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.

Lint by any other name

Let me just state, fluff that gets up and walks away is a spider. And given my irrational fear of spiders, I'd like to make it clear that non-mobile fluff on the edge of the tub when I'm having a soak with a drink and candles is my preference. Always. You don't need to know everything that happened. Suffice it to say it was...not unexpected.

Yes, I know that spiders won't kill me kidnap my kids and ruin the laundry. But it's an irrational fear. If they could do all of that they it would be a totally rational fear. But they can't. YET!

The Rain of unfairness

Rudyard Kipling wrote:
The rain it falleth on the just and the unjust fella,
But mainly on the just because
The unjust steals the just's umbrella

Or as near as makes no difference. That is how my brain remembers it from elementary school, anyway. So don't go and tell me how wrong I've got it because that isn't the point.

The point is, I think I'm too old to still believe that the world somehow makes things come out fair. I find myself occasionally moderately surprised to find someone who is "unjust" doing really well and the just...just sucking, I guess. And then I am really surprised to find myself surprised by that. I mean, I'm not six. Not even sixteen, I know that the world isn't fair. And yet I still manage to hear myself saying in aggrieved tones "but that's not FAIR".

So where does this come from? Human nature or crazybarefeet nature?

Because you know what I can do

I'm getting used to all the ways people used to sign their letters: cordially yours, your humble servant, your obedient servant (as if), but the one that comes up occasionally (because I work with historical documents) is this:

Dear Mr. Doe;
Blah blah blah

Believe Me,

John McJohn

I love it. It sounds vaguely threatening. Like it really matters that you pay attention to what his letter is saying. I think I may adopt it as part of my email security signature. Yes I will. Believe me.

To laugh, to cry or to murder?

I am learning how to knit. I have, as all learners do, made scarves. Two only, which is pretty good in the view that I've heard of people that spend their lives making nothing but scarves.

I made a little blanket for my girl and months ago (maybe even a year?) I started something called a couch cuddler. Still really simple, as in all honesty in the picture in the book it looks like..well...a scarf. Six feet long and two feet wide but still. It's meant to go over the knees of people sitting on a couch watching a movie.

If you've read this blog for a while and remember things, you'll recall that I started and re-started a number of times. Then I came within one ball - so to speak - of finishing and decided that the mistakes would make me crazy so I undid it all and started again.

I almost finished during the Grey Cup game, but I was short having enough wool to cast off. When the kids came home, A. found one tiny little bit left over, almost exactly what I needed.

The kids left for a week at their dad's yesterday, so I got a movie from the library to watch while things cooked in the oven. (Two cakes, and they have long baking times), with the plan to finish off the scarf of great hugeness.

I got home yesterday to two very happy puppies. Two puppies who had been playing with the knitting. Which had caught on a corner of the board we put up to keep them out of half of the house. I would have paid good money for a camera at that point. There were lenghts of wool interspersed with bits of the scarf that were still together ...everywhere. Over the couch, over the bookcase in the hallway, under the coffee table, under and ON (?) the dining room table, over the dog cage and to go with it all small fluffy scraps of wool floating about.

The thing is, they looked so pleased with themselves. (The dogs, not the scraps of wool. The scraps of wool just mocked me in very typical wool-like tones). I've had them get into garbage and the don't come to the door when I get home and as soon as I'm through the door they both try to fit in the kennel. Don't tell me they don't know when they're in trouble! So clearly they know eating garbage=trouble. Too bad I didn't tell them that destroying knitting also equals trouble.

I gathered it all up and unravelled what I could but there is one entire ball missing from all the bits that were too useless to save. In all honesty I think I was as close to laughing as I was to crying. But hey, I guess I just start again, yes? Yes. Nil carborundum illegitimi.

Getting into my Pants

I was walking towards the elevator at work this morning (yes, stairs are the better choice but not when you're carrying a pot of tea and a precariously balanced plate of hot cinnamon buns) when I realized there was something pinching the back of my thigh. And not in a good way, I might add.

Not wanting to disrobe in the elevator...
OK, fine, not being allowed to disrobe in the elevator I continued on the journey put everything down on the first desk I came to and went to the womens washroom to see what the deal was.

