What The Hell is a Parson Brown?

In a few short hours, we'll be off to Patrick's parents' home to spend Christmas with his family. We still need to get everything together - get dressed, pack a few things to wear, gather the gifts, give the place a tidy, load up on allergy meds so that their cat, Angel Snowflake Byck, does not succeed in her plan to cause misery and destruction to anyone that dares enter her palace.

Ahh, the holidays. While we're not religious in any way, but we really do love them. For me, this time of year is all about:

* People not really wanting to work during the week leading up to the 25th. And so we don't. We don't even pretend
* Super fun staff parties and hilarious "Yankee Swap" gift exchanges
* Letting people know how much you care about them
* Having chocolate and booze for breakfast
* Staying in cozy pajamas for the bulk of the day
* Random people saying "happy holidays" to each other
* Appetizers. Appetizers. Appetizers.
* Buying some kick ass gifts for the charity toy drives
* Cheery songs (see: today's blog title)
* Decorating the home (or in our case, shoving a tree into a very tight space and throwing a lot of green shiny things on it)
* Forcing family members to play cards and board games
* Slipping the homeless guy a 20 and genuinely not caring (see: judging) how he spends it
* Christmas Specials - every channel, every hour, every style of crappy animation!

Happy holidays, everyone!

Why Phone Etiquette Is Oh So Important In This Day And Age

Just now someone called my home. The conversation went like this:

Me: Hello?

Teen: Yo.

Me: Um ... hi. Who wer...

Teen: *click*

Nice.

A simple "Sorry, I have the wrong number" would have been supremely easy to spit out and would have been gladly accepted. I'm blogging this little exchange as a warning to all the politeness-challenged morons out there who have yet to realize that manners are important.

Just imagine that you, Teen, hung up on someone that was a REAL a-hole. A busy-body. A psycho. A gamer that has been camping outside of a Best Buy in vain, coming home empty Wii-handed. A woman who is raging with PMS and just ran out of chocolate. I could go on ... basically, Teen, these are the people in your neighbourhood. People that you should not be messing with with your lack of phone etiquette.

Why, asks the ignorant Teen? Because, stupid Teen, these people more than likely have the most basic access to everyday technology. Call display, for instance, and a computer that hooks up to the Internet. Pretty standard, yes?

Within 2 minutes of the click in my ear, I - and anybody that knows how to read and type - was able to find out the following:

* The name of Teen's mother

* The home phone number

* Teen's home address

* A map leading me to that address

* Teen's mother's volunteer organization, of which she is on the board

* Meeting times of Teen mother's organization

* A map to those meeting locations

And I'm not even that driven to find you, Teen. You are so lucky that I still had some Toblerone in the house.

You Know You're A Yuppie When ...

... you put up a Holiday Bamboo Plant and decorate it with ornaments from IKEA:

Cursed

So ... I recently posted about how work was less than stellar but that a new hire had the potential to change that. He was going to take about half of my work and bring some much needed experience and competence to our team.

He quit today.

No notice. No warning. He just won't be back, ever. Another place he had interviewed at took their sweet time in deciding who to hire, gave him a call today and told him to start tomorrow. This likely means that we won't be finding someone to fill this role until the new year and we'll just have to continue to make due with our thinning shreds of sanity.

Now, I get that people need to look out for themselves in their careers - but at what point do you actually take responsibility, stick to your commitments and not fuck people over? When will karma catch up to these wankers? Can I be there to watch?

Le sigh.

Give Peas a Chance

Growing up, one of my signature issues was my utter disgust of peas. At the sight or smell of them, I would retch and howl and curse their existence. "They taste like sweaty socks!" I would scream and pout. It was true disbelief and shock when my parents would opt to serve them with dinner - knowing that a) I, Queen of the Family, disliked them and b) WHO could POSSIBLY LIKE PEAS?!?!

A few months ago, I was out having lunch at a pub when my dish was surprisingly served with the Green Pods of Satan. I ate everything around them, but by the time I finished the sorroundings, I was still hungry. Despite having already decided I would definitely not like them, my instinct to nibble all that was borderline-edible in front of my face kicked in, and I found myself popping a few in my mouth. And to my surprise, I didn't want to throw up. The opposite of that happened, actually. I gobbled my lifelong sworn enemy spoon by spoon.

