bans for so long, repeatedly convincing myself I simply couldn't spend $150 on something I would inevitably loose or break, until Free Samples eventually broke down (no doubt disgusted by my contrasting thriftiness to her spendthrift) and got them for me as a 3-0 gift.

I have since lost these sunglasses.

While I don't necessarily worry I'll lose these boots, I still have to justify them to myself. My goal is thus to find someway of wearing these boots with as many outfits as humanely possible. It's not enough that I love them to death, and take any excuse to eek out to the basement to casually stroll by my walk-in to catch a glimpse of them in the moonlight. It's not enough that I love them to death, wearing them today and secretly stroking the buttery leather any chance I get. I couldn't possible afford to pass them up if I wear them 3/5 work days, could I?

Ironically, I think I could actually justify spending the money to redesign my wardrobe around these boots.

And this is why I'm not an accountant.

Well, this and my inability to add, multiple, or do long division...

If you're crazy and you know it stomp your feet!

If you don't watch Dexter, you're crazy. Start.

If you haven't bought the Veggie Patch falafel balls from Costco, you're crazy. Do it.

If you're calling the library to find out where you can go to get your umbrella fixed, you're crazy. Stop calling.

My Dad--the end

Since it happened I've had trouble saying the words. Even now, I don't even like the idea of typing them. When I describe it I say things like:

"Since last September..."
"Since my dad..."
"After last Fall..."

The words get stuck in my mouth. I can seriously feel them on my tongue, filling in my cheeks, itching my teeth.

---

I'm at work, and it's around 2:00. I've just come back from lunch, and I'm sitting at my desk checking emails or some other such nonsense. I glance up from my computer and see my sister standing at the reference desk outside the workroom. She looks at me through the window and I give her a toothy smile thinking she's brought my nephew in for a visit. She shakes her head and frowns. My coworker lets her in.

"What is it? Is it Grandma?"
"No," she says.
"Then what is it? Tell me!"

I can't look out that window now and not picture her standing there; see her face, puffy eyed like she's spent the morning in a barn mucking stables, allergic as sh*t to the horses she loved to ride. I can't drive past the road I know he was found on without thinking "this is where he was." Truthfully, I don't even know exactly where he was, choosing not to remember the specifics so I can go on thinking "I wonder if he was here? I hope so, because it's nicer here than over there..."

---

We still have his voice on our answering machine.

It's unnerving to call and have it go to voicemail. When it hits the 5th ring and I know mom's not going to answer because she's out (or more likely because the TV is so flippin' loud she can't hear it... *wink*) there's always that split second when I think "I should hang up" because I don't want to hear him. But like a junky, I always hang onto the line. And I always listen to the entire thing. And I always end up looking for something in that voice... Something that sounds familiar, or comforting, or funny. It's the same message and the same words, but I keep doing the same thing looking for a different reaction.

Hmm... Isn't that the definition of insanity?

---

A few weeks ago I was at my sister's house for dinner flipping through pictures on her camera when I came to one of him with my nephew on his knee. It was a random visit... I "pop in" so to speak (excuse the pun), as he showed up one afternoon looking for a little baby love.

"That one's a video" she said.

Turns out the camera was on video mode and she hadn't realized it. So when she went to take the picture it took a few seconds of film before she stopped it to snap the photo. That junky in me hit play and for those few fleeting moments he was moving and smiling.

I remember last October desperately asking a family friend if they still had those VHS tapes of him skiing, from way back when we were kids and our families used to spend weekends together in Ellicottville. While they promised to look, turns out they had just finished cleaning out those closets and the tapes had been one of the first things to go.

Rumour has it my sister has a handful of videos of him. And even though that junky nags for me to break in to her house like an addict and rummage through the camera and computer for another hit of PJL home movies, I don't want to see them.

Because I like the idea there are still memories of him I have yet to make.

---

365 days ago today my dad died of a massive aortic aneurysm. And I miss him every day. But his being there now makes me less scared about what's to eventually come. And for that I'm grateful.

My Dad--Part IV

365 days ago I was driving home from a week's vacation at the cottage. I called home to let my parents know I was on my way. "Want to come for dinner?" mom asked.

"Heck yes I would!"

I parked in front of their house and tread my way up the walk. I sat in their warm sun room watching mom cook, sharing stories about my week and the last two days spent with my sister and her family. They talked about their weekend in Southampton, and the day spent at a local street festival. I checked my emails, dad watched golf.

We sat down to a huge roast beef dinner--roast, buttered potatoes, candied carrots, Yorkshire pudding, gravy, and fresh baked pie purchased at the street fair. "We were supposed to have Beef Stroganoff" mom said, "but I know you don't like Beef Stroganoff so *sigh* we're having roast beef instead..." While I know the jab is meant in jest (she loves roast beef as much as the rest of us) when she gets up to refill the gravy dad leans across the table and whispers "I hate Beef Stroganoff..." He winks, and we share a secret laugh with mom sighing from the kitchen, "Are you laughing at me? What are you laughing at?"

After pie, I roll out the door to unpack, settle in, and prepare for the next day at work. Mom and dad sit on the front step, dad with a stack of Ritz crackers (required to fill that last little pocket left empty by pudding and pie). "I'm sorry I can't come to your program on Tuesday" dad says... a library event he was originally scheduled to attend. "I'm working the afternoon shift, but I'll be there in spirit!" I hug, and kiss, and leave them smiling on the front steps, turning back to thank them again for a yummy dinner and to tell them one last time I missed them during my week away.

He was wearing plaid shorts, of that I'm sure. But I can't for the life of me remember what colour his shirt was.

Ugh.

Officially on vacation in seven minutes (not that I'm counting or anything...) I'm taking myself as far away from a computer as humanely possible, and couldn't be happier. So long weirdos! So long customers with bizarre behaviour! So long people who stay here far too many hours in the day!

Apologies to all for not updating more frequently. Now that summer is over and summer school has officially come to an end, perhaps I'll be more diligent.

Healing Hugs

Hugs are good for you.

And I'm not just talking the obvious "ooo, this feels nice" goodness, because of course we've all felt that instant *sigh* of relief when you sink into a real solid hug (none of this "fake hug" business my mom sometimes tries to sluff off on me when she's trying to get dinner ready or something...) But I digress..

Seriously, though. It's finally been proven. Apparently a study was released back in 2005 citing that hugs increase oxytocin levels, a "bonding" hormone that reduces blood pressure which in turn cuts the risk of heart disease.

Now this is a study I can get  behind. Because I literally will hug anything if it's standing still long enough (with the exception of our customers...) My mom, Lil' C, Beef, the cat (good Lord, the cat...) Three months into our relationship Orange finally had to ask me why I needed to hug so much.

"I just do," I said. "Hugging is nice."

Hugs feel good. They make you smile. They're comforting. They're soft and warm, and are shared between people who care about each other (you generally aren't hugging if you don't care, right?) Hugs make me feel like a kiddy again, regardless of the tears or the sick or the sad that required the hug in the first place.

**********

There are lots of you out there right now who need real, good hugs. And I really wish I was there to do the hugging. So this video goes out to all those who are reading this, who I'm thinking about, who I'm wishing I could be there to help, and of course hug:



Original Hug Campaign Video

Moving is the worst. But after procrastinating for the last month I seriously needed to man up and get packing. Hence my spending the better portion of tonight sorting though sh*t I dragged home from Edmonton and then bizarrely moved into the apartment... WTF? Why do I still have a sticker book in my possession?!

