I'm so domestic, it's ridiculous. Tonight after running, I grocery shopped, made manicotti, baked bran muffins, boiled a half dozen eggs, and cross stitched. Seriously? I mean, really? I basically look just like this chick. I even have her bangs (sort of...)
I then went into my room to put on my pjs (the pink, strawberry ones), and I saw my bed. Sitting there. All puffy and smelling of warm and yum, and all "Oh heylerhe there, Library Lady..." Literally... It was talking to me...
So I kept inching closer and closer... And the next thing I knew I was tucked under the covers, and my feet were going, and I was giggling. And it was 8:30.
So now I'm in my bed, and my feet are still going, and I'm still giggling.
All I need is a G n' T (or twelve), some valium, a vintage party dress, and a passive agressive attitude and I could actually be this woman. Complete with that funky @ss smile...
Big Decisions
This was a big weekend for me. Lots of important self revelations. One in particular that comes to mind. And this time at least, I'm pretty satisfied I made the right life commitment:
If I was going to become a stripper, my stripper song would be Pour Some Sugar On Me, by Def Leopard.
It was a tough choice, but I feel confident. There's something about it that just screams "slutty". Not that a stripper is necessarily slutty, because that's not what I'm saying at all. But I think my stripper routine in particular would be extra slutty, given that if I was going to actually be a stripper, I would want to go all out. Ipso facto (eh, BG...) my song needs to be slutty. Go big or go home, right?
So. The big question is: what would your stripper song be?
Mr. Beef already claimed Sweet Child O' Mine, by GNR. And Beef went with Save a Horse [Ride a Cowboy], Big and Rich *rolls eyes*. And we all know FS is going to choose Hungry Eyes. And I'm quasi-confident the Dark Horse will go with Gimme More, Britney. But what about the rest of you? Dig deep on this one. Reach into those dark facets of your heart, and really think about your inner stripper.
p.s. For dinner tonight, Fingers, BSB, and Lucky made me a panzarotti that was as big as my dinner plate. And it was a unanimous decision that it looked like an inner body part, we're just not sure which one...
Le Weekend!
'Tis Friday, and you know what that means, kiddies...
That's right! It's time for a LIST!
1. I love SoOh traffic. A drive that usually takes me 20 minutes took me two hours last night. Wicked. Wo0t!
2. I'm sorry to report the man who invented the Egg McMuffin died yesterday at the ripe old age of 89. Surprisingly, not of heart disease, a heart attack, or obesity.
3. I hate cookbooks that don't have colour photos of all their recipes. Seeing the end product is essential. While I recognize they date, as per the Gallery of Regrettable Food, I can't visualize what it is they're asking me to make... I mean, what does a Five Spice Beef Satay look like? What's in it? What do I serve it beside? Does it look good, or does it look like poo on a stick?
4. Pants is starting an online book club--one book, one month to read, she'll post a summary/review, and we'll discuss through the comments. If you're interested in participating, check out her blog at http://pantsatlarge.blogspot.com/. We're starting with Scott Westerfeld's "Uglies".
5. Speaking of books... Reading in bed is so hot right now. I can't get enough of it. I used to be lulled to sleep by the "Food Network Challenge" or the "Girls Next Door" (both excellent shows, by the by...) but now I actually look forward to crawling into my pillow puff bed with my book. It helps me... RELAX. And if you don't like it, you can derelick my balls (name that movie? A shiny penny for anyone who can name that movie...)
6. Why do cheesies sweat? Is there a scientist in the room who can explain this to me?
Tra la. And that's it.
Cavity Searches
I picked up my police clearance for my volunteer position tonight.
And even though I know I'm not a sexual predator, and I have no criminal record, walking into the police station is still super intimidating. I checked and re-checked my parking like 300 times, double took the parking meter to make sure I had enough time, and put on my glasses so I looked more responsible (or "booky" according to my mother...)
I've come to the decision the police station is like the dentist and the US border. Although it has a safe, clean reputation, each has this omnipotent power to unleash hells-ya on me--imprisonment for something I don't understand or know I did, like J-walking or tax evasion; drills and metal pointy things poking me in the teeth and possible gingivitis-y gums; full cavity searches.
