Mrs. Lazarus

In all the questions/answer stuff I've been going through, this is by far the best:
Q: "Why do you feel so certain that your husband was going to murder you and put your body in the furnace?"

A: "I knew cause he done it once before"

Better than

You know what is the upside of the car accident I had just before Christmas a few years ago? The accident that put an end to half of my Christmas baking and made the childless holiday even worse than usual? You don't know? Well, I'll tell you: it is that when you have butter tart disaster that means tossing out a dozen tarts, and a dog tripping incident that ends up in pain and blood (mine, not the dog's so relax) but no actual stitches or anything, it doesn't seem so bad.

I mean, yeah, now I'll have to make yet more tarts. And yes, I'm walking with a limp that I am trying to think of as intersting instead of feeble but all in all so what? Not in hospital, I have time to make more tarts and I'm not running in any races this week. As far as I know. So even if it is a bit frustrating it is still better than the year of the crash, as I think of it.

And this is a great year so far; kids are with me, we have lots of lovely white snow, the tree looks awesome and smells fantastic and I get to play Christmas music without any complaints about it being out of season. Heaven help us if Lyn and I ever live together it would be carols year round. And we'd be round because I'd be baking tarts and cakes year round to go with the music.

Why, Ky?

Last night’s dream wasn’t a musical, but it also wasn’t a nightmare so that’s good. It was, however, one of those dreams where someone appears and says something heavy with import. That has happened before; once it prompted me to do something that changed my life, and once it helped me cope with tragedy. This time though, the message is…ambiguous. Or at least it is if it is supposed to carry some terribly serious second meaning.

I was in a regular saving-the-world dream when Ky appeared and said “The Smaller the Leaf, The Shorter the Steep”.

Now, that is a totally accurate statement. And it is something I am aware of, so I didn’t really need to be told again. But she was saying it with such fervent intent, that clearly my sleeping self is trying to tell my waking self something. But what?

Ladylike, if possible

I would have chosen something other than a skirt slit up the sides heels and a white sweater to wear to work today if I knew I was going to be on the floor on my back. Which sounds promising, albeit somewhat immodest. What was actually happening was me fixing the microprinter (which was fair enough as I broke it). But it would have been easier in jeans and a t-shirt.

Cupids second choice. Possibly even first

I would say that a brilliant first date activity would be something that involved moonlight and water. But the second best date activity is tobogganing. I have known this since I was fifteen or so. For those of you that don't believe me, here's there reasoning:

You not only get to sit close, you HAVE to.
In order to stay on said toboggan, one must wrap one's arms around one's date. Possibly even legs, if the toboggan is long enough and the hill high enough!

Because you need cold and snow to toboggan, your eyes sparkle and your cheeks get all rosy. Even the undead look healthy and happy tobogganing. Actual living people look awesome.
The other great thing about the cold is that it is almost always a given that there must be hot chocolate somewhere afterwards, so said date gets prolonged.

There are some things you shouldn't do, though. For instance don't, on the first run, accidentally break the nose of the person you're there with. Because nothing puts the kibosh or romance like blood and pain. I speak from experience here. As if that's a surprise in any way.

Gliddy Glub Gloopy

I was thinking about the nutbar from yesterday's post and realized that there are things I do that make people think I'm crazy too. Some of them I recognize and some of them I'd probably be surprised to think that someone thinks they're crazy-like. When did this obvious thought occur to me?

In the middle of making banana bread french toast, when I took advantage of being the only one awake to do a happy dance in the kitchen whilst singing along to "Good Morning Starshine". And I am not -NOT- apologizing for the jollity. Keep in mind that this is the same person who as a child built a go-cart and christened it The Happymobile.

And by the way...if you ever happen to have left-over banana bread (which is rare in my house, as I have a teenage boy who consumes the usual amount of food that teenage boys consume), banana bread french toast is yumilicious. And in the same vein, try strawberry jam omelette. Hot and jammy and totally comforting. And apparently just what A. wanted at eleven last night when he asked for something "warm and yummy and...not too much work". Oh come on, you would have made him something too; he said please, and looked the way people tend to when they're chilled and hungry and tired and getting over a cold and just looking for love. I'm just saying, should you be looking for something to make some brunch give banana bread french toast a try. And if you're trying to impress someone, try serving it with maple-butter with pecans. I will divulge the recipe for maple butter (because it isn't actually what one normally calls maple butter) if you ask. And if you've had a hard day and look cold and needy and tired I might even just make you some french toast. Or jam omelette.

We iz all just peeple

Just to give you fair warning: I am going to slap the next person I hear say anything with "these people" or "those people" or "that sort" as part of a sentence. Basically the next sweeping generalization I hear will be met with the whole weight of a month's worth of irritation. I mean really, where would I be if I assumed all Americans were as dumbs as hammers, just because the two down the hall are? Or all men were copies of the pinhead? I'd be losing out on some interesting friends is what would be happening. So there.

Notes from files

No, I'm not allowed to tell you restricted things. But sometimes within the files there are things that aren't restricted that humour me (just as there are restricted things that grieve me), and given that I need a break I thought I'd mention one of them. Just so no one can say I never blog anything anymore.

One would think that the date of this would be 1950 or earlier...sadly, it's from a note about available jobs and who might fill them, dated 1966:
"...and as the job involves the washing of dishes and glasses, I would recommend that only a woman be hired for this position".

I'm not even sure who they're insulting most here, women, saying that it is beneath a man's dignity to do dishes, or men, saying they're too stupid to not break things if they have to wash up. And in 1966 for Pete's sake!

Oh CBC!

I listen to the CBC in the car. Sometimes in French with Radio Canada and sometime in English. I always feel a little bit let down when they make grammatical/pronuciation mistakes as though they should somehow be abouve such things. What I don't often get, though, is a line so hilarious - during serious news - that I either crash the car or serioulsy wonder if I'm losing my mind and/or hearing. Which is what I thought this morning. I mean really, did you ever think the day would come when you would hear a news anchor on cbc radio say "it is thought that they came from the pirate mother-ship"? Freakin awesome, folks, freakin awesome.

But not upside down.

Ah, Monday mornings. I don't mind them, actually. I tend to find Friday mornings harder - I've been at work all week and I just want to be at home. Mondays I'm rested and ready for the day.

Today, though, I was not as ready as I had thought. I got into the elevator with someone from the third floor who said- smiling, so I didn't have to hit him or anything - "rough morning?"

I asked what he meant (after a quick check in case I'd forgotten to put pants on, or shoes or something).

"Your sweater is on back to front. And....I think maybe inside out?"

Yeah, embarassing, but it was pretty funny. So I laughed, and so did he. Maybe not such a bad start after all; how bad a day can it be if you're laughing before you even get to your desk?

Inter-species Yoga.

I read a friend’s blog about crying in front of pets. I don’t often cry, as it happens. I’d like to think it is because I have such steely sangfroid, but in reality I am a giant marshmallow of cry-babyishness. I get teary–eyed at commercials, if they’re good enough. I still get all verklempt at the MASH Christmas episode. The real reason I don’t cry mcuh is that crying is a migraine trigger, so I try not to. It’s never worth the pain. The thing is, if I do cry my puppies are totally different from hers in how they treat me.

First, they won’t let me alone, but in a kind and snuggly way. If I’m lying down they wiggle next to me and lay down with me, one on each side. If I’m sitting, they’ll lay on the floor pretty much on my feet if they can. And then, in a bit of dog-as-human action, the bigger one always rests one paw on a shoulder or, for reasons I can’t figure out, on my head. Which is weirdly human enough but the truly bizarre part is when if I pause and sigh or hiccup, they look at each other, and then at me and then back at each other. I don’t know if they just checking with each other that it is still just crying and not anything suicidal, or if they’re thinking I better stop soon so we can all play, but whichever it is it is unnerving coming from non-humans. Actually, I think having a human lay down next to me and rest a paw/hand on my head would also be unnerving. Regardless, there’s my “what the puppies do if I cry” bit.

Continuing in the same vein (the one that makes non-pet owners cringe, wondering why people keep insisting that their pets are human-like), after 40 minutes of yoga yesterday I decided to try a new pose. It has a name – which I’ve forgotten – but basically you lie on your back, and with your legs straight and together lift them up and over your head, behind you. They you stretch them up into the air, and pretty much balance on your shoulders. I figured I was as stretched as I’d ever be and it was time to give it a try. So I lay down on the floor which made both puppies look at me with interest. “Floor? Maybe she’s going to play something with us”. I managed (yes, I did) to get my legs over, and straight – didn’t even squeal in pain! – but at that point the big one, who was on the couch behind me, decided that clearly what I wanted was to have my feet licked. So she licked ‘em. I’m not ticklish but I was having balance problems as it was. Throwing in some foot licking threw core balance to the winds, and I started to teeter.

