Happy Birthday To Me...

I turned thirty-five today. That number seemed impossibly distant and crazy when I was the age my daughter is now. Now, I just want to know when I get a free pass to start taking naps everyday. I was informed today that I either had to have another baby (which really only trades sleeping during the day for not sleeping ever, never at night) or wait until I was at least another 15 years in before I get a nap time.

That seems very unfair.

Happy Thanksgiving

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving this weekend, stuffed full of lovely food and our first project from the Hello Cupcake! book we bought a few weeks ago.

We went with the Pumpkin Cupcakes, although they were technically a Hallowe'en project. The Turkey cupcakes seemed a little beyond our abilities for a first project, what with the fan shaped cookies for the tail, the mini cupcake heads and the eighty different candies and sprinkles used to decorate the whole thing. There was a very adorable "cupcake wreath" project as well, but even with my unending enthusiasm for cute baked goods I wasn't about to collect and wash 100 maple leaves and then paint them with melted chocolate. That sort of thing falls under the category of Just Not Happening. Not until Miss Teagan can be reliably sent out to gather and wash 100 maple leaves at the very least. I am pretty sure that such insane projects are the reason why children were designed to be easily bribed by the promise of sugar.

The whole thing went really well, considering I decided on this ridiculous project the morning of Thanksgiving, the fact that we had to leave at 1pm to drive for an hour be damned! Other than a fruitless search for green licorice shoelaces that left me cutting green licorice strips into even tinier green licorice strips it all went off without a hitch. We had a nice assembly line going, with my applying the orange icing, and Sweetpea dipping the cupcakes in the orange sprinkles and adding the licorice stems. And eating sprinkles. And licorice stems.

Saturday morning we hosted a Thanksgiving Brunch at our house for my Mom and my stepfather. We would have done dinner, but our evening was going to be filled with singing and dancing at the Backyardigans concert at the NAC. Singing! Dancing! And even more singing! Did I mention the singing? It was a mad crush at the NAC, filled to the brim with excited children clutching their seizure inducing flashing wands at 10 bucks a pop. Through some fluke of the online ticket buying system we ended up with front row center seats, much to Miss Teagan's utter delight. I brought a legwarmer to work on during the performance, and the proximity to the performers gave me pause, but I figured since I can knit while looking attentively at the stage and the poor performers were dressed in giant costumes that allowed very little in the way of visibility, I would go for it and happily knitted for an hour and a half of singing. And dancing!

And singing!

We are thinking about getting a dog. We already have two cats, and thanks to two trips to the fish store in the same number of weeks, twelve fish. Oh, and a five year old who often spends her time meowing, chirping, and howling. Yet, now that we have a house, a dog seems like the logical progression. Or we are completely insane. You choose.

We have been searching the Petfinder website, looking for a dog that suits all of our requirements. This is a tricky proposition, since there are so many dogs in need of a family it makes you want to bring them all home. That would be a lot of dogs. Also, the dog has to be good with kids, and cats, and energetic, but not too energetic. And cute. Cuteness is important in something that will require you to carry poop around in plastic bags.

The conversations we've been having on IM tend to go something like this:

(Paul is Chopper Dave on IM - I don't know why. Well, I can guess, but the less said about Sealab 2021 the better.)

Chopper Dave says: YES! Delta Wire-haired Pointing Griffon

Chopper Dave says: yes yes yes

Chopper Dave says: hunting pointer

Chryse says: it is ugly

Chopper Dave says: WHAT?

Chryse says: UGLY

Chopper Dave says: who cares?

Chryse says: it looks like a muppet

Chryse says: i care!

Chopper Dave says: it's an awesome dog

Chryse says: is it snuggly?

Chryse says: it doesn't look snuggly!

Chopper Dave says: so snuggly

Chryse says: i think you lie

Chopper Dave says: no cats for the griffon

Chryse says: i'm sorry

Chryse says: i would have an ugly dog if it would make you happy

Chryse says: what about this one?

Chopper Dave says: no St. Bernards

Chryse says: why not?

Chryse says: SO CUTE AND CUDDLY

Chopper Dave says: St. Benards are uuuugly and smelly and drooly

Chryse says: St Bernards are cute and cuddly and will rescue you from a sinking boat

Chryse says: ...and drooly

Chopper Dave says: what would I need a dog that saves me from a boat?

Chryse says: just in case

Chryse says: what if you fall down a well?

Chopper Dave says: 116 pounds?

Chryse says: or need some Neo Citran?

Chryse says: it is 116 pounds of awesome!