I mean, we're literally at their mercy. Because although I talk a big game, I crumble like a Saltine when push comes to shove (except if I'm fighting Big John in the street, ghetto styles, because then I kick butters *kung-fu kicks the air*) But I still get the cold sweats when I get to Fort Eerie. And I still cry in the dentist chair. And I'm still on my best, smiley, "look-at-me-I'm-a-good-Catholic-girl" behaviour when I'm anywhere near the PoPo.
Survey
It's weird, you know. I've written in this blog almost everyday--a kind of therapy, if you will--over the course of the last, hmm... last four years, making most of these bizarro comings and goings I call my existence faithfully documented in some form or another (slightly toned down, slightly less detailed, slightly less serious, perhaps?) And even though I have all you peeps, it's odd to actually think about people reading and knowing and having opinions (even if they are about what part of the chicken the crown comes from.)
Side note: my hot water radiator just farted.
So, let's get down to it. If you're still here, you're informed, because in the case of Bread and Jam, you really can believe everything you read. I'm choosing to add a new feature to the blog: a survey. A question... Needing a response. It's just a pilot. Maybe you won't have anything to say... Maybe you will? But it's anonymous, so vote away.
Give it to me good.
And thanks.
Le longest of weekends
Sorry about the hiatus, folks. I was as ill as a dingo last week (even cashed in on a few of those sick days...) I managed to catch up on way too much television, the happenings on the back of my eyelids, and the way a bed feels in the middle of the day--tres magnifique *kisses fingertips*
But it's offish. I'm solo--living it up apartment styles. I spent my first night here last Thursday at the height of the illness, and the double bed was well worth the wait (thanks BSB!) I will have pictures for you sometime in the near future, but for now, rest assured the place is comfy and cosy and ripe for visitors. "The neighborhood gang" already has a block crawl planned for Hurrah's visit, including a stop at the Fingers family home, BSBs, etc. Look out, Hurrah--a train wreck will ensue.
The annual Great Friday celebrations were a riot. After Big Buck Hunter with Poo etc. it was off to the Westtown for Harrison Kennedy. I love anyone who wears a belt of harmonicas.
Side note: "The Bodyguard" is on. What happened to Kevin Costner?
Side-side note: I spent the majority of today in my strawberry pajamas, sitting in a quasi cat-basket trading Ralph Wiggum-ism texts with Beef. Um... Awesome?
Back to the grind tomorrow. Le sigh, indeed. A matter of days before I'm in need of another le long weekend.
Moving is tough, tough work.
Honestly.
It might be worse than painting. It's like my brain hasn't stopped thinking about what I still need to do, and what I still need to get, and what still needs to be packed and/or cleaned out and shoved in boxes and will this box fit in Yaris next to the mop and pail, and oh yes it will as long as I put down the seats and crap, I forgot about that basket full of summer clothes I already had back there and that shoe rack that's still in my closet and the bulletin board still hanging on the wall, and oh yes wait I'll need screws and plugs to hang that mirror, and do I already have a garbage can for the bathroom because I think I do, but maybe I'm thinking of the one that's in my bedroom because really that would work best in there next to that table I want to use next to the bed, but then again I'll also need someplace to put my drink when I'm in that papasam chair and maybe I should use that table, because I can't ask people to get up and put their drink on the table across the room, and then I'll need coasters which were next to that cutting board that I liked at Ikea, but I think Fingers said she had one and didn't she also have pictures for me to hang in the dining room right next to that old cupboard that needs fixing which reminds me I should get screws to fix that shelf and curtain rods for those sheers I bought, and while I'm at the hardware store I should really get more paint, because that trim in the bedroom is looking rough and wow...
... Ehn.
Moving is hard work.
My subversive cross stitch arrived in the mail today.
Hip hip hurrah!
I tell ya. It was a real toss up between the one I got, and both the "Shut your whore mouth" or "beeyatch" packages. But I'm happy with my order.
Next up: learn to cross stitch.
Egg Cups, etc.
If anyone reading this is planning a trip to Drumheller and the Royal Tyrrell in the near future, please buy me THESE salt and pepper shakers. I had a set in Alberta, and left them. And they're awesome wicked. And I need them. I need them like no one else.