Turns out there was a needle - a NEEDLE! - in my leggings. Leggings that I just bought, from a package that I opened, took leggins out of and put on. No stops, no resting in the sewing basket, nothing. The non-existent sewing basket that is. That line certainly implied that I sew, and do it in an organized manner whereas the truth is, M. is right: it's a pity I can't bake a dress, because then we'd be covered. Amazing that she things so highly of my baking skills, sad that she knows that I'll never be able to sew. Not even the hem of a towel. In my defence, my first sewing project in high school was a bathing suit, and the second - and most DEFINITELY FINAL - choice was a tartan skirt. Why the teacher let me start with something so demoralizing is beyond me. Unless she didn't like asking me for help once in the cooking half of home economics. Whatever the reason, that bathing suit made me anti-sewing forever. Except for buttons. If you held a gun to my head, threaded the needles and asked really nicely (despite the gun) I will sew a button back on to the garment it ran away from.

Not Smoking. And NOT the boys room.

There I was, minding my own business doing what one does in the bathroom when there is a knock at the door, the squeak of the door hinge and a GUY"S voice saying "hello?"

Good grief. What does one say? C'mon in and light a shuck? "Occupado? What the hell do you want? I mean, I like to be left in peace. I hate it when women talk in the bathroom but I have to say this is worse.

He's off sick today.

So there I am on the desk - or to be exact, at the desk - when the phone rings. Given that I'm being paid to do a number of things including answering the phone if it rings, I dutifully pick it up:

Government Department X, Jane Doe speaking.
Uh, hi. I'm looking for death.


So many things I wanted to say, not one of them appropriate. I'm counting it as a big plus that I didn't even laugh, let alone offer a snippet of witty reparte. This time.

I don't know, are monkies linen?

My most favourite question from a food site I go to:
Are eggs meat?

More of a clog

As opposed to a writing block, that is. I decided that all I would ask of myself today would be a sentence. One single sentence. Surely no matter how stuck I felt, one sentence was not too much to ask? I mean I'm not blocked I've merely slowed down.

So, I went for a walk instead of lunch and...ended up changing "they will" to "they'll". So not only did I not finish a new sentence, I didn't even start a new sentence. I edited something already in existence and for all I know tomorrow I'll change it back. Yup, I'm sure a great success as a novelist.

Two brains that don't think as one.

I have two brains. Life would be best if I only used the smart one, but sometimes the not-so-smart one supersedes the decisions the smart brain makes.

I dropped a pie this morning, hot out of the oven. My dumb brain said "grab that, you don't have time to make another", so I did. And even as I flung it - yes, I used the word flung intentionally and correctly - onto the counter my smart brain said "but...it just came out of the oven, idiot. You'll get burned." And it was right too. Because both brains had a good point to make, really. But overall it made for a poor morning. And this on top of deciding that the brownies I'd made the night before weren't perfect enough to sell, so I had to make a second batch. And then I realized that I didn't have anything for the pot-luck at work. So before my day in the office even started I had made a pie, a pan of brownies, chocolate-espresso ganache, chocolate fudge frosting and three loaves of bread. Grant you they were flatbreads and the dough was done in the early hours of the morning so all I did was shape and bake but still...this makes for a very long day.

Creative Writing in the Business World

First you need the background to this. Actually, you don't need to read it but I want to tell it so I am.

There is something out there in the kitchen gadged world known as a Hot Stone Cooker. Some brands refer to it as a hot stone grill. The thing works by super-heating a marble slab with is then placed on a metal rack with to alcohol burners underneath. The stone gets hot enough to cook steak, shrimp etc.

I've wanted one for a while, but I've waited because I know that I will eventually find one at something like a garage sale. I know three people who own them and not one of them has used it. Why would I want something that seems like a good idea and yet never gets used? Because it looks nice and with the burners on (and the stone not heated) it would make an excellent hot plate for warm appetizers. And I do cater a fair amount of things that require a hot plate or its marble equivalent.

So I found one, on Sunday. Yeah! There are directions about how to heat it, what to do to not ruin it and when it is ready to cook on the instructions are:
"you are now ready to cook with your new hot stone cooker. Use your imagination and creativity to create gourmet meals for friends and family. If both of these are lacking, here are some recipes" (italics are mine)

I can't decide if they're serious and don't see that that could be viewed as a teeny bit insulting or if they're just a business that has a sense of humour. Regardless, it made me laugh on a dim sort of day.

I should be in a circus

I'm willing to admit that what got me into this situation may be seen as klutziness. But what got me out was so skilled I should be in a circus.

