Sew many dreams, so little talent.

“Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.”
― Alexander Pope


Sewing machines hate me.

It's not that they don't enjoy my company... like the random person who happens to be somewhere in your social circle, but whom you try to avoid actually spending one on one time with, because you can never seem to figure out what to talk about.

No they hate me.

Harm themselves to get out of spending time with me

As in, if you walked into a restaurant and saw your worst enemy sitting next to your best friend, you would throw yourself onto the nearest open flame just to spend time in the burn unit instead of with this person.

At first I thought it was just my mother's machine.

I was convinced it was just old.  And needed my mother's years of experience to understand it's quirks.
 
The bobbin spits back out at me.

The thread snarls up.

Then I snarl up a bit.

 And eventually my mother just comes over and fixes what ever I just screwed up.

 Honestly, the last time I asked her opinion on how to sew something she just took it from me and did it herself.

Her exact words were "No it's faster if I just do it, if I let you touch it, you'll just screw it up"

It was said with love.  And it was the truth.

I decided last year, that now that I'm a real live grown up (with a baby of my own to prove my legit-ness in the grown-up department) it was time to buy my own sewing machine.  One that came out of the factory at least a decade or two after I came out of the womb.

 One that would work magically, would never tangle a thread, or pop a spool, or eat my shorts (or fabric intended to become shorts). It would make all of my crafty dreams come true.

Dreamer that I am, I'm also a skinflint, and could never justify spending $200 on something I didn't really need (because no matter how much I want to blame the machine, I know in my heart of hearts, I don't actually have any sewing skills).
 
 Then like the Fairy Godmother appeared to Cinderella. A beautiful Singer was dropped into my lap. Ready to make all of my sewing dreams come true.

 Well it was given to me... nobody actually dropped it on me. But for all the good I've done with it, maybe they should have just thrown it at my head and knocked some sense into me.

 I spent three months, on my last sewing project. It should have taken a normal person 2 hours.

Now please consider, that all sewing activities, no matter how much I may want to do them, have to come last on my list of priorities.

That list is not short these days.

First and foremost there is a cute little ball of energy that needs constant attention, feedings, diaper changes, and general guidance on the safety of climbing or chewing on anything he can get his hands on.

Then there is the dog... who as you may have noticed from previous posts, requires a fair bit of energy.

Add to that a business to run, a house to keep in some sort of order for fear someone call child services on me for only running my vacuum once a month, and on top of that, society actually expects me to keep up a certain level of personal hygiene.

 Somedays I accomplish most of these things. Others I'm surprised that my Stronger Half finds us all still alive when he comes home from work.

Sewing comes last. (um or maybe blogging comes last, if my lack of new posts haven't made that clear).

 But in the event that every other priority is either taken care of, or deemed reasonably non-life threatening to put off until tomorrow.... I haul out the machine and get cursing.

Tonight was one of those blessed nights.... I started a little project, and needed to sew eight simple lines to complete it. It was barely even worth dragging the machine out of the closet.

But like I said before.. fairy tale dreams of what I can do with this machine. I had come to the conclusion that all of my previous troubles were caused by dollar store materials.

My "out of the regular realm of sewing" type projects and my general lack of control when it comes to speed with a foot peda,l were also contenders in the "How the hell does she screw this up so much" mystery.

What ever the reason, I was willing to meet in the middle and take some of the responsibility for our past altercations. I needed to get on good terms with this machine, so we could go on to bring all of the magical fabric themed fantasies I have to life.

 So armed with Coats and Clark thread. Three different sets of three different name brand needles, and a project with out crazy material like PUL. I decided to rekindle our broken relationship.

 In response, the needle snapped clear off while I was threading the machine.

 Not even while sewing or using the presser foot... simply turning the wheel to pull up the bobbin thread caused this.

 That's the equivalent of a dog gnawing off his own foot when you  say you want to take it for a walk.

So tonight I give up. I will pack away my threads and bobbins and three packages of new brand-name needles, and dreams of being a professional seamstress for another day.  Tonight was a lesson, although I can't quite figure out which one it was.

"Don't quit your day job."

"Great expectations lead to great disappointment?"

Or, since I know I will forget the frustration of this evening, and like a herion addict returns to their dealer, I will haul the stupid machine out and try again someday.

"It is easier to forgive your enemy than your friend."

Efficient or just Intelligently Lazy?

" It is more than probable that the average man could, with no injury to his health, increase his efficiency fifty percent"~ Sir Walter Scott

The other day I was reading an article about kitchens, and I can't seem to shake one idea that at first seems like a ridiculous luxury, but then starts to make alarming sense.

 In a small kitchen, to save space, they installed two dishwashers.

Yea, you're thinking exactly what I'm thinking... saving space, in fact saving of any kind does not usually come with the idea of doubling up on something.

The theory was you always have one washer with clean plates and one to be filled up with dirty.

 The epitome of laziness, I scoffed.

Not wanting to wash your dishes is one thing, we've all been there. (I have a sink full of supper dishes as I type this.) But now we're to damn lazy to put them back in a cupboard?? We have to spend another 800 bucks to avoid unloading a dishwasher??

Insane!

 Or is it??

The theory is, that you have all of your dishes in one of the two dishwashers so you don't need another cupboard to put the clean dishes in.

 As far as saving money, well, I remember building our kitchen cabinets. At $30 a door, plus the cabinet, plus hardware that can cost anywhere from $5 for the cheap stuff to $30 for the pretty stuff, not to mention the $25-$40 hinges that adjust, close quietly, hide neatly (pretty much do everything but set the table).

 It doesn't look so crazy to spend $800 on something that not only holds but also cleans your dishes, as opposed to something that simply holds them and costs $400.

And as far as it being insane, I happen to live with a man who will hand wash all of the dishes if the dishwasher is full of CLEAN dishes, because he seems to think washing by hand is less work than emptying and then refilling the dishwasher. So maybe we're the crazy ones for even owning ONE dishwasher in the first place.

Our kitchen, as it was being built, with one dishwasher too few... or one too many?

It does make you start thinking where else you could apply this theory to make life a little simpler...

Instead of buying a dresser to put my socks and underwear in, I'm going to start storing them already in my pants and shoes... then I've saved space in your bedroom, and taken my "get ready for the day" time down a  few seconds.

I think I could eliminate breakfast dishes altogether by simply pouring my milk directly into my cereal box. It would also save time, as I would only have to prepare breakfast once a week... of course I would need to allot some extra time on Friday for throwing up as I'm not really a fan of mushy cereal.

Or how about storing my dirty towels in the shower instead of a laundry hamper?

Then while I'm in there cleaning  myself I can also wash up yesterdays laundry. I've heard of people brushing their teeth in the shower to save time... I'm sure doing a good load of laundry can't be that much more difficult.

 (Of course, if we're going to be trying to save things, maybe I should invest in some cheaper shampoo before I go using it all to get my whites whiter and my brights brighter.)

Instead of storing DVD's in those flimsy little cases that eventually break, we should just house each DVD in an actual DVD player!! Each movie would be ready to play at the touch of a button. Of course, for the sake of organization and efficiency I would have the remotes to each one labeled.

I could store the remotes in one of those hanging shoe organizer thingys... cause thanks to Pinterest we all know that there are a million things you can do with a shoe organizer besides just hang shoes!

While we're on the subject of Pinterest, lets do some re-organizing there as well... for every photo that gets pinned there should also be a link to someone willing to make the damn craft for you.

It doesn't matter how many cute or useful things you can make out of an old pop bottle, a shoestring and a can of mushroom soup,  most of us are never going to get around to upcycling anything.


We're all too busy trying to get our clean dishes back into the cupboard before it's time to get them dirty again.

I've never been told to put my boobs away

There is no such thing as public opinion, only published opinion. Winston Churchill

Last night I read this article.

In short, a woman was recently asked to leave a store because she was breastfeeding.

At first, I liked the article, she did a very good job at understanding, not only the mother, but also the assistant manager of the store who is now probably in a lot of trouble for her actions.

But then she started dissing my province.

Actually her exact words were "Our province isn’t breastfeeding friendly."

Now I'm not interested in attacking her opinion, because as I said, she has some valid points. But I have to say, grouping every Nova Scotian into a "backwater boob-phobia" category, based on one person's actions is a little harsh.

I am Nova Scotian. I breastfeed my child. In public. Where ever, whenever.

I don't do it as a protest.

I don't do it to shove it in people's face that they should accept me and my life choices.

 I don't do it because I'm a  looking for a way to showcase my post pregnancy body (Heidi Klum I am not).

I do it because I don't have time to stop and sit and find a quiet out of the way place to feed my child. I'm too damn busy being a Mom.

And if I've learned anything in the past four months, it is that, if you can manage to do two (or three or five or ten) things at once without endangering yourself or your child, you better damn well do it, or it may not get done.

So I do what needs to get done. And I'm proud to say, that no one has ever told me to stop. Or acted like I was doing anything vulgar.

While I am sad this mother had to feel embarrassed and harassed, I don't want the whole province blamed for it.

Nothing dramatic has ever happened while I have nursed my son publicly. And if you've ever read any post on this blog, you would know, that if there is a way to screw something up, I usually figure out how to do it.

 This year I nursed while Christmas shopping. In fact, in Sears I did exactly what this other mother did.

I nursed my little Fuss-Bucket under my Stronger Half's large winter jacket.

 I didn't ask for a chair, as we were in a furniture store, and we were shopping for furniture, so I just sat in every recliner without asking.

