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.

Around the Bay

And what a race it was!

Friday Night

State of mind? Excited!

I blew out of work to pick up my race kit complete with race chip and super swish technical shirt (sorry, Toque, I know you're still hiding out in the bitter barn because I got the shirt...) Bib number 3444... Decent. I got myself a couple of new headbands at the health expo and searched high and low for a good fuel belt, but with no luck.

I headed home to forge a second race bib for Toque who would be illegally trading places with me at the 15km relay point (long story short: I missed the relay registration by a day so we registered as one person with plans of tagging out at the half way point. I took the first half, and Toque, being the more profesh runner complete with running coach, pace timing watch larger than my face, and some super funky stretching techniques, planned to run the last half = much hillier than the first.) It's amazing what you can fashion with a scanner and some t-shirt transfers. Should I ever decide to leave the library business, I'm sure I could make a healthy living on the seedy underbelly world of t-shirt forgery.

Saturday

State of mind? Delusional.

Toque arrived around 2:00 and after some serious discussion and a few hundred glasses of water, we waddled out to the car to drive the course with Beef and Lil C'. It was clear from the get go where our various challenges were to lie: while Touque's portion of the course was much hillier, it was also in a much swankier part of town. I, on the other hand, was blessed with a relatively flat track, yet risked getting shived.

Being Palm Sunday and us good little Catholics, we dutifully attended church and prayed to the sweet JC to bring us on home. Dinner was homemade lasagna and yummy buns, and after a little TV we went our separate ways, Toque to sleep and me to lie aimlessly in bed plink-plink-plinking awake. Why is it when you can't sleep, it's always the night before an event you need sleep for? And why is it when you can't sleep you notice how loud your cat breaths, how bright the street light outside is, and how bizarre a noise the radiator makes when it burbs? When I did eventually fall asleep I had panicked dreams I left my iPod in the car pre-race... Not a good scene.

Sunday

State of mind? Nervous wreck.

Up at dawn's crack, showered, and dressed in my super swish gear, primed with my coffee, oatmeal, and banana before 7:30 am. Toque isn't far behind, heating his calves with the magic bag (*snickers*). Fingers picked us up at 8:00 and I was dropped in front of Copps by 8:15, way too early, but with road closures we weren't taking any chances. Being that we weren't registered for the actual relay, neither of us was eligible to take the shuttle so blessed Fingers drove us from depot to depot, cheering us on, complete with lawn chairs, heating pads, and blankets. Yay Fingers!

I busied myself around the stadium and then decided to take the detour walk up and around the stadium, positioning myself in the starting gate around 8:50. With 40 minutes 'till race time there was some serious people watching to be had. I'm convinced I saw Ralph Fiennes warming up in front of me. There's not talking me out of it, regardless of how irrational it may be...

By 9:15 I realize I've made a colossal mistake: I have to pee. But there are now nearly 10,000 people crowded in around me and I can see from my starting spot there are 60+ people in line for the 3 port-a-potties. Even if I was blind and nose-less you couldn't have convinced me to use them. I decide to take my chances with the race. Worse comes to worse, I wet my pants. Yea, I said it. Wet. My. Pants. Touque has already warned me the first 2km would be full of pushing and shoving to gain position, so wet pants are only going to give me a wider berth. It's a strategy to my advantage.

Bang! Gun shot goes and I'm... walking. I walked for about 2 minutes before actually crossing the starting line and picking up pace... 5km, 7km, 9km and I'm hustling, pacing myself against a little person in front of me wearing a pink hat. Around the 10km mark I lose her, either because her tiny legs have gotten their second wind or because my @ss is starting to drag. There are THRONGS of people all around me... We're a wall of people, a sea of legs as far as the eye can see. People are cheering from street corners, clanging their cowbells, and slamming spoons against pots and pans. I'm overdressed, hot from the get-go, peeling off my mitts, wishing I had gone with my gut and left my running coat in the car.

About 56 minutes in I can see the skyway bridge, which mentally tells me I'm almost done my leg of the race. With the 2:45 pace bunny within eyes reach, I turn on my power song ("Single Ladies") and mentally pat myself on the back for a race well run... Only to see the 12km marker. WTF?! But I've already played my power song?! What am I supposed to do now? Head down, I plod on through determined to reach Toque by my goal of 1:30.

Bam! 1:22 I role in to our rendezvous point (behind the canoes on Beach Boulevard) and quickly switch time chips with Toque, giving him a hug and a "you go girl" before he charges off in to the crowd. Being that we registered under my name, I yell a reminder for him to smile big and look feminine when crossing the finish line (for the celebratory 8x10 glossies you can purchase post race.)