I wore a skirt yesterday (which I pretty much always do: I'm still waiting for the day that daily wear is a giant t-shirt and underwear. With the addition of socks in the winter), a very long skirt. Almost ankle length. And shoes with heels.

Leaving the house requires going down three steps, something I've never had trouble with before. Ok, not often. FINE! Not more than a dozen times. A baker's dozen. This time, on the very top step - so really, I hadn't even started going down yet - the heel of one shoe caught the hem of the skirt, tripping me. Given my general lack of co-ordination*, you'd think, wouldn't you, that this whole thing would have ended up with torn skirt and bloody hands and knees. You'd be wrong!

With crazily cartwheeling arms - and yes, a squeal of astonishment - I managed to negotiate all three steps without falling. I'm pretty sure the whole thing was entertaining, but the thing is I managed it. It was neither pretty nor graceful but it worked. I did it. Ha!

* Except when ballroom dancing. A friend of mine suggested once that when I walk I hum a song in my head - I'm quite graceful when dacning (depending on the dance). I tried that, but I ended up walking downtown practicing the Latin Hip movement. Which is fine if you're a hooker, not so good if you're not.

Tears or toughness?

So what is better when enraged? Streaming tears of anger or buying a boxing thingy - shut up, you know what I mean - that I can punch at will with no harm to anyone?

Free Porn. Intentional?

I learned a whole new meaning for "neighbourhood watch" last night. Driving home from the mall with A. (and let me tell you the people that shop at Safeway between nine and ten at night are...odd. Myself included, I'm sure) and driving along Grant there was a house with a large screen tv on the far wall on, and their curtains were open. Being pitch black out it was easy to see what was on. Giant naked people. I've no idea if it was intentional or if they're just idiots and don't realize that people can see their tv but I'm guessing all it will take (other than a complaining neighbour) will be a car accident when someone fails to negotiate the curve. What with the distraction and all.

Silly Stats

Or perhaps just poor thinking. Guessing? I don't know, but here's the thing:

I have a tea book. Actually, I have a few, but the one I was reading last night made an interesting and mathematically unlikely comment. Their recommendation was to never buy tea in bags, as the tea is pretty much the sweepings off the tea sorting floor after 90 percent of the tea has been sorted and sold. Later in the book she says that 95 % of the tea that people drink is from tea bags. So...ten percent of the tea sold makes 95 percent of the tea we buy. I think that what is really happening is that a lot of the loose tea sold is sold to companies who blend and bag it. Butthat's not the way she's written it. The way she has it 10 percent of tea grown is sold into magic bags that somehow end up accounting for 95 percent of the tea we drink. Maybe there are giant warehouses somewhere filled with really good tea, all going to waste. Or maybe I should not think so much. But I have to. Sorry, but as the song says I don't know why it is but my brain works all the time.

Losing it

I thought I was losing it a few weeks ago when I asked the dogs, as I left the house, if the Food Network was an acceptable TV choice for them. Forget that all three of us believe that they like to have the tv on when we're gone (we could be wrong on that - perhaps they spend their time having philosophical discussions), there I was asking them what they preferred.

That, however, pales in respect to last night. I was working on my writing and stuck between deciding whether one character should be a badger or a hedgehog. I'm particularly fond of hedgehogs and was leaning in that direction when this thought entered my brain:

"Hmmm. Hedgehog. Would anyone even listen to a hedgehog? I think a badger would be better, they are a far more reasonable and creditable creature."

So either this is going to be the most awesome fantasy story or my friends will eventually have to stage an intervention and haul me away.

Well, I'd always wondered.

This is probably something everyone else learned in elementary school (learned and remembered; for all I know I learned it too and it slipped away during the night), but I was thrilled (and you thought I had no life!) to find out that:

Periods and commas go inside quotation marks, colons and semicolons go outside. Question marks and exclamation points can go in either place (which would explain why I can never remember which is correct).

That's it. That's all I've learned today. Oh, and that this job sucks. Except I think I already knew that.

Or maybe I'll just run away

It's a good thing that jail as a deterrent works for me. Because robbery (of a bank, for funds) and arson (of the office, just because) are looking mighty appealing this morning. Hope Y'all are having a better day.

The Lastest in Word in Dieting

There I am in Safeway, safely doing Safeway type things when I turn the corner and end up next to two women who could easily be part of the cast of the Hills by the way their dressed and coiffed.

