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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Pinplement

Pinplemented!
(not "Purplemented" as it kind of appears.)

I'm making up a new word:

Pinplement
pin-ple-ment v. pin-pluh-ment
verb
To create, buy, do, or otherwise actualize the things you pin on Pinterest.

I really love Pinterest, but I've quickly realized that I've been pinning and pinning stuff rather than actually doing or making these things that I'm so charmed by.

And so it should come as no surprise to those who regularly read this blog that the first thing I decided to pinplement was a recipe: lemon poppyseed pancakes.

This was the pin, originally from the website, Picky Cook:

And this was the pinplementation:

Not as pretty, but yay!

It was the world's smallest batch of pancakes as Patrick wasn't interested in having any (I just don't get him sometimes), and I really didn't need a load of them, so that's all I made; three little pancakes (that's a bread plate they're on, not a dinner plate).

Making such a small amount sort of felt like that scene in Bridesmaids where Kristen Wiig creates that single, elaborate cupcake; the only difference is that I didn't eat what I made as glumly as she did.

Fact: Never in my life have I ever eaten something glumly - not even the food at a funeral.

Wow. Congratulations, Jen. After all, who could ever wallow in sadness when finger sandwiches* and date squares* are around.

* The Official Refreshments of Funerals since 1894.

Yes. Exactly. Exactly.

Where was I? Oh, right: Lemon poppyseed pancakes. Did these differ much from regular pancakes? Not really. Just a tad crunchier, as if I was eating pancakes with flavourless roe baked into them. But that's not really the point. The point is this: Hurrah for doing something and not just pathetically staring at things that other people on the Internet have done.

... Ooh. I hope that last sentence didn't make you feel awkward, People of the Internet. You're not the pathetic ones - I was totally talking about myself and those other weirdos out there. Every second you spend on this blog actually makes you cooler. It's a fact.

Oh, God. Please don't ever leave me, People of the Internet. I need you.

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Good Morning, Good Morning To Yoooooou

I'm still kinda feeling flu-y, so I've been conking out early each evening. Last night Patrick assured me, "don't worry about it. You need your sleep. I'll do the dishes tonight."

And this is what I awoke to:

Patrick's idea of doing dishes usually involves stacking dirty dishes next to the dishwasher, filling up the pots and bowls with hot water, dumping some utensils into said pots or bowls, and then promptly walking away. The dishes are done, man.

God, he's lucky he's cute.

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Things You Should Know About French Fashion

Image source:
http://easyfashion.blogspot.com/

1. Everyone (men and women) knows how to wear a scarf. It is never lazily tied in a knot in front of your neck, like how yours truly dares to venture out into the world. It is expertly draped in ways that look effortless but aren't - should you be a North American trying to recreate the look.
2. They hem their pants. If you see a scuffed pant leg, it is a sure sign the person is either homeless or a tourist.
3. Unless they're wearing a sweater and jeans, you can bet the outfit has been seen by a tailor. "Why wear something that isn't for me?" is the rationale de nationale.
4. The final touch to the perfect, tailored, well-thought Parisian ensemble is to urinate in it. That's the only explanation I can come up with for the persistent (and I mean persistent; from every Metro station to the most Jesus-y corners of the Louvre) waft of eau de peepee that I kept smelling everywhere I went. I figure wetting yourself is like tucking a carnation into your jacket lapel - it's the extra touch of effort that gets one noticed.

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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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Flash Mob Jr.

Today I was in the backyard when I noticed a kid - maybe six-years old (or maybe 15, I have no frickin' idea) watching me from the side walk out front. What do you do in those instance? Smile? Wave? Offer them ribbon candy?

I chose to not be creepy and just ignore.

Eventually, the kid pulls out an iPhone (seriously?) and is typing away on it, but still standing there. And then, suddenly, there are TWO kids standing at the side walk peering in. And then THREE. Three kids perched at the end of my property, staring in like vultures. Is it pathetic that I felt scared? By kids wearing Cars backpacks?