Fingers and I head back to the stadium in time to see Nina and Jeremy breeze through under 3 hours, and Toque at... 2:53! Just shy of the rain, and near spot on our total estimated time. My legs are like jelly, Gatorade has never tasted better, and I'd give my unborn for a cheeseburger but otherwise I'm super proud of us. All the nerves, pre-race panic, and doubt led up to one very cool event that I'm proud to say I was part of... Heck, it's older than Boston!

Although we left this year wondering how anyone could run the whole thing, I'm convinced, like child birth, I'll totally forget how crazy it felt and sign up to the run the entire 30km next year. You game, Toque?!

p.s. For those wondering how PSITW went? This picture says it all:

'Teased' doesn't begin to explain it

I got my hair cut at lunch, trying to squeeze as much into a workday as possible. But it would seem my stylist has forgotten I work in a library and not in a Junior Miss department or the corner of King and Sanford.

Great.

At least I completed my four hour desk shift this morning. I can hide my hooker hair in the workroom. I'd much rather receive the ribbing and jibbing of my coworkers over that of an elderly man looking to take home the next Annette Funicello.

Another one of life's learning lessons? Never try to be efficient on your lunch hour... You'll inevitably end up with buyers remorse over the bathing suit you thought you could pick up on the quick, or hair that resembles something out of Beach Blanket Bingo.

I have more rules about the types of books I won't read than the types of books I will read:

• I won't read anything with England, Ireland, or Scotland as the setting
• I don't like books about the 20's or the 30's
• I don't like books about World War I or World War II
• generally speaking I don't read anything recommended by Oprah, thus I don't read books that drag you into the depths of depression or those that chronicle real-life ordeals
• and usually (*cringe*) I don't read Canadian... with the odd exception...

I'm fairly open to genre, including historical, romance, futuristic, a bit of sci-fi, and I am perfectly happy with something from the children's, young adult, or adult collections. Oh, and I don't like pocket paperbacks, like the kind you'd buy in the 7-11. I don't like the way they feel.

But what I've started to notice is that most of the books I do read have one very noticeable theme: strong, female leads. Not in a "rising up out of the ashes", violence and misery kind of way, but women who end up dealing with life changing situations in exceptional ways. Recently, these titles have included:

• Remarkable Creatures, Tracy Chevalier
• Sacred Hearts, Sarah Dunant
• Physick Book of Deliverance Dane, by Katherine Howe
• Tender Morsels, Margo Lanagan
• Hunger Games (and Catching Fire), by Suzanne Collins
• Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro 

Funny how that happens, huh? It's not something I actively seek out, but even looking back at my Library Thing catalogue most of the titles are female centered.

Any suggestions for next reads?

Free range and Cobble Hills Farm Sanctuary

As you may or may not know, I am a firm champion behind the theory that eggs are the perfect meal. Go ahead... Try and argue me out of it. This is one fight you cannot win. Why? Because simply put, eggs are little ovoids of happiness securely wrapped in their hard, evasive shells of protein matrix ready to be fashioned into many different (and uniquely flavoured) forms, as you see fit: scrambled, fried, over easy, poached (my favorite), meringued, egg salad-ed, etc. And because I'll punch you in the stomach and run away shouting "Eggs! Eggs!" at the top of my lungs, it's best you just agree.

That said, I've recently (as of the last year) made the switch to free-range eggs. And I seriously can't tell you what a difference it makes. Not only in the way the eggs look--big, bright yellow, clear white, no little weird filmy/slippery bit clinging to the side of the yoke--or taste--fresh--but because of the inevitable betterment you're bringing your body, and because of how much better they are for the environment.

Listen up, folks. I am by no means David Suzuki. I'm sometimes too lazy to recycle my toilet paper rolls, and I don't carry my own mug to Second Cup. And I won't pretend I know what I'm talking about. But when I hear from someone who does know, and who I trust to give me the green light, I listen.

Chris was a friend of Beef's growing up. They road horses together or some such nonsense (while I played in the horse poo, but that's another story for another time...) Chris was always a champion of animal rights. Not in a militant, red-paint kind of way. But in a gentle, she-makes-me-want-to-be-a-better-person kind of way. She's one of the few people I know (besides maybe Nina and Jeremy) who has taken her ideas and her family 'all the way'. In 2006 they opened their dream sanctuary farm just outside Stratford, Ontario: Cobble Hills Farm Sanctuary. Together they rescue battery farm chickens and her video story from the Toronto Star changed me:



I could never go back to purchasing regular eggs after seeing these little chicky's in their wee sweaters. I trust what she says. And while I'm in no place to adopt my own hen, I can support the cause by no longer purchasing battery farm eggs. Voila! I'm a free-ranger. Taste, texture, and peace of mind = well worth the extra $2 a carton.

Side note: Chris also introduced me to The Smiths, Morrissey, and Spirit of the West all in one glorious mixed tape (thank you, Chris!)