Both thin (duh!), but one thin to the point of gaunt. Yes, I'm overweight, but that doesn't mean I don't know when someone is TOO thin. Anyway...her friend turns to her and says "how did you get so thin?". Now, I'm kinda curious. I mean, maybe it is something I can do and then stop before you can see the knobs of my spine. Her answer?

"I only eat when I'm drunk".

Oh. Never mind then.

Uh-oh

I'm pretty cool with being single. Most of the time. And time really is a big part of the issue - job and a half, two kids, two dogs a bunny and a house. Where would I find the time?

Perhaps, though, being single isn't the best thing when YOUR OWN CHILD says "you should go on a date, mom." Oh my boy - always my best interests at heart.

They need a better plan.

If my co-worker's are trying to kill me they need a better plan than having a precariously balanced box in the stack area fall on my head. Because it didn't even hurt, let alone injure. Sadly, I did shriek. Because I was listening to music with earphones on and it scared the bejeebers out of me. So I am bejeeber-less. And somewhat embarassed.

Fair Warning

Hurt me and I'll get over it. Hurt my kids and I will hunt you down, vivisect you, spit on the remains and leave you out in the cold unburied and probably not even missed.

Good 'n Bendy

Did you know that if you're about to be late for work and your left hand is stuck in a ring on your key chain it is possible to drive to work (so as not to be late) with your left hand hanging from your key the whole way? Even if you have a manual transmission.

I know what you're thinking, but it getting one key off a key chain isn't easy when you're one-handed.

New Office, New Rules

Yes, I have moved offices. Again. Same company, different space. I fully expect to be moved again within the next year.

This is my first day in the new space and I've learned a few things. For instance; yes, the fire door can be opened without any alarms going off. And yes, if you put a file folder in the door where it latches it doesn't lock behind you. However...those two facts are irrelevant given that there is no handle on the outside of the door. So if one wants to take a break and go stand outside you have to prop the door open, or walk around the whole building barefoot in order to go in the front door, which is what I had to do. Yes, barefoot. Why go stand on the green grass if you have shoes on?

I love Lunch

I find it odd that the work day seems better if I have a great lunch to look forward to. Even better is a day when I have supper simmering away in a slow cooker at home.

Maybe I'm thinking about food too much. But let me tell you in the grand scheme of eating properly - well balanced and nutritious - thinking and planning are essential. I'm looking forward to the arrival of soup season. Not that I'm not enjoying the warm weather, though :)

Hit Me Baby One More Time

The muse has hit. I mean REALLY hit. Everything just sort of exploded in my brain. I am now a writing maniac. Can't stop, because I don't know when the muse will leave, but in the meantime...this is AWESOME.

Dogs from Hell

And I don't mean just mine! Although yes, last night I would have happily given them away to anyone who asked. Without even giving the new owners any warning. Buyer beware and all that.

Although, to be fair to the dog that ate a stack of crepes, is it her fault, or the fault of the boy who left said stack on a plate on the edge of a counter? A bit of both, I think. But the boy I'm keeping.

Anyway, that said I stepped into the breach on Friday for friends who needed one moment of dog sitting. Or at least I TRIED to step into the breach.

Tall boy and I went over to their house to let the dogs out, because M was away and Lyn was on a drunken cruise somewhere. The Love Boat? Maybe, I don't remember. Boat, disco, black light. That's what I remember.

So over to dogville we go, letting ourselves in the back door. So, naturally the dogs bark their fool heads off. You'd think they'd be saying "yeah! we get to go and poop!" but apparently they were saying "intruder alert! intruder alert!".

So open the door and invite them out. No deal.

We go well into the house, let them figure out who we are and make them go out. No deal.

We sit quietly on the couch with the back door open so they can relax enough to go outside. No deal.

We go to the front door, so we are not standing between them and the freedom of the back yard. No deal.

We try to herd them outside. No deal.

We try to bribe them outside. No deal.

We make sure they have food and water, and try again to make them go outside. No deal.

And then, in a moment of craziness - because I really don't want them pooping in the house - I decide to pick them up, take them outside, attach leashes and take them for a walk. This, apparently, was a big deal. Tantamount to mudering their owners. Because Monty bit me. Bit me, the little monster! And I'm just trying to help them out. Didn't break the skin but left a mark, and made me decide I'd had enough.

My apologies to B and L. Monty looked totally ready to bite again, and Madison was thinking of joining in. I did my best.

