Me, my book, a Moose, and a new red Muskoka...
... perfect Friday night.
Road Trip
1742. The number of times we listened to Under the Sea from Disney's, The Little Mermaid.
540. The number of minutes spent in the car.
82. The number of times we were asked, "are we almost there?" 10 minutes after getting into the car.
18. The number of Scooby Snacks consumed in two days.
11. The number of times we passed the portable DVD player back and forth from the front seat to the 'back back' trying to get Finding Nemo to play before we realized the bloody thing was broken a mere 3 hours into an 8-hour drive.
10. The speed, in Km per hour, Beef was traveling when she 'dropped me off' at the end of the trip...
Nearly 6. The combined age of my nephews (4 1/2 years old, and 6-months old) who, all things considered, are marvelous company.
5. The number of people sharing a hotel room.
3. The number of sleep-depraved adults.
1. Priceless video.
While I recognize it's an advertizing campaign...
... I still think this is pretty great. I dare you to think of what you would envision if you were asked to do that same sketch.
Real Beauty
Spring is in the air!
And in our house that means one thing: Mapletown! This year was Littlest C's first trip to Mountsberg. It's crazy to think it was four years ago we were here for the first time with Lil' C (same outfit and everything!) And while not much has changed outside of the inflated prices, it remains a yearly tradition, and one we know Dad is taking with us from his maple syrup cloud in the sky.
This year's highlight? Over our traditional pancake and sausage breakfast we launched into a discussion on age:
"How old are you?" Lil' C asks me.
"How old do you think I am..." I ask in return.
*thoughtful pause*
"14?"
"Nah, I'm a bit older than 14..."
"But I don't know any older than 14."
I love how simple life is when you're 4. Although I don't love that he assumes I'm as old as anyone could possibly get.
Remember back in grade 10...
... when we were required to take one of those career matchmaking surveys? Remember that? Filling out one of those silly scantron sheets of a million questions, things like "do you prefer to be in alone or with a group" or "do you prefer to be indoors or outdoors"? At the end they provide you with a list of careers you should consider? Anyway, we have this database at work where you can take these kind of tests, and we've been asked to bone up on it to help kids who want access to it. So I took the test today.
My number one career match?
Martial arts instructor. My other top 10 options include 'diving instructor', 'funeral director', and 'choreographer'. Librarian was #18. Just before 'tour guide' but not after 'psychiatric aid'.
Gross.
I am the first to admit I watch terrible TV. Mindless trash. My downtime at night, in between crafting, kitty cuddles, and training runs is TLC and some choice reality shows. But I think even I have reached a point of complete and utter bewilderment.
First, I turned on the boob tube during dinner and some stupid Hollywood show was reporting on last night's college football game. Apparently at one point the cameras panned the crowd and focused in on the girlfriend of one of the quarterbacks. I gather, as Miss Alabama, she's a pretty girl, and her twitter followers went from less than 1000 before the game to 100,000+ by nights end. The news reporter finished the broadcast with:
"[what's her name] graduated from X university, cum laude, with a 3.5 GPA, a 24" waist and a 34" bust..."
Im sorry, but WTF? Her GPA followed by her boob size? This is news? If so, why aren't they reporting on the size of the quarterback's dink (sorry mom...)
---
Then... Shameful, I know, but I watched the first episode of The Bachelor. In my defense, I wasn't going to but dammnit Big Guy talked me into just watching the first one. So I did. And one of the contestants is a beautiful young woman who happens to have been born with only have one arm. She's a funny, intelligent, smart, advertising executive on the show looking for love (aren't they all?) So there she is, all sad and teary, pouring her heart out on camera about how she can't find love and the only reason she can fathom why she's still single is because of the missing arm...
Fast forward, and the bachelor arrives to give her a rose, saying the 3.4 minutes they shared wasn't enough for him and he hoped they could talk more later. Ad Exec is now elated. Direct quote:
"This rose means so much. It's validation that I'm good enough and I'm interesting enough for someone to want to keep me around. It's a huge symbol of empowerment and confidence and love."
A rose. On the Bachelor. This is validation for you, when you've grown up in the USA with only one arm overcoming daily obstacles and stigma. When you've graduated from a US college with no doubt an inevitable mountain of student debt which you are presumably paying off with your successful career in design. And a douche bag giving you a sloppy seconds rose because he liked the way you looked in your tight cocktail dress is a source of empowerment. Amazing. Great. Super.