In fact, instead of asking me to leave, one wise salesmen actually came up to me to talk to me ABOUT newborns... he has a daughter who works at the hospital.

 He was so friendly, we bought the damn chair from him.

Then when I finished feeding, and Bucket threw up on me, instead of people thinking it was gross or unsanitary or indecent, they just laughed politely at my misfortune of being covered in baby puke (or maybe they laughed because I sarcastically thanked my child for helping me smell bad for the rest of the day).

I nursed all day in public.

The only time any attention was even called to the fact that I was nursing, was in Babies-R-Us.

I was nursing, but also needed to find a new diaper bag. So I grabbed three or four off the shelf, and sat down in one of their display rockers to rifle through the bags and see if any of them were worth the insane amount they expect you to pay for them.

As I hauled out the stuffing of each bag (with one hand -not only do you need to learn multitask, but you also need to do it with less limbs than you used to have available) and tried to shove my things in it (to test which one was big enough, not to shoplift) a grandmother, mother and baby walk by.

The grandmother commented to the mother "See, she can do it"

I looked up and smiled, not sure if I was being called out for hanging out on the display furniture, tearing apart merchandise before purchasing or simply not relegating myself to the "family room" to nurse.

Babies-R-Us does have a beautiful "family room" to nurse in. It's clean, set up with comfy chairs, and seems like a neat spot to hang out.

Why wasn't I there?? Because I had one day to get my shopping done, and when I tried to get in that room to change Bucket's diaper, it was locked.

I didn't have the time or energy to go find a worker to unlock it for me, let alone go sit back there for 20 minutes while I could be doing something productive.

 In the end, I purchased a bag, my child was fed, and happy, and nobody went blind from seeing me nurse in public.

 And nobody acted like they would go blind if I did it again.

 Thank you Nova Scotians, for not making life any harder than it already is on a stressed out, time crunched, constantly judged, sleep deprived, busy mom who is just trying to live her life.

I thought I lost a baby... oh no wait, it was just my mind.

I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I'm awake, you know? Ernest Hemingway


People always say the same thing about having a newborn.... that you will never have a full nights sleep again in your life.

And then their next comment about parenting is usually "You'll be amazed how you can survive on such little sleep".

 Well I seem to be testing that theory. And "surviving" is just about all we're doing.

 You see on top of having a 3 month old -Who does not sleep 12 hrs at a time, and if one more person asks me if he does (and then looks at me like I'm doing something wrong when I say he doesn't)I'm going to stab them in the throat and then claim sleep deprivation as my defense- I also decided to go lobstering again this year.

 So take normal new parent exhaustion, and add it to lobstering exhaustion and you get a story like this one.

 The other night, I woke up to the sound of little Fussbucket crying. Like the dutiful mother that I am, I carefully got out of bed, so as not to disturb the baby lying next to me.

(I should mention that I co-sleep sometimes...this is not a political statement for pro-attachment parenting, or even a choice to cut down on laundry by not letting him sleep on the sheets in his crib. It is merely an act of survivalism while breastfeeding. Those who want to tsk tsk and say I'm spoiling my child by letting him in bed with me so he can feed while I continue to sleep can see the paragraph above, detailing how I feel about people who have opinions on sleep habits in my house.)

So I carefully get out of bed so as not to disturb the baby that sleeps next to me.

 And then I lean over the cradle and pick the crying baby up.

In the dark, I latch Baby #1 on, and then feel around in the bed, because I want to lie back down without rolling on top of Baby #2.

If some of you are starting to scratch your head and say "Wait a minute, I thought she only had one baby" well then you are way further ahead on the reality train than I was.

I feel for the right side of the bed. Nothing.

I feel for the left side. Still nothing.

I check under my pillow, in case my baby has suddenly developed the ability to silently crawl 2 feet and hide under things. Nothing

I start to panic.

How did I lose the baby that fast?

Did the Stronger Half take him?

I start to wake SH up...but I can see in the shadows there is no baby on his chest. We haven't slept with him on our chest in two months. He's not a newborn anymore, he doesn't like it and he wiggles off.

Oh Gawd.... now I'm really in a panic. I'm imagining SH picked the baby up in some sort of sleepfathering trance and put him on his chest, then didn't notice as the baby squirmed off and probably fell to the floor.

No probably hit his head on the bedside table and THEN fell to the floor.

Knocking him unconscious of course, which is why his screams didn't wake us up.

And then the dog probably snuck in the room and ate him. Or at least laid down on top of him and smothered him.

Cat's do that don't they?? Not dogs, but dammit, my dog never behaves anyway... so yea the dog probably sat on top of the poor baby... now I'm the mother of that smothered baby that rolled off Daddy, just like the stupid meatball that rolled out the door that I'm always singing about.

As SH starts to wake to my panicked cries of "Where's the baby?"  I realize I'm only searching with one hand.

Because my other hand is supporting the head of my baby who is calmly feeding as his mother has a nervous breakdown.

My only baby.

Because I only have one.

And he's safe and sound in my arms. Not rolling around like a rogue meatball waiting for a dog to confuse him for a soft place to lie down.

Heartfelt beauty tips, from the bottom of my brain.

I had plenty of pimples as a kid. One day I fell asleep in the library. When I woke up, a blind man was reading my face.
Rodney Dangerfield


Believe it or not, I actually do other things in life beside chase my dog around the neighborhood.

I own a business, and I actually spend some time trying to improve on that business.

So when I found out about this amazing system called "Zeno Hot Spot" I decided I had to try it to see what all the fuss is about.

Now I would like to take this opportunity to mention that this is not an official review of a product. This is simply my experience with it, and all comments should be taken with a grain of salt.

(Should you fell like adding a little lime and tequila to that grain of salt while reading, go right ahead, my wit increases with alcohol consumption)

I first read about Zeno about a year ago, some magazine recommended it somewhere as the newest greatest beauty tool.

It is supposed to clear unpleasant blemishes within 24hrs of them first developing.

What woman doesn't want that? To clear up a problem zit with the push of a button. Seems too good to be true!! So of course, I wanted one.

If it actually could do what it claimed, think how much more my clients would love me if they came in with that annoying pimple and I could get rid of it with a quick treatment.

So like all things that seem like a good idea but aren't life-threateningly necessary, I put it on my "To Buy" list.

This list includes things like, Air conditioner, Jessica Simpson Hair-Do clip in bangs, new sneakers, Air brush machine...

The list gets a little lengthy, as I barely ever break down and actually spend money on things unless it's is pried from my hands with a crowbar.

But I had a spurt this spring and bought the Zeno. (In hind sight, perhaps I should have went with the air-conditioner.)

My first obstacle was just getting my hands on one. It's not available in Canada, and can't be shipped from Amazon.com, so I had to find it on some unknown site and pray not to be hacked.

I wasn't (hacked-as far as I know) but I was charged an insane amount for shipping, and then some customs fees (Dammit)

So my little $39 machine wound up costing me somewhere around $80.

And took about 3 weeks to get here.

By this time I've lost interest in trying new things.

So when the box arrives I say "Yea!! It's here!!" then I promptly put it in a drawer and forget about it.

A few weeks later I decide it's time to haul it out. PMS days are coming and so are the inevitable blotchy breakouts that come with them.

It's a tiny little device with no buttons or switches, just a few LED lights, a metal circle, and a book of instructions.

The book reads a little something like this...

"Zeno is not intended for use on, ingrown hairs, hormonal breakouts, blackheads, whiteheads, red pimples, bumpy pimples, pimples that are forming, or that have already formed and are starting to go away.

"Zeno is not really guaranteed to do anything, but we think it clears up pimples faster than if you don't use it.

"We can claim this fact, only because there is no conceivable way to ever prove, or disprove it."

Now that's a good disclaimer if I've ever read one. (Okay, I'll admit, I am paraphrasing a little, but that was the general idea of it.)

Oh yea, and it's got a little computer chip that turns it off after eighty uses, for "your own safety". (Um, just in case multiple zappings by the same machine casues cancer or something?)

In other words, please choose carefully which pimples you would like to clear up faster than others, because after eighty zaps, this little piece of crap becomes a useless piece of crap.

I threw all caution into the wind though, and just started zapping every pimple I could find...

Here are my results...

It gets hot.

Not so hot that it leaves a burn mark, but hot enough to make you think it will.

It also takes a full 2 1/2 minutes to work. For someone with my ADD, that is a very long time.

They even try to break it up by making it beep every 30 seconds, but after the first two beeps this just leaves you wondering if you've lost count.

And then it leaves a nice red circle on your skin.

So now not only do you have a pimple that people can spot from 20 paces, but you have a big red mark around it to make it visible from 40 paces!

Nice of them to publish a novel of "to-do's" (i.e. hold it on your skin for the full 2 1/2 minutes) and "not-to-do's" ( i.e. don't hold it on your eyeball), yet forget to mention a big "not-to-do" as in, don't do this 24 hrs before you go out in public!

But thankfully a few hours later this red spot goes away. And you are left with just the pimple.

Maybe it's some sort of reverse psychology effect, that once you get rid of the big red spot around the pimple you realize the pimple really isn't' that bad in the first place?

Kind of the equivalent to someone complaining that they have a splinter in the finger, so you kick them in the shin, to remind them there are things that hurt more?

I must say, if that is the case, it is quite effective, because since my first time using it I have not found a pimple that has bothered me enough to try it again.

Although I should also mention that I think holding a hot poker against your skin for two minutes would have the same effect.

