On the 12th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me...

... a dishwasher!

The gentle hum of clean dishes is serenading this blog post. While a dishwasher may not be the most romantic of gifts to many of you, there is nothing sexier to me at this point in my life than the cold steel of this hard working beast: the auto cycle working its gentle fingers over my dinner dishes, caressing the flatware, romancing the pulp off my orange juice glasses, scrubbing the sh*t out of my chili pot. And don't get me started on the Jet Dry. We've already run this b*tch twice tonight and its not even 9:00.  I know, right? Twice in one night!

Accompanying my very first dishwasher, is 24" of long, hard (wood) cabinet and drawer space, effectively doubling if not tripling my counter and kitchen storage. Can a sister get a "woot woot"! My cupboard options are now endless--spices are no longer homeless; Tupperware can free itself from the poverty of the cardboard box under our sink; and I no longer have to awkwardly explain to anyone who walks into the kitchen what a "nipple shield" is now that my breast pump equipment is safely stowed away. Hallelujah! It's a good night in the Orange household.

Now you'll have to forgive me, I'm going to go and wait for the second cycle to finish so I can sob into my immaculate dishes.

I got a new phone and downloaded the Blogger app!

All my mom wants for Christmas is a new blog post (well, that and an HD TV...) Getting my butters in gear for her is the least I can do so I'm warming my writing fingers up with some pre Christmas musings.

Not having blogged in, ooo, 4 months, a few things have come to pass. Bert got an automatic food dispenser. So that's new. We bought a Subaru, which means Orange's transformation into a hipster is nearly complete. Oh, and then there's this little missy:

Doodle Bug bust onto the scene a few weeks early and has quickly learned to rule our home with a tiny, chubby, iron fist. Even though she's a few months old I still wake up most mornings to her baby grunts and bassinet boobles and think "oh, you're still here... right... I have a kid now." It's a bit shocking really, that Jebus would give her to us. But she is the jam on my bread, and I couldn't be happier she chose us to be her people (and Mama LL is just pleased to finally have someone to buy tiny fur coats for...)

DB will most likely influence this blog quite a bit being that my days now revolve around trying to get her to giggle. But I promise this will not become yet another "mommy blog." I still have very strong opinions about the Kumon logo, inserts in magazines that make it difficult to flip the pages, and the nubbin that forms on top of the mustard bottle.

With that in mind...

I spend a lot of time walking these days, pushing DB around town to work off my baby butt/the daily hit of TCBY I took most of last summer. The mind goes to funny places when your side kick is a 9 lb munchkin. I have lots of time to ponder, and ponder I do. For example:

Who owns Antarctica?

How does mail get from here to, say, Ottawa? You never see "Canada Post" trucks on the highway. And while $1 a stamp is ludicrous I don't think it would cover a Canada Post flight. Does it travel by train? Unmarked cars? 

Why do people pay so much for Canada Goose jackets? Canadian Geese are vermin. They are a dime a dozen down by the waterfront, poisoning the lake with their toxic green poo. In fact, a friend of mine not willing to pay $1500 for a coat has a knocknoff CG parka and recently discovered it's stuffed with (wait for it)... hair. Yes, human hair. And no, i have no idea where she got it. Maybe that can be a maternity leave crafting project... hair jackets for $1500. I certainly have the supply what with the way I'm molting postpartum. And folks I will even cut you a Christmas deal: buy two and I'll cover the shipping (once I figure out the tricksy Canada Post thing...)

Beef yelled at me for posting nonesense about the Trivago guy.

She thought I should be posting about other, more important things. 'Like what?' I ask. 'Like this,' she says:

37.5 weeks and counting...

Oh, right. I'm pregnant. Really pregnant. I suppose this is blog worthy news.