Sometimes I hate people.
According to the hotly contested Mayan prophecies, tomorrow is world's end.
Dear, sweet Orange has spent a considerable amount of time worrying about this day. Correction: he has worried about this day with the vigor and magnitude only a ginger could muster. We have had countless conversations about the pothole (or "sinkhole" as he would call it) at the base of our driveway, and whether or not I'm at all concerned that it will one day (i.e. December 21st) devour our cars. Or if I, like him, think that if tomorrow brings a strong storm could it wash half the side yard into our ravine? Or do I think the maple in our yard looks diseased and maybe should we proactively cut it down so to avoid any scenario in which branches penetrate our roof?
He bought a generator. No sh*t. A generator.
For the record, I don't share Orange's concerns about December 21st, and while I don't necessarily validate them, I do listen because... well... I have what could be coined "silly" concerns too, and it's nice to know you're not alone in your paranoia. So in honor of Orange's worry, let's celebrate the clip clop of the four horseman with a blog post on irrational things to worry about**:
1. Do I have a wonky eye? Fingers was married recently, and I noticed in some of the photos from the big day that my eye appears wonky. As in, I resemble a beluga whale with my eyeball going left when it should be front and center. This is the first thing I look for in pictures of myself... Where my eyeball at? I fear my beluga eye come the big WD (wedding day).
2. Do I have a potato chip addiction? If there is a bag in the house, I eat them. Like, all of 'em. So I just don't buy them. But if we have a party, or if we rent a movie, or if for any reason I want to celebrate something (birth, death, Remembrance Day, the season finale of Dexter, a random Tuesday...) I buy chips. I don't get chip sweats so this is a plus, I suppose as I guess I could deduce I've never gone into any form of withdrawal (like during Lent, for example, when I'm off 'em cold turkey.) But legitimately if I have a chip, I have to have them all.
3. Where would I hide if someone broke into my house? This occupies a lot of time when I can't sleep. Obvi I can't go under the bed because that's the first place they'd look. The closet, a logical second, also a no-go. The way I figure it all depends on how much time I have, and thus at what stage of the break-in I'm alerted to the intrusion. If I had my druthers I'd glide down the stairs to the basement and shimmy out the spare room window (no screen.) Otherwise I think I'd play dead.
4. When I'm running, and I'm on a busy street for example, and I run past a group of people waiting for a bus or something, are my hinders jiggling about back there? And concern #2 does nothing to help. I know, totally vein. But there you have it. I have no problem blowing snot rockets, slouching about, and hiking up my spandex when I'm on a trail but on a city street I always adjust my stance and stride worrying that people are laughing as I run by. This also adds to another concern, which we'll call 4 (b) are my spandex pants too thin and can you see my butters through them?
5. If the house was burning down, what would I grab? That cat. I don't really have to think about this one, but I worry about the stuff I'd be leaving behind and is there anyway I could go back and get it. Like my baby blanket, and the pictures of my dad when he was little, and my 2nd edition of Anne of Green Gables... And Orange, of course.
6. Speaking of the cat, does he poo enough? And that's all I'm going to say about that...
7. Did I turn off my hair straightener? I relived this worry daily when I was living in the apartment. Even though I'd purposefully check to ensure I'd turned it off (and unplugged it) I still worried I'd somehow left it on. I'd get half way to work and think "was today the one morning I forgot?" It never got so bad that I'd double back, but throughout the day I'd wonder about it. And as a result I no longer straighten my bangs in the morning.
And last but not least:
8. If I have a really vivid dream, and I can recall many details of the dream including calling people and/or sending them emails , was it really a dream or did I in fact call that person at 3:00 in the morning to tell them I disagree with their decision to stop talking to me (part of the dream) or don't understand why their hair is now grass (also part of the dream...)
Your turn. Anyone care to confess an irrational worry?
**I realize all of these worries revolve around me. Trust, I have many other worries that revolve around other people, too. And yes, there are things the world over to be legitimately concerned about (like poverty, environmental degradation, and war, for example...) By no means is this post meant to diminish the validity of those concerns. I also realize that, as Grandma LL would say, "I've had many problems in my life most of which have never happened." This is meant to be funny... So don't get all emotional and/or "no-you-don't-look-like-a-Beluga-whale" on me here...
All I want for Christmas...