Recently, I saw on Nigella Bites a tasty-looking recipe for pea soup. Very simple, economical, and oddly sensuous, as is all good Nigella makes. For the first time in 28 years, I bought peas - on purpose.

The soup is damn good - and my war with peas is officially over.

Reason #93043 To Buy A Car

Just when you think the subway and its riders can't get classier, today happens.

So, I'm riding home and I spot a perfectly "normal" looking couple doing something in public - without shame or care - that I didn't think I ever dreamed of being exposed to.

Before I continue, let me assure any of my aunts who may be reading that they do not have to ban their underage children from seeing the rest of this post: The couple in question was not doing anything humpy.

No, no - if only we were so lucky. As everyone in the subway car looked on in disbelief, the young man held his girlfriend's head in his arms ... while he searched, found, and tried to irradicate (through flicking and squeezing) ... her head lice.

Say it with me:

HUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAGHGHGHGHHGHHGH!
BBBBLLLLLLLAAAAAUUURRRRCCCCHCCHHHHKKKK!
RRRRROOOOOOOWWWWWLLLLLLLLLLFFFFFFF!

Working For and On the Weekend

Oi. As Jacquelyn can attest, work has been pretty brutal the last little while. Sure, we got to hobnob with B-list Canadian stars recently, but besides that, it's been a Quarter Pounder of Crap with a side order of Fucker Fries and topped off with a McSuck Shake.

All in all, it's been a dish made by an evil man in red - and we've been choking on for some time.

In the midst of this, I passed my one-year with the company and was promoted to Account Supervisor, because I am just so gosh-darned super at working on the weekend and holding peoples' purses.

There is, however, a light. We just hired another Account Supervisor (starting next week) who can hopefully lighten the load enough for Jacquelyn and I to sneak off for secret mid-afternoon meetings at the bar and/or Holt Renfrew make-up counters.

In the meantime, I've been putting my spare change to good use:

Bootylicious Prospects

So --- hurrah! Engagement!

Just when I thought I was going to have to create a secret blog that would be soley devoted to the evil aspects of my job (secret so that I not get Dooced), something comes along for me to talk about!

I have never been a fan of the word "fiancée". There is something implicitly annoying, tacky and smug about that word. I just imagine this horrible woman waving her bling finger around unneccesarily and pointing toward an overly-gelled male at the bar while announcing, "Oh, yes, my fiancée [said with emphasis] is getting me a Cosmpolitan [also said with emphasis]." And when you gaze upon her bethroded, you wonder if anyone else notices that he's staring at the waitress's ass.

No, Patrick is not that man. And I'm not that woman. Hopefully.

So that's what makes it hard to find the right words to describe him. The thing is, I like the fact that we've "upgraded" from boyfriend to "we gonna' git hitched".

The solution arrived on its own recently. In talking with someone about the engagement, I started to say "boyfriend" but then my mouth flubbed to the dreaded "fiancée" and it came out "B-e-on-say" or "Beyoncé" to the pop-cultured.

So Beyoncé it is! Whether he likes it or not (and he doesn't!)!

Adult Content

I'm home sick today because the cold I had has become full-blown, likely agitated by the dust of our old place (you never realize how poor your dusting skills are until you move) and the sawdust of the new place (from the floors), so I've finally decided to devote some time for an update.

As most people who know me know, on my 28th birthday I became engaged to some guy I met on the Internet. We are very happy indeed.

Along with The Office on DVD, he got me a mighty fine gift that I wake up in the middle of the night over, scared that I have lost it:
We haven't done much wedding planning / thinking as we've just moved into our first home. The place is a disaster as we haven't had a lot of time to unpack it properly. It appears that we have more stuff than space (especially clothes) and need to do (yet another) purge. The flooring, however, came in beautifully and I will spend the rest of my days here obsessing about any scratches that may come to it.

So, to summarize, my thoughts are now on Benadryl, towels I'd like to put on a registry and hardwood care. It appears that I have become an adullt.

Hobbies

I appreciate that people have things they like to do when they aren't working, eating or sleeping.

I really don't have a hobby, unless you count that glorious flop I do onto the couch while simultaneously turning on the television. That and gaining weight by thinking about Dairy Queen treats.

To my shagrin, Patrick has picked up a hobby. A hobby I thought I left far, far behind in my parents' home. A hobby no person who shares a small space with another being should have. Alas ... Patrick is learning how to play the guitar.