In fact, I actually recommend you go buy a curling iron at Crappy T's next time they come on sale.

They usually run you about 20 bucks and when you're done clearing your skin you can give yourself a stylish new 'do to detract the attention from the burn welts on your face as they heal.

A world of change

Like all great travellers, I have seen more than I remember, and remember more than I have seen. ~Benjamin Disraeli

We travel the world over to find ourselves and come home to realize we are as we always should have been.

Or some crap like that.

Although I have to say that's not exactly true.

I have definitely been changed by my travels.

My idea of a good rate a nights sleep is $8.

Anything over that seems a bit steep.

Even downtown Toronto I grumble that a private room costs $35

Granted the actual hotel down the street costs around $250 a night, but any hostel over $20 just seems extravagant to me no matter how close to the CN Tower you are.

Traveling has also change my opinion on "street meat".

I am slightly ashamed to admit that back in my early days (say around the age of 19) I turned up my nose at most any food served on the street.

Especially if that food was largely consumed by drunk people.

I kind of thought that if the majority of your customer base is too inebriated to know who they're going home with, then they are probably too inebriated to care about basic hygiene.

I was just never convinced that these street vendors really ever followed any proper food handling guidelines.

Same goes for Pizza Corner... I simply didn't trust multiple pizza joints all located on one corner of downtown Halifax.

Somewhere along the past ten years, I got over all that.

In fact, I am now the type of person who turns up her nose at a Carlos and Charlies in Mexico, and walks three blocks past the giant Deparment-of-Food-and-Safety-regulated chain restaurants in search of a little street meat vendor.

I'm not saying that I have somehow come to believe that these street vendors actually wash their hands, I've just come to appreciate the taste of authentic dirt.

Although I have to admit, your general idea of "clean" is always subjective to what country you are in and how long you've been away from your own shower and laundry room.

Spending one night in a hotel in Halifax you generally do your normal routine- shower, make-up, fresh clothes, I've even been known to spoil myself with some room service.

After sleeping on the ground in a dessert in Egypt, your morning routine consists of trying not to throw up your cold boiled egg and pita, and roaming to find a rock far enough away from other group members to squat behind without accidentally ending up in someones panoramic photo of the wonderful scenery.

I even spent three days on a sailboat without going above deck once. When the weather finally cleared, I put on a clean shirt to celebrate the end of the storm.

Everything else I was wearing had been on my body for three days straight, but my shirt was clean, and I felt like I was in heaven.

But it's not just my standards for hygiene that are effected by my travels, it's also my language.

No, I don't speak any more fluently in french or spanish than I did back when I was 17, but boy can I swear in a lot of languages. Putant, Madre, Bloody Hell, and Hellll-naw, are some of my regulars.

(I may not be able to spell them, and I can't tell you what most of them mean, but they do fly out of my out of my mouth faster than your traditional four letter words.)

I also noticed this weekend I can't seem to say the word "oi" (as in ouch) without then muttering.. Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, Oi, Oi, Oi.....

The colour of my tan may not be as deep, and my out of focus photos may be lost in some old scrapbook, but the world has left an impression on me.

That impression seems to be cheap, dirty, and full of cuss words, but I am changed none the less.

Shelley and I, sitting on the dirty ground, in clothes that are probably dirty as well, drinking tea made from what is most likely water from a mud puddle.

Swallow your pride occasionally, it's non-fattening!

If I had my life to live over, I would perhaps have more actual troubles but I'd have fewer imaginary ones. ~Don Herold

Ever have one of those days that goes eternally wrong before you even get in the shower?

Welcome to my life.

7am I get up to take the dog for our usual bike ride.

Things actually run quite smoothly for the first 2 minutes or so.

Then we run into Hannah. Nothing disastrous happens, but I spend the rest of he bike ride feeling guilty that the dog loves us so much and I never let Bandit off to play with her.

So on the way back home, I do.

And of course I loose him.

I realize that this is the point where everybody rolls their eyes and says "Doesn't she ever learn?" and the answer to that is "No, I don't"

So it's 7:40 am and I've already screwed up for the day.

Haven't even brushed my teeth yet.

As I bike back home alone, I imagine what my stronger half is going to say when I tell him I've managed to loose the dog before he's even gotten out of bed for the day.

It turns into one of those imaginary conversations that take on a life of their own in you head.

Imaginary Me " I lost the dog"

Imaginary Him (With imaginary condescending look on his face) "Of course you did, you need to learn you can't trust him off leash"

Imaginary Me (Getting a little imaginarily condescending myself) "Oh yea, well maybe I wouldn't be the only one who ever lost him if it wasn't always my responsibility to take him in the mornings!"

I continue with the imaginary argument as I drive around the abandon railway tracks looking for the dog. Expanding the situation to include the damage to my car, wasted gas, and even the morning fog as things that can be attributed to his penchant for sleeping in.

A little voice of reason does pipe up about this time,"But hey, you like getting up early, that's why you do it"

I shove that voice of reason as far back down into the depths of my mind as I can, so I can continue irrationally seething as I go home dog-less.

As I enter the house I realize he's not even out of bed yet.

My blood boils.

I have managed to get up, bike the dog, loose the dog, waste 20 minutes looking for the mutt that I am now considering giving away or just taking out back and shooting and he ISN'T EVEN OUT OF BED YET??!!!!

I stomp downstairs to do my ten minutes of Jiggle Machine.

Which just inflames the anger as I think about how I COULD have time to do hour and a half work-outs like he does, if I didn't have to spend my entire LIFE trying to tire out the dog.

Maybe there should be a study done, if your temper is already through the roof, the effects of getting the crap shaken out of you for ten minutes not only increases circulation, and muscle mass, but also irrational thoughts.

A pip-squeak voice in the back of my mind manages to mention that I really barely ever make it through my ten minutes without getting bored, why the hell would I ever WANT to lift weights for an hour and a half?

I manage to drown it out with thoughts of "He damn well better not get in that shower before I get back up stairs"

"If he thinks he can just laze around all morning and then get in the shower just at the exact moment I NEED to get in the shower I'll kill him!! I swear I will."

As I was formulating a plan to go into the OTHER shower and turn on all the cold water so he boiled to death for taking a shower just when I needed to, a thought occurred to me.

He's not up yet because he doesn't have to work until 5pm.

Annoying voice of reason mentions not only the fact that he told me this last night, but also how nicely it works out that I get the bathroom all to myself all morning.

I silence it with a good irrational "Well why the hell didn't he tell me that this morning instead of letting me get up and bike the dog!!"

If he just had of reminded me of that at 7am I wouldn't have gotten up at all, therefor I wouldn't have lost the dog and I wouldn't be in such a bad mood and we wouldn't be on our fifth imaginary argument already!!

Look how he's managed to screw up so badly without even lifting his head off the pillow.

Ten minutes later and my brains are just about shaken out of my skull, my muscles have become jelly, yet my bad mood hasn't softened a bit.

As I stomp past him into the unoccupied bathroom, he wakes and says "Good Morning"

"Yea"

That's all I could manage. I realized at this point that I was being absolutely insane, but I still wasn't ready to come back to the realm of normal emotions.

So instead I shut the door to let the bad mood simmer down a little.

When I am finally ready for work, (and ready to face the consequences of my unleashing actions) I come out.

He's still in bed. (To his defense, it really only takes me about 15 minutes to get ready for work).

I'm no longer mad at him for this. I sit on the edge of the bed and confess my sins.

"I lost the dog"

I brace for the argument that comes next, fully prepared to take nearly all the responsibility for being a bad dog owner.

"Well, he'll come back"

That was it.

That was the only response he had for me.

I managed to have an entire nervous breakdown before 8:30am and SH doesn't even bat an eye.

That's why he is my stronger half, and usually also my saner half.

The devil is in the details

Someone asked someone who was about my age: "How are you?" The answer was, "Fine. If you don't ask for details.
Katharine Hepburn


The German proverb says "The devil is in the details"

Then again Ludwig Mies van der Rohe (whoever he is) once said "God is in the details.”

And far too many people to name have mentioned "Life is in the details."

All I know for sure is that sometimes the details just don't enter my life.

I wrote a blog post three or four weeks ago. As you may have noticed, it hasn't been posted yet.

Mainly because I keep forgetting the small detail of bringing my computer home so I can spell check (yes I know it's sad, I actually spell check and I still post with this many errors) and then post it.

So someday, when I get the energy, and the brain space, I will post that entry.

Today, I simply must rant about other details that have slipped my mind lately.

I drove to town last week to pay my car and house insurance.

I was missing one small detail, the location of my check-book.

I wrote out a list (in detail) of all of the things I wanted to accomplish over the long weekend.

I forgot the one important detail of bringing the list home with me.

(That missing detail did serve a greater purpose. I was able to procrastinate on everything and fully enjoy the sunshine because I had no stupid list staring me down all day telling me I was being unproductive)

It's not just the little things I screw up, and it's not just recently that I've been doing things like this.

I've sent rent checks without signing them. (Ones that I actually had the bank balance to back up)

I've ordered and paid for pizza and then drove out of town without it. (All the while trying to figure out what I had at home to have for supper)

I own a pair of pants that are two inches too short for me, purely because I forgot to change out of my pyjama bottoms before leaving for work. (I'd say that was a low point)

I even dated a guy once without being totally sure if his name with Richard or Robert. ( He even sent me flowers... the card was signed "R" I thought maybe he was just trying to mess with my head)

Now generally these small details (or lack there of) come and go without any big production.

