Cute he is, yes.

Successful Halloween it was, mmm.

Thank you to...

... Lil'Fingers for bringing this crucially cerebral article to my attention: Dogs Looking Depressed in their Halloween Costumes.

The hands down winner in this sad competition is the pug.

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October really is the best month--the return of sweaters and jeans without sweating, candy apples once again become socially acceptable, and we celebrate Thanksgiving, closely followed by my second (near first) favourite holiday: Halloween.

Like Claire, I'm a bit fanatical when it comes to Halloween, driving all over the countryside looking for a collection of white pumpkins for my ghostly jack-o-lantern display, forcing Orange to buy full-sized chocolate bars to hand to perfect strangers just so we can be "the good house" on the street, spending hours perfecting a ghoulish motif in the front yard. While I haven't gone so far as to dress dearest Bert in his own costume (tuxedo aside...) don't think I didn't contemplate it.

I thought turning 30 last year would have put an end to this foolishness, but every year I come back with an excited bubble in my tummy. I think I've come to the conclusion I will never be too old for this holiday, nor will the excitement of costume planning ever get lame...

... However lame that might make me.

Update:

We were scammed.

People totally and completely suck.

I'm sceptical to a fault

As previously mentioned, I heart Mumford.

Knowing I was desperate to see them, Orange scouted out three tickets online on the Mumford website from what appears to be a very sweet girl/fan who herself is not able to make the show. Orange has made this sort of transaction before, and is willing to go ahead with the sale on a hope and a whim that the tickets will indeed arrive in the mail next week. I, of course, am sceptical of the entire situation. I poked holes in her story and my inner "Thomas" doubted all over him:

Why isn't she able to go? Where does she live? It's convenient she's four hours away, huh? What if we EMT her the money and she never sends the tickets? What's her motivation to send them after we give her the money? How do we know she even has tickets? 

Needless to say, Orange backed off the expense.

Bottom line: I work hard for the money I have and don't want to throw it away. Especially not an amount that would seriously put a dent in our "basement fund". But I realize I'm also being very negative. So taking a page from dearest Orange's book, I took a chance and emailed her myself. I got the same sort of information from her, offered her $50 less a ticket than Orange did and she gladly excepted. In fact, in reality, she could be selling these on Kijiji for ten times the amount I'm offering her... As it is, she'll only be making $15 a piece off us. Unless of course, she's scamming us entirely... Le sigh.

Blarg.

Anywho, I'm taking the chance and chalking it up to a "learning experience". Either I'll EMT her the money and in a few short days receive my Canada Post Priority mail package with three hard copy Mumford and Sons tickets, and my faith in humanity will be restored. Or I'll EMT her the money and in a few short days I'll be broke and broken hearted, my faith in humanity confirmed. I'll start filling my mattresses with cold hard cash, wandering around places like Walmart shouting things like "Get off the grid! Trust no one! Beware of Satan, he lurks on the Mumford and Sons website!"

I have many talented friends...

1. Poo takes amazing, candid photographs.
2. Free Samples can do taxes using long division.
3. Fingers could organize a herd of cats.
4. Orange plays a ridiculous guitar (although he's very bashful about this, and will probably throttle me for even mentioning it...)
5. Pants paints beautifully.
6. Beef's soup is out of this world.
7. Both Susie and Belly can dance like they're on Electric Circus.
8. Sleeves is a beautiful writer.
9. Hurr_ah is the best customer designer I know.

Out of all my friends, though, I'd have to say BSB is the most talented.

When we first started our "hanging out" so to speak, he lived in a hovel down the street from my apartment. Being a Contractor with his own business, he was kept busy improving other people's homes--additions, renovations, garage-mahals, etc. Although I'd heard about his legendary skill, I'd never seen his handy work myself.

Then a few summers ago he built a bunky at his parents cabin.

From the ground up.

Without a drawing, beyond the one in his head.

While he had an assistant at the time, the work was primarily his--from the design, to the construction, to the finishing touches. To this day, I'm blown away when I pull up to their cottage get-away and see this brand new building blending perfectly with its surroundings as though it's been there the last 100 years. What blows me even further away, is that he's built by hand a structure that  (2012 notwithstanding...) will still be kickin' 100 years from now, long after me and my career-esque contributions have faded into the abyss...

BSB has since turned his attention to his own home which I've come to love as if it were my own. Both he and Fingers have put so much love and effort into it, it's simply unrecognizable: they did away with walls, built a brand new kitchen, installed a second floor where before there was none, and a finished basements with *gasp* (working) closet doors!

*wink*

Up for sale and ready for a new owner, this is one house I'll be sad to see go (where are we going to have our Cinco de Mayo parties now!?) But while I'm playing the little black rain cloud "pining" for the coziest house around (excuse the pun...), I am proud as a parent at how hard the two of them--in particular BSB--have worked. His skill truly amazes me.