Growing up, my dad played the guitar. I often heard the intro runs of "Blackbird" by the Beatles or "Tears in Heaven" by Eric Clapton. Over and over. And over and over. And over and over again. Every fuck-up would ring and echo throughout the house. Over and over.

Even if my dad were a master of the guitar, it would be annoying. There is just something about someone playing their instrument in your home in the middle of the day that makes you want to KILL THEM. I recall all three of us (me, my mom and my sister) SCREAMING at my father to close a door, go outside or JUST BLOODY STOP IT when he would play the guitar. It was like musical bugs crawling on your skin. I'm convinced the reason my parents bought such a massive home in their retirement-phase was so that my dad could have his own sound-buffered music zone and not drive my mom completely mental.

So, as life would have it, I am living with my father, Version 2.0. Patrick has suddenly taken on the desire to learn the guitar and I have been transported to the angry place of listening to half-pressed-down strings, fumbling to make chord changes. I just can't wait until we move into the condo, a shoebox of a space, where escape will be nearly impossible.

Pray for me.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

This past week marked three changes in our lives:

1. Patrick turned 30. He will now answer to names like Old Man Byck, Patricksaurus and Gantrick the Grey ... providing that he can actually hear people calling to him over the sound of his newly preferred television programs The Antiques Roadshow, Coronation Street and The Weather Network.

His friends and family generously came out Friday night to mark the occassion with booze, booze and more booze. The total bar bill had me thinking that we would have saved a bit of money if we had gone to an all-inclusive resort instead.

2. I have finally started to abandon old technology by getting rid of my VHS tapes and CDs.

MP3s and DVDs (which I'm sure I'll be tossing soon enough) have fully taken over. Since moving here nearly two years ago, we haven't even PLUGGED IN our VCR. So out they went to the island of misfit entertainment products aka our front curb. Within minutes it was all nabbed up. That's the neat thing about living here is that your junk is indeed someone else's treasure. It was a Denise-Austin-aerobic-tape pot of gold for some lucky scavenger that day.

3. And finally, all the i's are dotted and t's were crossed last week - and I am officially a home owner.

Or as Old Man Byck likes to say, I am a HOMO ... ner. On Sept 1, I will be in possession of a pair of keys that will open up a 1-bdrm + den condo on King Street. I'm pretty pumped about it. It needs some work (I'll be ridding it of its carpet and replacing it with hardwood, painting, some work on the closets) but it will be mine. The kitchen needs major reno'ing, but I'll have to wait a while before I tackle that bad boy. My new life partner and I are very excited.

Black Out!

Whoops.

Yet another instance of me blacking out entirely when it comes to blogging despite major excitement in the two most important aspects of my blogging life: my dental health and public transit.

On the dental front, I was the recipient of some very thrilling periodontic surgery. It's just one chapter in the continuing saga of The Cavity Gone Bad. It was pretty gruesome. The periodontist, Dr Caudry, is very nice and professional - but at one point, as she was making small talk while tearing the gums away from my teeth, she lifted one of the tools into my sight-line and it was far from pretty. This highly medieval, twisted piece of metal was not only scary but was absolutely coated and dripping with my blood. It took all my energy to turn my bulging eyes from the evil thing in her hand and pretend that said evil thing was not returning to my mouth to do more damage.

On the transit front, we had a wildcat strike! (Note: "Wildcat" is to be read in a voice similar to a radio station announcer for an 80s metal station.) Contrary to what Toronto's media chose to show, people I knew were not the least bit angry or put out by this. In fact, the strike was met by my friends' unbridled joy at the prospect of not having any way of getting to work and work not being able to blame them for not showing up. Cue the tearing off of shirts and screaming WOOOOOO while running to the nearest liquor-based establishment. I, however, got to sit in my hot, hot apartment, working at home thanks to the "joy" of e-mail and VPN. Le sigh.

Along with my two favourite topics lots has gone on in life, but I will save that for another post once everything gets even more cemented. Exciting indeed! Rather than leave you on a cliff hanger, I will tame your hearts with a much loved photo of Bill Gates from Tiger Beat Magazine circa 1983:

I Wanna Dance!

I am the proud new owner of Dance Dance Revolution Mario Mix - a game whose target market is younger than a unified Germany. And yet, it is in my giddy possession, a person who is old enough to remember Robin Williams as Mork as opposed to the voice of Genie.