I'm beyond lucky in that Fingers and BSB are quasi-sort of-kinda moving themselves, so we're jointly renting a truck together on Sunday to do the actually shipping and/or receiving of goodies. Scratch "rent a UHaul" off my to-do list--check! Unfortunately that still leaves me with sorting, filling garbage bags, throwing out, weeding out, boxing up, and shuttling. And it's possible these last six tasks are the worst tasks.

After tonight's escapades and the subsequent hives (from all the dust and cat hair behind the "relocating" furniture...) the idea of spending one of the last glorious summer Saturdays indoors like one of those people on the hoarding shows, shuffling between rooms through my piled belongings, is just plain gross. And I don't have music because I've already packed the radio *sad face*

I'm not all about asking friends for help, either. That's not what this post is about. Please don't think this is my passive aggressive way of asking you to Sherpa my winter clothes Tupperware or church sale paintings. Because I won't help you when you move. Sorry hooker, but that's how I role. Unfortunately, the only other person who potentially benefits from this move (besides myself and Sir Handsome-a-lot, Bert) is away for work (aptly timed...) So it looks like I'm doomed to a weekend of packing tape and newspaper cuts. Aces.

If you have a tiny violin, feel free to play it now.

My Grandmother emails me.

Usually every other day, but occasionally we'll exchange quips back and forth throughout the day if I'm planning a visit in the near future, or more so now with her live-in daughter away on vacation.

Grandma turns 90 on October 1st. 90! This is awesome for many reason:

1. She is three times as old as I am, and perhaps 10 times as forward thinking. While she remains a voting Conservative (I won't hold that against her...) she's more liberal than I am and has no problems telling you/me/the postman what she thinks about a situation. In fact, she's always proclaimed "LL, you can be Catholic, and you can be Liberal... but I won't abide an Argo's fan" (you can take the Rough Riders out of Ottawa but you can't take the Ottawa Rough Riders out of the girl...)
2. Think of the changes she's seen in her life time, would ya? She has memories of being pulled in a horse drawn sleigh with bear skin blankets, and now we're talking touch-down landings on Mars. Amidst all of that she stays current through the CBC (*eye roll*), the newspaper magnified on her crazy CNIB machine, and an active letter writing campaign to admonish bad customer service (she refers to these letters as the "angry housewife strikes again!"
3. She's completely self-sufficient, makes a mean chicken enchilada, has read and remembers the plot lines for more books thank I can imagine, "scoots" up to the mall to buy breaded shrimp for dinner and visit Dollerama ("It's ruined me for every other store, LL!"), and forwards jokes like they're going out of style.

Recently I emailed to ask after her lunch date with one of her besty's, Peggy. Peggy lives a few blocks over with her son and his Newfoundland Retriever, Kiwi. I gather from past conversations with Grandma that Peggy is a neat freak (a trait Grandma can't really get behind... *shifty eyes*), and works herself to the bone cleaning up after Kiwi, the dog.

"Peggy had to cancel," she reported. "She's been unwell for a few days, down with back pain. Although somehow she still found time to clean up after the dog. What a sl*t!"

*jaw drops*
*shock*

I did a quick double take and re-read the email to see if I'd missed something. Nope. That's right. My Grandmother just referred to her best friend as a "slut". I had to pull an Inigo Montoya and tell her "I do not think that means what you think it means..." While I get that in the 50's a sl*t might be someone slovenly, today's meaning has an entirely different connotation and one Peggy probably wouldn't take kindly to.

Hey Premier McGuinty! Hear this: my Grandma might oppose regulated mixed martial arts in Ontario (and is probably formatting a letter against it as we speak...) but damn hooker! Don't even think about cancelling lunch with her! Or else!

What a hoot.

Pictures from Florida

Orange enjoying an orange Bahamarita at Bahama Breeze... Brain freeze much?

Fingers polishing off a fish bowl at Iguana Mia... And she was the DD!

Airboat Tours in the Everglades.

Doing the Miami dog races in style. Lost $25 and no sign of Dexter anywhere, but damn, it was fun!

Poo sittin' pretty at Miami Ink. You could only wear a dress like this in Florida...

Big Guy ruining what would have been an awesome picture at South Beach. He will argue he improved the scenery...

The picture that nearly cost me my life... Well worth it.

We played trivia at the condo community centre... The youngest by 30 years and we were the only table that came with our own beer cooler. We lost dismally, winning the "booby prize" but what can you expect when the categories included "medications" and "big band music"?

Coolest mini golf EVER!

Please note this is a buffet KFC... Who asked for this?! Ew...

The beautiful Floridian beach... I'm sweating just looking at it...

This is going to sound super duper cheesy, but...

... It's really easy to throw the word "love" around, huh?

I love cheesies. I love Modern Family. I love working up a good sweat during a run. I love euchre. I love flip flops. I love log fires in the winter. I love the sun on my face. I love chocolate milk, and my slippers, and skinny dipping, and hugging people, and, and, and...

I think I love a lot of things.

The contestants on The Bachelorette claim to love each other. So do those dips on the e-Harmony commercials I'm so convinced by. Who knows whether or not they do.

But all of these things probably aren't really love, per se. I like cheesies... a lot... I like seeing that big orange bag in my cupboard... Little orange smiles, I call 'em. But do I love them? Nah. Not really. And Modern Family is a really good show, but I won't cry when/if it comes to an end. Chocolate milk, slippers, euchre, flip flops... Heck, even hugs! I could do without all of these things if I had to. Meh. They're just things.

......................................

My parents would have been married for 38 years today. 38 years! While never part and partial to the inner workings of their marriage (beyond sitting on the landing listening to their conversations when they thought I was upstairs in my room) I'm sure they had their ups and downs. Heck, I've only been at Orange's for a week or so and he's already saying "there will be days I really, really bug you... And there will be days where you really, really bug me..." And I'm sure, after nearly four decades, there were days they really, really bugged each other.

But for 38 years they shared a double bed, never wanting to upgrade to a queen or king that might give them more room because it would move them further apart. They took vacations together, alone, twice a year. They split the paper in the morning. They cuddled on the couch at night. They had dates on Fridays.

For 38 years.

Man. Talk about love...

If I hear that Rihanna and Eminem song one more time I'm going to punch something...

I'm back from vacation, y'all!

While there are no pictures to post as of yet (I left my connector cord at the apartment...) there are lots of goodies to share, not the least of which is a story involving Fingers leaving me for dead in the middle of the Everglades with a Panther hot on my tail. And I have the bruises to prove it!

All in all, it was a great trip, although I can now safely say that Florida in August is a hot mess of humidity and mosquitoes. Until such time as I get my act together, these tid bits will have to do: 

1. Never try and move a dresser past 7:00 at night on the Sunday after you've returned from holidays. That is, if you value your relationship more than a walk in closet... 

2. Speaking of walk in closets, I feel like one of those people on MTV Cribs with a big glorious room to put all their shoes and sweaters and jewlery out on display... "What should I wear today? Oh I don't know... Why don't I take a spin around my new glorious walk in closet and think about it!" Sorry Orange, but the sweat, tears, and your curse words were well worth it to this gal *doe eyed smile* 

3. There's nothing like the purr of a cat to tell you you've been missed. 

4. I don't know what those rap guys are talking about... Hennessy is not all it's cracked up to be. But then, nothing you can buy at CostCo by the case is really all it's cracked up to be... With the exception of bulk Kettle Corn... 

5. My mom and Beef are away at a cottage and I miss them like I miss wearing flip flops in the winter. And that's a lot! 

6. I bought this t-shirt while I was away and part of me isn't ashamed. What's wrong with me?!

When did he get so big?

 I don't like it.

