Year of the Dog

Last New Year's Eve wasn't a particularly happy one. I had just returned from a nice Christmas with my parents but brought an awful cold home with me. I therefore decided to stay in that night rather than infect anyone else (not that I had massive New Year's plans anyway, truth be told).

I didn't feel like I had a whole lot to look forward to in the New Year. I was weeks away from handing over all my money to someone who had betrayed me, all in order to keep the home that *I* had bought. I was stewing over the unfairness of it all; the consequence he faced for breaking our vows was walking away richer. But mostly, I felt like a moron for ever trusting him in the first place. I should have known. I should have never bailed him out of trouble those times. I should have insisted on a pre-nup. I should have dumped him when he never came home that one night. I should have left when he showed up late to our very first date. I should have, I should have ...

I was calmly and dignifiedly wallowing in these thoughts on that New Year's evening when a minor incident turned me into a sobbing mess of First World self-pity:

While attempting to put a new bulb in the overhead porch light, the entire thing came down except for the electrical wires that kept the heavy fixture precariously clinging to the ceiling of my porch. The sky was quickly darkening as I stood on my step ladder holding the glass fixture over my head. As my hands were busy, my nose took it as an opportunity to drip uncontrollably, stinging and chapping my upper lip. Over and over again, I tried to get the damn fixture up without success. Gloves made it impossible to feel the spot where the light was supposed to latch onto, so I stubbornly kept at it even though my bare fingers were numb from the December cold.

After an hour of frustrating effort, I was forced to leave the stupid fixture hanging there, where it swung about in the growing wind. I thought a flurried gust would surely pull the fixture too hard, the wiring would get ripped out, and an electrical fire would somehow ensue. I would die stupid and alone and the ex would walk away with the insurance money because the house hadn't been fully transferred into my name yet.

The last part, especially, made me mad.

And so I cried.

I wondered why I was fighting so hard and relinquishing every bit of savings I had (and didn't have) in order to keep a house I was too inept to manage. I mean, I couldn't even change a lightbulb properly! I wondered why I was the one who had to deal with this shit by herself. Why was I the only one dealing with consequences. And why the fuck was I financing his latest romantic getaways. I wondered how I got myself into this stupid position with the stupid light fixture and stupid house and stupid life to begin with. At one point, I'm pretty sure I even screamed, "WHY!?!" in a moment of ridiculous drama that puts Darth Vader to shame.

And that's how I ended 2012: screaming and crying my sorry ass to sleep.

The next day was infinitely better. With the promise of a new year, the arrival of a morning's light, and a build-up of mass hysteria purged from my system, I conquered the porch fixture. I never could get it back up, but thanks to phone consultations with my dad, a friend's husband, and the Internet (the trifecta!), I figured out how to turn off the power, remove the connected wiring from the fixture, and cap the wires. ALL BY MYSELF. I even took a frigging picture of it.

I capped those wires. Yes, yes I did.

(Mind you, I didn't replace the light until later in the spring, but that's not the point.)

It's amazing what not feeling helpless will do for a person, and that's something I've taken with me since that night.

But onto the real point of this post ...

Even though I didn't know it at the time, The Great Removal of the Porch Light wasn't the best thing to have happened that day. I wouldn't realize until months later that something else fantastic occurred on January 1, 2013.

You see, my sweet Huck, the heartbeat at my feet, is a New Year's baby. Somewhere around the time that I was figuring out my breaker panel, my darling little dog was being born.

The rescue organization took him in right away that day. He looked like this but smaller:

 
And last night, curled on my bed as the old year softly drifted away, he looked like this:

While this New Year's Eve was another quiet night in, it wasn't sad. It wasn't helpless. It wasn't drowning in self-pity. It wasn't wasted thinking bitterly about exes and poor decisions made.

It was gratefully spent with one of the best little treasures to enter my life. It was serene. It was warm. It was a happy New Year's.

What a difference a year makes.

If you've seen my Instagram feed, the fact that I love my dog should come as no surprise. I am, undoubtedly, obsessed with this little mutt of mine.

While I have many other people and things I appreciate, love and am overwhelmingly grateful for this year (including the best family ever, terrific friends, a good job, my health, a home of my own, and my first ever food garden), Huck / Huckers / Huck McDuck / Huckleberry / Dr. Huckstable / The Mother Hucker has been this year's standout.