(although I still wouldn't call him to refinish my antique chest... *wink*)

Yoga x2 = 3x the comedy!

This is math even I can do.

I (thought I) started two different yoga classes this week.

First up, a surprise birthday gift from dearest Fingers: 10-weeks of yoga at a local studio. When Fingers registered us with (get this...) "Saffron", the studio owner, she was given two strict instructions:

1. No revealing clothing--shorts, tank tops, etc. Nothing immodest. In other words, no yoga clothes.
2. No eating 3 hours prior to the class. Apparently flatulence is a problem.

No joke.

Needless to say we were both expecting (for lack of a better phrase) a bit of a sh*t show last night. What we got was an amazing, relaxing, semi-private class with an hour of poses that will eventually, over the course of the ten weeks, turn into flow yoga. I'm pretty excited. After a high-impact weekend (helping Fingers with a move, extensive yard work on a three-tiered lawn, and a long run) I could literally feel the aches and pains melting out of my back and legs.

That said, Shavashna yoga included two of three yoga surprises:

1. Byron, the yoga instructor, had a moustache.
2. Mid warrior pose, a cat came strolling into the room. I gather he's Saffron's cat, and has the run of the studio. Judging by his size, I'd say he could use a bit of yoga himself...  Fingers said during savasana he was licking her fingers.

The second yoga class I'm registered for is here at work. As a fundraiser for the United Way, a staff member who is part-way through a yoga instructors course, is offering 8-weeks of morning yoga in an effort to fulfil her voluntary instruction hours before the big exam. So I was up at dawn's crack this morning to get my bran buds and coffee in before setting off for work an hour and a half early.

Well puff my cheeks and call me gopher (as Dad used to say). Wouldn't you know it, our classes start next week! So here I am at work at 7:40am wearing yoga pants and flip flops, ready and excited to downward dog.

Meh. Perhaps this is Buddha's way of getting back at me for thinking about dinner during last night's meditations...?

Cow bell isn't enough anymore...

I'm currently pretty much obsessed with Mumford and Sons.

I'm not sure if it's their totally unique sound or what. The lyrics? Maybe it's the banjo? You know my thoughts on banjos. But I literally can't get enough. They are on my permanent play list. I have a sickness, and the only cure is more Mumford and Sons.

They're playing the Sound Academy on November 13th and while tickets are completely, totally, and irrevocably sold out (they're sold out everywhere...) I'm committed to standing outside the venue willing to exchange large amounts of cash for any kind of seat that will get me through the door. It's rare I get this kind of musical inclination so I'm going for it (and hope Orange will tag along, being that he's beyond musically versed and has scalped many a seat.) While I've seen my fare share of concerts, I haven't been this jazzed about someone for awhile. And h*ll, if I can do it for Octoberfest and Walter Ostanek I can certainly do it for modern talent.



If you haven't already, go out and get yourself Sigh No More. You won't regret it.

If I was on Facebook, I'd start a group called "I'm sorry your house was destroyed during that hurricane/tsunami/earthquake... Hate to say I told you so, but you should'a let FritoLay keep it's noisy bag."

I read in the Globe and Mail yesterday that Frito Lay was pulling it's SunChip biodegradable bags from the shelves of all US distributors because of customer complaints over the bag being "too noisy."

While I have first hand knowledge of this noise level (in Florida, Orange and I tried desperately to open a bag of Harvest Cheddar on the sly with dearest Fingers asleep in the room next door... needless to say our covert cover was blown...) the occasional *crinkle crinkle* is hardly something to complain about. And sweet baby Shiloh, it's hardly something to post dozen of YouTube videos about or start social networking groups over! Nearly 50,000 people are boycotting SunChips on Facebook. Clearly, time to these idiots is worth about as much as our planet.

I'm happy to report Canadians are not so cochlear sensitive, nor so feckin' stupid. The SunChip bags on Canadian shelves will remain both delicious and biodegradable. So the next time you're in your local Quickie Mart, pick yourself up a bag of French Onion or Peppercorn Ranch and give them a *crinkle crinkle* just for me. Then pat yourself on the back and congratulate yourself on being of superior citizenship.

"Having a pet is like buying a small tragedy for your family..."--Chewbecca

Goose went to the kitty basket in the sky yesterday.

After weeks of barely eating and drinking, his wee fuzzy body finally said "I think I'm done." And although a tough call to make, mom finally brought in the vet who did all the right things. After 15 years of being our runt, it was time to let him go. And we know he's up there in heaven with dad, lying in his lap, kneading and purring and drooling just like his old ridiculous self. The cat who was more routine oriented than a rooster, who took ten minutes to get comfortable on the couch, who pulled Liberace-esque shenanigans to get his way, but who liked his cuddle more than I like cheesies (and that's a lot...)