Wait! I mean... I do like it! Don't get me wrong... I love that he can talk to me know, and ask me "what'cha doin?" and on Sunday at dinner I'm pretty sure he said my name. But I also don't like it, you know?

I mean, what happened to these days?

 

 

I miss my lil' potato, you know?

Pecan Pie Pressure

Orange has been working on a job site that neighbours a well known large-scale Canadian bakery. His role is begin the detoxification of the neighbouring site so to ensure the bakery's water supply doesn't wind up laced with TCE. Nice, huh? Just your average day in the life of Captain Planet...

Last Saturday, Orange worked overtime. And on a number of occasions the bakery supervisor--a slight, white-haired moustached man--wandered out to the lot, flustered and anxious. Hair net and lab coat clad, supervisor man was very stressed and felt the need to vent his frustrations to Orange:

It would seem the bakery has been asked by a supplier to "clean up" their pecan pie... "The pecans aren't crunchy enough and the crust isn't crusty enough." So the bakery boys were working overtime. First they tried adding super shine mix to the pecans to increase the crunch, but batch number one was a dud. "Tasted like plastic." Then they tried "impregnating" (his word, not mine...) the crust with liquid CO2 to increase the freezing speed of the crust froze off the assembly line. Also a dud. By mid afternoon the bakery supervisor was at his wits end, claiming the problem lay in his convection test kitchen vs. the conveyor product kitchen and not in the crunchy or the crusty.

At 3:00 when Orange was punching out of his own job site, the air overwhelmingly smelled of pie and bakery supervisor man was sending the boys on a grocery run for more butter and eggs. Where do you suppose you buy butter by the truck load?

I'd like to learn Kung Fu.

Karate sounds so lame in comparison...

"I'm a karate black belt..."

"I'm a Kung Fu master..."

See? Sh*t yea.

Mega drama at Orange's house tonight.

He called about 5:30 while I was in the midst of digging out my cleats and pulling on my jersey for Ultimate Frisbee, and hung up shortly after so I could zoom out to Fingers' house. Not two minutes later he called back: 

Orange (panicked): "Uh, yeah we got a situation over here..."
Library Lady: "What's wrong buddy?! Are you okay?"
Orange: "Uh, we have a baby raccoon trapped in the green bin, and he is less than pleased with me!"
Library Lady: "I'm on it!"

I zoomed over to the house and found Orange stationed at the back gate, baby raccoon still snug as a smelly, garbage covered bug. Literally. After wheeling the bin into the middle of the lawn (insert angry tiny baby raccoon scratching and howling), I slowly laid it on the ground and pulled open the lid.

And then I ran like the dickens. Both of us did.

We hid in the sun room overlooking the backyard, and waited, watching. We could certainly smell the little dude (ew), but we couldn't see him. Slowly but surely we crept back out the door and sidled up to the side of the bin. Yup. He was still there. Staring at us with his beady little eyes from the bottom of the box. Like it's my fault he was entranced by the smell of rotting coffee grinds, banana peels, stale pita wraps, and an old pizza slice.

That's when Orange let me in on the latest ravine drama: I guess the raccoon parents recently split and are now sleeping in different trees. He assumes there is residual anger weighing on our baby raccoon, and his acting out (partying in our green bin) was no doubt a result of his broken home life. So we took pity on the little dude, and rather than shake him out of the bin so we could Javex the sh*t out of it, we let him be, scared as he was, assuming come dark he'd probably scurry his way home.

Let's hope he gets the counseling he needs. Because the next time he ends up dumping in my green bin he's going to have some explaining to do...

THIS SH*T makes my life.

Random thoughts:

I watched a documentary on heavy metal last night. Not mercury, iron, or aluminum, but Slip Knot, Twisted Sister, and Black Sabbath. Totally insightful. While I have no plans of rushing out to devil horn at the next Alice in Chains concert, I'll look with less scorn at the leather clad dude who spends his days at the library rocking out and chatting online with fellow metal heads. A little less...

---

As I spend more time at Orange's house, I spend less time running. Sad but true. Ultimate Frisbee has been my weekly exercise for the last couple of weeks. And while my new UF team and the position I play within it kicks butters, my legs still crave the pavement. Last Sunday I watched a jogger blast pass me at a red light in 30 degree heat, and from the comfort of my air conditioned Yaris I actually looked at him with jealousy. Gross. Baby Shiloh brought the smite last night when I went for a long overdue run along my favorite waterfront trail and I literally gagged at the end of it. Not cool, Shiloh. Not cool.

---

Bert and I are back at the apartment after the aforementioned couple of weeks in and out of Orange's place. With only a month left before the "corporate merger" of the accumulated households, he'd made himself quite comfortable with his swish new digs. I'd be lying if I said he was less than displeased with me for bringing him back to chez Library Lady. While I'll try not to take his snubbing personally, you know I'll still coax him out from under the bed with a spoon full of vanilla yogurt.

---

A Babybelle can make or break a lunch.

---

Mom and I are heading up North this weekend for a mini-break. Pictures and commentary to come. Stay tuned.

Camping 2010

The girls and I had 4th annual mini-break last weekend. You may recall past adventures camping in the wilds of Bon Echo, and last year's Florida extravaganza, complete with Muumuus, dog races, et al. This year's time frame was slightly tighter, so we decided to stick closer to home to make things easier for all involved, reserving a campsite at the Elora Gorge.

Totally fun and exciting, right?

Sunshine and sandy beaches? Check.
An exciting day tubing down the gorge? Check.
S'mores and beer and pita pizzas roasted over the fire? Check.
Good friends and good gossip? Check.

We loaded Poo's car to the t*ts (literally... I sat with my feet on two bags of wood with a bag full of breakfast food on my lap, while Free Samples and Fingers squished awkwardly in the back in and amongst the air mattresses, coolers, and camp chairs and Poo trying desperately to drive slowly, what with her inability to see out any of the windows...). We hit the road Friday after work and with a little luck, we'd be snug in our campsite singing Kumbaya around a raging blaze by 9:00.

What could go wrong?

How about:

1. A total alcohol ban at the park.
2. A dangerously high water level resulting in the cancellation of all tubing and tubing-related activities. 
3. $8 for a bag of beyond dry kindling, and the Conservation Authority's monopoly on area firewood, at that.
4. A campsite on a round-about. Literally... Cars could pass on all sides, not to mention our view of the highway from the flap of the tent.
5. A suspicious poo smell...
6. A forgotten pump for the air mattresses.
7. A hole in one said air mattress.
8. One long walk in inappropriate footwear and subsequent blisters (serves me right, I suppose...?)
9. Deer flies and mosquitoes the size of llamas.

But my girls are not those who take challenges lying down (well, maybe Free Samples *wink*) so after laughing to the point of tears and potential pant wetting, we made the most of our weekend, got ourselves set right and comfortable, and enjoyed every second of our "camping extravaganza"...

*shifty eyes*

What could possibly top this next year, ladies?

'Tis a rainy Friday.

But THIS kind of makes my life right now.

"Swimming, swimming, in the swimming pool!"

In an attempt to beat the heat last night, Fingers and I tried to take a swim at the local pool. Orange lives around the corner from an Olympic sized in-ground that has in the past looked crystal blue and lovely. For some reason it had been drained yesterday... Why? I'm not sure. So we retraced our tracks and took our butters to the next closest location.

The check-in girl gave us the family rate ($7.00). Because we're a family, obviously. After changing into our suits, hosing down in the cold, gross shower room, we made our way onto the deck to join the pool party. I wore my flip-flops for as long as possible on deck because of my fear of hair off the head and in general bare feet in public spaces.