He makes me laugh. He's forced me to become patient. He's taught me to let go. He's shown me how to enjoy the moment. He gives me the best excuses to stop what I'm doing and play.

He is 65 pounds of unconditional love.

Today, on his first birthday, I'm making it all about him. We're about to hit the dog park. And then nap. And then play catch. And then eat treats, nap and play some more, including goofing around with the toys that annoyingly squeak. I'll even feed him his fave, tripe (or as I call it, Death in a Can). And we'll hang by the window and get mad at all the cats that dare to enter our fields of vision. And maybe a last-minute walk. And then we'll call it a day - a very good day.

Happy New Year to you. Happy birthday, dear pal. You've made my year.

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I Could Watch This All Day

I'll put a somewhat more meaningful post up later, but for now, this will do just fine:



 (Hover over the top-left of the clip to select the speaker and turn on the sound. If it still isn't coming through, click on the original.)

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This Post Is Pretty Much Just Videos

... because words don't quite describe how great things are right this second.

This is me right now:



Totally happy, with exactly zero fucks to give.

Why? Because 2012, the year that shat on my chest after eating at a questionable taco stand, now finally feels over. I know it's June 2013, but it's taken this long to clean up that whole mess. Today, I can say:

• I just got paid by two clients whom I had been waiting on forever.
• I'm gainfully employed and officially start full-time on Monday.
• The house is securely in my name only, and I'm on a mission to destroy its mortgage.
• I got a judge-approved divorce order. D-Day becomes official in a couple weeks.

And so I say:

And:

And:

And:

(As you can see, my happy place embarrassingly resides in the pop culture wasteland of 1990 - 1992.)

Have an awesome weekend - I know I will!

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Meet The New Boy In My Life

I've become pretty darn lousy at this blog upkeep thing ... and I'm not sure if that's about to get worse or better ... because, now, I'm head-over-heels and all-consumed with a special someone.

Meet Huck.

Ah, Huck, the name built for limericks. While you'd think that was my intention, I actually named him after Huckleberry Finn, the Mark Twain character. I was originally going to go with Ponyboy (a la The Outsiders) but the more I've gotten to know this little bugger, the more a Huckleberry he's become. I will, however, always advise this dog to stay gold.

The stats on Huck:

• He's a rescue from an organization called A.R.F. Ontario.
• He's just shy of three-months old.
• We think he's a boxer-shepherd mix, but a few people have pointed out he has some mastiff qualities, too. Bring on the big poops.
• He's probably about 14 lb. right now with the potential to become a whole lot bigger in the coming months.
• Napping (complete with feet-wiggling dreams) is a favourite past-time, followed by munching on smoked rawhide bones and hooves, followed by farting.
• He is not a fan of car rides, the plastic squeaky toy I bought him, or how those poor kids STILL haven't learned how their long-winded dad met their mother, already.

Huck is so sweet, I can barely stand it. He has a lot of nice manners and a willingness to please, but I'll be starting official puppy training next week so that he'll be the dearest and happiest dog on the block.

I'm so in love.

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Yes! We Have No Bikini Stories Today!

I am back from vacation, all. And, yes, it was a dandy time even though the resort lacked the Argentinian football team that I was pinning all my slutty hopes and dreams on.

Sigh. For shame.

And since I'm disappointing you with that, I'll add one more sad fact into this blog post:

I didn't wear the homemade bikini and therefore avoided the humiliation that was greatly foreshadowed in my previous post.

Sorry.

I brought it.

I put it on.

And then I felt a familiar feeling.

I looked in the mirror in the hotel room and could see that I was already starting to sport the Coppertone Girl look. But there wasn't an adorable black poodle tugging at my bottoms, but my old nemesis, gravity. And this was without the weight of water dragging my drawers down, so Newton only knows how long they would have lasted had I dog-paddled to the swim-up bar done a few laps.

And, yet, I still considered going out to the pool like that. For the blog. Because I am that much of a whore for an awful story to tell.

But then a voice I so rarely hear peeped up.

"Jen ... what about your diggimy?"

"My what?"

"Diggimy. Or is it dimnity?"

"Come again?"

"You know, that thing that you're supposed to have? The belief that you're better than that so you act better than that. Diginimy."

"Wait. Do you mean DIGNITY?"

"Yeah! That's it! Dig-ni-ty," the voice said, familiarizing itself with the word for the first time in years.