I guess the little one was worried that I’d fall, and that I needed help. So he jumped onto the mat and flopped down against my butt, bracing himself against me. Just to keep me safe. Which totally made me fall. Which made dog-on-the-couch decide that if there was going to be laughter and playing she had to join in. Instantly. So she jumped in. Literally. She jumped right off the couch over the coffee table and onto the yoga mat. In a single leap. And onto me. And onto the little dog. It then became a free for all tussle. The noise of which caused the boy working on the computer in the dining room to ask what was going on, as Yoga is normally a quiet occupation. Bar, of course, the occasional “are you KIDDING me?" comment, or the more common “if I HAD core muscles to help with the pose I’d be using them. Idiote (you have to say that in a totally condescending French accent to make it effective). I have occasionally given the screen the finger, when the coach is really bothering me, but neither child knows that. They already have plenty of therapist fodder thank you very much. I decided that the best – and only - answer was “Yoga is just louder if you do it with puppies. But it is better for you”.

Week One Day One

So, in order to accomodate homework time my girl and I have had to give up Curves in the afternoon. The problem, of course, is that Curves is not free, and I am not going to pay for something we don't do. There is an obvious solution, of course: go in the morning. Yes, that went over with the girl about as well as one would expect. But then life is not meant to be a bed of roses.

So today was week one day one of getting up at six and going to Curves in the pitch dark. We have planned two months of three mornings a week at the gym. I'll get back to you later on how well that is working out :)

Of course you see totally different people in the morning than you do in the afternoon. An alramingly large number of uber organized business women with a husband, 2.5 kids, a highly successful career, 2.5 cleaning ladies, personal life trainers and annual vacations in Hawaii. The kind one is sorely tempted to punch, just because well...just because.

There were also a lot of older retired ladies. What on earth are they doing in their genteel lives that they need to be up and working out at 6:10 in the morning?

The woman next to me was on her first visit (I could live any number of lives and I would never choose six am for my introduction to working out). When she got to the machine where you grasp a horizontal bar in front of you and work it up and down, she asked the woman helping her (staff, not a friend) how high you have to lift it, and how far down you push it. The answer? "Tits to Hips". There are some things one doesn't expect to hear before the sun is even up, and tits is one of them. Anytime thereafter, sure. On the plus side...the older you get, the easier that machine should be to use.

Merry and Tragical, Tedious and Brief!

So I decided to go and see A Midsummer Night’s Dream on the weekend. I kept passing by the advertising billboards (yeah, like there is a different kind of billboard. Singing billboards, coffee brewing/martini blending billboards) and thinking “I’d love to see that. Too bad there is no one to go with”.

Finally the smart half of my brain made my hand slap me to attention so it could say that I am perfectly able to go on my own. Even better, really, because getting a seat for one at such a late date is far easier than finding two together. And I’d be sitting with other ticket buyers anyway, right?

Yes, normally that would be right, but of course nothing ever goes according to plan. I did get an excellent seat: front row, seat five. So I figured I would be sitting with two happy-happy couples. May-b thought they’d be secretly unhappy; her because he never picks up his own sock,s and him because she took too long to get ready. L. thought it would be four gay guys. Which would be great, actually.

Turns out that the seats in the front are numbered from 1 to whatever in groups of four, around the theatre. Yes, for those of you that haven’t been the Globe is theatre in the round. So I had three seats with mine. Yippee, people to sit with!

I went in and got my seat and watched people come in. Slowly at first and then in bigger bunches as show time approached. The space was filling up. But…not the three seats next to me. Yes, you’ve got it right: despite being a sold out show, NO ONE showed up for the three seats next to me. When it became obvious that no one was going to be sitting there, they filled them with volunteers. Yup, that’s how wonderful I am, they need to get VOLUNTEERS to sit with me. Awesome.

Seriously, though, you know what was awesome? The play itself. Really well staged given the space they had to work with. Very few noticeable slip-ups, and while the costumes weren’t as dreamy as I would have liked they were still very good. I am very glad I went. I even looked pretty good, all things considered!

Church of Hot Times

On Sunday afternoon I was doing one of those things that mingles church people with street people. (As a side note: the truly irritatingly crazy ones were part of the former group, not the latter). As we're leaving - with various comments about bringing ugly coats, in case they were stolen, one dear old man (really old, 90+ at a guess) decided to add his two cents to the conversation.

The conversation had moved on to the best way to keep things from being stolen was to wear them the whole time. Apparently boot thefts were a big concern. Anyway...his two cents?
"even at church. I always bring rubbers when I go to church with you dear".

Hmmm. I don't know what church they go to...but it might be worth checking out! (It occurred to me as I was laughing my head off over this that my kids wouldn't get it. I don't think anyone uses the term rubber anymore, not for shoes and not for condoms).

Imaginary Man has Imaginary Illness

You’ve heard about the wii, and the fit bit and the trainer who isn’t real. Yesterday I started my usual lame attempt at yoga (I am improving, though) and…my trainer doesn’t appear. Instead some skinny woman trainer appears and says “Hi. I’ll be filling in for your regular trainer today. Let’s get started”.

Now, yes, you can change trainers. But I hadn’t! I’ve no idea why this happened. Did they set things up this way so the mainly faceless figures seem real? As in ”fake trainer is sick today and will be staying home in his wii house ”?

What made it particularly galling – sufficiently enough to make me quit and go back and change trainer – is that she’s just a little bit….well… bitchy. At the same point where the guy says “excellent balance. Doing yoga every will strengthen your core body muscles and help you towards your fitness goals” she says “you will find the poses easier to do if you work on doing them with the correct form”. Not the exact words, but close enough.

So that got me thinking…do they assume women will choose a male trainer (which I did, but would never do in real life) and men a female trainer? And that women perform better with compliments, men with nagging? A man who does better with nagging does not, in my opinion, exist. NO ONE does better for being nagged. Encourage, yeah, nagged no.

Beans are not fruit. But they are magical

I can be obsessive about food. Sometimes mildly, sometimes to excess. Although the boy sure enjoyed months of cinnamon buns during the bun quest (a term, by the way that you shouldn't Google).

One of the things that for whatever reason humours people who know about it is that over the course of about three years I worked on a baked bean recipe, striving to make them be as close as they could be to....canned beans. Why? Because I LIKE canned beans. But can't eat them. Even when they don't have added pork, they do have bacon in the cooking part (as I discovered after a rush trip to the hospital. So just because the ingredients list doesn't say bacon doesn't mean bacon wasn't involved in the making thereof), and as a consequence I can't eat them. But I want them.

So I make the recipe that was three years in the making. The problem - and here is where I step onto the crazy ship lollypop as far as my co-workers are concerned - is that I had already started the long and tedious task when I realized that a) I had no sweet onion. In fact, no onion at all and b) I was working lunch on the desk and wouldn't be able to zip home. So I did what any right thinking person would do:

I brought it to work, and at morning coffee break ran next door and bought a big sweet onion. Which I took upstairs to the coffee room and chopped and tossed into the beans already in the slow cooker. There is still salt pork, but I had it made for me without the nitrite. This is the first time I've used a slow cooker and not the ancestral bean pot so they may not be perfection. But I must have a pretty good reputation, at least with those who have eaten them before: the boy is going to his dad's after school prior to going to night class and this morning he asked me to stop by on my way home and give him some beans. Sweet Saskatchewan Lobster I love that boy.

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving sucked. OK, not entirely but still. I love my family but I had none of them with me. My dad is in BC, as is my sister and brother-in-law, as is a semi-sister. I have two other semi-sisters, but one is in Edmonton and the other had to work. Although we did get enough time in to have a slice of pie together so I did have a smidge of family time.

What I did have big time was a headache. As a matter of fact I wouldn't be surprised to be told that my MRI revealed a large number of microscopic miners in my head, all of them working feverishly away with their little pickaxes.

Despite the lack of family and the lack of good health I - for no good reason other than I like leftovers - cooked a turkey. With stuffing. And I baked a pie. Which I did get a piece of, as did MayB. I would have had a second piece but in my headache driven stupidity I left the remainder of the pie on the table. And it's a given that anything left on the table will be consumed by the large black beast that roams the house pretending that no one ever feeds her.