Ahh, relief! It's amazing what a little chlorine can do for the soul. Fingers dove right in while I inched my way into the turquoise abyss, savouring the dip of each toe into the cool water.

As expected, no sooner had I submerged myself when the thunder clapped and the teenage twat sitting in the lifeguard stand blew his whistle for us to evacuate the area. Huddled under the enclosure with the rest of the pool-goers waiting out the storm, Fingers looked over to ask if I wanted to stay the 30 minute minimum wait when the little girl standing next to me began to howl to get back in the pool. "No. I don't" I replied. I'm pretty sure only dogs and bees could hear her screams, she was that high pitched in her wailing. We couldn't even be bothered to dress ourselves, just got back into our car soaking wet to take our "family rate" @sses back to the hot house.

Zut alors!

Could I be more boring?

Come summertime, when once again the monkey on my back rears it's ugly head, I find I have no energy for a) computers and b) blogging when I get home from "the shop", so to speak. Sitting pants-less on the couch watching PVR'd episodes of The Hills, however, has real appeal. Hence my lack of posts.

Updates:

• For the doubters in the crowd, my garden is still scrumptious. It's odd looking, in that the perennials haven't quite filled out as I hoped and this torrential heat has the lilly's flopping and the daisy's praying to the sweet baby Shiloh for rain, but it's a happy garden all the same. Orange and I tried to transplant ferns from the cottage to his house this weekend but by the time we'd made our way through four hours of wall-to-wall cottage country traffic poor Monsieur Fern was deader than dead.
• Speaking of the cottage, I am officially a pack mule. I spent Canada Day working as a Sherpa schlepping old deck wood from the cottage to the dock one floor joist/board at a time and stacking it neatly in a burn pile, whilst Orange diligently cut and screwed his way to an (almost complete) new deck off the bunk house. Being the anal librarian type, I of course then organized my piles from large wood to small wood and burned them accordingly... Stop laughing.
• This weekend is our annual girl's camping trip. You may remember said extravaganza's from 2007 and  2008, and then of course the infamous 2009 Florida trip. I'm super pumped. There's something to be said for a vacation without boys...
• Lunchtime isn't as exciting when you don't have a good lunch to look forward to.

And that's it.

This was the kind of weekend I had...

Deep thoughts by Orange:

"I worry about the day they decide to stop making sour soothers. What are we going to do? I mean, look at Bonkers. Everyone loved Bonkers. And then one day, poof! They're gone. Now you go those classic candy stores on Highway 400 and they're selling you expensive retro Bonkers. But we all know they aren't really Bonkers. They're just repackaged Fruit'ella [sic]...


Why are you looking at me like that? I'm trying to be serious. Sh*t."

It's hot and sticky and I my underpants are sticking to my butt.

TMI? Perhaps. But the windows are open and the sun is setting, and the most glorious breeze is coming through the open window, so there's hope for me yet. I've never had air conditioning, nor has it ever appealed. I leave the frozen hallways of work and crank open my car windows letting the wind whip my hair and stick to my lip balm. I like being hot, and thus the process of cooling down. Far easier to do than to warm up, I say. I'm contemplating serving myself the Creemore chilling in the fridge and chasing it with oat cookies.Why not? I went for a run and hobbled up the Dundurn stairs... I deserve it. It was that foolish errand, after all, that got me into this butt-sticking, humid mess in the first place.

Bert, on the other hand, lays sprawled on the wood floor dreaming of a sunroom and his place on the couch under the screened in windows. September, buddy. September.

Two things need to go:

1. Karl Wolf? Really? Two words:

Dou.Che.

2. I'm not a fan of mattress commercials. Nothing says "crack house" to me quite like a mattress without sheets, and yet every mattress commercial I see there's some Chiquita Banana sprawled out or faux-sleeping on a sheet-less mattress! Ew. A child's bed is one thing, but even in my darkest days as a student I managed to track down a bottom sheet to save me from the Whiskey Tango. Sheets come and go, but a mattress is an investment--for heaven's sake, dress it up and treat it to a nice steak dinner.

Tomorrow is Father's Day.

About a week ago I was routing through my storage cupboard at work where I store all the discarded books I've bought from the book sale tables, my Mrs. Potato Head (don't ask...), and various gift bags and wrapping for the prizes I occasionally give out. I came across a "Happy Father's Day, Grandpa" card I'd picked up at from the staff 'give and take table' sometime before last September. It's blue, it has a fish on the front, and is no doubt from one of those card bundles people buy so they always have a card on hand if/when a birthday, sick day, and/or anniversary strikes. I guess that makes two of us with no reason for a Father`s Day card.

Unlike a lot of holidays, I've never thought of Mother`s Day and Father`s Day as "Hallmark holidays" per se, regardless of my jump-the-gun card. I like letting people know how much they mean to me. Subconsciously I think I've been celebrating him for awhile. Yaris' stereo has been set to the Rolling Stones on repeat, I recorded Harry Potter on PVR, reserved a tee time for this past afternoon, and tomorrow we've already decided to go to Port Dover for fried clams and chocolate milk shakes.

He really is still so very much apart of my life. I hear his voice, ask him questions, consult him on tough decisions, and often find myself laughing at the joke he would have made had he been here in person. He was right about so many things, beyond the importance of basic math skills, not the least of which is 'there is always a reason to pun'. Teeing up today I could hear him saying:

"Keep your head down... Don't try and kill it... Keep your head down... Choke up... I told you to keep your head down... Nice swing, kid. Now if only we could see you drive like that on the road..."

Har dee har har, dad. Happy Father's Day, old man.

[insert joke about hip replacements, dentures, and old age homes...]

*blows into microphone*

*ahem*

Attention please!

I have an important announcement to make:

Pants is coming to visit, July 23-25th.

*jumpy, clappy hands*

ING Ottawa Marathon

A totally amazing weekend!

Friday night after work, Free Samples and I made our to Ottawa--me for the ING 1/2 marathon and she to party, party, party. Six and a half hours of frustrating traffic and even more frustrating radio music later ("Cal-i-forn-ia girls are undeniable, daisy dukes, bikinis on top...") we pulled into chez destination.

So good to see Cousin Toque and his sidekick (Toque, the original)! After pleasantries and some chit-chat we hit the hay. CT has the cutest little house with hands down the most comfortable guest room... I literally slept like a baby, minus the bed wetting and onesie. Although I secretly wish I had a onesie...

Saturday morning, the nerves were seriously starting to set in. What seemed like a good idea three months ago had quickly become a scary reality. CT snapped me out of it, taking me to the health expo where we picked up our race bibs and digs, mapped out the course in the car, and combined drank approximately 400L of Gatorade and water. CT made us a kick-butters dinner of stuffed pasta and salad... Washed down with Gatorade, of course.

That night we went to cheer on CT's friends in the 5 and 10km races. Although he'd warned me the city was very into this race weekend, I had no idea what to expect. The Bay was my first major event, and  we had our fair share of spectators (more so on the swish side, and less so on the "don't get shived" side...)

Overwhelming, is the only word to describe it. People lined the treed streets, cheering and clapping and encouraging runners as they zoomed by. The elite runners were amazing to watch... Their feet barely touch the ground. With the sun shining we screamed and yelled encouragements. It was amazing to be part of it, and overwhelming to think that in 12 hours I would be one of the racers...

Cousin Toque planned to run the marathon (like a crazy person) and his race was due to begin at 7:00am. Needless to say, I took the extra couple of hours sleep, with my half-marathon start time set for 9:00. After the usual pre-race routine (water, coffee, oatmeal, banana, water, Lara bar, water) I got myself did up, and called my cab for the start line. By 8:15am I was in my corral, fiddling with my water belt, worrying I'd pinned my race bib too high. I got worked up to my "heck yes" music (Imma Be, Carry Out, Jump...), and waited for the gun.