Chopper Dave says: we should get that weimaraner

Chopper Dave says: totally

Chopper Dave says: seriously

Chopper Dave says: The Weimaraner is loyal and loving to his family, an incredible hunter, and a fearless guardian of his family and territory

Chryse says: i don't know if we should get a dog of better moral character than us

Chryse says: it might make us look bad

A Call To Reason

If I were to have to sum up my personal philosophy in one sentence or less it is probably "go big or go home." I like plans: big plans, grand plans. I can also be a little obsessive with a schooch of compulsive thrown in for good measure. Want mountains out of molehills? I am your gal. I swear I have "reach for the sky" or some other similar trite and inspirational saying ingrained into the deepest layers of my psyche. It is a compulsion, this desire to not only accomplish something but to also do it in the biggest, most insane way possible. This often leads to the spectacular collapse of the aforementioned plans when that little thing called reality sets in. Lucky for me, the results are usually amusing.

Take my attempts at gardening, for example. Please note, I live in an apartment - a small apartment with a small balcony. Last year - in the excitement of having a garden for the first time ever - I may have gone just the teeniest, tiniest bit overboard with the whole garden concept. I was so happy, buying lots of pretty pots and lots of cute little seedlings. The tiny plants in their tiny pots were so adorable! Four kinds of tomatoes, three kinds of peppers, cucumber, squash and cabbage, even rainbow swiss chard (whatever that tasted like) in their wee little pots. Once those tiny little seedlings started growing it became absolutely clear I hadn't considered that they would indeed do that whole growing thing, and keep on growing until the balcony was overrun with greenery. After about a month we pretty much had to abandon the idea of actually sitting down on the balcony and just let the plants have it. No one wants to risk injury fighting a seven foot tall cherry tomato tree, after all.

I am proud to say that I actually took some lessons away from last year's debacle. I am hoping this marks a milestone in my whole learning curve thing. I managed to buy plants this time around while practicing the admirable skills of moderation and restraint. (It helped that it started raining - hard - while I was standing outside choosing plants, but we will ignore that.) This year we might actually be able to sit and share the balcony with the plants. What a thought!

Orange & Green Peppers:



Cherry Tomatoes:



Dark Opal Basil and Oregano:



English Lavender:



Cucumbers:



Isn't it all lovely? I spared you all the photo of the pot of dirt that one day might sprout lettuce. It wasn't exciting.

I am also desperately trying to ignore the little voice in my head that thinks we really need a few more plants. I exerted such self control after all, there is room for a few more. Really, there is. I forgot some great plants we could really use, like thyme, and rosemary, and chives....

Bread Spam

I recently received some Amish Friendship Bread starter from a friend of mine. If you have never heard of this stuff, it is like a food version of a chain letter. Essentially, you get a bit of starter in a ziploc bag, mush it around for a few days, and then make bread with it, saving some of the starter to then pass along to three of your friends. Of course, every time you make the bread, you end up with more starter to pass along, so your definition of "friend" might have to become more vague, like maybe your dentist, or that scary neighbour two doors down. The easy thing would be to not accept the bread starter in the first place, but the experienced friendship bread pusher knows how to get you hooked. They offer you just the tiniest slice of the most delicious bread - bread that tastes like cake baked in heaven by little adorable angels- and then tell you if you want more, you will have to make it yourself so you'd better take this bag of goo or else. Since I now have four bags of goo sitting on my counter, so I can attest to the effectiveness of this method.

I didn't bother reading the directions on how to make the actual bread until I was about to start, when I discovered that the recipe calls for a box of pudding mix. Which seems odd, really. Do the Amish, with their disdain of modern technology such as zippers, really have boxes of instant pudding mix on their shelves? I soldiered on, and discovered a box of lemon pie filling in my cupboard, and used it to make lemon poppyseed cake. It is delicious. I am in danger of eating an entire lemon poppyseed cake all by myself, it is so good.

So, I must declare myself a convert. I will pass on the bags of goo far and wide, to all my closest and dearest friends! I will not question the pudding mix! The Amish Friendship Bread knows all! Now I just wonder if my hairdresser would find it strange if I brought her some bread starter today? Maybe if I bring her a slice of cake...

The Best Quote Ever, Ever and Forever...

Well. At least the best quote if you watch Battlestar Galactica and are a big ol' nerd.

Like me.