The kids think that the little puppy talked big puppy into knocking said pie onto the floor and that he got some but large puppy definitely was definitely doing the "I-just-ate-the-rest-of-the-pie" guilt crawl, so I'm pretty sure she got it all. I suppose that is one way to diet; make sure all fattening left-overs are within reach of the dog.

I was faced the next day with the bird. Or what remained after the carving fight (if I'd filmed my "carving", it would be a hit on youtube. It was a fight to the finish...and the dead bird won). I packaged up enough for two really large turkey pies, and one meal of hot turkey sandwiches. I gave the stuffing to the dogs and then I made stock with the bits and pieces. Lots of stock. Many many cups of it. 32 cups, actually. It's a good thing we eat a lot of soup over the course of a winter, because that is a whole lot of stock.

My main regret is that I made the pie - because I can't bring myself to go the tinned route - with butternut squash and something from the garden. Because I'm pretty sure that big puppy didn't take the time to consider how much better a pie is when you start from scratch. I'm not even sure she took the time to savour it. I've seen her in action, it really is more of a pelican-with-a-fish gulping thing that she does.

For reals, people.

As you can tell from the list, I occasionally take a peek at photoshop disasters. They're not all disasters, but still, they're entertaining. And if you read the comments, there are apparently large handfuls of people willing to argue as to whether some is a disaster or merely bad. Where do they get the time? Or, for that matter, desire?


Anyway...there I was in belly dancing class, despairing over my inability to bend like an overcooked piece of spaghetti, when my eye, in a desparate attempt to not have to look into the mirrors that line the walls saw the arm of the woman across the room from me. And my first thought was "that arm is SO photoshopped. What a disaster". But then my brain caught up with me. Because I was looking at an actual arm. I'm telling you, though, it was so photoshopped it was creepy. Where was the elbow? And why was it so much longer that her other arm? It is only supposed to be CALLED snake arms. You're not actually supposed to have an elbowless monstrosity in place of your arm.
And then I got smacked - accidentally - by the woman next to me because I hadn't kept moving to my right. So I stopped staring at the creepy arm. But it fills my nightmares even yet.

3.14etc

I have my babies with me this year for Christmas, but not Thanksgiving. That's ok - it is when they are away from me for Christmas that I go insane. Insaner? Anyway...still making a turkey because I both need and want Turkey pie. And turkey sandwiches.

I am also planning on making a pie. And having one piece. Because if I don't give away the pie I'll eat more than one piece and so help me if I'm not svelte by this time next year I'll run away to a fat farm. And yes, I'm making a pie instead of going somewhere and buying a single piece ,because Sweet Saskatchewan Lobster if I get one treat a week - or one every two weeks - it sure as sugar isn't going to be some storebought cardboard monstrosity.

Not a Stork

As well as taking belly dancing lessons I've started taking Yoga. And it turns out that I...I can't stand on one leg. Not for long. And not with any grace or stability either. I'm doing the Yoga with Wii Fit. So at the end of the two poses that involved standing on one leg I always get a very calm voice saying "you seem a little shakey" or, even better "you put your other foot down didn't you?" YES. Yes stupid little man in a box I put my frickin foot down. It seemed preferable to flailing my arms around and crashing into the coffee table. So BACK OFF.

It's all in the wording

My second most favourite bit from the trip (ok, there were only three but that's better than nothing) was a sign we drove by the read "Can't read this sign? Call us at 555-xxxx, we can help".

Because I'm your MOM, that's why.

So yesterday went far away in a handbasket as I got news that there is some sort of problem with my son's heart. They want to do more extensive testing right away...today in fact. They said to not panic (do they ever say "go ahead and panic, by the way"?) but that they needed to get moving on things. So we're going today and I'm trying - with a complete lack of success - to not worry about it.

My boy must think I'm crazy, though: yesterday getting out of the car ( a few hours after I'd got the news) he said he chest hurt. So I PANIC. Just about leap down his throat. "What do you mean, hurts? How badly? Where (don't know why I asked that, I'm pretty sure his heart is where it always is) does it hurt? What's happening? TALK TO ME."

Umm...mom...I did a fitness test at school and my arms and chest are sore. Just...sore. OK?

Ah. Ok. I'm fine for now.

Meaghan Smith

Last night I went to see Ron Sexsmith at the Exchange. I'd never heard any of his music but I'm trying to get out more (something I clearly need to do, given the looks of incredulity my babies flashed at me when I said I was going out) so I went.

Turns out that it wasn't the headline act that was fantastic but the opening act. Don't get me wrong, Ron was good but Meaghan was excellent. So I bought the four song extended disc and am looking forward to the full album's release early next year.

Her music is cheerful, and really really hard not to want to sing/dance to. She herself is totally adorable too. Pretty, actually. She looks like Ky to be honest. They are both a mere pretty until you look at their eyes and then you realize that they're beyond mere pretty. They both have the kind of eyes that romance writers make their heroiones have. The kind of eyes that latin musicians write about. Hmm. Sounds like I have a bit of a crush on Meaghan. Not for her, if you're worried, but certainly for her music. So go out and listen to her if you have a chance!

Oh Curves, Please. As if!

So there I am at Curves with my girl working out. And they have a sign that says "is your 30 minutes at Curves the toughest 30 minutes of your day? If not, talk to a staff member!".

No, working out - even pushing it is not that hard in comparison. Start asking me to find things, pay for things, sign things and maybe I'll agree. But for the moment the hardest 30 minutes are right before we three leave in the morning:

Mom, Lexi escaped and Jazz is eating garbage...and I think my lunch.
Can you sign this paper because if it isn't in today I can't go on a field trip. Oh, and I'll need money.
Mom, A took my lunch because the dog took his
Mom, where are my jeans?
I need a cheque for band
I need to be at school early
I told a friend you could give them a ride
Where's the toothpaste
M. caught Lexi in the park but now she's all muddy, what do you want us to do?
I can't find the bottle for the rabbits hutch. I filled it with water and put it down somewhere.
I'm going to dad's after school, can someone else come home for the dogs?
Did you put anything with nuts in my lunch because I'm going to a friends house and his sister is allergic
Mom, I can't find the homework I printed last night.
mommommommmommommommommommommommom

That half hour work out is a sweaty bit of peace in my day.

A job well done.

Given yesterday morning's bathroom disaster, I was not surprised to see plumbers arrive to fix things. What did surprise me was hearing the one guy on his cell phone talkeing to...his boss? Maybe. Or maybe a supply place. I was surprised because he is a plumber, apparently, and yet this is what was heard:

"yeah, we don't have the part. Well...kinda bent. And it has these squiggly things at the end".

Now, if this was me, fair enough. I'm not a plumber. I just feel that if this is your job you have more words in your part vocabulary that "squiggly things".

Mrs. Methuselah

I've heard - more often than I'd care to - the "when I'm old I'll wear purple" thing. Never really made sense to me as I don't there has ever been a time when I didn't wear whatever colour I felt like.

Purple? Sure, why not. Fuchsia? You bet. Tie-dye? check. Paisley? Yup. Clown shoes with juggling frogs on the toe? My favourite footwear for the nonce.

You know when purple IS a problem? When you're 102 and have no eyebrows whatsoever and you decide to paint them on. In purple. That's a problem. But only because I don't know where to look.

At the deep orange lipstick lining the nonn-existent lips? At the purple eyebrows that almost reach the hairline...or where the hairline would be if there were more than a dozen badly coloured hairs on your dried apple of a head? Maybe at the board shorts, except that I was too afraid to see what kind of spindly legs might go with the seriously aged body. The t-shirt with "Bitchy Mama" would be ok...except for the boobs at the waistline. I really don't need to be reminded of where the girls will spend their final years.

I almost didn't get off the elevator at the right floor I was so flabbergasted at the crone with the parcel. On the up side, if I decide at ninety that I want a new career I know you can be a courier at any age you want.

A dozen, so far.

That 20 wishes I mentioned? I'm at 12 so far. And I've already taken steps to see one of them happen! So this week has started out WAY better than last week. Really didn't like last week at all.