Based on their gestures to each other, I figured out what had caught their interest. It wasn't me so much (er, rather, at all), but what I was making in the backyard:

With three trees and no raking until this point in the season, I had just created the motherload of leaf piles. 

And those little shits wanted to jump in it.

So, naturally, even though I wasn't done raking, I started stuffing the leaves into craft bags and then locked them in my shed like some kind of miser.

That makes me the weird old lady on the street, doesn't it? Do I get an award or something? Can it be pepper spray?

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It's ALIVE!

Remember when we took possession of our new home on our anniversary in July and I joked about how long it would take until we killed the roses?

It took one day.

It turns out the previous owners had moved at least a month or two before we got the keys to the place. And it just so happens that they didn't leave anyone in charge of watering the roses or the lawn. And it also just so happens that we had one of the hottest summers on record. So when we rolled up to make it a home sweet home, our rose bush and front yard looked like kindling. Seriously, Smokey the Bear was *this close* to mauling us.

I tried to bring it back to life. I fed it water and dead headed the rose flowers. I trimmed off the vicious black spot fungus that had overtaken the leaves. And trimmed it again when it came back. And again. And again. I used a special organic fertilizer to spur on healthy growth. The fertilizer seemed to work, not in producing roses but in allowing the branches to grow super long like thorny octopus legs. So I trimmed those dang branches down and continued the cycle of watering and trimming.

And finally, a few days into October:

VICTORY!

There are now two roses on the bush that once had dozens. Whatever! It's progress - and, naturally, just in time for the frost season.

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It Turns Out That Weeds Were My Friends

As a kid, I never understood the phrase "ignorance is bliss". This is in large part because the only other times I heard the word "ignorance" being used, it was in relation to racism. So, in my mind, "ignorance is bliss" equated to "racism is bliss" - which sounds like the sort of thing you'd expect to see on a postcard from a KKK compound or a cross-stitch in Hitler's powder room.

But now that I understand the full meaning of the word and the phrase, I can agree that ignorance can, in fact, be quite blissful.

I bring this up because today, the day after Patrick mowed our jungle of a lawn, I can now actually see more of the goings-on in our backyard. Specifically, the rat that keeps running between our neighbour's junk pile, across our property, and into our other neighbour's garden. Gross, gross, gross.

This paired with the fact that I saw a shadow dart along the ground in our furnace room the other day has turned me into a giant, jumpy, possibly (but probably not) paranoid freak.

Ugh. I'm not sure if I wish I didn't know, I just wish rat (and friends?) didn't exist in my bubble. One thing is clear: I sure as fuck won't be taking a 'vegan' approach to all this.

OMG, you're going to *eat* the rat?

Uh, no. But I won't be "humanely" trapping them only to release them into someone else'e neighbourhood either.

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Turning Over A New (Kale) Leaf

Hello! It feels like it's been forever, right? What can I say - I'm slightly addicted to Rocket Mania very busy and important.

Our new home still isn't pretty enough for the kind people of the Internet to judge, so no pics of the new place yet. The big hold-up is that we're waiting on some very necessary storage furniture to arrive. Right now the whole place has a Dude In A Dorm Room vibe thanks in large part to our various Rubbermaid containers strewn about the place. Talk about versatility; one in the centre of the room becomes a coffee table, and a stack of them double as lousy and confusing installation art (is there any other kind?)!

Until very recently, the Dude In A Dorm Room look was fully completed with a fridge (rather, freezer and cupboard) filled with Junk Foods From Hell. The process of selling our condo got us into awful, embarrassing eating habits that we gleefully brought with us to our new home. While we weren't eating out as much, we were, unfortunately, still going for those uber convenience "foods". I'm talking frozen pizzas, hot dogs, chips, dips ... and recently, a new low: A couple weeks ago, I brought home some purple stuff. Oh, the shame.

And then a week ago I found my scale in a box and for a self-hating lark, I stepped on it right there and then.

