M.I.A.

It's been a while. My apologies. But this week? Has totally kicked my ass. It hasn't been an overly bad week. Just busy. Minus the fact I stayed in bed all day Friday and Saturday, of course. More on that later.

First of all, I've been stressed. I'm pretty sure there's a leak in my chimney. I know this because when I bought my house 6 years ago the home inspector said there was an 'obvious' hole in the chimney I should fix up with some simple caulking (ha ha, I said 'caulk'). The only problem is that I was much like Rachel on Friends (in the one with the ultrasound) wherein he would point to said 'obvious' hole and say "see?" and my reply was "no". After several attempts of him showing me this 'obvious' hole I finally said "oh... THAT hole". I figured if it was too small for me to see it it wouldn't be that big of a deal. But with the amount of rain we've had this year I'm thinking it's time for me to put a plug in the hole (that's what she said).

Next up... my yard. Also known as... the bane of my existence. The front yard is xeroscaped. And whoever said choosing plants over grass was low-maintenance... lied. It was nice the first year or two but now? I can't tell the plants from the weeds. Except for the ferns. Because they're gorgeous and you really can't miss them. There were 5 of them when I moved in and now there's about 50. You know that 'go forth and multiply' saying? Ferns need not apply.

And the back yard? Well there's one corner that smells like someone died in it. Seriously. It's as though someone took a bag of garbage (or ex-girlfriend) and through it over my fence to rot. And it's quite possible they did... because there's ferns (in abundance) back there two. So the way I see it I have two options. Wait for whatever it is to decompose or.... move. Because there is NO way I'm searching in the jungle trying to find something that smells bad. I may be a manly-looking girl but I am a girl none the less. I may play backcatcher in baseball... but I scream when the ball hits my glove. I am not Tucan Sam. I am not following my nose.

What else has been stressing me out? My cat. I've been putting her on a leash ever since the neighbourhood kids have taken to abducting her (more on that later, too). But last week she was crouched down, wiggling her butt in the air, looking in the ferns. Silly me, I thought she was eying up a bug so I let her go and encouraged her to go get it. And just to prove how jungle-ish my ferns are do you know what it was? A cat. So I basically told my cat to beat up another cat. It was horrible. They were in the ferns, fighting (not like I could see them but, boy, the leaves were sure shaking!), while I sprayed water at them and yelled and stomped. And then the one cat took off... and my cat followed. I have never seen her like that. This is the cat that doesn't go on people's lawns (she uses the sidewalk, even to get from my neighbor's step to mine, which is four feet away by the way of the crow... and 50 steps by the sidewalk). This is the cat that gets picked on by every other cat, while she cowers under the patio furniture, awaiting my rescue. But that evening? This is the cat that was hellbent on revenge, running faster than I ever knew was possible, across three lawns! But when she came back home (via the sidewalk)... she was limping. I had been soaking her paw in salt water and it didn't seem to be affecting her at all (other than the limp). On Monday she seemed way better, sneaking outside when I got home and everything. But yesterday? Yesterday her paw looked worse so I made an appointment at the vet for this afternoon and when I got home from work? It was horrible. HORRIBLE! A tiny papercut-like scratch on the bottom of her paw was now all the way through, top to bottom. And purple. So purple! So off to the vet we went. She was such a champ. Me, on the other hand? It took all my strength to make it back to the car before crying. I felt so guilty. How do you people with non-furry babies do it? How do you decide what to do and when? And when I heard the fur-baby in the back room SCREAMING as they shaved and drained her paw? My gawd! How do you people handle such things with pets of the human variety?

Needless to say, I've been riddled with guilt. At the end of the appointment, however, I asked the vet what I should do if this were to ever happen again. Should I go straight in? Her response was no, I had done everything right and going to the vet for every scrape wasn't going to help. I was so relieved (hence the tears in the car). But, still. Yowsa! Poor little thing. I can't wait for time to pass, just so we can fast-forward to the day she's better. Funny... I used to wish the same thing for myself, years ago.