Is THIS b*tch! Thanks to Poomobile for sending this gem my way. How I made it through 33 years of life without this item is beyond me, especially considering how often I can be found involuntarily wearing the real life version. Seriously, though, Santa... If I can't have a Keyboard Cat, I need this. Seriously. Like, bad.
Sh*t my boyfriend says...
"Marry me and we'll spend the next 30 years together (37 if I ease up on the dairy... )"
p.s. Of course I said 'yes'... How could I say 'no' to someone who knows me well enough to hide a ring at the bottom of a bag of cheesies?
*jumpy clappy hands*
The things we do for love...
Having a pet is like inviting a small tragedy into your life. A good friend of mine said that once and it's starting to make a bit more sense.
Four years ago a chunky tuxedo-wearing snugglepuss stuck his paw out of a cage at the Humane Society, hooking his claws into my sweater, and subsequently my heart. Since then, Dr. Albert McMeowsers has wooed his way into my life and later, into that of Orange (although publically he'll declare he thinks Bert is an @sshole, privately he has more photos on his phone of Bert than I do...) Albert is very much a member of our little family. Where we are, he is. On the couch? He's in between us. Chatting in the kitchen? He's on the floor behind us. Outside in the yard? He's pressed against the glass, watching. He has his faults to be sure (tunneling through the furniture with his claws, for example, and drinking from the toilet...) but we love him nonetheless. His funny little personality more than makes up for the early morning wake up calls and all-season allergies.
This weekend things took a bit of a wacky turn when Little B stopped eating and became crazy nauseous. Orange thought he'd taken our "fatty" comments to heart and was working his way into an eating disorder. I worried the vet's were going to start thinking I had Munchausen Syndrome. Either way, he's back at the vet again for an extended stay this time, and our house feels pretty empty.
I know it's silly, even though you're all going to tell me it's not. He's a cat, for crying out loud, not a child. Orange jokes that we're like ET and Elliot... When Bert's sick, I'm sick with worry ("I'll be right here...") But for those of us who have fur forever friends, you might get it when I say it's hard not to be smitten with them when all they give is unconditional love, and all they want is unconditional love in return. You come to rely on those little faces at the door when you come home, their little snuggles on the couch. So... I'll do whatever he needs me to do, including worrying like a crazy person until he's tucked back in beside me, paws up.Night night, Little B.
So proud!
Cousin Toque is a cool dude. He's also kind of a big deal... People know him. He has many leather bound books. His house smells like rich mahogany. I'm making most of this up, except seriously... He's cool and people really do know him. Like the Canadian Olympic Team, for example, for whom he is the official videographer. Amazeballs!
The Olympics have been Toque's schtick for a couple of years now, not to mention the Commonwealth and PanAm Games. But this year was the first year he was "in 'yo face" with the team for the entire three weeks, stationed in and around Canada House for the duration of the event, interviewing athletes and other personalities.
 |
| (I spy Toque in this picture of Hot Harry from Hello Canada... Do you?!) |
For those who might not know, last week/end was the parade of champions of sorts in Ottawa with the Canadian Olympic Teams, which they then took on the road to Toronto and into the ACC for a grand "hurrah, we're awesome!" party. As part of his duties (hee hee... 'duties'...) Toque was asked to create a Call Me Maybe meme of the team. Hilarious. Apparently the men's rowing team was crazy keen to be part of it (?!?!?) which then led to the rest of the athletes eagerly tracking Toque down to get their lipsync on camera. Hilarious and awesome.
Great stuff, Toque!
Sh*t my boyfriend says...
While watching 'Prometheus':
"Why is everyone in outer space so angry? No one's ever glad to see us up there..."
Uke
I'm taking ukulele lessons. Have I told you this?
Last Christmas I gave Fingers lessons, and she gave me a uke (sort of a "Gift of the Magi" thing, as neither of us knew what the other had planned...) Anywho, we were so excited not only did we upgrade our ukes to profesh-ish models (mines a slightly different colour), but Poo decided to get in on the action, and the three of us started up with the beginner group from String Along Ukulele last February.
First off, it has to be said ukulele (pronounced 'ook-oo-lele') lessons are hysterical. We are easily the youngest in the group by about 20-years. Add to this the lessons take place in the recreation room of an old folks home, and you have the makings for a good night. Except, of course, every third lesson which is our jam night. Yes, I said it. That's right. Our jam night. Every third Tuesday about 50 ukulele players gather in the back room of a pub to eat, drink, play, and sing along to classic tunes like:
Ain't She Sweet
Sway
Jamaica Farewell
What's that? You don't recognize these smash hits? That's because no one reading this blog was born before 1920, whereas most of our classmates were...