The unsigned checks get returned, the pizza makes it home slightly colder then intended, they sell pants at The Bargain Shop, and who really needs to know the name of a guy you plan on avoiding the rest of your life anyway?

It's just when these little minor detail slips come in succession that things get kind of screwy.

Take this gift I was planning on sending to a friend recently.

First, I thought I had her address.

Turns out I had direction to her mother's house in New Brunswick. (My friend lives in Alberta)

While searching further I found I did indeed have an address for her in Alberta.

It just so happened to be her business address.

Minor detail, but the major detail was this was a gift for her baby and she was heading on maternity leave any minute, and wouldn't be at work to receive said gift.

I finally broke down and asked her for her address.

Meanwhile, in other peoples lives there was this rumour of a postal strike.

I do online banking, so not a detail I needed to pay attention to.

That is, until I finally had the right address, and no post office to send it.

All's well now though, the strike has ended.

I just seem to have forgotten where the gift is.

So in truth this isn't just a blog entry, it's also a cry for help.

Sweet little Remi was born yesterday.

But until I happen across where ever the hell I deemed a proper place to store an un-postable package, all I can send is my love.

And, my apologies for being so non-detail oriented.

If you judge people, you have no time to love them. ~Mother Theresa

"Isn't it a little ironic here?  We pick politicians by how they look on TV and Miss America on where she stands on the issues.  Isn't that a little backwards?"-- Jay Leno


Every little girl dreams at one point or another of being crowned queen or princess at a pageant.

Okay... I realize that statement isn't exactly true.

If I were writing a nationally syndicated column I would be hounded, with thousands upon thousands of nasty comments and hate mail. About how politically incorrect I am to group all little girls together and how outrageously demeaning pageants are to little girls

But thankfully I'm not.

I'm just my tiny little rant in my corner of the world, and that sentence, though littered with fallacy and assumptions, sounded like a good way to start today's post.

Besides you should all just be happy that this isn't another story about my dog.

So back to where I started.... as a child I dreamt of being in my small town's Exhibition pageant just like my sister.

( I never was, Exhibition week seemed to always fall conveniently on the same week I went to visit my aunts in another town. Kudos to my mother for pulling that one over on me three years in a row)

I watched on the edge of my seat as Darva Conger was crowned to marry a millionaire when I was seventeen.

(Who knew that show could cause so much controversy, yet ten years later the Bachelor/Bachelorette shows are beloved prime time must-sees.)

And if I had cable TV I can say with absolute certainty I would be addicted to the "Little Miss Perfect" shows.

(No matter how much they make my stomach turn, I have to admit it is about 50% curiosity, 48% disdain, and 2% jealousy that keeps my from looking away.)

So when asked to be a judge for the First Annual "Real Lobsterman of Shelburne County" pageant, I could hardly resist.

Six men would compete to prove worthy of the title and all I had to do was sit and watch and pick which one I liked best.

Sounds easy right?

Yes, I could sit down in the darkened audience and watch these men do all the hard work, then maybe hold up a little card that said my score on it for each one.

Should I mention I'm not actually the competitive type so I was planning on giving them all a 9.5 anyway?

The pageant started a 7pm... like a diligent judge I was having some pre-pageant coffee (to stay alert just in case I felt the need to vary the scores or anything) and getting ready to show up by about 6:45.

This is where my preconceived notions of the night started to go a little hairy.

I got a call from my sister asking me to be there by 6pm to go over the judging rules.

Oooppss... I could tell right then that one of those rules would be "Please don't be apathetic about this and just give them all the same scores, leaving the other judges to do all the work"

So I show up an hour early, still thinking this would be a fairly laid back evening on my part. What could be so hard about actually deciding who deserves the 7 and who deserves a 10?

As I walk towards the stage, and notice all the people running around doing what looked like official setting up things, I realized that maybe this was going to be a little more involved than previously expected.

Then as I neared the stage I realized that the table ON the stage had three seats for the judges.

So much for sitting with the audience, was my first thought.

Glad I brushed my hair, was my second.

As it turns out the judges were also a part of the show.

As a diligent supporter of community events, I didn't complain.

Well, not until was informed I had to write a bio on my self to be introduced.

Then I wined a little.

You may think that because I write these things that make people chuckle I'm actually quite witty.

Au Contraire Mon Frére. Not in the least. At least not on demand. I'm not so great at writing under pressure.

I read the bios for the other judges for some inspiration. But all that did was intimidate me.

Little did I know that finding a way to describe myself in six short entertaining sentences was actually the easiest duty I would have for a night.

I then had to come up with my own questions to ask the contestants!

About lobstering!!

All I know about lobstering is how much it hurts to get pinched and that I get a little nauseous before sunrise.

This is when I started flat out complaining that my sister hadn't prepared me for anything. She looked a little horrified as she tried to assure me that she had no idea I would have to do public speaking.

I think she thought I was going to quit or something.

Sometimes I just like to whine. It helps with my creative process.

And so there I sat, through the Opening Ceremonies, with my "I'm paying attention and fully enjoying this" face. Thinking about how similar being a bridesmaid and a pageant judge really are.

First you think it's an honour, then you realize there is real work involved, and to top it all off you have to get up in front of everyone and behave yourself so as not to steel the spotlight from what they actually came to see.

As the pageant starts they call the men up to the stage.

I look at line of six strong, macho, fisherman walking to their own rhythm of "How the hell did we get talked into this?" and I start to feel a little less sorry for myself and a little more proud of them.

Then the judging officially starts and I have no time to actually think of anything else.

They modeled their outfits, answered their questions, and their hands flew as they completed their rope coiling, splicing and lobster banding tasks.

There were points to be given out for creativity and originality. Not to mention I gave out extra points just for them being entertaining.

But I kept having to adjust scores, because I would give one guy a 45 out of 50, then the next guy would be way better.. so I'd have to down grade the 45 to a 42 to be able to give the next one a 48.... it was a complicated system I had going. I'm not sure if it would pass a pageantry review board.

Nothing was scored out of ten. I felt a little bit like I was being given a public math exam.

We had three stop watches, but not a calculator in sight.

By the end of the night, my score sheet looked like this.

My fellow judges and I tallied everything up individually. Then we added all of our scores together, only to find that out of a possible 450 points, two guys had the exact same score.

We couldn't have done that if we had tried.

So we went back for a tie-breaker. A Band-0ff. Ten lobsters each, first one done takes the grad prize.

It was a nail biter to the end. But finally we crowned ourselves a "Real Lobsterman of Shelburne County", and two "Men in Waiting".

And despite all my complaints I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I hope to be asked back next year (hint hint Suzy).

I will be prepared with my caculator, and my white-out.

Every day is a new opportunity for failure.

"Behind every successful woman is a substantial amount of coffee" Stephanie Piro

I am a magnet for things just plain old not working out.

Other people can go through day to day life without really doing anything spectacular, and still not having anything disastrous go on either.

I can usually only manage to accomplish the former.

Take this past Sunday for example.

All I really wanted was a simple cup of coffee.

I couldn't make it at home, as the last time I bought coffee I mistakenly got some French Vanilla crap.

Instant coffee is pretty bad on it's own, but flavoured instant coffee tastes like liquified rubber.

Old rubber.

Like the kind that is on a boot that you let your dog chew.

And then the dog buries it in the back yard and you grow old and get put in a home, and a new family moves in and THEIR dog digs up the old boot that has been rotting underground for thirty years and starts chewing on it.

Take that taste and liquify it.

You will have a gold mine if you happen to be in the dog treat flavour business.

But if you are me, all you have is a rubber boot tasting coffee.

So I dump it out and head to town for groceries.

Last week I convinced my Stronger Half to go for ice-cream after shopping.

This week we were too damn early and the Dairy Treat wasn't open.

( Why??!! Why don't they open until 1pm??!! Am I the only person in the world that craves a Reses Pieces Flurry at 10 am??)

On the way out of town I have a brilliant idea to get SH to stop for Circle K Coffee.

I'm addicted to their Cafe Mochas.

Nobody else that I know actually likes Circle K Coffee.

I generally either have to trick people into going by asking them out for coffee, sort of insinuating I mean for Tim's or perhaps The Beandock, and then just pulling into Circle K.

Or I have to bribe them.

Since "SH" could also usually stand for "Smarter Half" I knew trickery was out of the question.

Thankfully I had a stock pile of Irving Gas coupons with me.

And my coffee deprived mind decided they were worth sacrificing for such a bribe.

I had to work quickly as our town is only twice the size of a postage stamp and we were already halfway to the gas stations.

It took almost three blocks to convince him to use the coupons.

I am generally the beneficiary of this Sobeys/Irving marketing scam because I make next to nothing, and drive two hours a day to do so. Therefor it is deemed that I deserve 3 cents off my gas purchases.

It's true, I do need them. But in the heat of the moment, like a genuine crack addict, I decided I needed my Cafe Mocha more.

So knowing the the quickest way to SH's heart is through his wallet, I explained how the coupons were more valuable the more liters you pump. His tank is bigger, so he should be using them.

Even as the words were coming out of my mouth I knew I was potentially giving up every future gas coupon that came into our possession.

Just to ensure he understood that this offer was a one time only deal, I managed to coyly slip in the real reason for going to Irving

" ...plus maybe I could like get a coffee or something"

Slick I know.

He's not generally easily persuaded, so he must just really love me.

Or perhaps he was just didn't like the way I was white knuckling it as we neared closer and closer.