Wishing on a Star

I read a book about wishes. So I'm making my own list of wishes. This isn't a list of goals, or direction or anything. It was wishes. Things you'd like to do, or see or have. They don't even have to be possible (I've wanted for a long time to take a trip in a deep sea submersible in the artic, to look at icebergs from below. Ain't gonna happen, but I still like thinking about it), or reasonable. Just...wishes. I'm even going to go grade-school with it and tape pictures in it when possible. So here's to twenty wishes...may some of them come true!

Promise kept. To the letter.

I promised the girl that I wouldn't cut my bangs again on my own with any type scissors or alternate cutting tools whatsoever. And I've kept that promise because I never said anything whatsoever about the rest of my hair.

Eureka!

Here’s the story (there is ALWAYS a story):
I decided to take care of a long overdue errand on the list that never ends. So off I went to the local thrift store with 9,785.5 old videos, a multi-disc cd player, a shirt that was pretty but inexplicably see through (which I suppose is no reason to get rid of it but honestly where would one wear such a thing?) and a sweater so hideous that I’m guessing it was either a gift from my ex-mother in law or that I bought it under the influence of weather so cold I was thinking solely of its warmth factor.

I usually check out the jewelry section (because someday I’ll make some fabulous find) and then I check out the games section and finally go and buy a bunch of cookie tins. I buy the tins on a fairly regular basis. I have a cooking business and tins are nice sturdy containers for delivering cookies. Containers which frequently never return hence the need for constant tin buying. The last three times that I went and bought a cartload of cookies tins it was the same cashier. I’m tempted to tell here that I am building an addition to my house made entirely out of cookie tins.

Anyway…I got to the game/puzzle area and saw the game. I’ve never – never ever – been able to score a fantastic game deal. We’ve had some decent games (Scotland Yard for a couple of bucks), but nothing worth bragging about. So I check the price. And it turns out there are two prices. Neither of which would be an issue but why not get the best deal? So I go to the till and show the cashier the two price stickers. They are both pretty firmly on, so it is hard to tell which is right. She looks at it, looks at me and asks if I took a lower price sticker off of something else and then put it on this. What? Oh, yeah, I did, and every time I rob a bank I go to the police on my way home to let them know what I’ve done. No, honey, I did not change the stickers. Duh.

So she calls over squeaky clean stripy-shirt guy. And he looks at the two stickers, tilts the box, looks at it from different angles like it has a map to Shangri-la hidden in the art work. Finally he says “I don’t know. But it’s just a game, so whatever…the lower price, I guess. If you want”. What is it with these people? No, dumb ass I want to pay the higher price.

I pay the lower price and take my game in loving hands out to the car and home. Without any tins whatsoever because all I could think of was that I had just bought Tikal for $2.99. And yes, when I got home I checked the bits and general game condition. All bits included, as well as the rules and everything in excellent condition. Not even sure if it had been played more than once if even that.

I'd help if I could. Really.

Unfortunately, though, I have no idea how to help someone whose main complaint appears to be that they are being "bombarded by concentration".

Showdown at the O.Krazy Corral.

I love history – so many crazy things. And today I am actually looking at crazy people things (or to be accurate, the insane files), circa 1909-1917. They're actually commitment records.

When they use the specific form there is a space for what outward signs there are to indicate that the person needs to be put in an asylum. And some of them are a bit of a stretch as far as being dangerous (shouting?) but my favourite is a woman whose husband said she was twitchy. Not bitchy, twitchy. Almost as bad as that one I mentioned previously where a woman was put away for being anxious.

There are also letters about people put away because they are insane AND dangerous. Twitchy woman was just insane, not dangerous. There was a guy who they say became insane “due to masturbation”. Yup, forget blindness, it can make you crazy. And then they lock you up. One more and I’ll go back to work. And I have to mention it not because of what made them lock the guy up but their word use. In an official document no less!

“Bothering the womenfolk”. No further explanation. So did he assault women? Was he a flasher? Boring? Irritating? Violent? They never say. They just say he needs to be put away for bothering the womenfolk. As God is my witness, they used the word womenfolk.

Submersible Pilot's License

I decided last week sometime that I need to get out on a regular basis. I figure if my kids are commenting on my lack of a life perhaps it's time to get moving.


There are lots of things I'd be interested in doing. The only criteria, in general, was that it couldn't cost too much, I had to be interested in it to some extent and then nothing Saturday mornings (cooking) or really late Friday nights (have to get up too early Saturdays). Maybe photography? Or Dance? Perhaps S.C.U.B.A. lessons?

So, I went to see what a) interested me, b) I could afford and c)wasn't on Friday or Saturday. What I didn't realize is that there should have been one more qualification. I needed something that I could actually USE someday. Because the only thing that came up that fit a, b and c was beginner's burlesque lessons.

Can't Change Horses in the Middle of a Stream

You can, of course. But you're limited. F'rinstance, what if you have kids, a mortgage and bills and stuff and a job that may not pay a great deal but does pay and does have benefits? Not so easy then, is it, to up stakes and start all over again? At something completely different from what one is doing.

I've read that one thing you can do is part-time volunteer at something to get some experience, and then try for an actual paying job at it. Wouldn't that be awesome if what you wanted to be was a surgeon? Hey, let me operate...just a little...just to learn how.

There are things one could learn by doing but apparently not here, and not now. Beekeeper? Dairy farm worker? Not going to happen. So I'll wait until I'm retired and then have many bees, a donkey or two, a dairy cow and a draft horse of some description. None of which I'll know how to look after, of course. I'd be better off trying to learn how to do brain surgery.

The one thing it COULDN'T be. Hopefully.

I should move somewhere that has closed circuit TV everywhere. Because I want to be able to play for everyone the weird stuff that happens to me. Sometimes because it is hard to believe and sometimes because it's just so funny that I myself want the pleasure of reminding myself of just how crazy people are. The latest thing? Here we go:


I am not changing the grammar, by the way. Written as spoken.
Scene: parking lot at Sobey's.
Action: guy pulling out of parking space just about hits me as I walk by. And feels that HE has to yell at ME for this. But he was, clearly, crazy:

Him: Jesus Christ lady watch where you're going.
Me: I'm a pedestrian (for some reason this seemed important to state).
Him: Handicapped people always the right of way. You should have been watching.
Me: Pedestrians have the right of way, I'm pretty sure. I think. (should never have admitted uncertainty).
Him: But I'm in a handicapped space. Handicapped. What if my handicap was because I'm blind?
Me: Blind? But-
Him: Blind, so I couldn't see you. And hitting you would be your fault.
Me: Hmmm. Blind people. Driving Cars. Really.
Him: (pause. LONG pause) Well...fuck you.

And then he drives off. Still, I'm guessing, mad at me.

I love the typical come back. Not up to witty reposte? Sudden realization that you're an idiot? Totally lost your mind? Then swear. Because that so makes your argument look reasonable.

Least Likely Dream

I get headaches. Sometimes they are bearable and sometimes they're just not. And when I take meds for the worst of them on of the side-effects is mild hallucinations. Not always, just every now and again. It's very odd and sadly nowhere near as interesting as it could be.

Need a for instance? A couple of weekends ago I had one of those truly terrible migraines. And I took the medicine. And while the headache did go away, as I was lying there in the dark Ky came by and cut off all of my hair. Not really, of course. Merely a hallucination of her. My favourite bit, though, was her saying (in the tone of voice people use when they have something deeply profound to say. Something that you HAVE to pay attention to) "I'm sorry. But really...it had to be done".

2 Down, 102 to Go

I have a basement in my house. Not that anyone but me ever goes there, but it exists. It is full of just...crap. Broken things, baby things not needed...you know what I mean. I've been hoping for years to have enough money to get a Loras bin or whatever it's called and have the whole thing just totally cleared out. However...

Ever notice that as soon as you start putting money aside for something, some emergency immediately happens that uses it up? So I have never been able to get rid of stuff.

We are lucky, here, though because we don't have to pay for our weekly garbage pick-up. So I decided that every single Monday one thing from the basement gets added to the bin. I'm guessing that it will be six months before I can tell that the basement is getting better and two years (104 garbage days) before I'm where it needs to be to start work on. Today was day two. One Hundred and Two more pick-ups*.

*Possibly less - baby stuff that is clean and in good repair will be sent to Goodwill.

Fortune and Game

Not likely a fortune, actually. It just seemed like a good title. So I have a magic casino coin. Not like magic beans that you get to plant and grow a giant bean plant, but magic in the sense that it has been travelling around the house in a very mysterious manner.

Perhaps, though, the most mysterious thing about it is that I have it at all. It arrived in the mail the year the casino was built. Came with a flashy pamphlet suggesting that the best way to plan for retirement was to blow every penny I had or could embezzle at the dazzling new casiono.

