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...
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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:
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."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?"
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.
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!"
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.
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.
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*
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 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...
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.
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?
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.
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!