At any rate, he pulled into Irving and I made a bee-line for the coffee machines.

Here I found the other four people in the world that like Circle K coffee. They all took their sweet time getting theirs.

When It was my turn I pressed my magic sequence of buttons

"Columbian" "CafeMocha" "16oz" "Start"

and waited for my caffeinated chalky goodness to fill my cup.

And it almost did.

Except the Chocolate was empty in the machine. Which meant I had to find someone to change it.

I corner a lost looking blonde girl with a Circle K Shirt on and tell her I need more chocolate.

She looks at me like I have three heads.

I explain to her that the cup didn't fill up and the usually means that the machine is out of chocolate.

SH at this point has finished filling both his truck with gas, and his own coffee cup and is waiting for me to go.

Blondie is trying to explain to me that there are different cup sizes and I must have pressed the 12 oz.

I've already thrown my bad coffee out, so I can't make her taste it, so I run it through the machine again.

She walks away, apparently thinking that she has satisfied a customer.

I wrangle her back over, and explain again that the machine is out of chocolate, as SH pays for the gas and coffees.

She thinks I'm a new customer, and yet again tells me that I've pressed 12oz, and put in a 16oz cup.

At which point I inform her in my best "get your stoner ass in gear" voice, that I purchase a coffee every single day and press the same buttons every single time, which makes me infinitely more qualified than her in the goings on of the coffee machine.

And this machine is most definitely out of Chocolate.

She then admits that she can't find the key. As she admits this she walks over to the storage counter and finds the key right where it probably always is.

She then turns around and says "I think we're out of Chocolate for the machines"

What I should have done was taken the key from her, opened the stupid cupboard door, found the new chocolate and replaced it in the machine.

Instead, I drop kicked her.

Well no I didn't. I wanted to, but without my caffeine/crack-cociane-chocolate high, I really didn't have the energy.

So I just gave up, and I walked out after twenty minutes of trying without my coffee.

Like I said, I seem to excel at getting into situations where things screw up. Nobody dies, nothing is destroyed, yet still my day is slightly crappier than if I hadn't of tried to do anything at all.

Not only did I give up my gas coupons and not get a coffee for it, but I then had to drive home to the sound of SH contentedly sipping HIS coffee, that he never wanted in the first place.

Ten minutes to inner peace...

Happiness can only be found if you can free yourself of all other distractions.
Saul Bellow

This past weekend I took a fitness course.

We were asked to describe a fitness activity and how it effects us holistically.

One woman's answer was about mountain biking.

It was poetic, and thoughtful, and made you just want to jump on a bike and head out to the mountains.

I don't remember the exact wording, but it went a little something like this...

"You jump on your bike, and head out onto the trail. Your heart starts pumping and you legs start burning, and for the first ten minutes your only thought is ~ I just want to go home and sit on the couch~

Then you start to get into a rhythm, your mind falls into a zone of peace and you feel connected to the earth and the wind and the trees.

You feel one with your bike and can continue on for hours. Your soul feels restored."

Again I'm paraphrasing, but that was the general idea of it.

She did such a good job at describing the bike ride, and all the emotions that come with exercise that the instructor referenced her little speech two or three times through-out the weekend.

She also did such a good job at romanticizing the bike ride that I started to wonder why I don't enjoy my morning rides more...

Why don't I wake up an extra half hour early to spend that time, bonding with my dog and the earth and replenishing my spirt and nourishing my soul.

Hell, why don't I wake up an hour early to really get a good long bike in, since apparently after the first gruesome ten minutes you hit a point where you feel like a cycling goddess who can continue forever!

This morning, on my regular bike ride I realized why.

Her experience involves a personal challenge, combined with independence and freedom, mixed with a little adventure and remote woods paths.

Her bike is her ticket away from reality and the stress of the real world for awhile.

My experience involves a 2yr old husky.

My morning ride starts with strapping everything together.

My helmet to my head, my gloves to my hands, my pant legs inside boots so as not to get caught in the chain.

I then strap my dog to my handle bars and say the first of my morning prayers.

As we speed down the first little hill of our driveway my heart is always somewhere in my throat.

I have no thoughts of wishing I were back on the couch eating a bag of chips... I have no time for thoughts at all other than "Please please please stay upright"

This first moment of fear lasts for about 20 seconds, or until I get past the dreaded spot where I fell off the bike a few months ago.

I start to calm down as we round the first corner and head up hill.

Which is promptly where my dog stops pulling like a mad animal and lets me pedal up the hill with my own power.

It is heading down this second hill that I start my second round of prayers for the morning. My Hail Mary's are perfectly in rhythm with the pace of the dog.

It is also where I realize how un-awake, and un-co-ordonated I am as I try to avoid the ever changing potholes.

Should the cute little rabbit that lives halfway down the lane decide to peek out of the bushes and dart it's hoppy little butt across the lane, my morning prayers become interrupted by general Tourettes like hysteria.

Once I have survived the rabbit run, I have about 10 seconds to prepare for Hannah.

Our neighbours dog who is extremely friendly.

She loves people and Bandit.

Unfortunately she has not quite figure out yet that she can't actually get to me without causing a near death experience for all of us involved.

Sometimes she comes from the back of the house, sometimes from under the doorstep.

You never know.

So as I approach the house I do a mad scan of the entire yard searching for a blonde ball of furry potentially fatal energy.

It's like Where's Waldo for thrill seekers.

She's not usually out in the mornings. So these encounters are actually few and far between. I can generally pass by this house without incident.

But I am just like the American border patrol, constantly ready for an unsuspected attack.

Thinking that an attack (even a friendly one) is less than probable, is just the kind of thinking that puts you in the hospital.

Finally we come to the main road. The entire ride has lasted about a minute and a half so far... so you can see why it's so hard to actually get past that anaerobic ten minute stage to where life is bliss and you love exercising.

Choosing carefully at this moment which direction you decide to take is important for the rest of the ride.

To the right lies straight roads with a few hills, that the dog in his excitement, will actually pull you up.

The only draw back is the fifteen dogs that are roaming around their yard untied at such wee hours of the morning, that all happen to live in that direction.

Or you can turn to the left.

Dog-less and flat, it seems like the obvious choice.

Yet full of twists and turns.

The blind corners combined with foggy conditions actually make this direction as periled as being chased into the ditch by two German Shepards.

The decision is usually determined by the wind direction.

Going with the wind will leave you with the false idea that biking is easy, as the dog loves running downwind, and will take you quite far with little to no effort.

Oh, how life likes to slap you in the face when you realize as you turn around to come home that the dog hates running upwind almost as much as he hates running towards home.

You are left with no choice but to drag a 45 pound dog that wants to go in the opposite direction back the 3 kms he just ran so effortlessly.

So if you are awake enough to remember this fact (I probably remember 5 out of 7 days a week, it's hard to think before morning coffee) you head upwind.

I never hit the wondrous "life is bliss" ten minute mark.

That's not to say I don't bike for ten minutes... I'm usually gone for about a half hour at least.

But the connection to the earth portion of the ride gets drowned out by the fear of my head actually connecting with the earth, and I somehow never reach that Zen state.

Perhaps if I didn't have the dog, I could bike on my own and enjoy the bliss that must come with a ride not peppered with near death experiences.

But then, who are we kidding here... If I had no dog I still wouldn't be biking off road trails somewhere with a Buddah-like grin on my face.

I would still be in bed, enjoying that extra half hour of blissful sleep.

I suspect the company may be run by the Cheshire Cat

'Would you tell me, please, which way I ought to go from here?'
'That depends a good deal on where you want to get to,' said the Cat.
'I don't much care where - ' said Alice.
'Then it doesn't matter which way you go,' said the Cat.
' - so long as I get somewhere,' Alice added as an explanation.
'Oh, you're sure to do that,' said the Cat, 'if you only walk long enough.'


Ode to Bell-Aliant

" Oh Bell Aliant, how do I love thee, let me count the ways....

Okay, so I was really going to write an Ode, but upon finding out that it is actually a poem with 3 parts, consisting of 10 rhyming lines that is supposed to be sung by a choir, I've decided instead to just do a general rant about Bell- Aliant.

I have a Pay-As-You-Go phone, that I don't like. My brother has a contract on a phone that he no longer uses, yet is still paying for.

I got the cockamamy idea that I would take over his phone contract, and switch my phone number to it....so simple.

Save him $40 a month, and give me a phone that works more than 35% of the time, all without giving Bell-Aliant any more money than the universe was already giving to it.

What could be so hard about that?

First we do our due diligence. My brother provides me with his phone, and all the information that comes with it... account numbers, ID numbers.

We change the email address, and password. I print of the last bill, which he pays in full, and sends me on my merry way to the local Bell Aliant store.

At this point I am shining my pride up... you know making sure it is ready for the fall.

I go to the Bell Store. They tell me what I want is impossible. At this point my patience is still intact, so I explain again.

And again.

And again.

And finally the representative and I come to a conclusion.

That maybe what I'm asking for is not the equivalent of walking on water. It is simply switching some names and numbers around.

Yes she believes it can be done. But not by her, and not for me.

My brother must call Bell and put me on his account.

Then I can call Bell and tell them what I want and they can give it to me.

Not a simple solution. A few hoops to jump through, but none of them seem to be on fire, so I'm still blindly believing that this process is close to over.

My brother calls to put my name on his account, explaining the situation.

This is when they get out the gas and light the hoops.

They pretty much tell him that what we want to do is possible, but Hell will freeze over before all the stars align to make it so.