And that, my friends, is your weekly recap. Minus a thing or two. But, like I said, more on that later.... I've gotta save something to keep you coming back. You know, beside my usual wit and charm.

The Sky is Falling!

I live on a tree lined street. One of the city's oldest streets, in fact. Which makes me lucky in two ways: firstly, I have a really easy postal code and, secondly, I live beneath a canopy of trees. So old are the trees that they reach high above the houses... all the way across the street... and meet. This means my house stays cooler in the summer time, thanks to the shade, and warmer in the winter, thanks to the wind break (although, at those temperatures 'warm' is relative). The only downside is that, every spring (or, as it turns out this year, really delayed summer) the trees get worms.

Say it with me now... ICK!

Just call me Chicken Little but this is the least favorite part of living on my street. We try to protect the trees by banding them so the worms can't climb up but it's not 100% effective. The thing is... I don't understand why they're up there in the first place. Sure, they eat a leaf here or there but they don't stay up there. Instead, they climb all the way up the tree... only to repel back down, Mission Impossible style. And it is here my problem arises because, unlike Tom Cruise, these worms are not speedy so, at any given time, there can be worms dangling from the tree tops. Itty bitty worms which, really, are the worst because you can't see them. But you sure can feel them... when they're crawling on your neck or... IN YOUR HAIR!

Do you see why this is a problem?

I try to go all ninja, jumping out of the way of any potential worm paths. But every now and then one hits the mark. And I die. Metaphorically, of course, since they're not poisonous worms. But still. And when I make it out unscathed? I'm still scarred. Even as I write this I have the creepy crawlies. And at work today my regular worm-checker wasn't there so I had to ask someone else to do a worm inspection.

And my coworkers think I'm weird?

The point of my story (if you can call it that) is this is an actual email conversation I had with someone. And if you think I was kidding you were only half right.

I'm not saying which half.


Come to think of it, I don't think I ever got a reply to this email...

I'm In(to) The Money

I used to work at a bank so I have great respect for the nuances and smell (that's right, I like the smell) of money. I mean, really, who doesn't love (the smell of) money?!? And not only is Canadian currency colourful with such fun names as 'loonie' and 'twoonie'... and currently worth more than the US dollar (not that it's a competition or anything, but our neighbors to the south had a good 25 year run where their money was worth more, let us have our moment)... but it will soon be made of polymer (ie plastic) and have neat-o little high-tech windows! Much like our Australian commonwealth counterparts.

Why, yes, I would like to look through a maple leaf at a single-point light source. Thanks, Bank of Canada!

So... what do you think? Are you in(to) the money?

Monday Mundane(s)

It's Monday. The beginning of the week. The day when all the thoughts that kept me up on Sunday continue to whirl around my head while I try to determine if having a nap at 6pm will lead to not being able to sleep at 11pm... all the while wondering if 6pm is, indeed, 'too early' to go to bed for the night.

Am I the only one who has an (extremely) hard time keeping all the guys straight on The Bachelorette? I can, seriously, watch a scene with two guys and, immediately following, see a one-on-one interview with one of the guys and be all "which one is that?". And the names? There's been, what, 11 seasons of the Bachelor? Surely there are enough applicants that we need not have 2 Ben's, 2 Ryan's and 2 Chris'? That doesn't help anyone, least of all me. And is it just me but where's the ethnic boys? And, no, I don't consider the butcher from New Jersey to be 'ethnic'. Stereotypical, maybe. But ethnic? No. Would it kill the producers to have a boy, or two, with some colour? Yellow, black, brown, I don't care. But some variety would be nice, I can't keep all these pale skinned, white-teethed, brown haired boys with gel in their hair straight, I just can't. I swear the only reason girls like J.P. (because, I'm sorry girls, he is not that good looking and he seems kind of boring) is because you can tell him apart from the rest, due to his shaved head. Good move on his part, though, really.

Speaking of the Bachelorette... if you're ever looking for a really good drinking game do a shot every time you hear the word "Bentley". You'll be drunk before the first commercial break, if not by the time the recap is over.