----------

A good friend of mine has always said, "having a pet is like buying a small tragedy for your family." So true. There's never been a time I haven't had or desperately wanted something fuzzy in my life--Mittens (19 years), Hobbes (5) and Goose (15), Gary (*shifty eyes*), Dr. Bert (3 and counting!) We all know we'll most likely outlive these pets, and yet they worm their way so far into your heart so fast, they become another family member. They unconditionally love you, slobber you with love and affection, all for a few pieces of kibble, a splash of water, and the occasional snuggle/foil ball...

And so, regardless of the heartbreak they bring when they do in fact punch out, I'll continue to have/want/beg for a pet. Their comedy alone is priceless. And if you're reading this and your fur ball is somewhere close, pull them in for a squish and kiss and thank Baby Shiloh for bringing us pets.

RIP, Goosey.

And none of those "Swarovski Crystal" figurines, either...

There was a time when the ongoing joke amongst friends was that with every new relationship I began, I would inevitably receive the gift of Sea Monkeys. For real. Three separate relationships started (and subsequently ended) wherein the first gift was that of brine shrimp. And while I appreciate the novelty of Sea Monkeys, my curiosity more or less peaked at the age of 12. So I'm left wondering: what was it about me that screamed "dehydrated shell fish"?

Along the same lines, I'm now currently the owner of multiple... Nay, numerous... miniature personal library kits. At the moment, I probably have half a dozen of these little gems in my possession, all of which have been gifts from very well intentioned friends. And while I made active use of my first personal library kit, I'm not quite sure what to do with the rest...? Wallpaper the spare room? Line the litter tray? Label and date my sweaters?

I'm slightly concerned what the third gift phase of my life will bring. Pray Shiloh my Carlsberg years don't bring with them a body language that screams "Royal Doulton"...

"Deep Thoughts by Orange" will likely become a reoccuring theme on B&J because the kid is so damn funny, I can't resist:

A random statement at 7:30 this morning:

"Besides mythical creatures, does anyone really play the harp?"

I can't make THIS STUFF up.

So many random thoughts...

1. Fall TV is killing me. Now that I'm installed a l'Orange, I'm blessed (cursed?) with satellite and consequently the ability to record any show I might want to watch. Going for a run? We can start House an hour late. Need to grocery shop? No problem... I can record Community and watch it tomorrow. UGH! Now there's, like, 12 hours of recorded TV I have to catch up on before the new week's episodes start. And Obama thought he had problems...

2. Cousin Toque, my personal Ottawa Superstar, has travelled half way across the planet to ride elephants, fill up on tandoori, and cheer on our Canadian athletes as an ambassador to Canada at the Commonwealth Games. His official title is "Media Attaché". I have no idea what that is (I thought an attaché was some form of briefcase...?) but it sounds very impressive. More impressive, however, is how hard CT has worked to get this position--a true example of what perseverance will get you. Conquering Kilimanjaro, the Ottawa Marathon, the Vancouver Olympics, and now Delhi... I mean this in all seriousness: is there anything you can't do?! Totally and completely inspiring.

Follow his footsteps HERE.

3. Thanks to Manrissa for introducing me to THIS LITTLE GEM. For a good laugh, click away... I recommend starting with "The Party".

4. My workplace is really into Book Trailers. Specifically, having staff/me create them. I don't mind, though, because it's a random opportunity to play at something creative in an otherwise left brain environment. This is the latest trailer of my creation for the newest Anne Brashares novel, My Name is Memory. Although a little "history heavy" at times, I'd recommend it for sure!

5. During my last week of holiday's, Orange gave me the best surprise. After five days of totally miserable cottage weather (cold and wet), we woke up on the Friday to sun. Totally amazing! I was just getting ready to head down to the dock, book in hand, primed for some much needed sun time when...

"Damn," says Orange. "I forgot to pay my credit card bill. I'm going to need to go into town to the bank. Will you come with me?"

Say what? Nah uh, I'm not going anywhere. I've been waiting all week for some heat and now that it's here I'm going to stuff my self with it. But of course after several minutes of "Please? Don't make me go alone..." I caved, throwing on my grubbiest clothes worn all week in front of dock fires, and topping my greasy hair with a toque. I hardly needed to dress for a car ride...

Needless to say, our trip to the bank was a beard for the real purpose beyond our drive to Gravenhurst: a birthday trip on the RMS Segwun! There's nothing more fun than the "boop boop booooooop" of the Segwun steamship tooting it's way past the cottage, and here I was getting my very own 2 1/2 hour lunch cruise, complete with turkey dinner! Hands down, the best part of our vacation. It's just too bad I didn't think to slap on deoderant... Thank heaven's I remembered a bra...

*blush*

Here's a video of a drive-by boating and the Segwun's subsequent courtesy toot. I'm losing my mind... Orange is... Well... Losing patience with my camera work:

"Damnit, Library Lady!"

If you have two minutes to waste, do it with this:

Right in the kisser, indeed.

"They don't call it the Amazing Race for nothing..."

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.