Back to the story:

I was cleaning out the junk drawer in my dresser (only six drawers in that thing: one is for junk, four are for lingerie and one is for actual clothing. I don't think that is what a dresser is meant to be) and found a five dollar chip from Casino Regina. I tidied the whole drawer and, I think, left the coin there.

Jump forward a few years and I'm cleaning out the junk drawer in the kitchen when lo and behold the coin appears. Again. So I leave it, I'm pretty sure, in the newly tidied drawer.

Jump to yesterday when I honestly couldn't mow the lawn (too much rain) but I decided - no, I don't know why - that I couldn't live with myself if I didn't do some chore, however small. So I decided to clean out the junk drawer in the bathroom. Oh, come on. You don't have a junk drawer in your house? Liar.

Anyway...yup, there in the drawer was the bloody chip again. The chip I was fairly certain I'd left in the kitchen drawer. Clearly, I'm meant to spend the chip. But parking is two bucks, so I really only have three free dollars. What do y'all think I should do?

Where's the Cow?

I went to the store yesterday, for milk. Sadly, I went in the midst of a terrible sugar craving. I came home with:
Buns
Snowballs (the Scottish marshmallow kind, not the snowy throwing kind)
Unfiltered Apple Juice
Maple Toffee (on sale!)
Two packages of Durum Semolina
Butter
Rice Crispy treats, chocolate/caramel
Dog chews
Rice Crispy treats, strawberry
Key Limes. For a key lime pie.
Frosted mini-wheats
Superfine sugar
BBQ Sauce
Chicken
Chocolate Chips

Yes, for those who were paying attention there is one thing missing on the list. Idiot. I'm an idiot. And yet the other day talking about a new discovery in England in Shoreditch I said "hey, that's in that bell song". What? "ya, you know "oranges and lemons say the bells of St. Clements? There's a pair that says 'when will you pay be say the bells of Old Bailey? When I grow rich say the bells of Shoreditch'".

Yep, I can remember a nursury rhyme that I probably last heard in elementary school but I can't remember to BRING HOME THE DAMN MILK.

But she was sleeping with four other guys, too. And never told me.

The office I work in has a lobby that is open to the top floor. I opened the door onto the third floor hallway to take the elevator (because I had a teapot of hot tea, coupled with the inability to walk down stairs without spilling/scalding/screaming when I have a pot of tea with me) and the guy talking on his cell phone in the hall quickly stopped talking, just giving himself time to say "just a sec. Someone's here". I get in elevator, doors close. You know, the way they do.

I get off in the lobby. Which has FIVE people listening to the guy. Because the place is not only open, but it is almost accoustically perfect. I'm not one to spoil a party, and yes, given his end of the conversation the woman who dumped him is a bitch but still...the poor man thought he was keeping things secret, talking furtively in a hallway on the third floor. So I shouted "honey, we can hear EVERYTHING".

Yeah, the smoking women glared at me. Probably the most exciting thing they've had happen for ages.

Life over Death

I've been biking to work. And some days, like yesterday, the trip is so beautiful that one almost can't stand it. Just beautiful. The light was incredible, the air was clean and invigorating, the wind was whispering in the trees and the birds were singing. It was great. You didn't even have to be crazy-happy like I am to enjoy it all.

Being crazy happy though, I waxed poetic (poetic in my mind, at any rate) to a co-worker about how much I was enjoying biking to work. Which he, sometimes, does too. His take on the ride?

"Yeah, I guess. What I really notice more when I'm riding intead of driving is all the dead stuff. Road kill like everywhere. Flat dried out birds and gophers, and rabbits too. And sometimes when you first see it, if the rabbit is big enough, the first thing you think is that maybe it's like, a body part or something. From a dead person*".

Wow. And I used to think he was just a bit of a "always sees the glass as half empty" kind of person. I guess what he really is is a "sees the glass as having dead things in it" kind of person. Not that I haven't had my own dead person ponderings, but still: how do you bike to work on a gorgeous summer's day and only see what's down and dead?

*Like there would be body parts from the living. No more shoes on the side of the road, but arms and legs and heads.

The downside of having two brains

So here's the thing: I have two brains. One is smart and plans things out and thinks things through. It's very concientious, and remembers to pause before acting.

The other brain...well, that's the one that I listen to more than I should. The brain that said buy that outfit, ask that guy out, send that snarky email. All of which, by the by, I've lived to regret. Which is better than being dead an unable to regret, I guess. Oops, side-tracked. Must be brain # 2 writing this post.

Today I decided to walk next door to get some plums. There is a street and a sidewalk to take in one direction, and a circuitous path in the other. If you take the latter, it is possible to cut across the gravel-less unpaved field. Normally a good choice, but it rained buckets yesterday. Great deluges of water poured out of the sky, so the field was an odd clay-like shade of gray and brown.

Now, I started out on the path, and then thought "I should cut across". To which the good brain said "but...you're wearing white sandals. And it looks like a quagmire. Not a good plan". I, however, chose not to listen to the smart brain. So I cut across said quaqmire. And arrived looking like I'd decided to wear heavy gray and brown boots to the store. Not one snippet of white showed. Not one bit of flesh, either. Foot flesh, that is.

There being a convenient puddle outside the store (pointed out to me by an employee trying very gallantly to not laugh his head off) I thought I'd wash the boots/sandals/feet. Yet another mistake. I ended up shopping in bare muddy feet (not to mention filthy hands as I'd tried to pull some of the gumbo off the sandals), walking back barefoot using the paved route and being totally disgusted with myself.

My sandals are drying on the table behind me, my feet are cleanish and my hands are fine. My dignity is cowering beneath my desk. All I need now is to discover that the guy that told me about the puddle has a blog too, and that he is blogging about this idiot woman and her gumbo-feet.

The robe which curious Nature weaves to hang upon the head.

Why do I have all of this stupid irritating hair?
Is it because it grows faster than chives in spring? Yes, partly.
Is it because it costs too much to keep cut in style? Yes, although given the $ I spend on detangler when I wash it, that may be an incorrect assumption.
Is it because some guy I used to date loved brushing long hair? Ok, I'll cop to that, a bit. Just a bit.
Is it because I wish I was in some movie where I have long hair a la First Night? Yes, but I'll kill you if you tell anyone. Not that I mind the killing, it's all the attendant body-hiding that comes with it that I don't like.

Maybe it is time to get my head just...shaved. Bald bald bald. Which should last a week before it's shoulder length again.

The header is from Thomas Dekker. Or maybe Decker.

Vacation

I was going to post more about my vacation. Decided not too. It was wonderful, and somewhat unreal. Which is I guess what all vacations are. A break from work-going bill-paying house cleaning reality. All I can say is that if you have no kids, no pets, a cleaning lady and a house so big that there is more than enough space for absolutely everything then said house remains remarkably tidy. Tidier, certainly than a small house with children, pets and no cleaning lady. Ah well, it was nice living in dreamland for a little bit!

I give up - you try.

So I'm off on vacation. I managed to get away without any mad dashing around town and having a knife in my purse when I attempted to go through security you'll be happy to know.

However, there was one thing (what, like you're surprised?) You know how your stuff goes on the conveyor belt at the security and gets x-rayed? Well, my purse went through, and then my carry-on. And the guy stopped the belt. And started giggling. And then he called the other two people over and pointed at the screen and they started giggling. Being mystified I said "uhhh, excuse me. Is there a problem with my carry-on bag?"

An instant triple "no, it's fine" and the belt gets going again. What was so funny? I don't know. I can tell you what was in the bag and you tell me what you think it was:

Sunglasses in a case
Three books
Bathing Suit
Ipod recharging thingy
Ipod car cord
Hair Brush

C'est tout. My sister thinks the cord looked like it was spelling something obscene. I don't think it has the smarts for that. I'd be interested in your theories.

No sleep on the plane, so from about six am on Friday Morning until eleven (Regina time) I had one hour of sleep. On the couch (I was sorting laundry) from one-ish until two in the morning when I had to start baking. Good thing the boy was there to make sure the baking started on time.

More later. Suffice it to say I'm having a great time, doing things and buying things. I've even bought myself something - a whole nitrite-free ham big enough to count as a third child.

Hooray for good bun.

No, not good buns. Good bun, singular. A good, well cushioned bun that saved me from serious injury today. Cushioned the blow when a box fell on me (for the second time in my career). I swear, one more time and I quit. Three attacks by non-sentient* things is sufficient. More than, actually.