I just saw a fall preview (what's next, Christmas commercials?) for a show with Zoey Deschanel in it. There's something about that girl. Besides the fact that her and Drew Berrymore are the only people I can do reasonable impersonations of (probably due to the fact neither of them seem to have movement of their upper lip, thus making it relatively easy to pull off- no, really, try it! - giving hope to a career as a comic), I'm very intrigued that Zoey's sister is Emily Deschanel, of Bones fame. And while I'm aware not all actors have the same personality as the characters they play if you've ever seen Zoey on Weeds; in 500 Days of Summer (I haven't seen it- don't spoil it!); in one of her cute, yet rather bizarre, videos; or in the preview I just saw you'll know her persona is quite different from that of her sister. Plus, they don't even look the same (although, in their defense, I suck at the "who does the baby look like" game. I always think the baby looks like itself!). Emily is a good foot taller than Zoey. And the eyes! Both intriguing, yet so very different. If I had to play the "who does the baby look like" game (with the baby being Zoey) my answer would be: Katy Perry. Look at the following and try telling me they're not one in the same. Am I right?


For the record, Katy Perry's on the right, Zoey's on the left. Or the other way around, we'll never know.

Anywho... I'm clearly trying to kill time until it's socially acceptable for a 30(ish) year old woman to go to bed.

It's 6:30... how about now?

For All The Broken Children

Unless you live under a rock, or on the other side of the world, you know today is Father's Day. It's impossible not to be aware of this fact. Trust me, I tried. I spent most of the day in bed, avoiding Twitter, Facebook and the blogosphere but,alas, I couldn't really hide from what my mind already knew.

I thought about posting my experiences. About how the last Father's Day I spent with my dad, heartbroken knowing it was my ex' first Father's day with the baby I would never have with him, he told me to go to the bar and get knocked up. Or about how when I moved, from the home I shared with the man I thought I would marry that held too many memories, his first words were "don't ask me for any help". Or how when I finally got up the courage, as a child, to admit my dream was to be an actress the response was "don't be stupid". About how that was the day I stopped dreaming. And the day, like so many others before it, I believed I was, indeed, stupid.

I thought of posting all this to ease my guilt over this day. To justify the fact I will not pick up the phone today, that there will be no card, no brunch. No 'happy Father's day'.

Instead, I figured I'd post this. Because this is what I wanted, growing up. For someone to see me. Notice me. See what I was going through.

Save me.

This is for all the broken children. It so wonderfully articulates what it is I wanted (nay... needed) from my dad, growing up. I am a broken adult, born of a broken child. I wish this had been written 30 years ago, for my parents to see. I can only imagine the difference it would have made.

And, so, instead of trying to justify my guilt for not having a relationship with my father I will let this article do it for me. Because being yelled at by a parent is the worst thing for a child's self confidence and worth. At any age.

I always thought I maybe had a romanticized image of what I wanted my dad to be. That maybe I was just too sensitive a child, with too thin a skin. But on this day of all days, when I read the tributes of fathers the likes of which I've only dreamed, and hoped, for... I know it's not true. Because not one of those tributes mentions yelling at and belittling a child, telling them they're worthless, day after day after day. Because that is what I remember, when I remember my dad. Breaking my spirit until there was no more song to sing, tale to be told or reason to take my eyes off the floor.

So today, of all days, I acknowledge- and love- all the broken children. Because, really, that's all we ever wanted. And I commend all the fathers out there, the ones of my dreams, who take their child's eyes and point them where they belong...

Away from the floor and up towards the stars.