Or maybe we would just have to sacrifice a virgin or something.

Or maybe it's not even possible at all. They aren't really sure.

He did manage to get them to put my name on the account. And they said they would waive the transfer fee for the number swap just to be nice to us.

He then came up with a better plan.

"I think your best bet is to write your phone number down on a piece of paper, take the paper and the phones in to the store, and state very plainly that you will give them money on a recurring basis if they can make that ( point to the new phone ) ring when people call that ( point to your phone number ) number."

I thought he was just being sarcastic at the time, but now I see it was actually the best option.

At any rate, my name was on the account, and I now call to finally have the numbers switched.

I am told it is impossible to do over the phone. I must go to the Bell Representative in my area.

Off I trot.

Un-aware that they are lining up the hungry lions on the other side of the flaming hoops.

At the store, I am told that no, it can't be done. I don't have to have my NAME on the account... I have to OWN the account.

Yup you guessed it, I have to go call Bell.

She's not really sure if I can call or if my brother has to call, but she can do nothing for me until I get an elusive thing called "Transfer of Responsibility"

Now the fact that this is different from what she told me three days earlier, would surprise most people. But I was past the point of caring enough to bother to be surprised.

Also I was starting to discern that maybe Bell changes their policies on an hourly basis just for sh#ts and giggles.

I call Bell.

YES!! She can help me!!

Well, she thinks she can, could I hold please.

For 15 minutes.

Nope, sorry she can't really help me that much. She is happy to report that there is a $20 fee, but that has been waived. And she can do the Transfer of Responsibilities. She just needs to do a credit check.

As someone who already holds two accounts with Bell, and has been a customer who has never had a late payment in 7 years, I should have been insulted.

Instead I said "Sure thing."

Another 15 minutes of asking me for everything from my mother's maiden name to my shoe size and she tried to put me on hold again.

At which point I am nearly in tears as I say, I'm sorry, but I can't wait any longer, I am late for work.

She rambles off a new account number for me to use when I call back and I hang up. My soul is crushed a little with the disappointment that I've spent half an hour on the phone for no good reason at all.

That night after work I try again.

I get a very helpful woman that tells me she can't find the account number.

My head explodes.

As I wipe the brains off the wall and shove them back in my skull I tell her, that I don't mind giving all my information all over again.

Instead she puts me on hold to try and find the account.

My rising blood pressure correlates with the numbers on the phone display counting the minutes that I am on hold.

She does return, and has found the account number. She then takes twenty minutes verifying all of the information already keyed in, by reading it all back to me at the pace of snail on sedatives.

I'm pretty sure I could hear her flipping through the plastic pages of her training manual through out the entire call.

If I could have been face to face with her I might have ripped the "THIS IS MY FIRST DAY! :)" pin right off of her and stabbed her with it.

Finally I am put on hold for the actual credit check.

Five minutes later Miss Cheerful Employee of the Month gets back to me with the excitement of a kid who just found out there are three Christmases

"Good news and Great news!!"

She was ecstatic to report that my credit check came through clean.

The great news was not, as I had hoped, that they would give me some sort of compensation for all the B-S they had put me through.

The great news was that I did not need a $250 retainer to have the phone in my name.

That is probably why the people at the store send you back home to call someone. Because if that woman had of been with-in striking distance, I would be up for manslaughter right now.

I calmly thank her for the good news and great news and hang up.

This morning I went to the Bell store again, to have the numbers swapped. I was informed of a $20 fee.

They found no record anywhere of the memo that had been made earlier that this fee would be waived for me.

I'm pretty sure I swore about that one. Out loud. In public. With no remorse.

Bell has a way of bringing out the best in people.

After a half hour or so, I was finally told that it may or may not have worked, something somewhere was backed up and I wouldn't be able to actually use the phone for a few hours.

It was dead anyway.

I was told that if it didn't work by the afternoon, to come back to the store.

And that if I wanted to try and get the $20 fee waived, that I should call Bell.

I wouldn't call Bell again if you offered to have the next 20 months waived from my account.

My tale of woe should end here. But I have one more thing to add.

After three weeks of dealing with this company to finally get everything sorted out, you would think that I would be on the phone right this minute. Maybe even talking all night long.

Instead, I am blogging about it, because I plugged my phone in at work today and forgot to take it home with me.

Excuse me while I go hang myself with my phone charger.

Bad excuses are worse than none. ~Thomas Fuller

The happiest of all lives is a busy solitude. ~Voltaire

So I just gave up....

It happens sometimes.

No nervous breakdown.

No earth shattering life crises.

Not even a good ol 'howthahelldidthathappen?? event" to throw me off course.

I literally just couldn't do every thing I normally do in life, so something had to be eliminated.

(I considered briefly giving up showering but apparently lack of personal hygiene can be bad for business.)

Blogging brings me a certain amount of happiness and sense of accomplishment in life. But it doesn't bring in any cold hard cash, and something had to give.

So here's a short list of what I've been up to... you know things I could have been blogging about but never really got around to doing.

Consider it the "CliffsNotes" to the blogs that should have been.

Most importantly, I've been working on my business.

I haven't done any formal sort of advertising since Mother's Day 2009.

That's kind of scary. What was even scarier was the look I got from the woman who sets up the ads at the paper when I told her I wasn't really sure if the local paper was a good form of advertising.

She told me point blank I couldn't really say that, since in my three years of business I had only run one ad.

Touche my dear... of course, with that kind of reasoning she sold me on six ads.

(Somewhere in the back of my head, a little Steiner voice was going off saying "Hey! You know that trick!! We taught you that one! Don't fall for that!!!)

~My Sister and I did Bust-A-Move. In total we raised $2,306! That's a lot of generosity from our small community.

The entire fundraiser raised $863,500 hopefully that adds up to a lot of healthy boobs down the road.

(I just had a client in today who has informed me that they have started construction. All it has really added up to so far, is a loss of 82 parking spaces. So now all the sick people have to walk two blocks to get to the hospital...so much for improving the quality of a patients life.)

I've exercised twice since then... six hours strait kind of takes the fun out of it.

~My dog ate my neighbours chickens, and we had to buy more.

You would think me picking up seven live chickens would be a good post, but alas, it was entirely uneventful... I drove to Milton, they put the chickens in the crate, and I drove home.

Who knew I could spend an afternoon with live squawking animals and have no tales of woe to go with it?!

My only tale of woe is the fact that I had to buy a $500 zapper fence that we haven't had the time to train him with yet.

~And I planted flowers (see???..do you see why I haven't blogged??.. I haven't actually done anything worth writing about)

For those of you on the edge of your seat to know what I discovered on that adventure...

1. A lobster pot full of mud is too damn heavy to lift by myself.

2. The pointy end goes up.

(I found that out after only twenty minutes of Google searching Although I can't confirm it one hundred percent yet, as I'm still waiting to see if my box produces some beautiful blue lilies, or a tangle of roots... or nothing at all.. in which case I'm buying one of those roll-out mats of flower seeds to plant next year...)

and

3. My dog loves to dig in fresh mud almost as much as he likes chasing chickens.

(So I actually got the practice of planting twice, and after yelling at him for a good five minutes I then gave him the silent treatment for the rest of the night... those are fine parenting skills I am honing.)

And that's long and the short of it... my life this past month has not consisted of blogging, but it has consisted dirt, sweat and dead chickens. I promise to resume my weekly updates just as soon as the next big thing blows up in my face.

Carefull what you wish for...

"Some days you're the dog; some days you're the hydrant."

This past sunday.. I was in a particularly lazy mood.

It had snowed all morning, I was on my fifth episode of Angel for the weekend, and I had defiantly decided that I would not get off the couch until weather conditions improved.

Then I got bored.

I had two choices, get some new songs ready for Bust-a-Move class that evening, or walk the dog.

These are always my two choices... exercise myself, or my dog. I have never been able to have both.

When the dog doesn't get his exercise he pounces around the house like a wanna be Mexican jumping bean and howls until you go insane.

When I don't get my exercise, my ass just grows.... and I don't really see it that much, so I don't really care.

Therefor the dog usually wins out, and instead of doing something constructive or creative with my body, I wind up doing something to tire him out.

I have had to get a little more creative since the biking accident that I'm still not ready to speak of...

So for the past week our "walks" involve me walking him on leash until we are out of the dreaded "chicken zone".

(Our neighbour has a chicken coop, and it is the dog's life mission to get into it, which makes one of my life missions keeping him away from it).

I then remind him I have a tupperware container full of gravy soaked treats in my pocket (the rest of Nova Scotia is terrified of coyotes, I on the other hand enjoy walking around the woods smelling like bait)

And I let him go.

And pray he comes back.

There have been moments, say the morning he decided to make friends with a grey seal.... the seal did not want to make friends back... fortunately everyone got away from that situation with no scars.

(If you don't count my throat and the amount of screaming I did- to no avail- that could have rivaled an Aerosmith concert).

But all in all it's been a successful week.

So I got a little braver.

I got dressed, loaded my I-pod with new possible songs, and made a choice to exercise both the dog, and my self.

Please note, that I live in the middle of no where... other than Sonny and his chicken coop, there is no one but my parents within a 4 or 5 acre distance.

And they've already seen me make and ass of myself a million times.

So that is why I felt comfortable heading to the beach to practice dance routines.

Well I will admit, at first I wasn't so comfortable.

I found a clear spot on a path, and tried to warm up to "Rompe", but couldn't, because I was too busy checking over my shoulder to see if anyone was watching me.