I'm also going to make a concerted effort to actually buy those little wee things I see when I'm on vacation and pass up because they're "too expensive" or because "I don't need them." Because I do need them. And when I don't buy them, they nag at me like planets of regret. For example, I regret not buying MANY things at Hampton court not the lease of which:
- The Henry VIII mug with he and his wives on it.
- The Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, and Elizabeth egg cups.
Both can be foud HERE.
Ehn. I need these things. I want them.
Gimme. Now.
Trauma Drama
I'm cleaning my room and packing boxes of goodies to bring to my apartment, and I come across this little gem--a postcard left over from my first year at YMCA Wanakita sleep-over camp:
Nice, huh? Way to lay on the guilt there, champ. Like pizza rolls and tie dye were a death sentance or something. I mean, it couldn't have been that bad... I went back for 9 years, for a month at a time!
Please note the cards were self addressed (probably worried I wouldn't spell our last name right...)
Ode to Frank
I don't envy you gluten intolerant people. Seriously. It's the little things in life that make me happy, graham crackers and milk being one of them. And I would really, really miss graham crackers and milk. I'm angry about how much I would miss my graham crackers and milk. I'm angry for Lady G and Pants who can't have graham crackers and milk, damnit!
In other news, tonight I moved my TV, VCR/DVD combo, ladder-blanket-holder-thingy, side table, antique wash station, and papasan chair. A gigantically huge "holla" goes out to Mr. Beef tonight, who for two days in a row has been dragging my butters and my butters' belongings across the city.
He strong man.
Strong like bull.
*grunts*
Tomorrow night it's the bed from BSB and Punk, and then I'll get to work shaping my own headboard out of plywood and foam and fabric. It'll be like I'm on Trading Spaces, but without Mindy Paige or Hildy Santo-Tomas, or frantic neighbors who scream and cry and curse at me for hot gluing bottle caps to their back splash to make the room look more "contemporary" when really all it means is that $1000 doesn't get you much so you end up building a kitchen island out of MDF and we all know it won't last, and it just makes the place look junky and cluttered, and who really decorates with bottle caps anyway?
Anyone out there undertaken this before? The headboard, I mean?
Thinkin'...
Sunday afternoon, and I'm pissing away the hours waiting for cable man ("Sometime between 12:00 and 5:00," my butters. I don't think he's actually coming. It's all a big joke on me, and I bet there are a half dozen cable guys across the street watching me pace the place, giggling...) But I'm sitting in my apartment, like a cat stretched out in a sun beam on my new/old rug, drinking a stubby (not that cats drink beer...) And I've got the time to think. And I've got time to type. Two birds, one stone, etc.
I love this place. It's so bright and cheery. And I love being surrounded by all my favorite things. Colors, books, my photos, and crazy things that remind me of my friends, like three-legged pigs and sock monkeys and rubber camels.
I love my porch. I love thinking about the hanging baskets I'll have. Or maybe an attempt to grow tomatoes or beans? I like thinking about having a BBQ, and having people over for dinner. We'll sit on my porch with the music blaring, like that time in Edmonton when I stayed at Genevieve's house. Remember that, Hurrah? We kept calling across to Keri but she wouldn't answer us.
The music is playing on iTunes. Peter Gabriel and David Bowie and Nina Simone, and I think about the Westtown. As far as local dives go, nothing beats it. There are many a "stumble home" in my future. Not to mention the bakery and the library and the soon to be Starbucks.
I'm thinking about Fingers moving home, and only being a stones throw from me (again). Too bad 7-11 closed down. It would have been a good evening walk. And there's no problem a Slurpee can't solve. Maybe she'll have to start drinking hot beverages, and we'll meet for decaf lattes, instead.
I'm thinking about my season's ticket for the Ti-Cats, and the big question: do I buy a big cat paw foam hand to go with that ticket, or a jersey? I'm leaning towards the foam hand.
I'm thinking about my job, and the new glasses I'd like. Something with a thicker arm. Still square. But with a bit of oomph, too.
I'm thinking about the vacation plans I submitted on Friday--four days in July for the annual camping trip to Bon Echo, and two weeks in October. For Morocco. I'm thinking about Hurrah's visit in April, and where I should take her... Toronto? Port Dover? Niagara?