I glanced back at myself in the mirror and could see that the voice was right. That there was no diggimy or dimnity in exposing anyone's eyes to the Bikini Bottom Blowout that was getting worse by the second.

So I instead put on what was my most matronly of bathing suits and promptly burned the only skin the suit exposed, my armpits.

Sorry.

But the trip was overall pretty fun. So fun in fact that certain details cannot be revealed or I'd be straight-up murdered by my travel buddy. If I were to edit out any words that would require a Daddy Disclaimer, the trip could be summarized as: tequila, sun, ceviche, tequila, catamaran, Americans, tequila, sunburn, weird ice cream, tequila, mojito, tequila, Thank-God-no-one-here-has-a-camera.

Weeeee!

And now I'm back and trying to settle into reality.

Weeeee?

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Happy Birthday To My Mom! Now Let's All Look At Her Ass.

(My hot mamma, about 40 years ago. And, yes, she looks exactly the same now.)

Happy Birthday to the best mom anyone could ask for!

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I'm Basically The Worst Unemployed Person Ever

Image Source: FunCheapSF

... because instead of refining my résumé for the millionth time and glumly living off of Sapporo Ichiban, I'm going to Mexico this week.

HEEEEEEEEEEEE!

It's my incredibly irresponsible way of rewarding myself for not having a job or a husband anymore. (And I must say, I've really excelled at both.)

I'm going with a girlfriend who also had a crappy 2012. We've vowed to make it one of those trips where the details of what goes on during it aren't allowed to be shared with anyone we know, and that probably includes "The Internet". (Sorry.) Just know that in reality, I will most likely spend at least two days of this vacation watching episodes of Friends dubbed into Spanish in the hotel room while I recover from a sunburn brought on by falling asleep by the pool. But let's all at least pretend that I'm going to have a wild and glorious time in the land of sun and tequila, ok?

After booking the last-minute deal, we started diving further into the reviews of the resort and there was one - a complaint - that gave both of us hope that it may indeed be a dandy of a trip after all:

... everything was great until a new group of guests came in, which unfortunately included a couple Argentinian football teams. These guys were interested in anything in a skirt ...  

To which my friend and I responded:

Oh, please, Baby Jesus, make it so.

And if going to Mexico isn't indulgent enough for someone with no income, yesterday I went and got eyelash extensions (so that I didn't have to bother with mascara on the trip), a manicure and a pedicure.

You see, I received a bit of Christmas money from my grandfather, and I'm pretty sure at the bottom of the cheque it said, "For whoring it up." - so I kind of had to spend it on this:

Local Business Plug: I am wearing zero make-up in the picture, and look at how dolled-up my eyes look! If you want to get eyelash extensions in Toronto, I highly recommend Balanced Beaute - she is so good, won't make you look cartoonish, and is probably one of the most affordable pros in the city. Yay!

My other bit of prep work from this trip actually saved me money: not buying food. Not buying food meant I couldn't eat anything, which resulted in me going down a glorious 11 pounds since Christmas. Thanks, starvation! High five, desperation! This weight will all come screaming back on as I stuff my face at the resort's buffet and swim-up bar, but whatever.

The final thing I did in anticipation of going to Mexico involved harnessing my very novice skills as a seamstress: I made my own bikini. I can already smell the humiliation that will surely happen while wearing this. Not simply because it's a bikini (GAH!) but because I chose the fabric based on how pretty it was and not based on the trivial matter of how well it deals with water. Heh. So, you have that account to look forward to, readers.

I'll probably do one more tiny post this week, but that will likely be it until I get back. And then hopefully I'll become a bit more regular with the updates and thoughts and first-world gripings after that.

Your notes from my previous post were all really appreciated. How did such nice people end up stumbling on this blog? Boy, I'm lucky.

Adios for now, muchachos!

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Vintage Dream Home Decor Inspiration x3

Hello! The good people at the UK-based Appliances Online have asked if I could link to their Smeg appliances in exchange for my weight in Marmite and warm beer. I've long loved the retrodorableness of Smeg, so it was a corporate whoring made in heaven.

Who's ready for some vapid consumerism?! I AM. I swear I didn't spend this much time looking at things I wanted to buy before Pinterest came along. Now, looking at lovely things has practically become my hobby (and thanks to today's sponsored post, it's also my job. How great is that?).