Bang! And we're off, 9,000 runners funnelling past the Parliament Buildings and the National War Memorial. The race course is amazing, rolling hills into Hull, zooming back into Ottawa past the University and through the downtown core, with the last 10km along the canal. The chute back into Ottawa at the 10km mark was unreal--people 5-6 deep lining the streets cheering and encouraging, holding signs that say things like "you're feet hurt because you're kicking @ss" and "toe nails are for sissies".

By this time I'm well ahead of the two hour pace bunny and feeling fantastic. At 12 km or so I can hear Free Samples chanting my name from the sidelines, hung over as sh*t and out on the streets cheering me on all the same. Her "go LL's" pump me up even more, and I sail on through with a big smile on my face. I'm feeling great!

Ehn.

At 16km, I'm done. The two hour pace bunny waltzes by and I'm sad as a little black raincloud. I should have listened to CT who warned me never to pace myself with one of these dudes because it's the most depressing thing in the world to see them blow by. And it was. Plod, plod, plodding along. I'd give my life for a cheeseburger. I'd give my life for a bathroom not made out of florescent green plastic...

Like a light at the end of the tunnel I see the marker for 750 meters... 500 meters... 200 meters... People hanging over the guard rails like I'm an Olympian, cheering and clapping, and yelling at me to "keep going!" Free Samples has wound her way to the finish line and is yelling along with the crowd!

Finally, I'm done! Even though I would have sworn a strip the 2-hour pace bunny is long past me, I cross the finish line in (*drum roll*) 2:00:12 seconds! Not to get too puff puff on y'all, but that's near top 30%. Say wha?!

• I was runner 3884 out of 9208 registered half marathon runners
• I placed 1432 out of 5329 women
• I placed 275 out of the 868 in my age bracket

I get one of those metallic warming blankets, my banana and yogurt and bottle of water, and some little kid puts a medal around my neck. A couple of hours later, CT pulls through his 42km race (again, 42km... wtf?), fit as a fiddle, preening like a superstar (that's me in the red and white bandanna up front... And for the record, the clock states 2:05 by that's gun time, not actual running time...)

An amazing day. And some amazing lessons:

1. A water belt isn't necessary in a well organized race. While I lugged 2 bottles of hydration all 21.2km, there was plenty of water and Gatorade at every 3km mark, and relatively disgusting gels at the 8km mark. I barely touched my belt with the exception of the pocket I kept my Kleenex in... Damn you, seasonal allergies!
2. READ about marathons and half marathons before you do them... Some seriously helpful tidbits I could have used pre-race, like avoiding ibuprofen, keeping fibrous foods out of my diet at least three days before the race, taken 'er ease on the Gatorade because the sugar can mess you up... *shifty eyes*
3. If it's your first one, stick close to home. In retrospect, a six hour car ride post race was perhaps not the best of ideas. Thank Shiloh for dearest Free Samples, who patiently drove my butters back to the Hammer.
4. And finally, don't be scared! It's really not that far to go! Whether you walk it or run it or do some combination of the two, you're accomplishing something unreal. And if you choose a pretty course, at the very least you've spent a beautiful day (fingers crossed) outdoors.

This picture makes my life...

... And ya'll know this face is followed by some serious "meh".

Two sweet treats

It's been an exciting but vair busy week.

The trip to Ottawa and my first, competitive half marathon was beyond exciting. I'm waiting for the photos to arrive in my in-box from the organization, and to get five minutes on my own computer to sort through my own thoughts before I post on it. But have no fear... The details are coming!

Until then, in a word, the race was: amazing.

More on that later.

Since the weekend I've been fending off the repercussions of running 21km, getting to work early and staying late, playing 2 and 1/2 hour Ultimate Frisbee games, masticating fruit, and running around like a mad-woman trying to sort through last minute details before yet another road trip to Collingwood for a weekend wedding (Orange is in the wedding party...) Mon Dieu! But yesterday brought two vair sweet treats:

1. My Plan B deliveries began yesterday!

Plan B is a local organic farm organization delivering fresh, locally grown and/or organic fruit and vegetables to your workplace based on orders. Fingers took part in Plan B at a former workplace, and based on her success I suggested the organization to our Green Team who in turn organized our drop-off. I ordered a half-share of fruit which means once every two weeks I receive a shipment of locally grown fruit delivered to the library--enough to keep me satiated until my next shipment! And to keep it interesting, if it can't be locally grown they pull from international organic, fair trade suppliers.

This week I got blackberries, bananas, apples, peaches, and rhubarb (which I quickly gave away because I'll never use it...)

I'm so excited about this! Not only will it mean I'll never run out of breakfast, but it also means that for 20 weeks I'll be doing the world a little bit of good. It's like a fruit hug.

2. Just the other day I talked about my favourite running trail being made that much better by the birth and migration of mama and papa duck and their family of babes.

Well, yesterday a mother duck popped her head out of the island in the middle of our staff parking lot and smartly marched her 11 ducklings (11!!!) across the parking lot, past the library compound, through the Central park rose garden, and across a major intersection to the lake. And I just happened to be on my break (and then some...) so I got to watch the entire ridiculous parade.

The best part? No joke, two staff members from Bibliographic Services held traffic for her while she marched her troops across the road. We were so worried after all her efforts one of them would get smooshed! But they made it safe and sound.

Tra la.

*nervous*

21km is a long bloody way...

B*lls

Bad news.
...
...

I didn't win the lottery.

A busy three-day weekend!

Beef, Mama LL, and I celebrated Victoria Day weekend across the border in our fine neighbor to the south. And with the $$$ almost at par, the deals could not be beat. Beef drop her load at the galleria, I started a relationship with Target and DSW (a store, I'm convinced, was sent by the Baby Jesus himself to put a smile on my face), and Mama LL kept a couple of small Ellicottville businesses afloat for the summer. Bravo, ladies. Bravo. Between the relaxed, yummy meals; three glorious guilt-free hours of doing nothing; Celebrity Apprentice commentaries; and sausage snuggles, I couldn't have asked for a better long weekend. Thank you.

The perfect end? I added impatients and a couple of flowering annuals to the pile of perennials I bought at our staff Green Team fundraiser, and spent a glorious afternoon in Orange's garden honing my green thumb. There was a time I watched with admiration as friends planted the sh*t out of their awe-inspiring yard, but I never saw myself as a gardener, per se. I kill most of the plants I bring into the house (or attract Spider Mites...) But their dedication to dead-heading was overwhelming, to say the least. Orange himself is very dedicated to his indoor growing ventures (a couple of Norfolk Pines and a planter from dad's day that is still thriving due to his care and patience.)

But I'll admit: the immediate satisfaction of a few hours hard work in some glorious weather has me hooked. It's like art. But art that grows and blooms and spreads and blossoms. The rich dark browns of the top soil and the bright greens of the foliage. From almost every room of Orange's house there's now a view of a fine piece of garden--Lilly of the Valley, Woodruff, Ostrich Ferns, Chinese Lanterns, Hostas, Black Eyed Susan, etc. etc. etc

While I aspire to MMM's yard, for now I'm proud of what a little elbow grease created in a couple of newly edged beds, and happy to watch the bumble bees bzzz bzzz bzzz from one bloom to another.

F*ck, mom!

Now that you're reading this sh*t, am I gonna start getting notes like this, too? You should know as a librarian I am morally opposed to censorship.

p.s. I heart kix cereal...

Click HERE.