Big Meanie

I've lived in my current house for half a decade. (I say that because it sounds longer than '5 years') I love my neighborhood and while I may not be inviting my neighbors over for supper any time soon I like to think I'm good at saying hello and making idle chit chat every now and then. Heck, I even do the half-wave when passing people in the street

But someone's moved in, down the block. I had heard complaints about them from my lesbian neighbors (that's not derogatory, that's a fact: they moved here from Washington so they could be married and they're awesome... not just because they let their love move them, literally. And not because they have completely redone their house, including their newly built garage and cedar-shake home exterior. But because they laugh at my jokes and easily respond to my 'witty' one-liners) but never had any run-ins. Until, that is, I was minding my own business last week when I heard my front door open. At first I ignored it, as I often don't properly close my screen door and the wind tends to jostle it. But it was a little hard to ignore the fact that someone was walking through my living room, towards my porch.

What. The. Hell?!?

I would say the person traversing my house was 3 years old. A child far too young, in my mind, to be left outside unattended. The same snot-nosed child (seriously, it was hanging down to his chin... I offered him a Kleenex which, thankfully, he accepted) whom I had previously almost run over with my car when he not only ran into the street but proceeded to run right up to my STILL-MOVING vehicle and proceed to cup his hands in my window to look in my back seat.

What. The. Hell?!? Haven't his parents told him he shouldn't be on the street, let alone to avoid stepping into the path of moving vehicles? And where who is watching this child?!?

And, now, here he was. In MY house. Uninvited. And completely ignoring the fact I was all "um, excuse me... little boy?!?". When I finally asked what he was doing his response? "Getting your cat". Apparently he had seen MY cat sitting on MY windowsill in MY house and decided to come on in and GET my cat. Um, really? I mean, SERIOUSLY?!?

What. The. Hell?!? Haven't his parents told him taking things from others is wrong? To be wary of strangers which, I assume, would include NOT going into people's houses? What if I had a big dog that was trained to attack intruders? What if I was a creep, just waiting for a kid to walk through my door?

And so I had a polite conversation with the young lass, outlining the importance of not walking into someone's house and always telling his mom and dad's permission before going to someone's house. Then, as an alternative to barging in, I explained the concept of a doorbell. Big mistake. I say that because my doorbell has been rung (and not in a good way) approximately 2,000 times in the past week, twenty of which were, no word of a lie, within the 5 seconds prior to this evening's events. The doorbell, literally, did not have time to finish ringing before it rang again. If my brain could echo (which, of course, it clearly can't because there's not enough space in there, right? RIGHT?!?), I imagine that's what sound it would make.

I have, in the past week, told the little munchkin that I'm busy. That I'm having supper. That I have stuff to do. And that the cat does not want to come out and play (which is true since she is now TERRIFIED of going outside and being mauled). But tonight I was at a loss so, after politely telling him that I can't play today and not to come back, I started ignoring the doorbell. And the knocking on the door. And the knocking on the window. And the peaking in the window. But the one thing I, finally, could not ignore? The sound of the screen door opening and the inside door (which, sadly, I've now had to start closing and locking, even though it's a nice day out and I like to have it open so the screen door can let the sunshine and the smell of cut grass and a brief rain in) being jiggled. And jiggled some more. And then knocked on. And jiggled again.

OH. MY. GOD. What. The. Hell?!? I know he's young. I get that. But whatever happened to listening to your elders? Where did that go?!? Did I do something wrong? Was I unclear? Was I too inviting? Because I always seem to have kids landing on my doorstep and, unless the stork dropped them there, I don't recall inviting them over.

I must admit, I tried to keep it together. And while I did not entirely snap (which, believe me, is a feat after putting up with this every day for a week, minus the one day it, thank goodness, rained) I did wait for the next jiggle and quickly opened the door, telling the startled jiggler to go home and if he tried coming into my house one more time I'd tell his parents.

Except I didn't have to tell his parents because the little boy turned around and ran to the first person he could find- the neighbor across the street who surely can't relate to my plight, considering she brings her toddler over at 10pm on a work night to visit my cat- and told on me. I watched, hidden in the shadow of my living room as he pointed in my direction, sure I was going to be in trouble for making a little boy cry (note: I did not see any actual tears and, frankly, I wonder if the child is perhaps void of all reason and emotion. Just saying). But the woman across the street stayed where she was and the little boy went elsewhere to tattle. I eventually saw him with what I can only assume is his father because, in all these years, I've seen the boy and his sister multiple times a day but have never seen either parent, sure his dad would come and ream me out for doing what he is apparently incapable of- letting the child know 'no' means no. Thankfully, nobody rang my bell (pardon the pun) but I must admit, I spent the remainder of the evening with my door closed and locked, with the cat out back, on her leash.