Not so crazy after all

I wish that someday we could find out what people with mental issues are thinking. We occasioanlly see special needs people here due to one of the companies in the building. As I was working away this morning, there was a girl outside my window waiting for her mom. Beautiful day to be outside, can't blame her one bit. And then I noticed what she was doing: painting the leaves on one of the smaller trees.

Totally interesting - I would love to know why she is doing this, and if it is as much fun to do as she makes it look.

Pointless Warnings

I am finding it inordinately humorous that one of the things I read on Thursdays always concludes with "you are not authorized to read this page". Yes, concludes with. Tiny print at the bottom of the page.

WHAT???

I mis-read the title of an earlier post. Thought it said naked flan. Which isn't a bad idea when you think about it. I was just concerned because I had no recall of naked custard at all. I'm ok now. Pretty much.

Naked Fan

For a blog entitled sex and the hamlet, there is an awful lot of nudity and a total absence of sex. Which is how it is going to be, I'm afraid. There are things one just does not discuss in public.

Nudity, though - given the ridiculous temperatures we're suffering from, there is going to have to be a lot of discussions on the topic of nakedidity.

As a side note, now that I've mentioned the heat, I am yet again wishing that the dress code for a day at the office was undies and a big T-shirt. I would even agree with the addition of socks, once the snow starts to fly. But I digress. My apologies.

I just wanted to tell you that no matter how quickly you go from hot shower to lying on the bed with a fan running on high, you still can't fall asleep before your body figures 0ut that the feeling of coolness was just an illusion.

Naked Delivery

Someone in a delivery van was trying to park in my space when I came back to the office from lunch today. I went over to them to tell them that one of the spaces was free because a co-worker is on vacation leave today. What I didn't count on was having to add "and please put some clothes on".

Off to Ascot.

Apparently I learned nothing about buying what I don't need. You know some of my weaknesses, but did you know I love hats? Because I do. I have a small collection of usefull winter hats, and one usefull out-in-the-garden summer hat.

I also have what could almost be classified as a Victorian cartwheel hat. I wore it once. But it only cost me a buck (because who in their right minds buys a cartwheel hat these days?), so that is ok. It sits on a shelf in my closet because that is the only place it will fit.

I also had two totally awesome summer hats. The type you wear to tea with the queen or to Ascot. One I bought in Quebec on a visit home - how can you go to Quebec and not buy something haute couture? - the other I bought in Sidney, British Columbia. Because the store was closing and it was an amazing deal!

I had two...now I have three. Because yesterday I bought a blue hat in the same class as the first two. Because one of the hats I have is black, and the other is cream. So I needed a blue one, right? And it was about a third of the cost of what a hat usually costs, fancy hats being notoriously expensive.

So now I have three Sunday-go-to-meeting hats. The queen has yet to invite me to tea, Taste of Regina no longer exists (the only place one can wear such a hat in public) and I can't afford Ascot. I'm going to have to start wearing the hats to church. Might as well go whole hog and get a pair of short white gloves. If one doesn't have to time travel to 1945 to find a pair.

Huzzah for Me

Working partly with the public as I now do I have discovered something: I'm a hit with the old guys. Old guys who apparently think it is hip to say things like "now what's a pretty gal like you working here for?"

I'd have a long line of beaux if I was interested in old guys and skinny creepy young socially inept guys.

Still not title ability. Perhaps I should look into that. But first mysteries first. And the mystery I want to solve is the puzzle of the water in the bathroom.

In one of the two stalls in the women's bathroom (yes, it is relevant that it is not the men's room) there is water droplets all over the floor. I'm assuming it is water and not anything more unpleasant because the entire wall facing the toilet is also covered in drops of liquid. There is nothing on the ceiling. Nothing on any of the other walls. Nothing on the toilet tank or seat. Just the floor and the one wall. So what is going on?

My supervisor (because I told the two women in the office next to the bathroom. How could I not?) says that "toilets just spray sometimes". I'm having a hard time believeing that. And I don't really want to believe it either. Bidets spraying yes, toilets no.

Any ideas? thoughts?

I dont' seem to be able to type a title for this post. Which is perhaps a good thing, all things considered.

I thought that I was ok with being single - particularly when I listen to some of the stories that married/attached friends tell. But it has occured to me that I think I should go out on a date or two to save my sanity. And what has made me question my sanity you ask? I was re-filing photographs at work and found myself thinking "Gee, Forget is a bit of a fox, isn't he?".