One of my reoccurring fantasies is that if I won the lottery (I'm talking about All-That-Is-Wrong-With-The-World money), I'd buy one of those old homes in the Annex that has been split into several apartments and renovate each unit to reflect a different decade. I'd then rent out the apartments temporarily to professionals looking to do period photo or film shoots, or to people who wanted to host a fun dinner party or bridal / baby shower with a retro-ish theme.

SAD FACT: As you can see, I've actually spent time coming up with a business model to support my fantasy - because even in my dreams there is no way in hell, regardless of how rich we ever were, that Patrick would let me buy a million dollar house just to decorate for "funzies". I don't entirely blame him; I doubt I'd be jazzed to purchase a home that would pay homage to his interests. The Manchester United House of Hot Dogs would have to wait until after my ashes were scattered.

But anyway, BACK TO ME AND MY IMPORTANT POST. If I had three apartments to decorate, I think I would do Art Deco 1930s, Wartime '40s, and Mid-Century 1950s (that last one's a total surprise, right?). I'd obviously want to track down original pieces from those periods to put into the apartments, but realistically (and possibly safer in a health and fire hazard kind of way) I'd also snag vintage-inspired pieces, especially when it came to appliances.

So - wanna see what I'm what I've been up to today while I was "working from home"?:

1930s Art Deco Home Decor Inspiration (I'm down with the pinks in this era):

1. 1930s K.E.M. Weber Lounge Chair - 1stDibs
2. Jacques Adnet Mirrored Coffee Table - 1stDibs
3. Pink French Boudoir Chair - 1stDibs
4. Walnut and Chrome Fold-Out Bar - L.A. Vintage Furnishings on Etsy
5. Silver-plated Champagne Bucket on Fluted Stand - Newel
6. San Francisco Fox Theater 1930s Rug - Art Deco Collection
7. October 1930 issue of Vogue Magazine - ParisVogueBazaar on eBay
8. Bagley Grantham Pink Glass Clock & Vase Garniture Set - Art of Glass on eBay
9. 1930s Pink Petal Chandelier - richardshorse on eBay

Wartime 1940s Decor (went with lots of yellowy-creams and deep greens):

1. Handmade Curtains, Early 1940s Fabric - Eva Wagenfish Emporium on Etsy
2. Edward Wormly Chanel Back Club Chair - 1stDibs
3. 1940s Walnut Desk Lamp - 3xJacks on eBay
4. Smeg FAB10LP Fridge Freestanding Cream - Appliances Online
5. Airline 1940s Tube Radio - iOffers
6. KitchenAid Mixer in Almond Cream - Sears
7. October 1942 issue of Ladies' Home Journal - Papergoy on eBay
8. Green Vinyl 1940s Wingback Chair - InValuable

Mid-Century 1950s Decor Inspiration (blues and reds called out to me!):

1. Smeg Right Hand Hinge FAB28QV1 Fridge Freestanding - Appliances Online (I'm torn on the colour! I like them all! Which could you choose?)
2. Betty Crocker Picture Cook Book - Iowa Book Farm on eBay
3. 1955 Hide-A-Bed (vintage ad from my collection)
4. Walnut Mid-Century Bedroom Dresser - GUFF
5. Federal Glass Amoeba Pitcher - Fab Five Friends on eBay
6. Marco Zanuso Wingback Chair - ICollectAntiques.com
7. 1950s Blue Burst Wall-Papered Drum Shade - Fondue on Etsy
8. Vintage Paint-by-Numbers Artwork - Nomar on eBay
9. Olivetti Underwood Lettera 22 Portable Typewriter - Jacklom3 on Etsy

And this doesn't fit into any era accurately (although it has a lovely 1950s vibe) but I'd want it in ALL of these apartments: the Smeg washing machine. HOW ADORABLE IS THAT? It is killing me with cuteness:

Ok - so, if money was no object, what would you put in your vintage-inspired dream home? Which era turns your design crank the most?

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And Then I Jizzed. In. My. Pants ....

MINE:

Kitchenaid Deluxe Edition mixer in Almond Cream. In my kitchen. For me. Forever.

Can I get a "Fuck Yeah!"?

Also? It's a Pinplement. AWWWWWYEAH.

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Good Telly

I love reality TV, I'm a sucker for it. I especially like interesting and informative reality TV - something that hasn't really caught on in America (I'm not sure we can count Snooki's urinary tract infection story arc as a public service). However, in Britain, "edutainment" reality programs are far more popular and totally freaking amazing.