*rolling onto back* I'm thinking I'd like a chandelier for the living room.
I'm actually thinking there's not much missing right now. It all seems a bit too good. There are one or two things that could, of course, be added to the mix. One in particular. But I'm not in any rush. I'm happy. And I think I just realized that. I'm really stinking happy.
I'm settling. But in the bestest sense of the word. Not for anyone, or any thing, or any situation. I'm just plain settling. And I love it.
Radio Rant
I hate it when there's nothing on the radio. I hate it so much, I'd put it right up there on the scale with being eaten by a bear. Because I would imagine I would hate being eaten by a bear about as much as I hate it when there's nothing on the radio.
I mean, it's the morning/evening rush-hour commute, people! I want to get geared-up/un-wind! I don't want talking! I don't want "Billy's Biz"! I want songs! You're the radio! Isn't that your shtick?! Stop trying to sell me a new car stereo, Hamilton Car Stereo, and let me hear something that would make buying a new car stereo more enticing! Ehn!
If I wanted to listen to boring talk talk talk I would flip to the CBC propaganda station. Or I would move to Manitoba. Because the CBC and Manitoba are about as equivalent as they come.
Inspired by Peter Griffin's "You Know What Really Grinds My Gears?"
1. I hold my cards pretty close to my chest. And I do it for a reason. Reasons most of you (note I say "most") won't understand. Sue me.
2. I dropped the mother f-bomb, like, a hundred times shoveling the heaviest snow of the season tonight. Sue me.
3. Lame, I know. But it was on MM's The Shift. Has anyone seen the Justin Timberlake video,"My Love"? Specifically the scene where he rips the fishnets off girly?
Damn.
*gives self a much needed shake*
Love it. Sue me.
4. I often give the finger when I'm driving. Only I hide it below the dash so the target can't see it. But I give it real good. Sue me.
5. I litter with my apple cores and banana peels. Sue me.
6. I drink from the milk bag. Sue me.
7. When I read magazines and newspapers around other people, I say "Oh my gosh, did you know...?!" and then read the interesting bits out loud. Sue me.
Congrats!
Belly had a girl! Belly had a girl!
A round of onesies for everyone!
Side note: My cat's paws are going in/out as I type this. He's so happy for Belly and Wade, he's kneading the air.
Le Cottage
Another mini-break come and gone. Wicked awesome.
Arrived at the cottage on Friday afternoon with Big Fingers (henceforth to be called "the Dark Horse"), only to find BSB up to his McNeckersons in exploding frozen water pipes. Aces. Err... Wondering if at this point it would be rude to excuse oneself and head to the nearest hotel for a warm bed and an excess of flushing toilets?
*collective nodding of heads*
Right. Well we didn't. Turns out BSB has mad plumbing skills as well as cougar skills, and after talking to me about outflows and valves (???) he set up some mini heaters and got the pipes a-cookin. We cracked a couple of beer and warmed ourselves by the raging fire (had to make it big... Needed the heat to bring the house temperature up from -20).
But there's nothing a pair of snow pants, pushing FS into the snow, and BSB's dancing won't fix. The cottage did warm up, and combine that with too many Red Stripes; winter pommel horse; jenga; Parliament (the band, not the Canadian Federal Headquarters); a really bad puzzle; dirty Scategories; Hudson's Bay blankets; s'mores; Fingers' bathroom spreadsheet; Punk fighting off the hibernating bears (yes, yes, and 4 deer *rolls eyes*) to get to us; krazy karpeting; Big Booty Hos; and breakfast mimosas; and you have one rockin' party.
???
It's 11:30 pm, and I've already blogged today.
But I can't stop thinking about it/him/that. And I hate myself for it. I'm not that girl. I'm not. I don't even want to be admitting this. I just want to scream. I was fine! That part of me was almost gone. And now all I can think is "Why now? Why at all? What's going on? Is everything okay? Should I be worried? Why did he do it?"
I hate myself for it. I can't help it. It's like an unanswered phone in the middle of the night. Or a hang-up on your machine. I want to know why or who or what.
I feel stupid and pathetic. He's managed to screw me again, but this time from 3000 km away.
F*ck you, Adam, for making me a cliche.