Great, the guys been dead how long? 102 years? Yeah, I need to get out more.

Why you shouldn't be single.

It's a good idea to have a partner in life. Not just for the ususal benefits, but because when - and it will happen - you get a splinter in your eye, you have someone who can pull it out for you. It is hard to see the thing in your eye when you have...well, a thing in your eye.

I will also take this time to note that A. is more squeamish than I thought.

Old McDonald had a Farm

Wednesday night was a very bizarre night. The people across the alley and one over from us had a party. An outdoors, loud music loud/people party. Until at least midnight. I know it was still on at midnight because I got out of bed to see who, exactly, was living la vida loca on a week night at such high volume. And then I got scared on the way to the kitchen when I ran into my son who was leaving the kitchen with a giant snack. He was wearing a t-shirt and boxers. What he was wearing is relevant to this, ok? Deal with it.

So I went back to bed and eventually fell asleep. Only to wake up at five and discover that somehow, in the night, my daughter had come into my room, as had both dogs, as had my son. Who was, as it happens, completely dressed, right down to his socks and shoes. Does he remember getting dressed? No. Does he remember coming to my room? No. does my daughter? No. did I wake up for any of this? No. Do three people and two dogs fit comfortable on one bed? Decidedly no.

Anyway…time to get up and cook. First things first, though, so I let the dogs out. And there, on the lawn, was an egg. A regular bought-at-Safeway type chicken egg. So I went outside and looked back at the house. Had it been egged? No. Were there any other eggs? No. Did either child know anything about said egg? No. Were there any eggs missing from the six I’d bought the night before? No. We have lots of theories but until this morning no answers.

And this morning? What was the answer that occurred to me this morning? Nothing occurred to me. But there was a chicken in the back yard this morning. A regular farm-type chicken. So the egg thing is probably answered. Definitely answered, and in a fairly typical way for my bizarre life. Can’t wait to see what the weekend has to offer.

and a triple by-pass to go.

So I thought that the whole deep-fried Mars bar was first on the list of things that are stupidly bad for your heart*. However...there are people out there extolling the virtues of frying Kispy Kreme doughnuts in butter. Yes, doughnuts that are already fried in oil and subjected to a waterfall of glaze, fried in butter until the sugar caramalizes. Craziness.

And because there will be those of you who must try this, here ya go:
Step 1: Ingredients
Krispy Kreme donuts are very unique donuts, so you need to do whatever you can to get them. If you don't use Krispy Kreme donuts, then I can't vouch for the outcome of the taste. To make this dish, you will need the following:
Krispy Kreme Donut
Butter (as much as you want — does it really matter at this point)
Step 2: Warm Skillet, Add Butter
Turn on the heat to somewhere between Medium to Medium-High. Add the butter, and wait until it's completely melted before proceeding to Step 3.
Step 3: Add Donut
As soon as the butter begins to bubble, add the donut. To get maximum butter coverage, flip the donut and make sure each side is thoroughly covered.
Next, take a spatula and start flattening the donut. The best way to do this is to flatten the donut, wait at least 30 seconds, flip the donut and repeat.
Step 4: Remove and Eat
Remove the donut when it starts to have a caramel color. Do not confuse this with burnt.
Let it stand for about 1-2 minutes to allow it to cool. When you cut the donut with a fork, the donut should be crispy on the outside. Enjoy!


*Yes, of course there are things that are bad for your heart in a non-stupid way. Saganaki, for instance. Cheese dipped in egg and flour, fried in butter and flamed with Ouzo? Of course it's bad for you, but it isn't stupid. It's cheese.

Sometimes they really are blonde

So the smoking bathroom talkers* struck again - describing (in detail even their ob-gyn's shouldn't hear ) their sex lives. It was almost worth listening to, though, to hear them questioning one of the three about some guy she just met. Her first line was:
"Well, he is either gay... or he isn't gay". And yes, she was blonde.

*No, they don't smoke there, but they go in their to re-perfume themselves after each cigarette break. Of which there are a ten to fifteen a day. Between the smokes and the bathroom I'm pretty sure they work half time.

Steppin' Out

So I thought that it would be nice if today went smoothly, given that I am going out tonight. And I don’t mean out with kids, I mean OUT out. Grown ups, in a bar. And not just women – women and men! A mixed group of people going out doing something vaguely grown-up like.