One of the inspirations for the 50s Housewife Experiment (and future experiments which I hope to share soon! I know I keep promising this stuff and not doing it ... but I swear, wheels are in motion! Motion!) was a delightful British reality show called The 1900 House, a program where a modern family moves into a Victorian home and lives the turn-of-the-century lifestyle. It is BANANAS GOOD and I was jealous that they had all the original, authentic stuff from the era to use in their social experiment. I, on the other hand, while doing the '50s thing, had to stare at my microwave and will myself with every bit of strength I had not to throw a pizza pop into it:


There have been similar spins of this program, like the Frontier House, Colonial House, Regency House Party, and Coal House At War - all of which are worth checking out and about a billion times more entertaining than any house featured on The Real World.

But as you can imagine, I was thrilled off my ass to discover another British reality show that took a similar approach to tackling eras, one week at a time, to see how the lifestyle impacted a modern couple. "The Supersizers Go ..." features the comedy duo of Sue Perkins and Giles Coren who live and, of great focus of the program - eat, like they did in different times in Britain. Each week they munch through a new era, including the '70s, the Edwardian age, and Medieval times (the period, not the hilarious castle and horse show-slash-restaurant). And .... the 1950s! Oh, it was good. Great. AMAZING. And I've just learned that these episodes are now appearing on The Cooking Channel in the States, and I must insist that you Americans with cable watch it. Like, right now. It's brilliant and will give you a taste of how good reality TV can be. The Situation and gang will never look lamer, something you probably didn't think was possible.

Because I'm so enthused, I've embedded the entire "The Supersizers Go ... Fifties" below for your viewing enjoyment. Let me know what you think of the show!

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I Am So Very, Very Easily Charmed

I'm not a fan of "performance" reality TV competitions (like American Idol or X-Factor or Dancing with the Not-Really-Stars) nor do I watch musicals or, ugh, Glee, but when I see a politician sing well, regardless of what political stripe they wear, gosh darnnit if I'm not just positively tickled pink.

Barack Obama only gave a couple lines of Al Green last night, but I am on the verge of fan-girling:


It's not the first time he's sung for a crowd:


And he's certainly not the only politician to do it. Here are a few other examples ...

Canada's Prime Minister Harper is a surprise guest of the National Arts Centre a few years ago and performed this Beatles song:


Italian Prime Minister Berlusconi sing something I don't know:


Philadelphia Mayor Michael Nutter drops some Sugarhill Gang:


Russia's Prime Minister Putin is more cringe-worthy than charming in his rendition of Blueberry Hill, but check out all the Hollywood types in the audience:


And it's not singing, but remember this? Ha. Oh, Bubba, those were the days:


It almost makes you wish all elections had a talent component. Almost.

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Do They Know It's Boxing Day?

Greetings from San Sebastian, Spain!

Today is our last full day here before we ship off to Barcelona, so we hope to make it a good one. The plan is to take a look at the city from atop a great hill (that can mercifully be reached by some kind of pull car. Señorita Fatty here has been assured of this), eat pintxos, drink Getariako Txakolina, and perhaps pick up a few deals on some cute plates I saw for my next home décor project.

Yesterday was Christmas and it didn't feel particularly Christmas-y, but it was still great as it was spent with family: Patrick, my sister, my brother-in-law, and my parents. Awesome, no? As most of the shops and restaurants were closed, we spent the day exchanging little gifts, having mimosas (with real champagne, n'est pas), watching Apple TV movies, playing cards, eating chocolate and going on little walks.

A Christmas gift to my well-travelled dad (who refers to himself as "Uncle Travelling Matt" now and again) from his Muppet-obsessed daughters:

Mel and Ben with treats from Canada:

My pretty mother, modelling her new necklace - all before she had a chance to put on make-up and do her hair (but isn't she still lovely?):

My handsome husband, modelling his new beard (picture was also taken before he had a chance to put on make-up):

My sister and I are crazy in love. I act like posing with one's fist on her hip is somehow natural:

My whole family in San Seb on Christmas Day:

You see how we're all in coats? The weather here is nice, but, like, mild-September-day-nice to put it into a Canadian context. Still totally pleasant - but you can just imagine how crazyballs amazing the place probably would be in warm weather. Dreamy!

Blue skies, old buildings:

It was the birthday of the dude on top of that hill ....