She then proceeded to yell at me for not having provided she or Mama LL with pictures of myself while pregnant. I wasn't aware this was an official duty, nor something people actually wanted (I don't typically spam my family with selfies...) And besides which, with all the yelling going on you'd think Beef was the pregnant one... *wink*

Maternity photos. This is something people do now, yes? Actually, I know it's something people do as there are multiple posts on the Babycentre.ca group I lurk on of moms-to-be in various poses fondling their bumps: a mom wrapped in wind-blown sheets; a mom in underwear sprawled across a bed; a mom embracing her baby daddy who is in turn belly cupping his wife. To each his own, I suppose, although I remind Orange on a regular basis how lucky he is that I'm not subjecting him to THIS.

For the enquiring minds: Baby LL is due to drop September 2nd, or thereabouts. Bert is over the moon with the new bedroom set he thinks we've purchased for him, and will no doubt spend the better portion of the fall months wedged behind the furnace, pouting, when he realizes I haven't recovered the glider to lull him to sleep at night. Orange has been a champ, although spends most of his downtime pacing the house mumbling about wills and life insurance and mentally running through the estimated increase to our hydro bill. I drink a lot of milk as a means of justifying the stack of cookies that accompany each glass.

All in all, typical first timers.

Satisfied, Beef?

I don't understand the Kumon logo.

Is that sad little face meant to inspire me? And this coming from someone who could actually use a little Kumon in her life (damn my father for being right... math really is in everything!) Although I've never attended a Kumon tutoring program, looking at that logo I'm left to assume that I've actually managed to avoid a certain sect of evil. It's exactly what I've always imagined it to be, right? Grey cubicle buildings stuffed with communist-style desks; unhappy children being yelled at by hairy, eastern European-ish women in ill-fitting suits, muscled into practicing things like linear algebra and functions (whatever those are...) until their fingers bleed, shamed publicly for incorrect answers, and forced to recite the 9-times table before being allowed to relieve themselves in a grate on the floor. God, I hated the 9-times table. And I bet the room smells like sauerkraut, too. Old sauerkraut.

That's it, right? That's what happens at Kumon? Sauerkraut and Stalinism? Until they change that depressing little logo, you'll never be able to convince me otherwise.

Speaking of poor advertizing, let's talk about the Trivago guy. When they pitched the idea for this commercial, what exactly did this all-start team of advertising execs envision? This man looks like he woke up on a bare mattress in downtown Detroit with a smoke still in his hand; like he's a castoff extra from the movie Contagion. And why isn't he wearing a belt? Why does he look sweaty?

I'm guessing his checklist for hotel necessities does not match that of my own:

Me: clean sheets, a room with a window, a bathroom I feel comfortable being barefooted in, and free wifi...
Him: proximity to a KFC, a private entrance so no one can see you coming or going (or what you're dragging in behind you), and an hourly rate.

This commercial makes me happy smell-o-vision hasn't been invented yet. Needless to say, I won't be making use of Trivago the next time I travel, unless my vacation goals change and I actually plan to to contract Hepatitis on my holiday.

Chirstmas Comes but Once a Year!

I'm nothing if not traditional...

To mix it up I'm stealing a Christmas game from The Bloggess. It's called 'Favourite Gift/Worst Gift'. I want to preface this by saying that yes, I know, any gift is a blessing. And no, I'm not being petty. We've all had memorable gifts given to us, be it the gift itself or the experience of receiving it. The reverse is also true. So don't get all uppity and have a full humpty dumpty. If you don't want to play, don't play.

Favourite Gift: this is tough, because I have had many memorable gifts that I love. Like, lots and lots of love. But I think I'm going to have to go with Heart to Heart Bear, who for years kept me safe at night, and played the role of many when no one else would, including 'baby', 'store shopper', 'library customer', etc. I still have Heart to Heart--he's safe in Mum's basement sharing a basket with Georgia Carmen (my Cabbage Patch Kid.) I should fish them both out and bring them home for safe keeping...

Worst Gift: a female manager from many, many moons ago once gave me a pair of fairly provocative pyjamas for Christmas. It was exceptionally awkward. Needless to say I never wore them.

Your turn! And merry Christmas, all. Blessings to you and yours in the 2014 and onward.

This time of year can bring out a lot of emotions.

The hustle and bustle of readying for the holidays--baking, shopping, stuffing, packing, poofing, fluffing, etc.--can be overwhelming; yet another thing to do on top of a growing list of commitments.