But eventually I got to our wide open beach, and decided to go all in.

Remember it's still mid-winter here, and it was in fact still snowing, but it wasn't windy so it wasn't cold.

I took off some layers and went from looking like this

to this

you can judge yourself if that's any improvement.

The dog by the way was behaving excellently. He was pouncing all over the grass, chasing imaginary mice or birds.

(I pretend they are imaginary, and just pray he never gets one. He's not very focused, so I don't believe he ever will,the ADD does not make Huskies very good predators)

And I was full on into choreography, Beyonce and J-Lo blasting from the I-Pod.

If someone had of happened to spy on that secluded beach they would have seen me, in my bright yellow "don't run me over" hat my Mom bought me. Punching and grapevining and petit battementing like I'm auditioning for some sort of cross between Rocky VII and Black Swan.

As I take a break, and call for the dog he comes barreling towards me from the far and of the beach. And I start to have visions of being able to do this all the time.

How great!! A chance to workout, and a dog that listens (at least to the word "treat") all at once!!

I'm a normal dog owner!!

No more 30 foot ropes that wrap around my niece at the beach and almost scar her ( literally) for life.

No more tying 20 pound weights to his leash to slow him down and tire him out.

No more driving around the neighbourhood with half a steak out the window hoping he'll come home.

(I simply need to keep that half a steak in my right hand pocket)

As he draws nearer, I have visions of having a new songs every week for class and at the same time a dog that is calm and happy .

As those visions clear, I get a clearer vision of my dog.

And the half of an animal carcass hanging out of his mouth.

As I try to convince him that he wants a stupid half a piece of Milkbone, smothered in turkey gravy instead of half a frozen seabird he found out on the marsh I realize.

I'm a normal dog owner.

Whose dog will roll in stinky things, run through swampy mud puddles and bring me back 6 month old carcasses he finds along the way.

Some times the grass seems greener on the other side, usually all you find when you get over there is they use stronger smelling manure to fertilize it with.

Don't read me, read this...

So my post isn't ready yet.. because I need photos to go with it and I wasn't "with it" enough this morning to take the camera with me... so you'll just have to hold your knickers until I get organized.

In the meantime, I have been spending an awful lot of time reading this blog

Butts and Ashes

She's funny, she's real, and she has a life story that is worth hearing about.

Not to mention she's working on this "List" that has me completely hooked.

Take some time, and a box of Kleenex for the week she posts about adoption, and listen to this woman as she spits sarcastic rants about the people she loves, and those that love her back.

Once upon an accident....

Falling down became second nature and it really didn't bother me.
Nancy Kerrigan

So last week I fell off my Bicycle.

One second I was upright, the next I was facing the ground with the dog dragging me across the driveway.

A friend told me I should blog about it.

The only problem with that idea is, the wounds are still a little too fresh.

Not to my pride, that's used to being bruised by dumbass accidents.

But my actual wounds still hurt.. my knee still bleeds if I bend it too much, I can't do anything more strenuous than walking to the bathroom with out a knee brace, and the bruises, although not as bright, are still covering 85% of my lower body.

so needless to say, all I can think to write about the situation is....

I went for a bike ride. I fell. It sucked.

Perhaps with a little time it will get funnier, and I can blog about it. For now it's just a story about how everything in life this week has been slightly more difficult than need be.

On the other hand... I have fallen off things before, and those wounds have healed nicely.. so let me tell you about the time I fell off the horse....

It was a few years ago in in the Dominican Republic. A group of us decided to go horseback riding.

Now let me just clarify, that I don't actually know the first thing about riding a horse, other than it is simply something I feel the urge to do every single vacation.

It's like drinking one of those kamikaze drinks, it's not something you do on your average weekend, or something that is necessarily a good idea, or even something you particularly enjoyed the last time you did it.

Yet still you think you should since you are on vacation. It's time to do something stupid.

This rodeo ranch actually come up and above par for Caribbean horseback riding. The horses are strong and healthy looking, well groomed, most of them seem to be under the age of 75.

And the trail we are taking is a nice ride along a beach.

This goes far beyond a shorter horse back ride that we had taken earlier in the vacation with another tour group.

That "trail" involved the driveway to the ranch, and a back road. We rode on horses that aren't much bigger than your standard size poodle... and I'm pretty sure one of them whispered to me that he was the original "Silver" from the Lone Ranger.

Add to that, the fact that the workers rode mopeds and zipped back and forth up and down the road yelling to the horses to get moving and you get a not so very enjoyable ride.

That what happened when you pay $15 in the DR.

When you pay $65 you get healthy horses and a beautiful beach. You get tour guides who are so good at riding they actually stand up on their saddles to check on everyone. Quite impressive.

Before we head out on the trail we all pose for photo ops on our strong healthy horses, and Rachel mentions that I look lopsided... I checked my bathing suit top and then thought nothing more of it...

(Just kidding, I don't think I actually checked anything... I was on a horse!! Life was Awesome!!!! Who cares if I'm crooked???)

Apparently the horse does.

A half hour into the ride, we have made it the entire way down the beach. Some horses are taking their own sweet time (mine) and some are full tilt running.

It looks really cool..... everyone who is not running, is trying to urge their horse on to run. We all want to be having as much fun as Lee and Carla, who have the horses trying to race each other to be in front.

We can tell it's fun because of their shouts of joy.

Suddenly, just like on the bike, I am one second upright, and then I am sideways.

My horse does not enjoy this, so he rears up and I fall flat on my back.

I'm not really hurt, because we are on sand dunes, but I'm petrified I did something wrong to piss it off.

(The saddle had actually come loose, and scared the horse. No one figured that out at the time, which is why the next series of events unfolded as they did).

One of the trail leaders comes over with a "Please don't sue our ass" look on his face, asking if I'm alright.

I'm fine and I'm just asking if the horse is mad. I really don't want to get back on a horse that hates me.

(While I fully believe if you fall off a horse you should get back on, I do think there is a loophole there somewhere for horses that are having a slight case of PMS.)

So since we are an hours walk back from the ranch, the leader tells me I can have his horse, and he'll take mine.

What a plan.

I stupidly agree. And so instead of falling off a little horse and getting back on it, I fall off a little horse and get back on one that is twice as big.

After heaving myself into the saddle I realize the mistake.

And as I open my mouth to mention that maybe I am a little more afraid on the big horse and I'd rather take the little angry guy... my horses instincts kick in.

He is a horse that is usually only rode by one of those Dominican cowboy leaders that can do things like handstands on the saddle.

He is also used to being in front of the group... you know, leading everyone.

So that's what he decides to do. Go from the back of the group... to the front a half mile ahead of us.

And since I actually have no idea wtf to do on a horse, I can do nothing but hold on for dear life, as we run the entire length of the beach.

People cheer me on as I pass them.

As I pull closer to Lee and Carla, I realize their shouts of joy, are actually screams of terror.

I know this because they sound exactly like mine.

My most valuable lesson learned from this experience, is that I am a fast healer.

The scars I have on my shins from the saddle are pretty much non existent now, three years later.

So that give me hope, that even those I look like a six year old these days, with Band-Aids covering my knees by the time I'm thirty I'll have adult legs again.

That is if I can manage not to fall off anything between now and then.

I've been on so many blind dates, I should get a free dog.

"A man on a date often wonders if he'll get lucky, a woman already knows"

So the other day my Stronger Half and I had the inevitable conversation that happens between couples this time of year....

SH- "So are we supposed to be doing something for Valentines Day?"

A hard question to answer, because neither of us really enjoy spending money, and we've done an awful lot of that in the past year, so blowing 200 bucks on dinner and a hotel seems kind of frivolous.

Especially since we've only been living in our house for 6 weeks, so it still feels a little bit like a hotel anyway.

Add to that in the fact that the Saturday before was our fundraising dance for Bust-a-Move, leaving me no time or energy for any weekend fun.

He's was informed that yes he had to come, and no attending a dance that I am organizing and working at all night does not count as a Valentines Day date.

Although it would top our previous attempts.

Last year I made a big deal out of wanting to go see a certain cheesy movie, and then at the last minute told him we didn't have to.

I meant we could go see something else. He thought I meant I didn't want to do anything at all.

So Feb 14th we wound up on his brothers couch watching a random episode of Amazing Race.

As most know, I'm not a fan of TV being a part of a relationship in general.

But worse, they have a wide screen that squishes people and makes them distorted, and it's hung above their fireplace, which for some reason makes me a little motion sick to watch it at that angle.

I was not pleased.

But I will assume half the responsibility for that failed day for my lack of communication.

The year before we were in Cuba.

Your typical beach day shenanigans ensued, and to make a long story short, I wound up at V-day dinner solo.

I'm only assuming 10% of the responsibility for that failed day, because I did supply him with the Bubba Keg, but he's a grown man and it was his choice to fill it up so many times.

So we don' t have a great record for celebrating this Hallmark holiday... but for some reason I feel the social pressure to celebrate it, so this year I feel we should try again.

I'm not one for following traditions just because everyone else does it, but perhaps it's because we don' t have an official anniversary, that I'm so fixated on celebrating our relationship at least once a year.

( We simply don' t know when our first date was, sometime at the end of June, that's all we can remember)

Although when he asked what I would like to do, my only reply I could come up with was.

"Eat Chocolate. Real Chocolate"

(This eating clean is starting to get to me.)

So short of overdosing on sugar, I couldn't really think of anything I wanted to do to mark the occasion.

Until I read this from Free Flying

Her man is awesome. I am so proud of him for his effort and creativity.