... but we didn't go into one of these to celebrate it:

Rather, we went to a holy place more our style (my mom's maiden name is "Martinez", so this shot is perfect as at wilder points in our lives, "Bar" was each of our middle names, too):

Homemade vin chaud and playing a very classy, strategic, intellectually-challenging game from our childhood:

Hope your Christmas (however you celebrate or don't celebrate it) was happy and healthy!

Chat soon!

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La Vie Ne Suce Pas (Or Something Like That)

It's not the most amazing or flattering picture of Patrick and I, but what's fantastic about it is that it was taken yesterday in this city on top of this thing:

It's early in the morning here now, but the day is already filled with promises of pain au chocolat, a visit with Mona Lisa, and many, many glasses of stupidly affordable champagne.

Wee!

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My Somewhat-Sexist-1950s-Inspired-Home-Décor Theory

When we bought our home this summer, I was really excited to get to clean two bathrooms instead of just one decorate and buy some new furniture. I had the same IKEA couch for 11 years, and while it was fine and will continue to labour under our asses for years to come in the basement, I really, really wanted something new for our furniture-less front room. And so, like everyone in North America who has a vagina and way too much time on her hands, I got all obsessed with Pinterest and pawing the Internet for ideas.

But the things that really got me thinking were my 1950s materials. It wasn't the specific design suggestions that got my old noggin thumping, but the way everything in the magazines seemed to point out whether something was masculine or feminine. Boy things and girl things were clearly defined - even when it came to food (remember the post from the 50s Housewife Experiment that talked about making meals for husbands with "masculine tastes"?). As you can imagine, home décor choices were discussed in a similar way. In fact, one article I read in The Bride's Reference Book titled "The Masculine Bill of Rights" specifically lays out what men like in home furnishings and advises women not to get too carried away with "feminine" details. Like so:

A man needs furniture large enough to accommodate his binge drinking.

Clearly, this advice to respect the Masculine Bill of Rights fell onto deaf ears for some. Here's a 1955 ad from Armstrong that features pink linoleum floors, a pink rug, pink walls, pink curtains, pink canopy beds (two of 'em!), and pink furniture that might have you wonder if a giant Barbie was about to walk through the door:

The picture above is why articles like "The Masculine Bill of Rights" were written. And maybe those articles worked because we don't see ads or rooms that are that unabashedly girly anymore. That is, unless it belongs to a little girl with a princess-obsession. But an adult woman? Or a married couple? As if.

While we still identify some décor items as feminine or masculine, I think a lot of everyday people (or maybe just me?) try to appease everyone in their home by turning to items that feel gender neutral. We don't go for those "feminine" prints or pieces because we worry they'll look childish or silly - as if we haven't outgrown our little princess ways. Or we worry that by having something "girly", even something small, we will somehow upset our male partners - as if a simple floral bedspread could make a man uncomfortable.

But the problem with gender neutral décor is that it's often really, really boring. Unless it's a super fun and eccentric piece that defies gender, it can come across rather personality-less. This doesn't mean that it's not nice looking, it's just ... rather forgettable. You can see what I mean when you look at the pictures of our condo:

Yes, part of the blandness is the never-ending IKEA, but the neutrality of the place also lent to the whole 'meh' factor. In looking back at those pictures, I found that the ones I liked best were the ones that had rooms with flowers - a nice unmistakably feminine touch.

And so when we were creating the room in our new home, I specifically went for things that struck me as masculine or feminine. It needed a him or a her-ness to it. Eventually, we pulled the place together. Our couch reminded me of a nicely tailored men's suit. The curtains are bold yet undeniably feminine. The teak coffee table is simple, but definitely on the butch side. And our area rug is like a woman's colourful makeup palette. (I had a naughty 'rug' joke lined up there but decided to take that high road I keep hearing about. I just want you to know that.) I should probably change the lampshades to something with more colour and I realize I need to fill our bookcases in a more appealing way (it feels rather lacking) - but I love the direction it's going! It all looks way nicer when the sun is shining in, but here are some pics:

And you know who pointed out the rug to me in the store? Patrick. Because it turns out that if you have a nice balance of things (respecting that whole Masculine and Feminine Bill of Rights), dudes balls don't actually shrivel up around pretty stuff. In fact, they really quite admire it.

If I get my act in gear, next post will have some pics with our Christmas stuff up. You just know that aluminium tree is making a return appearance.

In the meantime, tell me about your home décor theories and practices!