I can play the game on 'easy' level, but once I put it to 'average' it gets much, much harder and I end up just randomly stamping on the mat, much to our downstairs neighbour's horror. This is part of the reason why I don't go to the step classes at my gym. The other reason I don't do step classes is because the instructor has not caught onto sportswear-chic and wears an actual leotard to teach. Disturbing.

My moves and my generation's pop culture legacy are put to shame by the comic in this clip. Most people have seen this already, but I love it:



There could probably be an entire video of bad dance moves circa 1987 - 1992 as this site demonstrates.

I Stand Corrected

Root canals hurt. The next day, that is. Now that the freezing has fled my mouth, the stabby feelings have moved in and are sporadically stomping about. The Motrin is providing about as much pain relief as a Tic Tac would.

All I've been able to eat are cooled-down poached eggs. Pair that with the fact that my brushing has been done rather gingerly to accommodate The Tooth Of Sauron, you can imagine how fantastic my breath is right now.

Root Canal - A Review

Honestly, it wasn't that bad. Getting my teeth scaled at the dentist is far more painful than this was.

The endodontist, Dr Golosky, rubbed the area with numbing gel, froze my gums with a needle (couldn't really feel it), dental dam'd me and went to work at a pretty quick pace. For the most part, it was like someone sticking push pins into the tooth (which I couldn't feel) and tapping and stirring them around. I was told by someone to expect a lot of crunching and scraping sounds, but it really wasn't that bad at all. He used one tool after the pin thing that made a slight crisping noise, but even that was ok. The procedure took about 1 hour and 15 minutes, but went by fairly quickly. Dr Golosky chatted about all the well-to-do engagement and wedding announcements he saw in the New York Times, which I guess is like reality TV for the more refined. He finished my tooth off with a thing that looked like a glue gun to pop some cement onto the tooth to seal it up (I have to go back to my regular dentist to get it more permanently filled and sealed) and then I was done and sent on my way, sadly, without a prescription for dependency-worthy drugs (I was told to go buy some Advil).

Hours later, I'm still frozen through the cheek and nose, although sensitivity is coming back and my mouth definitely knows something happened while it went down for a Dr Golosky-imposed nap.

We'll see how it goes in the next few hours.

I'd Rather Be Pole Dancing

You know how people say "I'd rather have a root canal"? Well, I'm about to see if it lives up to its horror in less than 30 minutes. Yup, I'm getting my tooth opened up, the pulp scraped out and some pins driven through the roots. It's a beautiful way to start the week.

I'll update when I get back.

Look What The Canada Post Stork Brought Today

Meet Sidonie!



This is the little girl that I am sponsoring through the Foster Parent Plan. She is from Bangoue, Cameroon and is six years old.

Along with handing over my cash, I'm encouraged to write to her - which will be no easy task for me. How do you explain your job when you work is marketing cell phones? Your living arrangement when it's with a guy who's not your husband or brother or father or gay roommate? Your Saturdays when they're spent pole-dancing and watching Laguna Beach?

I'll need to come up with something wholesome and relatable, stat. But what?

Four Sure

Four jobs I've had in my life:
1. Marketing & Community Relations for a gay newspaper
2. Cashier at Zellers
3. Communications Coordinator for the Comedy Network (the most un-funny job ever)
4. Summer Event Planner for the city of Fort McMurray

Four places I've lived:
1. The Fart, AB
2. Calgary, AB
3. Sept Illes, QB
4. Toronto, ON

Four websites I visit daily:
1. Hitched
2. Imdb.com
3. Hotmail
4. Google

Four places I've been on vacation:
1. London, England
2. Playacar, Mexico
3. Varadero, Cuba
4. Mauii, USA

Four of my favourite foods:
1. Shrimp
2. Sushi
3. Pizza
4. Butter chicken

Four places I'd rather be:
1. At an all-inclusive resort on the beach being served yummy drinks
2. My family's home at Christmas time
3. Cuddled up in a down duvet during a mid-afternoon rain shower
4. Kicking ass on a tennis court

Four albums/artists I love:
1. Beatles - The White Album
2. Neil Young - Decade
3. The Shins - Oh, Inverted World
4. The Jesus & Mary Chain - Honey's Dead

Four Things I'd Bring on an Island With Me:
1. Patrick
2. iPod
3. iPod charger
4. Boat

Oh Brother Where Art Thou?