While ordinarily I would say that adding to my plate is not something I actively seek (my cup often 'runneth over', as they say...) I find this Christmas hustle both calming and stress relieving. No, I don't have kids, which I know optically means my evening hours appear substantially calmer. But in reality so much of what I do on a daily basis is (often begrudgingly) focused on others it can become consuming--I am not the type of person who can let this thought and worry go when I leave; I routinely stuff my Yaris with suitcases full of baggage at the end of the day.

But at Christmas I find the extra thought--the lists of things to buy, do, give, and make--become a pleasure. They focus me; remind me of how lucky I am and how grateful I should be for the many (many) blessings in my life, however heavy the packaging that comes with. I look for ways to give more of myself. And this reminder to slow down and count these treasures in my life couldn't come at a better time. A fresh start and a new year is just around the corner. With that comes the opportunity to let it go; to give away those suitcases and remind myself of why I try as hard as I do.

Dear, 'weeble wobble' Father Jim reminded me on Monday night of the Serenity Prayer which I have promised to say to myself in the morning. This is my one and only New Year's resolution, and I share it with you.

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.

Living one day at a time;
Enjoying one moment at a time;
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace;
Taking, as He did, this world
as it is, not as I would have it;
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
That I may be reasonably happy in this life
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next.
Amen.

--Reinhold Niebuhr

I almost forgot how to log in to my Blogger account...

Bert and I are sitting cross-legged* in front of our portable space heater in the living room (damn these drafty old picture windows...), watching the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice, and I find myself reminiscing. I think it was grade 10 when this series first captured my heart, and since then I have seen it countless times, to the point I could probably recite most of it on demand, should I ever be called upon for this bizarre party trick. Watching this movie transports me back to Hillcrest and Sunday nights on the couch watching Masterpiece Theatre with my parents.

(It's at this point in the post where you're thinking to yourself "WTF, Library Lady... You've been gone for 6 months and your return piece opens with a TV mini-series that aired 15 years ago?" And here's where I tell you to 'gear down'...)

It's crazy to think how much has happened in the last year, and yet how some things have stayed perfectly the same, my love for Pride and Prejudice being one of those constants. Getting into a warm bed with a good book is still something I look forward to at the end of a long day, although now that book is read on an iPad and I'm lucky if I can make it through a page or two before the melatonin kicks in and I'm riding the sleep train to dreamsville. The daily commute still requires a strong cup of coffee and loud music, but usually also includes a self-directed pep talk and deep cleansing breaths before stepping out into the parking lot in my sensible close-toed shoes. Weekends revolve around therapeutic shopping and evenings with friends, but my buggies are more commonly filled with home improvement accouterments and our shindigs are just filled with buggies, full stop.

What else happened in the last six months? Hmm...

Oh yeah! We got hitched... *scuffs toe*

... Went to Tahiti *sigh*...

... And Fingers had a flippin' baby (a huge fat baby!)

Thank you, Samsung Warm Vintage...

Life moves fast. Too fast sometimes (unless that life takes 40+ hours to enter the world in which case I'm told you thank Shiloh for anything they'll give you to move that life along an inch or two.) For now I'm content to take these changes as they come (and will attempt to squeeze in a blog or two when my brain obliges) but will also continue to take great pleasure in what remains the same, the comforts found in Mr. Darcy "and his 10,000 a year..." among them.

*I am sitting cross-legged, Bert is oozing beside me... Cats can't sit cross-legged, dummy.

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.

 

judge me as you will.

I'm really into UFC. And that's it. As hurr_ah would say.

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.

I'm nothing if not traditional...

Merry Christmas, everybody!

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...

Sh*t my boyfriend says...

This is my life. Start at the bottom...

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.

Bert has been feeling a bit under the weather, as of late. We've been back and forth from the vet trying various medications and treatments to alleviate him of whatever ailment is plaguing him, from stool softner to anti-seizure drugs. As a result, I know far too much about his daily routine and his "toileting" (to put it mildly) than one could ever imagine and my pocketbook is substantially lighter.

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.