And I got very excited... that sounds like fun... then I tried to find other great ideas.

If you Google "valentines day dates" you get a lot of cheesy "I give my heart to you" type ideas of rose petals and hidden love notes.

That generally makes me want to throw up. But I pushed past that and found my top five date ideas.

(I was going for a top ten list, but my gag reflex wouldn't hold out. I could hardly find anything that didn't make me want to murder a Cherub. It is honestly why I didn't post last week, I just couldn't find anything worth laughing at.)

5.Play with Fireworks
How could you not love someone who planned a romantic evening that involved explosives??
(The only exception to this rule that I can think of is igniting flatulence. I am country, but I don't live in a barn.)

4. Go Ice Blocking
"Ice blocks can be purchased from a supermarket or (obviously) made with very little effort. Grab one of these babies and head to your nearest grassy (that’s important) hill and turn it in to a giant slide! It’s a good idea to bring a towel so you don’t have to sit directly on the ice block. And it gets old fast, so have something else planned."

hahah I had never heard of this... it is the opposite of sledding. I'm impressed that the person actually thought to point out that "grassy" is important as opposed to what? A paved hill??

And they also are kind enough to mention that it is really only fun once or twice, so you better have something else in your back pocket to entertain the girl ( May I suggest fireworks?)

3. Build and shoot a potato gun

"Again, a date that’s probably more for the guy than the girl. You can buy all of the parts you need to build a potato gun for less than 20 bucks (ammunition included!) which is a couple of PVC pipes and an ignition source (like a lantern lighter and hairspray). Good fun — a decent potato gun will go 50 yards. You can find instructions all over the internet."

This is truly a great date, he is making something with his hands ( always a turn on) and again we have playing with explosives component. Not to mention, we're doing the cleanse and can't eat potatoes anyway!! what a great way to not waste that 50pd bag we have in the bin!


2. Mini Golf

I hope at this point in our relationship he understands my love for all things miniature. Appetizers, small spoons, short dresses, and mini golf all fit on that list.

He could score extra point by creating his own course, the cheesier the better.


1. Treasure Hunt/ Relay Race

Competition gets the blood pumping and team work would strengthen your bond. Screw watching Amazing race, I want to actually DO Amazing Race...



So the ultimate date that would guaranteed to land me in the bedroom (or perhaps the hospital)

Starting with a little ice blocking, we would slid down to the balloon area.

We would then use blow darts to release the potato gun assembly instructions (learning from Free Flying's mistakes, there would be no bed jumping involved).

After assembling the potato gun, we'd have a good round of "Potato Gun Golf".

At the last hole you would have to light a series of fireworks to win the challenge.

Throw in a cup or two of hot chocolate to celebrate our win

(we would win, of course, as we would only invite other couples that we knew we could beat)

and you have yourself a masterpiece date of epic (redneck) proportions.

All marriages are happy. It's the living together afterward that causes all the trouble. ~Raymond Hull

I love being married. It's so great to find that one special person you want to annoy for the rest of your life. ~Rita Rudner

I meant for last weeks blog to have a quick little memo at the top about what I should call SH, and then I could move on to a real post.

But the memo kind of turned into a mission statement (oh Jerry MaGuire, I know how you fell down that slippery slope). So it just become last weeks post.

So now, on to this weeks, post, which is, in fact last weeks, re-heated.

I do believe, I may be a little bit difficult to live with.

Every once in a while I have one of those moments, when you step out side your body and float about yourself and see whats really going on in the world from someone else's point of view.

Every time I have a moment like that I jump right back in my self and start thanking the Powers That Be that people actually put up with me.

Some times I'm amazed I have anyone left in my life who is sane.

SH is on the top of that list.

Take our latest excursion together.

I am dragging him to "Simply For Life".

No we don't want to loose weight, please stop attacking me for making my family be healthy.

I work with the owner, I like the program and what it stands for, and I believe we could all use a little wake up call sometimes.

Since I'm a wimp and seem unable to do anything on my own any more (note the fact that my sister is doing Bust-A-Move, I wouldn't sign up for Belly Dancing until Michelle agreed to go, and I seem unable to make any sort of decision on anything without polling clients about it for three weeks first) I some how convinced him to do it with me.

Actually I tried to trick him into doing it with me.

The radio announced that Blue Cross gave a Two-for-One special with SFL, last fall. I somehow managed to convince him that we could still get that deal. (My complete inability to lie will be saved for another post, but I promise you, this little white lie was a lot of stress for me)

I should also note that I have spent the past year pestering him to do it, talking about everyone else I know that's done it, having dinner parties with friends who are on it and making him eat weird vegetables to prove to him they taste good....

Add an entire year of me nagging, to the promise that it's actually free for him to do it, and that is how I convinced him to do this with me. ( I'm not mean, I just know it's a waste of time for me to cut up carrot sticks if he's going to be sitting on the couch beside me eating double fudge brownies and whipped cream)

Monday morning comes, and we need to drive an hour to our initial appointment. We don't do early mornings well, especially ones we aren't getting paid for.

So I'm in a general disorganized mood, thinking I can do fifteen more things than is actually humanly possible before we leave, and he is pestering me with silly questions like "So what is it that we're actually going to have to do for this first appointment" and "Is this like a ten minute appointment, or an hour and a half?"

Hell I've only worked with Kim for a year, and promoted her business to every client that walked through my door, how am I supposed to know the answers to these questions??

We get on the road, and about halfway there, we hit a white out.... that's right... there's no snow falling from the sky, or in the forecast, yet I can't seem to see more than six inches in front of my windshield.

It's just yesterdays snow conveniently blowing all over the highway.

That's okay, all this driving at 40km/h gives us a chance to sit and think, and talk....

SH "So it's still two for the price of one right?"

All I had to say was "Yes" I'm driving bumper to bumper in a line of cars in white out conditions.

He would not have found it suspicious if I didn't give him a detailed answer on how the company manages to stay in the black while offering 50% discounts year round.

But no... I just can't seem to form the words.... so instead... I slip out the truth, and try to spin it into a lie.

"No they've changed it to a percentage off... but I think it works out to just the same anyway... something about paperwork....taxes...um... I think they're cheating the system....mumble....kinda the same...uh....at least close...mumble...don't know...cumquats....."

Yea... I really can't lie......

"So is it fifty percent off?"

"I uh.. I don't know really exactly, but it's not that much....really.."

At this point I trail off and turn the radio up a little.... we both have a silent understanding that I have been caught in a lie, and that there is nothing to be done about it now. Trying to get the truth out of me will only result in more random mumbling that will just be waste of energy for both of us.

So we drive on, and I try to think of something to change the subject.. like what else we're going to do in Yarmouth while we're there... plan our day, Kent, Canadian Tire, Maritime, and we'll head to our appointment.....oh....

Me "Uh did you bring your phone?"

SH "Why"

Me "Cause I need to call Alayne"

Turns out I work with Kim in her satelight location, and we're going to her main office.

I have no clue where that is....so I have to call one of her other clients for directions.

(no I don't have the number for the SFL office... why would I have that??)

I'm pretty sure if it was legal he would have thrown me from the moving car at that point, but since it's not, and he's generally a law abiding citizen, I am alive to tell the tale.

Fast forward to finally getting to the appointment, it's nothing scary, a bunch of questions about our health and habits, things are running smoothly, I'm starting to congratulate myself on the inside for pushing so hard to do this.

Then she says it...

"And, since your Blue Cross members you get a 10% discount!!!"

She says it like it's a good thing.

Like it's an announcement we should celebrate. And normally you would, if you thought you had to pay full price, you would be happy to see 10% off.

However, if you were expecting something more like a close-to-almost-50% discount, you might be a little shocked.

He shot a look at me, I barely kept myself from crawling under the table and hiding beneath the high blood pressure pamphlets.

I couldn't make eye contact. If I did he would know for certain that the 10% was not a surprise to me at all.

He also knows I'm fairly good at math, so I couldn't tell him I didn't realize two-for-one, and 10% off weren't actually different... by about 40-freakin-percent.

He has the patience of a saint, so again, I live to tell the tale.

Then we head out to pay. My only saving grace is, he doesn't actually know how much this all costs. But as we stand there together, and the receptionist starts inputing our stuff into the computer and asking if we'd like to pay by cheque or credit card I start to sweat bullets.

It was seriously the first phase of my detox, I lost about 3 pounds of toxins just at the counter worrying about what would come out of his mouth when she said the grand total for today, plus the monthly membership fee.

Then, just like a three pointer thrown as the buzzer goes off in the fourth quarter to tie the game, I get my Hail Mary.

He goes to the bathroom.

I grab my wallet, throw $350 cash at the poor receptionist, and hiss "He has no idea how much this costs!! Don't tell him!!!!"

To her credit she barely even flinched. She just calmly picked up the fluttering tens and fives and continued about her work, (Makes me wonder how many other wives have duped their husbands in her presence).

And finally to his credit, we have both survived one week of no coffee, or white sugar, or grains as a 10pm snack. (Harder than quitting smoking was giving up my 10pm Cheerios).

I have not once stabbed him with my fork at supper because he gets 3/4 cup of brown rice while I get nothing but a pile of vegetables and something I like to call Starch Envy.

He has not once looked at me while I have wined about how I miss toast, or hate salad, or that tea makes me sea sick, and said "You got us into this healthy mess in the first place"

Now that we're on this "being healthy" track, he can look forward to a much longer life of putting up with me.