"Mr. and Mrs. Mallard were looking for a place to live. But everytime Mr. Mallard found what looked like a nice place, Mrs. Mallard said it was no good."

I'm (still) in training for my half at the end of May = lots of running = sore muscles. To combat the overall "no feeling" screaming from every inch of my body (which inconveniently settles in my bones as soon as I spot the couch), I try and choose pretty places to run. As of late, that's been the waterfront.

Now, there are those who would argue my city is a hole. But I disagree. There are definitely hole-type parts to the place. But then, there are holes in every city. It's really a matter of enjoying what's in front of you and making the most of the green spaces you have.

It's not Stanley Park, but Orange lives conveniently down the road from the foot path that wraps our waterfront. Yes, the tang of Asian Carp can and will hit you with the breeze is blowing just so. And yes, someone did try and set aflame one of the path's portable washrooms the other night. But there are certain other attributes that make this footpath my current running circuit of choice.

Like Mr. and Mrs. Mallared, for example! Make Way for Ducklings? Anyone?

The Canadian geese have laid their eggs and the baby's have just been borned (yea, I said borned.) And between 6:00-7:00 pm when I'm huffing and puffing my giggle down the trail, dozens of geese families are making their way across the path from their nests to the waterfront for a late night snack. Yellow puffs of downy feathers waddling their waddle and smacking their gums together in a chorus of the most pitiful tiny quacks. Jack, Kack, Lack, Mack, Nack, Ouack, Pack, and Quack--I've met them. And they are every bit as cool as you think they would be.

 Still, I'd rather be on my couch with a hot fudge sundae...

My first decision will be to change my name. You can call me "Sir Roderigo".

So, I'm pretty sure I'm going to win the Lotto Max. Yup. It's sitting at $30,000,000 b*tches. So take a good look around because this might be the last free post I write. I figure when I'm a millionaire I'll be a pretty big deal, see, with lots of exciting things going on, so you can pay to read my gibberish. Your pennies will help fund my new lavish lifestyle.

Yup. That show on TLC pretty much explained it all. I'm not sure where I'm going to find the time to shop for bronze statues, build my infinity pool, collect weird things like antique guns, park lots of expensive cars in my driveway and stare at them but never drive them, make my way through $1000 worth of scratchy tickets a day (on the off chance lightning might strike twice), put lots of elastics in my hair like this guy, and still find time for my other obsessive compulsive behaviors. It's going to be tough.

But don't feel sorry for me. I'll definitely be looking down on you from my pedestal. And hey! Maybe I'll have a pizza party or something, and y'all can come to one of my houses for free food? One of the small ones. That way I won't worry about the furniture or scold you for touching the statues.

And free humpback whales for everyone.

So get out there and by your tickets so you can pad my winnings.

p.s. THIS picture makes my life. I want to be friends with these dudes.

It's Friday, and I'm feeling silly...

... And I appreciate the creativity that can (sometimes) go into television commercials.

Three packages in the mail in three days!

1. The glorious people over at SL decided to reimburse me for the redonkulously expensive dental procedures incurred last Wednesday. And they were so kind as to send the announcement in a big manila envelope! Money I was only quasi-expecting to receive? Check! Getting a package in the mail? Double check!

2. A dress I ordered on Victoria Secret arrived in a big, white, plastic envelope. This one came to mom's house, so I also got the exciting "your package arrived!" phone call to go with. Unfortunately, the dress did not live up to expectations and was promptly repackaged and returned. I wonder if Victoria Secret gets excited by mail?

3. And perhaps best of all, dearest Valerah sent me a book! And not just any book... my kind of book. The Summer I Turned Pretty by Jenny Han (who also, coincidentally, wrote Shug... a favorite of mine from back in my EPL days.) And with the best presentation, too! Brown paper and black Sharpie marker. Bert loved the wrapping as much as I loved the thought. Thanks for thinking of me, Valerah... *scuffs toe*

Three cheers for mail!

Some people...

Some people get more than their share. You know?

Like leaking furnaces, and bats in the spare bedroom, and tax man drama, and car recalls, and ants, and beloved office partners who up and decide they'll take another job elsewhere (really, Jim...? *tsk tsk*), and a knee the size of a cantelope, and answering machines that keep resetting themselves, and computers that won't cooperate, and periodontal surgery, and the dreaded threat of knob and tube wiring, and meat loaf for mother's day...

Like I said, some people get more than their share.

Some people remind me daily of how easy it is to love them, and how easy it is to be proud of their strength and faith. Some people don't even know how impressive they are. And some people probably don't hear that enough...

More words I don't like:

Hamburgs (in place of "hamburgers")... Just lazy, s'all it is.

This one's for all ya'll...

Excuse the quality. But you get the message...

I still love you, Georgia Carmen!

Last night was the Fingers and BSB third annual Cinco de Mayo party (ole!)

Being that I live a five-minute walk from dearest Fingers' house, I find it hard to justify driving and searching out parking on her notoriously overstuffed street. I make the trek en pied even when it's pouring litters, and such was the case last night. Being efficient, I cut through the local park (this is where Beef yells at me for walking alone through a park at night, and this is where I say "but it was light out and the street lamps were on and there were other people in the park besides the pervs who lurk behind the trees!" [although really, there weren't other people in the park, what with all the rain, and it was actually kind of dark, what with all the rain clouds... but we don't need to tell Beef that... damn... she's reading this...])

Anywho. On my way, I came across the saddest sight. A little stuffed bunny face down in the gravel under the swings. It was like something out of the Velveteen Rabbit, only this rabbit was made of pink fun fur. He was wearing a hand made yellow felt jacket with pink ribbons tied to it, and he was so loved one side of his face was less fun fur and more silk baldness (the other side was stained green with what looked like Crayola ink, but whatever... perhaps he's an artiste?)

I was at a cross roads! Devastated for both the little dude and the child who was no doubt at home wracked with guilt over leaving his/her beloved smooshums AWOL in the rain, I was torn between:

A) Picking bunny up and sitting him under the shelter of a tree to avoid complete water sog
B) Leaving bunny right where he was, thinking owner-person would find him if they retraced their steps

What to do?

I opted to stand him upright on the side of the walkway, close to the swings. As a child who once lost her beloved "piece" in a garbage pile at Camp KIDACA, the idea of leaving bunny face down in a gravel pile was beyond reproach. I'm tempted to go back tonight to see if he's still there...

Honestly, this scene from Toy Story still kills me:



I couldn't even finish watching it today... Makes me want to go home and dig out Georgia Carmen and Heart to Heart Bear, safely packed away in (the one box) I've got stored in the basement...

A bad, bad day. Pray Shiloh the Annuale kicks in...

So much for being two hours early!

Today was the Forest City Road Race!

It started out, as dad would have said, as a "terribly nasty day," looking gray and chill with a 95% chance of rain. Orange, his orangey siblings and I were all up at dawn's crack to make the 90 minute drive to the start line. Our plan was to get an early start because none of us really had any idea where we were headed, what the parking situation was, etc. Being Sunday, it was hard to clear the cobwebs and get going in time to complete my usual pre-race check list (shower, coffee in a housecoat, dress, water, oatmeal, water, max and relax, banana, etc.) so after a lightning round in the tub and some terrible 2-minute oatmeal I made the responsible decision to buy Timbits for breakfast.

One cup of terrible coffee, two sour cream glaze, and a raging tummy ache later we arrived at the registration desk to pick up our bibs, timing chips, and free duffel bag swag. Being 2-hours early, Race Lady had very little information for us beyond "exit through the left side of the tent" so we dropped our goodies back at the car, strapped on our chips and waited patiently at the presumed starting gate for our race time. While cheering on the 1/2 marathoners and giggling at the sweet fun-runners we heard the commentator on the load speaker finally announce "five minutes to the 10km gun-time." So we readied our ear buds and double checked our laces...