Resemble much?

That would be Patrick and his brother Jason at a recent Blue Jays game. Note the plethora of fans all around.

Pepe

Antoine "Grandpa Tony" Martinez
1925 – 2006

Gros gros becs.

Well, That Was Super Fun...

A few weeks ago, Jacquelyn and I giddily signed up to spend a Saturday afternoon getting some exercise, possibly learning some moves to show the boys back home and having a bit of a laugh. What we signed up for was Pole & Strip class. What we got were bruises - mainly to our egos.

The class was yesterday and was supposed to be a beginner class filled with women "of all sizes, ages and fitness levels". Instead, it was a room full of size 4's who took to the moves and pole swinging like K-Fed takes to a bag of Cheetos. The same could not be said of me to say the least.

Without question, I was the largest person there. Well, I had the biggest bottom-half anyway (very mirrored rooms allow one to analyze herself and realize how grossly out of proportion her top half is to her bottom half). Yayyyy.

Vanity issues aside, this class was hardly beginner. The first (and "easiest") move we were taught involved us grabbing the pole from as high as we could and twirling around with our ankles crossed and gracefully propelling ourselves around and around. The girls in the class mastered this within a couple endearingly cute tries. I, on the other hand, woke up this morning to discover a massive bruise on my inner thigh from having squeezed for my dear life to stay attached to the pole.

Very quickly, Jacquelyn and I noticed how out of the league we were. With each step of choreography given to us, our faces would twist into deeper looks of "WTF!?!" To make matters even sweeter, our pole wasn't the most snuggly installed and the fixtures would rattle loudly each time we threw ourselves at the thing. It was bad.

As we went through the routine, Jacquelyn and I decided we'd try to have as much fun as we could and would just make up our own moves to fill-in the parts that gravity and weak biceps wouldn't allow. The teacher and the fellow strippers-in-training looked at us as if we were committing ho blasphemy.

Two hours after we went down the road of uncoordinated ass wiggles in the Land of Waifs, it was over. We promptly ran to a local bar to soothe and cleanse our souls with beer and nachos, thus making everything better in the way that only melted cheese and liquor can.

Never again!

A Day To Do Good

Today is Good Friday, and even though I am not even remotely religious, I think it's as deserving an opportunity as any to think about others and do some good. Plus, there was a certain discussion on a certain internet chat board that I frequent that also got me all hot and bothered to donate to some charities.

This year, I'm getting a pimped-out return on my income taxes thanks to some mad RRSP contributions, yo. So, I'm going to put half of it back into RRSPs, spend a quarter of it on whatever I like, and the last quarter will be given to help others. This quarter is a big step up from what I normally donate but if I can manage it, why not?

I have decided to donate to The Foster Parents Plan and The Canadian Cancer Society but I have some room for one more. If you were me, what would you choose?

The Public Transit Gods Fart In My General Direction

This just in: The TTC is still obnoxious!

Since the beginning of the year, I've been going to personal training sessions twice a week in the morning before work. It hasn't made me any slimmer because I make up for the exercise by eating and drinking like a man. But in any case, I'm happy that I've been going.

What I'm not so thrilled about is the fact that I can never make it there right when I'm supposed to. I can take the blame for this about 20% of the time but the other 80% can solidly land on the unpredictable shoulders of the Toronto Transit Commission.

Everyday there is SOMETHING that delays me. Today, it was the complete shut-down of the subway system for TWENTY MINUTES.

We're chugging along just fine until we get ONE station away from where I have to transfer. We stop. And stay. And sit. And then the subway makes that long airy fart sound that all public transit vehicles make when they're settling in for a while. For those sociologists out there, minute 15 of a massive subway halt marks the beginning of Group Tourette Syndrome. Ripples of "FUCK" start to echo throughout the subway car and people sneer angrily at the posters that smuggly boast the subway service.

Anyway, I got to my workout nearly 10 minutes late and had to use some of my paid personal training time doing my warm-up to the Maury Povich Show (Surprise: It was about freaks!). Gah.