*as far as I know.

Facts.

Partially frozen meal replacement drinks look like a science experiment gone wrong. A disgusting experiment.

A half hour isn't long enough to eat a proper lunch and deliver a cake. Hence the need for liquid lunch Which always sounds yummy in a girlie-drink with mini-umbrella and fruit kind of a way, yet is disappointly no such thing.

Elevators may be publice places - ok, ok. ARE public places. But when you're in one on your own your entitled to do/sing/say whatever you want.

Morning in la-la land.

I am generally a morning person. Awake, cheerful, happy. I would have thought that I wouldn't be snarky in the morning but apparently with my brain fully functioning I can't resist responding to crazy people. Normally I'd just keep my thoughts in my head, and normally they're not terribly clever. But today...well today the blondes struck again.

I don't normally talk in the bathroom. Icks me out. Let me do what on normally does and keep your chit chat to yourself. But clearly not everyone feels this way. Also, people have different ideas of what is normal in a bathroom. The woman from the floor above (who must believe that the stall is a cone of silence) has torrid cell phone conversations in the bathroom. And the curly hair pretty woman goes in to check the mirror (because there is a break between looking in the reflective window and entering the building during which a hair might have moved) often. Very very often indeed. Anyway:

There I am, minding my own business when the smoking blondes* arrive. They are talking about movies. No problem. And the fact that there aren't healthy snack choices at theatres. Understoon. I recently learned that one basic thing of nachos and cheese is the fat swallowing equivalent of three quarter pounders with cheese. THREE! And those puppies aren't low on the list of incredibly bad fast foods that will kill you. So I get it. But:

Blonde #1 (hereafter known as B1)
What they need is to have like whole wheat popcorn.
Blonde #2 (B2. Duh)
That would be....like...it would be...
Me: Corn. That would be corn.
B2: What?
Me: whole wheat comes from wheat. Pop corn is corn.
B1: so they should make whole wheat popcorn.
Me: Except that corn is corn and wheat is wheat. So to get whole wheat popcorn you'd have to have popcorn in a sandwich made with wholeweat bread.
B1: All I'm saying is that they should make popcorn from corn that doesn't have all the bran taken away.
Me: Yeah....I guess you could just work out how to do that and make a million inventing whole wheat corn.
B1: Huh.


I left. Washed my hands, shook my head and left. Because really, does it make a difference? Will her life be any better - or for that matter, any worse - if she doesn't understand basic grains?

*as in cigarette smoking.

Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying

Apparently the extra panels in the skirt I'm wearing aren't there to make the skirt look all frilly and girly. They're there to allow the wind to whip the skirt up to my shoulders. It should have said so on the tag.

Oh yeah - R.L. Stevenson gave me my title. Not personally (spiritually? Ghostly?)

Cry if you want to

I would like to cry. I'm close to crying, but crying triggers migraines. I wouldn't mind having some lovely strong arms to be hugged in right now but that isn't going to happen either. Life could be better. Then again, it could be much worse, too. So I'll shut up now and go for a walk.

6, 7.5 or 9.

I love naps. Don't often do it, but I love them. So here is some information:
http://www.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/15934
Oh, and the title? I follow the 90 minute thing. So those are my choices for how long to sleep at night. I prefer the seven and a half, but if I can't do that I'll do six, intead of seven. It works. Honest.

Help!

I...I think I need help. I started work really early this morning so I could leave really early. Mere minutes ago I actually thought this thought:

"Hey...if I'm quick, I'll even have time to mop the kitchen floor. And get the counters clean!"

Even worse? I thoughtit with the small thrill of excitement that would normally accompany something like "hey...I've got all of tomorrow off and a date to look forward to!"

I was that thrilled. Over floor mopping. Ack.

Things I'd like to have control of.

Apart from space and time, of course. Because who doesn't want that? What I'd really like to do is perhaps not so much control as rule, perhaps. I would like to be paid as though I work full time, but along with sick leave and vacation leave I would like to add the following:
Day is way too cold to leave home leave.
Day is way too sunny to be inside leave.
I'm too sleepy to get out of bed leave.
Book is far too interesting to put down leave*.
I have errands to get done leave.
Fantastic thunderstorm that should be watched from a good -and safe - vantage point leave.
Nookie leave**
I have a great idea for a recipe that I must try RIGHT NOW leave.
I'm totally up for the gym leave.
The dogs need a really long walk in the country leave.
My muse has appeared and I must work on the novel leave.

*This is the leave I would take today.
**Not currently relevant, but it would be mean to deny the possibility!

I've no idea how many days this would leave me to actually, you know, work. So for now errands will have to wait for after work, Curves will have to be after work and Valhalla Rising will have to wait for a coffee break. The book will have to be worked on at its usual rate of one sentence every two weeks.

Remembering....sort of.

Man, I had the best post ever. And it disappeared, just took flight into the ether. Ah well, you'll just have to trust me that it was brilliant and would have solved half of all the problems in the world.

I was talking, I think, about the committee in my head. There is a committee in your head too, honey so back off. This whole committee thing is from an interview I was listening to, and interview with the author Elizabeth George. She said that we all have a committee in our heads. The committee is made up of people like the little girl who invited everyone but you to a birthday party, the boy that never asked you out, the teacher that wondered if you would ever make anything of yourself, the partner who broke your heart...you get the picture.

At any rate, we listen to this committee and boy are the HARD. They have an opinion on everything, and it's never kind or helpful. And yet we listen to them. Stop! Ban the committee!

You know what I rarely, if ever, listen to? The smart me. The me that says things like "don't put your keys there. You'll never find them again" and "don't even ask, he'll say no and you'll be crushed".

I listened to the smart me this morning. I was making breakfast and plannning lunches in my head* when my brain said "Nope, the boy doesn't need lunch made". I had no idea why I didn't need to make him lunch. Couldnt' think of anything going on. Almost decided that just to be safe I better make him a lunch. But the smart me said "look, you may not remember the WHY, but trust me on the WHAT. And WHAT you have to remember is to not make him lunch". And I listened. And made no lunch. And remembered halfway through the morning that he had a half day and was going to a friend's for lunch and a board game after school.

*yes, there is a lot going on in my head. As the Magpies say it "I don't why it is but my brain works all the time".

Beauty: Fading, or non-existent?

I work in an office blessed with a myriad of windows. I love it. Except when people outside forget that what is to them a mirror is to us a window. Don't pee on my window!

One of the things that still interests me - joining this like watching spring arrive, hares run around, storms....ummm...storm - is people that use it as a mirror in the morning. They stop right where my desk is and do a quick once-over. Except for one woman. The woman who does it a dozen times a day.

Yes, you read that correctly: AT LEAST 12 times every single day she stops at my window. Coming in to work, going back to her car for lunch and every single cigarette break she has a routine: she pats her hair, straightens imaginary creases in her outfit, turns her head left, swivels right and pats her hair again. The she does this weird lip-rubbing thing that I remember my mother doing just after she had put lipstick on.

Now, to be fair, this woman is extremely pretty. Other people's heads swivel to watch her go by. What I would like to know is: is she vain, and making sure she is as pretty as she thinks she is? Is she insecure, continually doubting her own good looks? Is she worried that her looks are fading and every second that passes leaves her less beatiful than the previous second?

Coming out of the...cupboard.

I decided to clean out a cupboard on the holiday Monday. It turned into four, actually because they were all connected and it didn't make sense to do just one, when things were bleeding from one area to another.

I had decided to do it because I was getting tired of half full bags of food stuffs flying off the shelf and hitting me in the head whenever the door was opened. It's all done: things are neatly packaged and clearly labelled. An ENTIRE LARGE GREEN garbage bag of stuff was thrown out. And in the process of finding out what I had, I discovered that what I had was:

Four containers of molasses. Three of one kind in various stages of fullness, and one of a different type.

Four bags of icing sugar. One unopened, one almost new, one half full and one so empty it's a wonder I even had it hanging around.

Two bags of brown rice, neither of which were even open. Not sure how that happened*.

Three bags of cornmeal, all of which were mainly done. So I guess it was good that I kept buying it.

Two boxes of cornstarch, two bottles of corn syrup and rice flour bought for some recipe that I no longer recall/want to make.

The neatness should last....a month or so. I'm guessing.