...

...

But where were the other runners? Race Lady hadn't said there was another starting gate, and we were standing in front of the big blow-up arch with the words "start/finish" painted on it... For Pete's sake, even the 1km fun runners had started/finished here! Where were the other 500 some odd runners?

It was the mass-exodus of spectators congregating at the far end of the park that tipped us off. We hauled cheek but the gun blasted well before we could eek our way into the crowd so it was an awkward kick-ball-chain into the dashing pack. So much for being 2 hours early!

And for the record, Race Lady's toolkit of "important" tidbits should include not only the location of the elusive start-gate but the topography of the course--the entire thing was uphill! And not just slight lumps and bumps, we're talking entire mountainous kilometers. A little forewarning, please!

p.s. PB, folks, PB--56:04 (gun time)! And our wee Orange, new to the running world, was a super kid at 1:04!

Thanks, Fingers!

While I loves me some Passive Aggressive Notes, Awful Library Books, and Garfield Minus Garfield, I like to vary my procrastination and feeding my online addictions is the perfect way to achieve this balance. Variety, after all, is the spice of life. So a great big "thanks" goes out to Fingers for bringing me this new dollop of goodness:

1000 Awesome Things

I'm assuming it was unearthed via CBC radio (not so awesome) but I'm choosing to ignore this malignancy and celebrate what Neil Pasricha calls "a time-ticking countdown of 1000 awesome things." It kind of reminds me of Happiness is a Warm Puppy, the Charlie Brown classic that in itself nursed me through many a black raincloud, including some classic pearls of wisdom as "Happiness is a folded over bread and butter sandwich." Genius.

I am totally and completely guilty of focusing far too much on the negative in life. So it's about time I stopped to celebrate the good things, like opening and sniffing a pack of tennis balls, high tens, and using Q-Tips the way you’re not supposed to use them.

Just do eet, okay?

You know you're old when...

The litter's been cleaned and the house has been prettied and you declare it's time to put on your party shoes and show the senior citizen across the hall what a real card party is like!

I played hostess to the girls this evening. We made lasagna, salad, buttered fresh rolls, and polished off Poo's homemade cupcakes. And of course Fingers brought her lady cards... Overall, 'twas a good night (it helped we kicked euchre butters, but I always knew Free Samples was a cheater...)

At one point we made our way to Baskin and Robbins for $0.31 scoops but the line up was out the door and around the building and we quickly declared "b@lls" on the wait. So we trooped into Westdale for TCBY. On our way back to the car with our soft serve parfaits we tsk-tsked the keg party raging at a nearby student house. It was 8:00 pm and they were funneling on the front lawn, for heaven's sake! And there was rap music playing! At one point I might even have commented on the explicitness of the lyrics...

*shakes head*

You'd think I was 31...

When I start complaining about property tax, discussing breast feeding in public, or join Orange's war against the raccoon's I've officially crossed the line and might as well start taking the early bird special and cashing in my CPP.

Hey, MMM...

Can I stop pretending I don't read your blog and add you to the Peeps list, for heaven's sake?

Sheesh. 

FYI: If it's any consolation, I had to Google "sheesh" so I could spell it properly... I'm sure I know your 13-month old is smarter than I am, too...

Next time I'll drive to Japan.

It was a long overdue dinner date with Susie tonight, not only because... Well... It was long overdue, but because her fur baby, Gus-six-fingers, was on the lamb.

So we agreed to go for sushi, an easy decision being that a) Susie is a vegetarian and b) I heart sushi. I'm partial to Kampai (or "Toms'" as we call it in the Library Lady household), where dad was referred to as "no salmon" because he was allergic and they always remembered. But Susie is more worldly in her sushi tastes, and directed me to a relatively new all-you-can eat place called Sushi To Go. I was game. More sushi = yum in my tum.

Side note: For those of you a few hand rolls short of a sashimi platter, sushi is a relatively easy meal to prepare once ordered, as most of the prep-work is done long before hand, i.e. slicing of the fish, cooking of the rice, etc. Once ordered it's just a matter of putting a square piece of one thing on top of a flat piece of another thing and voila! Library Lady is one step closer to a full tummy.

At an all-you-can-eat place you basically order what you like up front and/or throughout the meal, and generally they deliver bits and pieces as it's readied, making the already quick process even quicker. Pieces are somewhat smaller, so if you're ballsy and order off the bat like Susie (seaweed salad, two avocado and cucumber rolls, a veggie dragon roll, a yam tempura roll, salmon sashimi, two bean curd rolls, two tamago, etc.) you don't have to worry you're getting an obscene amount of food. Japanese is not Chinese.

Sushi To Go? Um, not so much. More like 'Sushi To Stay And Grow Old With'. Someone seriously mistranslated the English meaning for "to go". While the food was tasty, it took 30 minutes for us to get our first items, all of which were delivered to me. They had no interest in putting food in front of Susie, to the point that when they did manage to find us in the 15 square foot restaurant, they kept moving my edamame and chicken skewers to make room for her mango tempura (FYI, I don't eat fried mango nor any type of sushi that includes mayo in the list of ingredients...)

While some of the delay could be chalked up to the two other tables of eaters, both of whom appeared to have ordered one of everything on the menu, there was no clear reason why they had so much difficulty with our food. At one point they delivered udon... No one wanted udon. Susie just wanted her tempura fried banana and mint chocolate ice cream. And I don't blame her. At this point I'd given up and was resigned to milk and cookies with Bert.

The weirdest part? We got up to pay our bills and in walked Jerry Jacks from General Hospital--or that is, in walked the actor who played him. While I wouldn't have blinked twice, Susie knew him from hello because her mom is an addict. My fingers did the talking when I got home, and yup... Wikipedia confirmed it. What he was doing at Sushi For People Who Have Four Hours to Waste in downtown Hammer, I'm not sure.

Susie--thank you for the yummy, blogworthy experience! Keep me posted on Gus... I'm sure he's on a kibbutz somewhere rethinking his life decisions. And should anyone out there find a six toed cat missing a pair of furry pants (half his @ss was shaved after a recent surgery...), send him our way. He's dearly missed.

[[[hugs]]]

How much do I want one of THESE?!

For reference, I'm not talking about the thing to put my quad in, because I don't own one quad let alone many quads that would require a whatzit to pull them in, but the groovy sleep container thingy-ma-who.

*scuffs toe*

You know...

Just in case you're interested...

But be prepared because after this summer's golf lesson's I'll be kicking butters with every intention of taking home the trophy.

Yeah, that's right... There's a trophy.

For details, click HERE.

I wish I had that kind of ab strength...

I drove to Kitchener tonight for my bi-monthly visit with Grandma and Auntie Anne. After dinner, chit-chat, brownies and some exceptionally sweet melon, we kissed and hugged and said our goodbyes, and off I went. Walking out to my car, I came upon a wee spider perched on the passenger side of the windshield. So I wished him well, bid him "good day," and went about my business readying the next CD in my audio book.

45 minutes later (and one missed exit on the 401), I pulled into my parking spot, looked over to the passenger side window, and I sh*t you not (pardon my French...) found the exact same wee spider gripping on for dear life! Not only had he managed to survive the 110km per hour drive, but he'd stayed in near the same spot for the entire trip. Bravo, good sir... Bravo. With abs like that, I'm left to assume he's the Tony Little of the spider world.