I literally can't stop smiling on jam nights because the entire thing is so surreal. My classmates come with bags full of kazoos, maracas, spoons, and harmonicas to play on those special songs that require accompaniment. Some nights there's a banjo, others a bassist. I've recently noticed that some come with pint glass holders on their music stands (I asked the grey haired lady next to me where you get one and she whispered "in the drummers section of the music store, dear.") Inevitable after ever song someone says "they don't make songs like that anymore..." or "Oh, that one's my favorite!"
Jam nights have become so popular they stopped allowing spectators into the room because they were crowding out the players. I mean, seriously, think about... If you knew there was a secret room full of ukuleles in your neighborhood rocking out to the theme song from the Flinstones and Blue Moon wouldn't you want to sit in? It's like slipping through Platform 9 3/4 into another world. A totally ridiculous world, albeit, but in the best possible sense.
Anywho, lessons have started up again, and in honour of our second year I bought myself a bad-ass strap and tuner and have been practicing my favorite tunes. My goal is to one day make the switch to the banjolele and then eventually into my real banjo, but I'm working my way up to that. For my birthday, Fingers, Poo and I are going to a ukulele concert at the Legion--seriously, I can't make this up--with Ralph Shaw, whom were told is legendary in the uke world. He wears a bow tie. I'm hoping to get him to sign my uke... Either that or my chest. But although we share the same music stand accoutrement, I don't think the Ralph Shaw's of the world share much else with the Rick Allen's...
I'll have my Sharpie marker at the ready, just in case!
*wink*
Ugh. I know, I KNOW!
Stop yelling at me, I know I'm behind in my updates.
"Not refreshing one's blog" has been added to the (growing) list of things my mom can now nag me about, alongside the length of my hair ("I don't like it when you pin your bangs back... Just get it cut for heaven's sake..."), fiddling with the candles on the dining room table, and not returning Tupperware containers. In my defense, there's been a lot happening as of late and I've been on the road most weekends (and to be honest, blogging on an iPad is b@lls... they need an app for that... and until they do I'm too lazy to pull the laptop out at night. Sorry, friends.)
1. Big C, Beef and I had a whirlwind trip to NYC a few weeks back. We shopped uncontrollably (and yet all I bought was a handmade ring from a street vender). We ate obscenely, including a memorable meal at a michelin star restaurant where we were treated to something called "ballet service" and I ate things that included "foam" and "jus" in the list of ingredients. And we saw Raven Symone sing her teets off in Sister Act. While having a nice smelling man in a suit serve me lunch while I drank ice wine that cost an astonishing amount (considering how much it tasted like blue cheese [it could be argued, I suppose, that my pallet is not refined enough to appreciate such niceties]) was certainly a treat, highlights from this ridiculous trip include:
- Fancy Cousin being accosted on the street in broad daylight by a large man who felt the sudden urge to compliment both FC's handbag (vintage Yves, beautiful to be sure) and his "fine @ss".
- Big C commenting on the number of "Es-caa-la-days" on the road (read: Escalades)--sorry, mom... But you're so damn cute I can't not tell that story.
- Standing in FAO Schwartz waiting for Beef to use the loo (yet again...) and subsequently watching a young girl give birth to a doll. Some things you can't unsee...
- The most amazing 4-hour home cooked meal I've ever eaten, created by none other than FC and his roommate, Mary, shared with Mary's extended family, the quintessential Italian American's: Louretta, Louie, Pauly, Frankie, Serg, and Candido (who tells you to "just call me Tony" because he knows no one can pronounce his name.) Oh, and Louretta has a daughter married to a man named Fabio (of course) who owns a pizzeria in the Bronx (I can't make this sh*t up...) There was a lot of this, and this, and food I'm still dreaming about. I ate in shifts to cram it all in, and cram I did: pasta made with brie, oil and balsamic grilled veggies, fresh olive bread, platters of cheese and meat, three different deserts, hot espresso, and the largest container of Coffee Mate I've ever seen (*sing song* one of these is not like the other...)