Reasons Why I Suck Badly At The Blogging

* J-Laz-o
* New horrifying obsession with MTV shows Laguna Beach and My Super Sweet Sixteen. Patrick is disgusted, dismayed and likely already dating someone else.
* Too much computer time at work = repulsion toward computer at home. Except for online shopping.
* Not much has been going on besides my usual TTC rage and the city sending our landlord a letter complaining that we need to stop throwing plastic bags in with our recyclables or they'll send us a fine. You see, the City of Toronto hates waste!

Picture Time!

Fine, fine.

Here are some pics from the recent trip down Mexico way.

The Ever Important Towel Art Series

A swan:

Buddha:
A whale?:

A happy stingray:

Man's best friend:

The Scenery Series (Abbreviated)

The shoreline of Playacar:

The ruins of Talum:

The resort pool:

The Glamourous People Series

The most beautiful girl on the beach:

The 40 Amigos:

Getting boozed (and possibly Hepatitis) at 11am:

El Dorko:

The nuclear family of Jen But Never Jenn:

Wearing silly shoes and needing to cool off my blistered feet in the grass:

Drunk on tequila and putting on our sexy dramatic faces for the camera:

A Patrick Self-Portrait that happened to catch me in a moment of realizing that the bus - which would be taking us away from the humidity and forced educational surroundings - wouldn't leave for the resort for another three hours. Somedays, I look so attractive, I'm beside myself:

She's Alive!

For anyone that ever checks on this blog - my apologies. Laziness, travel, busy-ness, work and pure hatred of looking at a computer screen all contributed to the recent derailment of my blogging.

But I'm here to update today! Since I've been been away from this page, the following things have happened:

* Left the country twice
* Drank silly amounts of tequila (I heart tequila)
* Started to see some baby arm muscles in development (down 2% bodyfat! ... Well, before my holiday, anyway - ha)
* Celebrated my grandfather's 85th birthday with nearly 40 family members
* Set a new personal record in pain by staying at work until nearly 1am
* Encountered the disturbing experience of Amerian Airlines "service" (the words 'service' is to be read by channeling SNL-era David Spade and his use of finger quotes)
* Got a laptop from work and a snazzy bag to put it in
* Went to Mexico and didn't get murdered
* Slept on a bed that was so hard, I swear it came straight out of a Flintstones cartoon
* Experienced the thrill of what is known as a "breakfast dessert" in McKinney, TX in the form of a blackberry cobbler. Have since incorporated the concept into everyday life
* Missed my friend Anissa's birthday (Happy belated! See you tonight!)
* Stayed in a B&B that was decorated in teddy bears and an unhealthy use of the colour pink
* Was called "Ma'am" by various southerns and quite liked it
* Came home from Mexico to realize that my poor boss-lady had to get her appendix out and had to recover in hospital/at home while I was away
* In conjuction with that last point, opened my e-mail to find 237 new messages after only having been gone for a week
* Patrick has successfully wooed my dad's side of the family and has been noted by aunts as "a good catch"
* Purchased more personal training sessions
* Have sourced out a possible massage therapist / chiropractor (thanks Erin!) to deal with the continually degrading back and neck issues
* Have had crazy cravings for smoked salmon lately
* Was charmed by the various towel creations left by our chambermaid, Ruben
* Got invited to my old work's Party at the Curling Rink (they're soo fun) - but I'm having to decline (extreme sadness)
* Am quite exceptionally tanned

Pics from Meh-he-ko will follow shortly!

Me & My Big Mouth

Guess who gets to have a root canal?

Yeehaw - it's me! That cavity I had filled back in the fall has come back from the dead and is haunting my tooth via sensitivity to all things hot, which is annoying seeing as I like to cook my food. My dentist is arranging for a specialist to do it. I assume this is because mine might be 'difficult'. Excellent.

Naturally, when I heard "root canal" I went straight to the source - Google Images. Anyone else curious as to what a root canal entails might want to click. These images not only showed me the horror of this procedure but also taught me that dental dams are actually dental-related and not just a universally ignored tool for safe sex.

Because I have to go to a specialist means that I'm going to have to fork over some of my own money. It got me thinking that perhaps it's time to consider investing a little into my smile. Seeing as I'm willing to pay money to have someone drill into my tooth and scrape its pulp out, why not spend a bit of cash on something nice? Obviously, I'd need a consultation and stuff first, but I'm looking into straightening my teeth and getting them whitened.

I'm particularly interested in seeing if I could get Invisalign. It's this clear mold of your teeth that gradually pressure them (you get new molds every two weeks) into the proper position. Totally expensive, but they sure look better than the traditional traintrack method.