I hate this. I hate that this even had to occur. That trying to tell the boy, again and again, wouldn't work. And why would it? He's three. He's too young to understand the inner workings of social etiquette and important life lessons most likely don't sink in when coming from a stranger. I hate that I feel uncomfortable in my own home now, like I have to avoid my front yard and my neighbors. Like I'm in trouble and I'm the bad guy when, really, if the parents had kept an eye on their child for any of the past 8 days they could have put a stop to his incessant behavior.

I know I could have handled it differently. I could have spoken to the parents but I hate confrontation (I considered leaving an anonymous note in their mailbox after the first occurrence but even the thought of that made me ill) and if they let they're child wander the streets for hours on end would they really have listened? I feel bad for giving the kid heck. I do. I don't think it's fair that I had to be the meanie. That my house is now 'that house' on the street, the one the mean woman lives in. That there's a little boy who's repertoire of childhood memories will now include being reprimanded by the bitch on the block. A little boy who will recall that memory every time he walks past my house (which, after today, will hopefully be less often), probably egging it every chance he gets when he gets older. I hate being all of this all because there's a set of parents, four doors down, who think it's perfectly reasonable to let their three year old wander the streets unattended for hours, not once noticing he's missing while he spends half an hour on my doorstep, which isn't visible from their yard.

And for those of you who are parents and are tempted to comment that I couldn't possibly understand how to raise/teach a child or that the children are our future and that they should be left on their own accord to be the free spirits mother nature intended them to be... save it. Because somewhere along the line (not all but most) kids have lost all sense of respect and responsibility and, in their place, have found a level of entitlement that baffles, concerns and disheartens me. I think there has to be a happy medium between the strict household I grew up in where I was afraid to talk (let alone dream) but grew up knowing the difference between right and wrong and the run-wild attitude some homes have today, where the kids are the center of the universe and aren't held accountable to any set of rules or standards.

I used to want kids. Lots of them. I couldn't wait to watch them grow and teach them right from wrong, all the while letting them know how special and loved they were and that they could do anything they wanted... except for walk into people's homes without warning. But now? If the world hasn't changed and I've misunderstood the parents of this child and this is just how kids are these days... then I'm beginning to think it's for the best I'll never have kids. Because I don't like being the meanie... and I know I grew up hating my dad for being one, I don't want my kids thinking the same thing of me.

Tonight was disheartening. I wish I was sunshine and kittens when I had opened the door but, hot damn, I couldn't take it any more. So why, when I'm not the one who turned and ran away, do I feel like I'm the one who's been scolded?

Raising kids is tough, yo.

Especially when they belong to your neighbors.

Newton's Third Law

Dieting sucks.

How is it fair that it can takes weeks of hard work (weeks, I say!) to lose a measly pound... and only one bad day to gain to gain it back? I thought each action had an equal and opposite reaction? Now I'm no Physicist (oh wait...) but that's not exactly *equal* in my book.

Truth be known, it's going well. I've been exercising lots and sticking to eating really well (minus that one, rather large, piece of cheesecake... oops). I went shopping and easily fit into a medium with no back rolls (correction... no visible back rolls) where I'd normally be a large. And today I wore my 'skinny' dress pants to work... and didn't end up with button imprints on my abdomen at the end of the day.

But, alas, the scale. Why does it have to be such a jerk? Can't it give a girl a break every now and then?

I've set goals (most of which, thankfully, don't involve the scale). But they're so slow going it's hard not to give up. It's unfortunate that two weeks of hard work does not provide the same immediate gratification that nachos, chocolate and, ahem, cheesecake do.