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| Preggers Beef at Jean Georges... |
2. Bert has Tourettes, or something like that.
Fo' shizzle. Our fatty has been taken over as of late by some strange OCD-type behaviour that has him obsessively licking, frantically running, and hiding most days under our bed. It's sad to watch. My all-star vet, however, is trying her hardest to puzzle out his problems. But getting a straight answer from a cat is like trying to get a straight answer from a cat = très impossible.
Being a self-diagnosed "Crazy Cat Lady", I have of course gone out and purchased a fancy water fountain to entice him out from under the bed from time to time (which he lubs.) I suppose it's also a reward (read: guilt gift) for the twice daily oral needles he's forced to endure. Neither of us enjoy this daily routine, but the reminders I serve alongside his anti depressant/seizure medication that we're lucky these syringes are going in his mouth and not another unspeakable entrance bring little comfort.
Fingers crossed my little fur football.
3. I was an Olympic slut, passing myself between CTV, NBC, and TSN's coverage trying to catch a glimpse of whatever was being covered. It really doesn't matter when or what or who... I'm interested. Velodrome team sprint? Sure. Women's badminton? Yes please. Men's trampoline? Yup. I draw the line at indoor volleyball because it's boring (save your breath to cool your porridge, don't try arguing with me, my mind is firmly made up on the matter.) I have some observations to make, however:
- The curvature of a female gymnists spine creeps me out.
- I don't like the new "ladies" swimsuits.
- Sports with artistic components decided upon by a judge assigning a mark should not be in the Olympics. The motto is "faster, higher, stronger" not "faster, higher, stronger, and with more artistic merit." There. Feel free to argue with me about that one...
FYI, getting a good picture of yourself on the Maid of the Mist is really hard.
It's silly times if you're in the area and haven't ridden this beeatch. But I also recommend keeping your mouth closed for the duration of the trip unlike the wieners at the front of the boat screaming into the mist "OMG this is so much fuuuuuuuuun" who probably took home a bad case of e-coli alongside their souvenir key chain.
And finally...
5. Following last year's universal acceptance of "meh" as an official Scrabble-legal word, both "F-Bomb" and "sexting" were added to the Oxford English Dictionary in 2012. It gives me pleasure to imagine the folks who work for OED as stuffy old British men in monocles and cravats looking down their long pointed noses from their smoking room arm chairs:
"All in favor of 'sexting' as a word say 'aye'"
This is library humor I can get behind.
Spartan Sprint
Sunday was the much anticipated Spartan Race. Heck yes, it was.
Sandwiched between two beautiful days, Sunday rained cats and dogs (not literally) which didn't exactly add to the experience, but certainly made things interesting. Hardwood Hills is well known for it's "difficult terrain" (home to the Canadian national mountain bike competition) and provided quite the challenge in and of itself. While 5km doesn't seem like much of a hike anymore, add a continuous cycle of hills, 15 random obsticles, and torrential downpour and you have yourself a race.
In and amongst the running and competitor dodging we had:
Rope ladders
Camouflage nets
Sandbags
Various walls of different sizes and materials
Spear tosses
Weight pulls
Confined spaces
And mud. Lots and lots (and lots) of hip deep, thick, squishy mud.
I'm not selling this race very well, but seriously: it was so much fun! Everyone was so excited to be there, helping each other along the way and sharing in the explitives ("Holy f*ck, did I just lose my shoe?") Someone was kind enough to unhook my hair from the barbed wire I was army crawling under, and in return I flicked a beatle off the girl in the mud in front of me. Nice, huh?
By the time we were through (1:04 for me, 1:13 for Orange... girls rule... sorry, had to say it) I was head-to-toe muck. The shoes were a write off but a quick rinse under the fire hose and I was ready for my close up!
If you get a chance, totally sign up for one of these events. Or, as my grandmother said in her email:
"Rather you than me in your choice of 'recreation' yesterday. In the same class as banging your head against a wall. It’s so nice when you can stop."
Why can I not buy a small can of black beans?
I don't want to spend 4 hours boiling my own, and I don't need 600 mL of them!? I'm one person (most of the time) and can't possibly eat 5000 of anything, let alone beans of any sort (and nor should I if you know what I mean...)
Has no one in the bean industry thought of this? I mean, seriously people.
I don't ask for much...
So, this is what I'm doing this weekend...
You?
*jumpy clappy hands*
I'm pretty pumped. Although I'm not sure how I feel about "electric shocks"...?
*shifty eyes*
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