My vanity knows no bounds.

So THAT'S What All The Fuss Is About

In the past, when anyone's ever said they had a migraine and couldn't come into work, I'd act sympathetic but privately roll my eyes. Because I had heard the excuse so often, I tended to toss "I have a migraine" into the same pile of I-don't-feel-like-going-into-work lines as "My great aunt died" or "the cat unplugged my alarm clock".

Until it happened to me yesterday.

What I felt knocked me on my ass. There was NO WAY I could go into work. Even sending the pathetic e-mail of "me sick. not come in" was energy-draining and painful. It was as if my heart had been transplanted into my skull and was pumping HARD (but not necessarily fast). Pair head pain with pukey feelings and a vampire-like hatred toward light and you have my day yesterday.

I think my body is punishing me for not giving it booze anymore.

Yay Me

I've done good since last posting. Good indeed. Here's how:
* I have not had any booze despite being handed a glass of champagne at work for a toast. I raised my glass and did the pretend drink thing where you keep your lips closed but look like you're tipping one back. NOW THAT'S RESTRAINT!
* I've kept to my diet plan and have been using my slow cooker! Chicken with Basil & Lemon is crockpotting itself right now.
* I've been seeing my personal trainer and I really like it. It's good to be excited to work out.
* I got a raise! I've been doing a swell enough job that they want to keep me and bumped up my salary even before I officially hit the end of my probation period. Wee!

It's now less than a month until I go to Mexico. Yay, yay, yay.

I Love The Smell of Orville In The Morning

Our downstairs neighbour split with his fiance.

We don't know this because we ever talk to the guy (talk to our neighbours? Us? What, when there's the Internet to talk to?). We know it through casual observations.

We discovered they were engaged because we noticed they were getting lots of little identical pre-addressed envelopes in the mail featuring cutesy, cursive penmanship that only occurs when one has lost her mind in wedding planning and actually cares about that crap.

Then one morning a moving van pulled up and started taking things out of the apartment. Patrick and I became filled with glee over the traditional grunting sounds of moving. We weren't happy to see them specifically leave - only giddy with the thought that we could perhaps move into their apartment and take advantage of the awesome, awesome deck they have. Our deck is not a deck, but is more like a railing that two people can stand on while trying not to touch each other.

Anyway, Patrick called The Charmaniac to see what was up. She relayed to us that he was staying in the apartment and she was ridding herself of him. We grieved for the deck that never was.

Even if we hadn't received the scoop from our landlord, we would have figured out that this guy is now a bachelor because of the consistent smells that waft up the vents - specifically: cigarettes and microwaved popcorn. They are now his everything. Morning, evening, 2am - he's either lighting up another cigarette or tossing another bag of Orville Redenbacher into the microwave.

It's given me a new manipulation tool, though. Should Patrick (or I) ever start acting like a brat, all I'll have to do is shove kernels in his face and ask "YOU WANT THIS TO BE YOUR FUTURE?!? NO? THEN GO BUY ME PRESENTS."

Train Me - Personally!

I've bit yet another bullet (sugar-free!) and purchased 10 sessions of personal training at my gym. I'm one of those people that the diet industry just adores because I am very good at making purchases toward a "thinner me". Very good indeed.

Anyway, Natasha and I have a date with the dumbbells next Wednesday morning. It's not like I don't understand weight training or anything - it's more that I could use someone to scare and threaten me to do it and "Natasha" sounded like the most German / Cold War name on the list.

We're scheduled for 8:30am, two times a week. Which means being at the gym, changed, and starting up a little warm-up for 8:15am. Which means leaving the house by 7:15am. Which means getting up at BAAAHHH!am.

I've said it once already this week, but I'll say it again: Pray for me.

Back To It

Today marked the first day back to work. Good lord, it was hard to crawl out of bed and make my way to the subway this morning. There are some people that just LOVE working so much that even if they won a million dollars they'd still have a job because they'd otherwise be bored. Totally. Not. Me.

I do have a vacation to look forward to: Mexico! In February we're going for a week with my extended family as a bit of a reunion. While I'm so, so, so keen on it, I'm also so, so, so terrorized by the thought of being in a bathing suit. In recognition of that, I'm swearing off all booze and sugars until the trip. Pray for me.