"You six people who are left, that went along with our mutiny? You six people are awesome. Rapists, racists, murderers, insane bomber terrorists, good to see ya. Conner and Seelix? Good people, I'm proud to have you with me. Who needs Earth with a Douche Patrol like we got going here? Yeah! Now, I know many of you had loved ones on those ten ships, and all our food was there, but trust me: this next part is going to be great. ...Hmm? What's that? Oh, no. No plan of any sort. Sorry if I wasn't clear about that: we have no frakking clue what we're supposed to do now. I was just really pissed off. See, my leg got shot in this other mutiny -- not a great, awesome one like this, but a tiny, bitchy one -- and then my BFF shot herself in the head, and Gaius stopped returning my calls, and I became a heroin addict, then my bisexual college robot fling from New Caprica turned out to be a serial killer, and it turned out I knew that? Sort of. Oh, and plus, remember Earth? Yeah, right? Awkward! Then I broke up with my boyfriend for no reason, and then -- worst of all -- no matter how many times I stomped my feet -- um, foot -- and whined, people kept acting like there was a possible future, or that being kind to other people was a good idea. Fuckers. So... Yeah, that's about it. Not really a plan, per se, but at least our jump drives are still shitty and one-third as powerful as they could be, and I think all seven of us can agree that that's a good thing. Could you pass me the nothing? I'm sort of hungry."

~ from Television Without Pity

All animals are equal, but some are more equal than others...

... or, why one shouldn't examine Richard Scarry too closely.

I have just finished reading Busy, Busy Town for the eight millionth time, and I am very disturbed. Why, for instance, do farmer and Mrs. Haystack, both goats, keep chickens? Why does Mr. Pig have a cow? And why, oh why, at the grocery store, is the nice butcher pig grinding up meat while sausages hang jauntily behind him? Why?!!

It's a little too Animal Farm meets Soylent Green for my tastes.

Oh well, the four year old loves it.

The Wishosaurus Knows All Your Secrets

Birthday Pie:

Our Love Was So Fleeting...

The first pair of socks I ever knit died today. Holes. One in each heel. I am so sad. I have the sneaking suspicion I need to moisturize more if I want my socks to last. Being the first pair I knit, I suspect they were a little too loosely knit for something that gets the abuse of being walked on all the time. Even so, they were good socks, great socks, even - and now they are gone. Forever.

It is a sad day, and the only possible remedy for my heartache?

More sock yarn.

No More Nachos Before Bedtime....

So I had this weird dream last night. Which isn't weird part, I have weird dreams all the time - my brain is a dangerous neighbourhood and shouldn't be explored alone after dark. Or in a car with really nice hub-cabs. (I once had a dream that blended Alfred Hitchcock's The Birds and The Wizard of Oz and the only thing in colour were the wings on those damn flying monkeys. They were purple. But I digress. )

This particular dream involved an old high school boyfriend, who according to my subconscious, was flying to Calgary to become a rodeo clown. A large group of us from high school had gathered in a pub for the going away party (I am still unsure why we had all traveled to this party - apparently he is a very popular guy.) While the party was in full swing, some drunken patrons decided to pick a fight with the guest of honour - because "clowns need a good beatin' ". Now that I am awake, I am not sure I disagree - but at the time it raised righteous ire in our group and the dream quickly degenerated into some sort of 80's video street gang rumble scene - bad bandanas, stilted choreography and all.

I know he did actually fly to Calgary recently, because Facebook told me so, and Facebook never lies. I sincerely doubt it was to become a rodeo clown. I hope not, at any rate, because clowns are seriously creepy. I am not the only one afraid of the crazy rainbow hair and too large shoes, either. A quick jaunt around Google comes up with dozens of sites devoted to the clown menace. Which made me wonder - were clowns always creepy, even before Stephen King? Did Mr. King tap into some deep seated clown fear that snaked through the North American subconscious or did he just ruin clowns for the rest of us?

(By the way, did you know if you plug subconscious - incorrectly - into the Merriam Webster online dictionary to get the correct spelling you get this as a suggestion. Really? Does that seem close at all?)

Oh How You Break My Heart

One of our fish died today. The medium sized orange platy with the white belly. This is very upsetting. I feel angry and betrayed, as though the poor little fish died just to spite me. See, I had this theory, this superstition if you will - I figured as long as I was diligent about cleaning the tank, re-arranging the rocks and plants so they never tired of their surroundings, and buying them food that cost more than they did, the fish would reward me by living a long and productive life. That dream is now gone and I feel bereft. The little plastic castle will never be the same.

We will miss you Lola...

...or was that Charlie?

Eight is Enough

I was cleaning the tank today, like a good little fish caretaker when I noticed something rather surprising.

Two new fish.