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Brought To You By The Letter C

Because "C" is for CUTE:



My favourite reaction is around the 1:09 point in the video. Ahh!

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Fruit or Flowers

That, according to old-timey gift guides, is what you're supposed to receive  / give for a fourth wedding anniversary.

And, hey, today is our fourth anniversary!

So, will these flowers do?

They even came with a free gift with purchase:

Eeee! Patrick just picked up the keys. It's officially ours.

Now how soon do you think it will be before I accidentally kill those roses? Place your bets, people!

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Things That Make Moving Fun

It's easy to get stressed out during a move, but I try to think of the little things that are nice about this process:

• The prospect of exploring a new neighbourhood and finding new favourite places to hang out, walk to, shop and eat
• Daydreaming about everything from paint colours to happy events in the new home
• Purging your junk and donating stuff you no longer need to someone who could really use it
• Realizing during packing that you're wrapping your Grandmother's tea set in shemale escort ads:

Yep, it's indeed these little things that make life sweet.

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Everything You Need To Know About My Sister's Wedding Can Be Summed Up With This Picture

That is my sister, the bride - on the left, and her new husband Ben - on the right. And nestled between the beautiful couple like a 7-Eleven hot dog in a croissant is Mr. Ron Jeremy, Esquire. If you don't know who Ron Jeremy is, I salute you. You escaped knowing what others have not been so fortunate to avoid. But now I'm about to ruin that for you, because I can't stand people who think they're better than me:

Ron Jeremy is a former porn star who is known for his large endowment (and not to the arts!) and the fact that he can and has literally sucked his own dick.

Oh, the amazing things this blog will teach you, gentle reader.

Ron Jeremy has since retired to a life where he gets paid to go to events and sign peoples' boobs. Naturally, he was present at my sister's wedding.

Actually, he just happened to be at the Calgary hotel where my sister was getting married. When Mel and Ben saw him, he offered to take a picture with them. And then as a surprise treat - and I shit you not - he played them a song on his harmonica. When my father heard that, he made one of the following remarks:

A) I'm sorry, but who is Ron Jeremy?
B) Well, that was ... nice ... of him ...
C) Glad he didn't pull out a different mouth organ!

And now you know the apple did not fall far from the Can't Resist a Dick Joke Tree.

Along with attracting the attention of porn stars, my sister's wedding also caught the attention of a few party crashers late in the evening who were at a nearby event and thought - correctly - that my sister's wedding was a far better party than they one they were at.

The traditional role of a bridesmaid is to thwart evil spirits from attacking the bride. In modern times, it is the bridesmaid's job to thwart evil party crashers from drinking the spirits that have been paid for by the bride. And so I promised my sister that if any of them moseyed up to the bar, I would intervene. Or as I drunkenly told her, "I will go Toronto on them."

I still have no idea what "going Toronto" on them would actually entail.  Eat at an Ethiopian restaurant one night and a Thai place the next? Demand the army comes by to shovel the walk? Buy a 700-square foot downtown property for the price some could get an entire farm for? Cheer for a really shitty hockey team year after year after year? Bitch about how Western Canadians and companies have stolen and poisoned land from aboriginal people while conveniently ignoring the fact that 'Toronto' and 'Ottawa' aren't exactly named after places in ye ol' England?

So when one of the party crashers saddled up to the bar, I was like, "Aww ya, boy! I'm about to get all Toronto on you! It's time for you to hear how much my condo cost! to lay down the law about this party."

With the power vested in me as a person wearing a dress that matched the decor theme, I marched over to the dude and loudly announced that ...

... he wasn't allowed to have a drink unless he paid the full bar price. Smooth. In actuality, I should have asked him to refrain or kindly leave the private party, but I instead thought it was a better idea for my sister to make money. Toronto, represent.

He apologized, saw me for the lush I am and paid FULL BAR PRICE (yah, that's right, I showed him) for a drink for himself and me. And with that act, I let him be. I can tell that the offers for me to be anyone else's bridesmaid will surely be flooding in after that one.

But porn stars and wedding crashers and shitty bridesmaids aside, my sister and Ben had a really, truly lovely wedding and reception that is evidenced by the amount of Facebook pictures I've had to untag myself from. It's clear that they love each other greatly, have surrounded themselves with fantastic family and friends and have a very promising future of happiness and love and laughter ahead of them.

Kisses galore.

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