The going smoothly plan died when I stepped slightly off balance going onto the step into the back yard. Which ended up with a sprained ankle (but I can walk on it, so how bad can it be?), a tear in the pants I was wearing, a cut on that leg and really muddy hands. New outfit, another start to the day.

And now I am at my desk searching for band-aids and some sort of disinfectant because I caught my finger on something sharp in the photo drawer. But that is now ok too.

So – third thing needs to happen (if it is going to happen) BEFORE I go out and have a nice relaxing evening. Because that would be nice, yes?

Empty Space, here on Earth

What kind of a world is it when I open up the news and the top story is "Paris Hilton starts Jail Sentence"? Is that what we've become? This madness that says tell me more about celebrities, and don't try to slip any actual news in there?

I know, I shouldn't be shocked but I am.

Clyde and Phyllis

When I was little I used to listen to a record called Clyde and Phyllis. It was a musical about an ant and an elephant falling in love. A potentially tragic love, because, as the song says "an ant and an elephant just can't wed, for one little hug and Phyllis would be dead".

The album is not available anywhere now. Not on CD, not on vinyl. Not even on vinyl on ebay! As it turns out, however, I still have my copy. Which is amazing in and of itself, but the best part, is that even as I type this my album is in the sound and moving image department being recorded onto CD. So the story is not lost!

And what happens to the terribly groovy Clyde and the lovely Phyllis? Clyde decides to be an astronaut to get over his broken heart when the man in the moon tells him he and Phyllis should live in space together. He and Phyllis can live weightlessly in space, happy forever. Or for the nanosecond before they're dead, what with no oxygen and all. But hey, it is a kids album, we weren't supposed to be thinking about things like that!

All in all, I am thrilled. Which is perhaps an indication of my need to get out more.

Intervention May be Required

This is what my beloved girl said to me last Friday:
"What made you think that kid's paper cutting scissors would do a better job on your hair than the kitchen shears did the last time you cut your own hair? Are you nuts?"

I don't know. As God is my witness, I don't know why I do these things.

How Much is that Doggy in the Window?

I was going to post this story that at first blush was kind of funny, but really it is just sad. So yes, you'll get to hear about my Safeway encounter but I’m afraid you won’t be laughing at it. Or maybe you will, who knows?

So there I was at Safeway, at the book/magazine rack in the bakery section (which is the only logical place to put books). There is a guy next to me looking for whatever, and this is what we were BOTH subjected to by his Missus:

Are you done? Because I am.
Now are you done?
What are you looking for, I’ll find it because I’m tired of waiting (they had been there maybe ONE MINUTE)
Fine, I’m going to go.
Seriously I’m going to go.

Now at this point I am feeling pretty bad for the guy, but I’m not looking at him, or even at her. She leaves. For maybe fifteen seconds. And then she returns and she’s back at it:

Oh God, I left and you STILL DIDN’T COME. What is wrong with you? We’re leaving, and I mean now!!!!!! (At which point I realize that she has a child in the cart with her. A child that – if it is a girl – will grow up to be a high maintenance nightmare, or – if it is a guy – a spineless wimp).

Now, this last was said in the tone some parents use with their five year olds (and they shouldn’t). And here she was using it on a partner, presumably someone she loved, at one point. I made the mistake of looking at him, not realizing my face must have been full of sympathy for him, and shock at her bitchiness. Because just looking over at him earned me a “what are YOU looking at?” complaint from her. Lordy day it was tempting to say something along the lines of “I’m looking at the man that you are slowly wearing into the ground. Don’t complain when he looks for happiness outside the marriage” but I figured that would be hurtful to the guy who was clearly suffering enough, and I was actually too gob smacked to come up with anything clever. I’ve seen dogs at the pound that haven’t looked as desperately sad as this man.

Leprechauns in the House

Or maybe some really obscure (and uncalled for) appliance curse. No, I kiddeth not. Little did I know when I complained about the fridge, dishwasher and dryer all dying at the same time that the wee ones weren't finished with me yet.

My stove died on Saturday. Permanently? Who knows. I fixed it enough to bake some shrimp in garlic sauce that night, in the belief that seafood makes it all better. I even topped the meal off with a single piece of Lindt chocolate. Because what seafood doesn't fix, chocolate surely will.

Abracadabra

Well. Who thought that there would be anything humourous in a collection about land, easements and water control. Not me. And yet here I am, with a file labelled "Druid Flood Control".