I know they are new additions because: a) I can count, and b) they are very, very small. Although, they are actually quite large for babies, which means they have managed to hide from me for probably a couple of weeks now. A pretty impressive feat considering how much time I spend peering at the tank. Seriously. Even the fish, with their brains the size of a lentil, are somewhat alarmed by the amount of time I spent staring at them. Of course, what choice do I have, with them just dropping babies into my lap, willy nilly? It's not like they announce they are expecting with little baby shower invites and maternity tops from Old Navy. They just leave whatever babies who manage to avoid being eaten and expect me to feed, house and keep them in little plastic castles for the next few years.

And do you think they ever say thank you? Ha!

You will be pleased to note...

... the mystery has been solved and the peppers are both sweet AND hot! It's a miracle! Actually, the real miracle is that they finally ripened. I was beginning to get bitter and resentful at how long Mother Nature felt it could jerk us around with half ripened vegetables. Tricky bitch.

Stick a Fork In Me

"In the clearing stands a boxer,
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame,
"I am leaving, I am leaving."

But the fighter still remains..."
~The Boxer, Simon and Garfunkel

Dear Universe,

This past year has kicked my ass, thank you very much. I've had about as many life lessons and opportunities to learn and grow as a person as I can take. Unless you are sending me the happy I have so sorely misplaced, I am on vacation until further notice. You want to bring any more death or change it will have to wait until the new year.

Sincerely,
A Very Tired Girl

So I Went on a Date Friday Night...

Which made me realize I am so not ready for dating. Not the date part, I like the actual date part - the going from the point A of my doorstep to the point B of our destination and all the little bits in between back to the point A of my doorstep at the end of the night. But I am not ready for the second date, or the one after that. I am okay with good dates, with fine dates, with lukewarm it-was-better-than-tv dates but I am not ready for the dating-as-a-vehicle-for-finding-a-future-relationship dates at all. I spent the better part of two hours in a car with someone while they told me all their "look how good a boyfriend I would be" bits and I realized I just didn't care to hear it. Tell me the stories, the anecdotes that make up the history of you and I will hang on your every word, but don't tell me how together you are - because I am scattered into little pieces and I don't care to have them picked up just yet.

Now don't get me wrong - I adore falling in love. I love that feeling - falling down into nothing and not worrying about where you are going to land. Love it so much I have let my wayward heart lead me all over the damn place. I have followed my tripping, skipping little heart to different cities, provinces, countries, even down the aisle leading to a minister - all in service of that blissful falling feeling. But I am not ready for the landing, and I don't want to fall today. Or tomorrow. Or next week, or the week after that. I don't have the emotional or mental energy to figure out how to fit someone else's puzzle pieces with mine and turn it into a picture.

Whine Whine Whine...

What I need tonight is someone to hold me while I cry and lie to me, telling me it's all going to be okay.

Instead, I will drink a glass (or three) of wine and listen to sad, sad songs, until I get bored of my own self pity.

Yeah Yeah Yeah

So, as some people have gleefully and not so gleefully pointed out, today is Talk Like a Pirate Day. Normally this day passes me by without notice as I don't so much have a thing for pirates (with one or two notable exceptions). This year though, I thought it should be recorded for posterity that if you ask my daughter; "What does a pirate say?" she answers with a resounding:

AARRRRR!

Two year olds are so much better than television.

Random Quotes From a Monday Night...

~ "If you start dating 23 year olds, won't it be confusing trying to decide if you should offer them a post-coital cigarette or cookies and milk?"

~ "That will be me, that girl over there. Drinking a pint alone and so earnestly writing in her journal. But I will wear much cuter shoes."

~ "These girls, they are so into money it is frightening. Does the Visa machine come out before or after sex? Or is it built in?"

~ "They have perfectly highlighted hair and are always tanned. What will they look like in twenty years? Albino raisins?"

~ "I can handle a certain amount of superficiality. Especially if it comes in a cute package."

You know...

It's a good thing I am so committed to Canadian Blood Services getting my cute lil' A- blood, or I would be hard pressed to go back in December. This is the second time they have managed to mutilate the crap out of my arm.

Here is a tip: if the vein isn't looking so promising, don't just close your eyes and hope for the best here, people - that's a needle you are waving around there. It is disturbing to have a clutch of people gathered around you staring at your arm, waiting to see if the needle stays put, or decides to pop it's way out of said arm, thanks all the same.

Although, it could be worse - the last time I donated blood she missed entirely in a spectacularly painful way, no less, and then was so shaken by the incident she had to get someone else to give it a go on the other arm. I ended up with a three inch diameter bruise that time. Way to build the public confidence there, guys.

Pet Peeve # 357

People who say they really don't want to make your life difficult, while in the midst of making your life really difficult.

Thanks for the sentiment, assholes.