With Yaris now parked, he stretched his eight legs and made his way towards the hood. What else could I do? I tipped my hat and congratulated him on his successful trip, and wished him good luck in his new home. I reminded him of the newcomer corners in all HPL locations, and suggested he contact the Welcome Wagon for settlement information. I invited him (her?) in for a pot of mint tea, but forewarned him he would most likely be consumed and/or carried around like a mustache by my cat, whereupon he feigned fatigue, and webbed his way down the side mirror.

Most impressive.

You know your day will be poop when...

 ... Your mom calls you at 7:15 am to wish you good look on your "minor surgery" scheduled for 8:00 am, and you're still tucked in bed in your strawberry pajamas and a lazy-ass cat with nothing better to do than loaf around, snoring, and not waking you up (as per his job!) Aces.

10 minutes, one of the world's quickest shower, three panicked "where am I going" phone calls, and a whole lot of "sh*t sh*t sh*t's" later and I was out the door looking somewhat presentable (provided I kept my arms down, as it would appear either A) my torso shrunk or more likely, B) my button down shirt is far too small...)

C'est la vie, non? Three cheers for mom's with super brains and dad's who send messages to said mother's super brains to call and wake their near brainless daughter.

But where would I hang the Kit-Kat clock?

Bert and I got into a rather heated discussion tonight. There are big decisions to be made and he has some very strong opinions on the subject. While part of me feels ready to throw caution to the wind, another part of me stops to (look around and) smell the roses. Bert, on the other hand, would gladly choose birds over spider mites and has never much cared for my taste in art. I know he'd gladly throw me under the bus to get another crack at the shifty raccoons. But what with my having opposable thumbs, a valid driver's license, and the ability to communicate without use of paws or teeth, I have a leg up on the decision making process. So we left it at W.V. (agree to disagree... 10 points to the person who can tell me what W.V. stands for) and went our separate ways--him to nap and snore/purr on the couch, me to my blogging.

It's strange how a decision can be both exciting and scary. While there is certainly no rush to decide one way or another, there's something to be said about "an island to one's self". In fact, the more I look around (anywhere but at the spider mites) the more I realize how attached I am. But there's also something to be said for less wasted time, more happiness, and of course a driveway...

WWOOFing

While farting around the Internet last night, I came upon this WWOOFing webpage (World Wide Opportunities on Organic Farms). Orange and I were browsing for ways of escaping the grown-up-ness and retreating into a life of complete lackadaisical nonsense. WWOOFing, for those of us not in the know, is the process of volunteering on some sort of farm in exchange for your room and board. You can WWOOF just about anywhere in the world--I knew a girl who WWOOFed after library school and I envied the pictures she posted of the flower farm she worked on somewhere in New Zealand.

Not that I'm seriously considering doing this, but would you please check out this workplace description:

"In a beautiful valley of the Takhini River, about 20 km north of Whitehorse, two elderly people (Fritz 63 years and Nana 62 years old) are working on a garden with greenhouse, hay and oats farm, with 2 gentle and friendly dogs, chickens and miniature donkeys. Welcome to everybody who likes gardening."

Seriously?

Miniature donkeys?

It's like this world was made for me. It's like Narnia, but without that witch lady or yucky Turkish Delight.

Putting all my clam shells in brie

On thinking...

One of my favorite things about running is having time to think about all of those things I don't find time to think about during the rest of my day, including but not limited to:

• Will my breath smell tomorrow if I eat humus for dinner tonight?
• If I stumbled across someone who needed first aid, could I remember the steps to CPR?
• If I was to make turkey cannelloni and portion it into individual servings for a friend who's just had a baby, would it freeze well?
• Do you think people in the 19th Century developed gambling-like addictions to wist (I've been re-watching Pride and Prejudice...)?
• Does mom like hugging me as much as I like hugging her?
• What will Lil' C look like as a teenager?
• If I got attacked on the trail, where would I punch first--neck or nads?

When I get going on a 'good think' I can completely forget about the running, stop worrying about my breathing or pacing, or about the size of my jiggling butters wiggling it's way behind me. 

On mongering...

Sometimes, when I think about how much work I have ahead of me in the next few months, my chest gets tight and I start thinking I should like to escape to far away and open a cheese shop. I can't imagine there's much stress in cheesery. If I could be any sort of proprietor I would definitely choose to monger cheese.

On being realistic about opening a cheese shop...

Who are these people who drop their lives and move to places like the South of France or Tuscany or Costa Rica to open resorts or bed and breakfasts? I wish I had this oomph. While currently I could never pull myself from family, I will admit to job searching places like the Yukon or Newfoundland and most recently Prince Rupert.

Do you suppose trading pensions for pace of life and "walking distance to shops and schools" for scenery and environment would ever grow old? I have this fantasy that it would feel like I was always at a cottage or on vacation... I blame it on the book I read when I was 20, An Island to Oneself by Tom Neale. If you can get your hands on it, read it. It's totally worth the fantasy.

Pink Moon, Nick Drake

Orange is far-far away. Poo.

Rants from the frugally minded...

You know you're cheap when the entire quart of milk in your fridge expired on April 3rd, but you can't get over what a waste it is, so you pour a glass at night and give it a sniff before tasting, figure it's good, drink it, and repeat the same process in the morning with your cereal before also giving some to the cat (so you can use as much up as possible before buying another quart later that day, after work.)

*sigh*

Also worthy of mention, the new Ruffles chip flavour--Hot Wings--is not worth the $1.45 spent on a small bag. And speaking of which, what happened to the small bag? Did they get smaller? Not to sound like an old person or anything, but when I was a kid (and I walked 20 minutes to the closest corner store... in bare feet... in the snow...) a small bag of chips was a decent size, cost $0.45, and came with a wrestler tattoo inside.

p.s. I added pictures to the Easter post...

Randy Jackson presents America's Best Dance Crew is on television way too much.

Dawg.

Ehn?

I may be 30 1/2 but the Easter bunny still stops at our house.

This year he stopped primarily for Lil C', hiding a dozen big plastic eggs in our front garden. As his stand in, I donned a set of bunny ears and guided the little dude around the lawn, carrying the basket and in general assisting with the gathering process. Lil C' wanted none of my assistance, however. Actually, I think he thought I was a bit slow what with the was he was sauntering around that garden, and all. Here I was thinking he wasn't really going to get the concept of an "Easter egg hunt", but he clearly had my number from the get go:

"You see, Auntie, this is how it works. You pick up the eggs with your hands, see, like this... And you drop them in the basket, here, like this. No, Auntie, no. Here let me show you again. Here's a nice yellow one for you. Now watch... I'll pick it up with my hands like this, and drop it in the basket. Simple! Ehn?"

That last bit, the "Ehn?" is his new favorite thing to say, with his hands up. Kind of like this girl.

Where's granny?
Ehn?

Where's Auntie?
Ehn?

Where's daddy?
Ehn?

It's hilaripus to watch, and even more fun to make him do.

And now for something completely different.

---

I took a critical thinking class in university. It was a required course, and slightly painful. Lots of "if I am a fish, I am not necessarily a tuna, but if I am a tuna I am necessarily a fish" etc. etc. etc. Generally speaking I find very little use for the majority of my critical thinking course, having little need to convince someone on a daily basis of their fishiness.

That said. I now understand why they made me take it. I absolutely hate it when people make assumptions--because I am this, I must also be this. Many years ago, someone made one of these very foolish assumptions and ironically ended up face first in the mud they were frantically trying to avoid. And it must be said, my vantage point from this side of the puddle is sweetly ironic.

Lesson? Critical thinking is a skill and assuming I am/want/need one way/thing is a mistake. And I'll go to the mattresses for it.