I know this is the way it's supposed to be. Life is like that. All the things worth doing are hard, otherwise everyone would be skinny, rich, successful, famous and a doctor/actor/author/musician/president. Or at least a skinny, musically inclined former-actor president who played a doctor in a movie once.

That they wrote.

The Chopping Block

I've been growing my hair out. Again. I've had short hair for a long time. And when I've had short hair for a long time I tend to forget what it's like to have long hair... so I grow it out. At which point I'm reminded that I suck at having long hair, so I cut it again.

It's a vicious cycle.

So today I went for a hair cut. With a new stylist. A new stylist who, I'm sure, thinks I'm weird because when I meet new people I get nervous, which causes me to say such things as "does anyone ever try to catch their hair in their mouth when you're cutting their bangs", "have you ever made anyone cry" and "that would make a great SNL skit, I should totally email Lorne Michaels". A stylist who seemed to enjoy my witty repartee only to make a joke about getting the receptionist to say "he's jam packed" if I ever phoned to rebook. And a stylist who had the uncanny ability to run his fingers through my long hair and, somehow, made it look great! Sexy! Amazing! But when he declined my offer to walk behind me at all times to fluff up my hair (that's right... he'd be my fluffer) I went ahead and told him "do whatever you want... but make it short".

It was going well until he said, with my recently removed ponytail in his hand, "you know, if you grew your hair to here [middle of my back] you would have the best hair I've ever seen".

*sigh* Of course I would.

And so the deed is done. I'm not sure about it yet but, for some reason, having short hair makes me feel skinny. I find it easier to hold my head up high. Maybe because it weighs less?

Oh... and for the record? Don't mention Ginnifer Goodwin unless you actually want to have the same hair cut as Ginnifer Goodwin. Because your stylist just might disappear a few minutes and, upon returning, say "I was just checking something on Google".

Just saying.

Food Groups

Are onions a vegetable? Do they have nutritional value? I ask because I'm trying to eat vegetables with every meal and tonight I looked in the fridge and all I had on hand, vegetable-wise, was an onion and I almost considered eating it. Almost. I also had a bottle of ketchup but that would've been stupid.

Everyone knows tomatoes are fruit.

TGI(V)F: a man's final thoughts

There are certain moments in life where everything seems to come into focus and the big, fast, overwhelming and complicated world around us shrinks and becomes crisp, calm and clear. Such moments are few and far between and most likely arrive in the midst of life's momentous occasions... standing at the alter of one's wedding, the birth of a child and, perhaps the most defining of all, in the moments before one's death. Rarely are they articulated and shared as well as this. And rarely do we get to hear a person's final thoughts.

What a rare gift it is, then, to hear what our final thoughts might be before we leave this Earth. And, rarer yet, what an opportunity it is for this man- and for us- to do something about those thoughts. To be able to change not only the last few seconds of our lives but every second until then.

A rare gift, indeed!

Ittsy Bittsy Spider?

I need glasses. And contacts. But not both at the same time, of course. (Because that would be silly) I've always thought it was a curse but now? I know it's also a blessing.

Why's that, you ask?

Because a week ago when I went to have a shower, sans glasses, I noticed something in the tub. Thinking it was a leaf or some dirt the cat brought in (hey, at least she cleans up), I grabbed my glasses to have a look. And what did my (nearsighted) eyes behold? A spider! And not just a spider but a huge ass spider that- dude- I almost touched with my hand because I thought it was a leaf!

Needless to say, I was not impressed. I turned on the hot (hot!) water and rinsed the bugger down the drain (back off, PETA, it was a do or die cry situation). Still, I did not remain unscathed... because now when I meander into the washroom in the wee hours of the morning? I leave my glasses behind and blindly rinse any specs and spots away while I imagine (and bid adieu to) dust bunnies and cat toys, not beetles and arachnids, going down the drain. Because, sometimes, ignorance is bliss.

And because, sometimes (no, make that all the time), a big fuzzy blob is much better than a big fuzzy spider!