*I love how that makes it sound like I know why the rest of it happened. When really, the answer is it happened because whilst I can remember titles/authors/plots/character names etc. from books I read decades ago I don't seem to be able to recall what I do and do not have in my cupboard.

Merciless, and oh yeah!

Before I get into the meat of things, how do y'all spell the word that starts with the letter Y, and means hurrah? Do you spell it Yay, as in Hooray, or Yeah, which can be confusing as it is pronounced two ways. Apparently my use of yeah for Hurrah confuses someone, she's never sure what I mean. I don't think context is something she is willing to consider. I'd just like to hear what others use.

Anyway...a couple of nights ago I decided it was time to do two clothes things: exchange winter things for summer and go through all boxes/drawers/hangers and dump what I'll never wear again (too ugly, size 2). And I did it! I was cold and merciless to my things. If it hadn't been worn in months it was gone. And stuff that was size 2 or size 4 left too. I was not skinny when I wore those, I was scrawny. It was very freeing, getting rid of those things!

Now the hurray or yeah part: for the first time in a while, there was a pile of things that didn't fit to get rid of. Things that didn't fit because they were too BIG. Yeah!

Is Disney the New Wilderness Adventure?

You know how kids like to use extremes? "You NEVER, we ALWAYS, EVERYONE at school" -you know what I mean. So last night the girl and I are talking and she says that EVERYONE in her grade has been to Disney World, or Disney Land.

I know this isn't true, but she started on a list of those she knew who had as a certainty and I have to say it was a pretty extensive list. Now, I certainly went on vacations as a kid and they were awesome, but no Disney. Lots of trips to PEI, lots to the West. We weren't really poor, either, so no Disney wasn't because of that.

The thing in my day was going camping. Almost everyone I knew had at least one family holiday somewhere more or less out in the wild. Some completely out there, some in say Algonquin Park, some in Newfoundland-Labradour but all somewhere that had no city, no games, no lights no electricty no plug ins for all the "stuff" that people had even then.

So what's going on? When did Walt Disney World become the new vacance de choix?

Me and my new five hundred friends.

I'm going to keep writing this, curse all of you who aren't reading it. Not even my own sister. Which means I could talk about her, I guess. But then if I did she'd choose that one time to be the first time she read it. And I'd feel awful. So I won't.

But despite having zero readers, I am still going to write. Because I have to practice somewhere, yes?

So...I have worms. Not me personally, I mean I now have a vermicomposting box with five hundred little red wriggling friends who are busy turning scraps into soil. How very clever of them. The purchase of worms to deal with kitchen waste if part of the mini-Kyoto accord me myself and I made.

Do I talk to the wormies? Of course. Have I named them? No. Because there are five hundred of them. Which the girl fears will somehow (and for no given reason) escape from their little earth world and come to get her in the night. Which isn't going to happen, anymore than elves are going to clean the house in the night.

Tip 'O the Day

Don't dance in the elevator with your eyes closed if the music you're listening to via headphones is so loud you can't hear the doors open.

One is one and all alone.

Have the words first and last lost their meaning? How can something be one of the last, or one of the first?

Princess of Potatoes. Maybe even the Queen.

Not that I am a potato. Wait, maybe I am. A bit. But that is, first of all, changing. It is also not germane to the topic at hand.

The thing is, of the many people I love (yes, love. Geez, you people have a narrow definition of love), two of them have potato issues. Good issues, though. One of them loves mashed potatoes and the other loves potato cakes. Very specific cakes, it took me a while to make them the way he remembers from growing up in Manchester.

So...potato cake guy gets potato cakes as presents. With other stuff, like a CD or something. Actually, Christmas has almost become potato cakes/music/cheese every year. Easiest person to buy presents for ever.

Mashed Potato Woman (betcha that name hasn't ever appeared in First Nations nameology before!) did get individual servings (frozen) of mashed potatoes for her birthday. Hey, it was a good idea! Anyway...she is doing me a favour, so I made her mashed potatoes. But...

I have cooking issues. So while the potatoes were cooking, I sat there wondering what I could do to make them the BEST MASHED POTATOES EVER. Why? Would Bobby Flay ever challenge me to a potato throwdown? Who knows. Although he can throw me down anytime. Just in case he calls and asks, I want that made clear.

I thought about the potato itself. I should have bought Yukon Gold. Better flavour. Too late for that, the potatoes were already peeled and cooking. But texture, that I could do something about. And I did. I actually went the pain-in-the-ass route of putting the cooked spuds through a food mill prior to mashing them and piping them into their little potato mounds. So they should be really really excellent mashed potatoes. Unless, of course, you prefer lumpy potatoes as some do. I think this batch may make me the princess of potatoes. I'll have to try garden fresh Yukon Gold for the spuds if I want queen status though.

The only truly sad thing here is that I am absurdly excited about the mashed potatoes. And the potato cakes, because they were milled too, prior to being made into cakes. Yeah, I know, I'm nuts.

That's the best you can do?

So government isn't supposed to destroy records without following correct procedure. But of course they do and we hear all sorts of reasons why. Today's favourite from what I've been reviewing?

"Those records were accidentally destroyed by a former employee who mistook the shredder for the photocopier".

Misplaced Lust.

There is a commercial that many of you have likely seen. It is for some skin lotion or something. Anyway, there is a woman on a bed reading or something and this shirtless guy comes in and they start wrestling. The whole point, of course, being that if you use their lotion you too can wrestle comfortably with half dressed people. Or person.

The first time I saw this commercial, I sighed in envy- out loud! . A. turns to me and says : MOM!!
Assuming, of course that I am lusting after said shirtless guy. In reality, though this is what I was thinking:
"Wow. That's a really clean bedroom. Spotless and perfect. Sigh".

I need someone to explain me to me. Please?

Occasionally - ok, more often than I'd care to admit - I will shuffle through the various post-it notes on my desk/in my purse/stuffed into pockets (my own) trying to get things done and I'll come across some cryptic note I wrote myself that no longer makes sense. Or enough to do something constructive. Today though...today I am totally baffled. I have a bright green post-it (the colour may or may not be relevant) that says "Monkey".

That's it. Nothing else. No quotes, no time or location (am I expecting a monkey from somewhere?) nada. What did I mean? More importantly, what happens when I don't do whatever it is that I was supposed to do? Is there a monkey somewhere waiting for a call, a ride a meal? Help!

Grace Kelly

Apparently, twirling in happy circles mid-walk just because the day is sunny and the music is twirly is not the done thing.

My ass is glass, baby.

Nope, I'm not confused. That sentence is correct. Or almost. I guess my ass has glass would be the exact phrase. What's going on? Let's take a little jump in time, shall we?

Last weekend was very busy. Gaming at the house on Saturday, then again at the library on Sunday. The boy had a cold all weekend long, a cold that he'd had for days. So not much sleep for him or me on Friday (too much coughing), and still baking at 3:30 AM, thanks to one mixer being broken. My Saturday normally starts at 4:30 and will again when everything is fixed. So I was tired, boy was tired and by Sunday supper we were all tired. So tired that although I heard the girl say that she had broken a glass in the bathtub but cleaned it all up, it didn't really register.

Showers were taken on Monday so really, any lingering bits of glass should have been long gone. And they were. All but the one bit that I sat on when I tried to have what was meant to be a relaxing bath after a difficult day.

All I have to say is that I occasionally dislike being single. And trying to tweezer a piece of glass out of my own heinie was one of those occasions. Monday sucked, but I have serious hopes that today will be better.

No, I don't want computer help.

I am having a hard time making really big cookies bake properly. Quite often they are over-cooked on the edges, and almost raw in the middle. I've changed the temperature of the oven, changed the level I put the rack on, tried making the cookies thinner/thicker....no unqualified success yet.


And where do we all head for tech help? Google, of course. Except there are computer cookies and cookie-cookies. And I don't have problems with computer cookies. Although apparently lots of people do, because there are a bazillion sites for help with those whose large cookies are making things crash. My cookies have never made me crash. Ever.

Back to the drawing board. Just felt like ranting. Who came up with computer cookies anyway? Why not make up a completely different word? Zooglies, or something. Messages that saw your zooglies are not enabled makes as much sense as cookies not being enabled. Ok, I'm done now. Honest.

Oh Mayb forgive me.

I...I'm a happy person. I know that the cranky people of this world (and no, I don't mean Mayb) look at us happy folk with suspicion and resentment*, but one can't change one's basic nature. I do, however, occasionally think how irritated some people might be when I am in a really REALLY happy frame of mind, particularly if there is no specific reason for said happiness. Because perhaps some things are beyond the pale.

So...Mayb, Jason and whoever else may read this blog I'm sorry. But this morning I was in the stacks singing out loud...to Aqua. Happy Boys and Happy Girls. Can we still be friends?

*I think because they don't believe that people can actually be happy and they're convinced that we're pretending to be happy while we secretly plot to rule the world.

Matchmaker?

It's good to try new things, yes? So I thought I'd give a shot at matchmaking. And where do I start? Trying to get a person who won't meet without emailing together with someone who won't email without meeting. Not my fault but I think the message here is that I'm not a matchmaker. I mean really, I should have started with something easier. Like some couple that's already together.

Rock a bye baby

I confess, I am a softy in the mornings. I make the lunches and if I think the day is going to be particularly hard for my babies (yes, they're teenagers but they're MY babies, so shut up) I will make them something special for breakfast. I made green pancakes this morning. What better use for the green sugar left over from the cookies we made for a bake sale? Anyway...

The boy thinks that his day has been starting earlier than it needs to. So rather than wake him up so that he is actually eating before I left for work today, I woke him up as I was leaving. Told him there were pancakes in the warming drawer, syrup in the fridge and he would have 35 minutes before I came back to take him to school. So did it work? Did he get ready in time?

Yes, but only because today I took the girl and her poster board and baking and things to her school before I came back for him. He got ready in the intervening minutes, pancakes uneaten. I knew, however, that he wouldn't be ready when I got there for the girl. How? When I phoned to say I was on my way, at the end of the conversation I said good-bye. He said good night.

And I thought I sucked at selling

I just finished a computer class. More than half of it was spent on what the software can't do. Why I need to spend time learning what I can't ever use is beyond me. Maybe that's why they're management and I'm a mere underling.

No knives this trip

So tomorrow morning I'm off on vacation, leaving boyo to house sit. Will he be watching the pets, or will they be watching him? Hard to say.

You'd think that I'd be more or less ready, right? I mean, I'm leaving in the morning after taking boys to school. And after assembling a three layer marble cake. And after delivering said cake. I'm not ready though. You're shocked, right? That I'm behind?

Not totally behind - I've borrowed two really big suitcases. Just don't know what I'm putting in them. I've mainly done the laundry, though, so I should be able to find something. This isn't a "I-hate-to-travel bit of procrastination. It's a cookie procrastination with a dollop of I-can't-believe-I'm-going poor planning. See, I'm bringing cookies. Which I haven't made. And I keep thinking of different types to bring. I also think I could make the dough for a pie in the morning and pack it and frozen Saskatoon's in my luggage so I can make a pie when I get there. I was even thinking of making bread in the morning (because what else have I got to do other than lunches, breakfast, packing, driving and cake making?) and bringing it as a carry-on. Because it is sort of a long term thing (I'd be starting it tonight) and I really didn't want to spend a day of my vacation hanging out in the kitchen. And I also really wanted them to try it. Howsoever:
a co-worker suggested that having freshly baked bread on a flight where the only food is either two dry cookies or a sack of some strangely shaped crackers would be akin to torture. I could auction it off, though, when everyone is suitably ravenous, thereby providing myself with a little more vacation moolah. I think she may be right, so we'll see about the bread. Maybe bread is even on the new list of things you can't bring on a plane. Who knows? What about sourdough starter? If it is liquid, does that mean I can't bring it? What if it is like thickish cake batter, can I bring it then?

I'm not completely unready. I have a list of things to do today, like get to the bank (I forgot to initial something when I got the loan) before it closes and get to the deli (I've ordered six really wonderful sandwiches for my baby to have while I'm gone) before it closes. And maybe the grocery store so I can get maple syrup for maple cookies. Which I'd have to make tonight, of course. 'Cept I'll have to pack at some point. Oh and money so my boy can't go on his date with three women while I'm gone. Aren't I the most permissive parent?

Also on the list, in giant letters - and circled in pink highlighter - is the phrase "Take the knife out of your purse!!. Because I don't think I have it in me to repeat the previous knife-at-security trauma. I just want the vacation, short though it is.

Lower than a Snake in a Wheel Rut

I'm not one for folksy sayings. Well, not often. And I would have told you that neither are my babies. I may not be able to say that any longer.

I talked to M., and asked her to check the San Francisco sour, to see if it was alive and well. She said it looked bubbly. Sadly, that wasn't good enough. I needed to know if it was truly alive and smelling like death. So I asked her to smell it. Yes, I'm a mean mom. Ask May-B., I'm pretty sure I can't get in trouble over getting a child to sniff a sour dough starter. Anyway, she did, and I asked did it smell? Her answer?

"Yes. Like a donkey in August".

How many?

You know what is very difficult? Not reciting "Peter Piper Picked a Peck of Pickled Peppers" when you're making a grocery list that has pickled peppers as one of the items on it.

happyhappyhappy

I have a new oven. New new new! I don't think I could be any happier. Ok, yes, if I had a new oven, a million dollars in the bank, a new body (or even just the one I had years ago back) and a vacation with Naveen Andrews starting tomorrow I would be even happier. However... the point is that the new oven has made me incredibly happy. I hope that there are things that can make you happy too. Things in the realm of possibilities, that is. Now if I can just stay at work until it's time to go home and not use up precious time-in-lieu! Work can be ok but when there is a whole new world of baking out there waiting for me staying here is very difficult indeed.

And for an encore, alien kidnapping and flaming death

So, in the past little while, I have had:
My large (and new and HUGELY expensive) Kitchen Aid mixer break (not yet fixed)
My furnace die (now fixed)
My car die (now fixed)
My oven die (will have to replace. So off to the bank)
My Ipod returned from it's loan to my son only to be run over (by me. And my girl and a friend replaced it. So I'm going to have to find the $ to pay my baby back)
No kids arrive for the roast beef/potatoes/gravy/veggie Sunday supper I prepared

The first thing happened a couple of weeks ago. The remaining FIVE happened in the space of a week. It was a very bad week. However...

As usually happens when disasters pile up, right at the point where by all rights I SHOULD be having a nervous breakdown, it all starts striking me as being funny. And then everything is alright again. So I think I'm back on track.

Words to Remember

A line I read today:
It's never too late to be what you were meant to be.

Making cold colder

So what makes Saskatchewan in February feel even colder than it already does? A dead furnace, that's what. That and the dreaded cold lump in the pit of your stomach as you contemplate what it might cost you in the end to get heat going in the house again.

You may be tired, but I could have died

So we do occasionally travel out of town on business in this department. Not often, but it happens. Which brings me to a tale that clearly exemplifies how much my supervisor believes that everything is about her:
Travelling in small town, staying in a motel. Some idiot throws a burning cigarette into a trash can. Fire ensues. Alarms in the middle of the night, trucks come in the end one room is moderately burnt and by the end of it all water logged.

I, in my own room, with the gift of sleep (merci, papa!) slept through the whole thing.

Over breakfast the next day, everyone talking about the fire my supervisor is angry - yes, angry! - at me because I got a good night's sleep whereas her beauty rest was broken and she never really got back to sleep after that. Hence her tiredness and really it was all so UNFAIR that I got a good nights sleep.

She didn't see anything wrong with the fact that standing in the parking lot of small town hotel it somehow never occurred to her to tell someone that I wasn't there. I did ask, she shrugged her shoulders. I guess she was too tired to think about her answer when people asked if anyone was missing anyone.

Think before you name

Working in government one tends to see a lot of groups, committees, etc. with unfortunate names. I'm sure you've all seen groups that could have had a better name, something that said what the group was all about, what its goals were, its mandate.

What group name made me think about this topic? I am working on records from the Thrust and Probe Committee. I don't know what they do. Something to do with teeth, I think. But that's not the point. The point is that this name should NEVER have been allowed. IMHO

How much in Doggy Years?

In people years it takes about three minutes (in the winter when there is snow to negotiate) to take garbage out to the garbage bin and then roll the bin to the street for pick up. How much time in doggy years? Long enough to eat a three pound fruitcake. Minus one tiny slice.

Yup, dad got his fruitcake, my sister and her husband got theirs, my customer's got theirs but mine...mine was pelicanned down by the dog (or possibly dogs, but I think the little one is innocent this time) when I took the garbage out on the morning of Christmas eve. So no comments from you lot should I decided to get rid of the dogs. Instead I will expect murmurs of kind understanding.