SWEET MOTHER OF LARD.

I'll put it this way; if I lost HALF my bodyweight, I'd be a very tiny, knobby-kneed, angry person - but probably not dead. And that is ... disturbing (and admittedly a strange way to gauge one's health).

This, paired with some truly unfortunate pictures of me that were taken recently at the Byck Family Reunion that I instantly untagged from Facebook like a fat assassin, has kicked me into gear. So ... I'm going back to a whole foods, largely raw vegan (but not totally) way of eating while incorporating more healthy holistic habits into my day. Don't worry - I won't be turning this into a diet blog - the world has too many of those as it is - but this post is a warning that I might yap about green juices, poor attempts at yoga and how much I hate attractive people ... more often than usual.

I'll be taking cues from Kris Carr, Alicia Silverstone (as if!), and other purveyors of random hippie nonsense - all to be taken with heaps of (ethically procured Pink Himalayan) salt.

It's about to get crunchy in here.

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I'm Not Dead, I'm Just Unpacking

.... I will be dead, however, if I follow the meal suggestions on our new Samsung microwave:

In case that picture isn't too clear, Samsung would like to help your fat ass with these everyday culinary chores:

• Melt Chocolate
• Soften Cream Cheese
• Melt Butter

What? No "Explode A Marshmallow" button?

Get an A+ in parenting with nutrient-tastic "Kid Meals" like:

• Chicken Nuggets
• Hot Dogs
• French Fries
• Frozen Sandwich

Or create life-sustaining "Snack Bar" dishes like:

• Nachos
• Chicken Wings
• Potato Skins
• Cheese Sticks

It's all so amazingly awful and proof that Koreans robots are really are out to get us.

What's especially hideous is that we've already used one of those functions since moving in last week. Guess which one? 

Oink.

Will return to regular blogging soon (with a vengeance!) ... just kind of buried in boxes and deadlines at the moment. Hope all is well with you!

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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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WWJD

As far as years go, 2001 was pretty much a flaming bag of dog shit and donkey balls. Of course, there's that standout reason why 2001, as a whole, has a bad rep, but I've observed that a lot of people had additional things happen in their lives - before and after September - that helped cement 2001 with the title of Worst Year Ever.

For me, I broke up with my live-in boyfriend, which wasn't a big tragedy or anything and was actually / eventually a good thing, but it was a tough change. A week or two later while we were still living together, he got jumped by some real winners and was stabbed in the neck. He survived (and we're still friends. He came to my wedding, even!) but spent a good deal of time in ICU and recovering at home under my care and it was an incredibly fucked up time, to put it lightly. Later in the year, after I had just moved into a new apartment, I got unexpectedly laid off from my job and couldn't find work in my field for months. So, yah, 2001 sucked it just fine without terrorists coming along and mind-fucking everyone.

One day in early July of said heinous year, I got a call from my dad. His voice sounded so weird - so hollow. He said, "I have some really bad news."

My stomach dropped and I felt like I had turned to stone from standing so still and waiting for what felt like an eternity for whatever horrible thing he was going to say next. It had probably only been a week earlier that he had called me with a hesitation in his voice and with a similar lead-in to the conversation: He had then let me know that he had just been diagnosed with prostate cancer.

I mentioned that 2001 was a total asshole, right?

"No, it's not that. It's not me," he quickly said, guessing that this was now two bad news calls in a row and that I probably thought they were related.

A sense of relief flickered for a second, only to be replaced with a new sense of dread. God, what else? What now?

"Um," he stammered for a moment, "Your cousin Jonathan has died," he finally croaked out.

When your brain is running around in that moment of waiting for bad news, your 18-year old cousin dying in a car accident tends not to be among the possibilities. I remember feeling all cold and nauseous and then immediately feeling waves of sadness for his family and the shock and grief they must have been in the pits of.

That was 10 years ago this weekend.

At the request of his family, this anniversary isn't to be marked with sadness, but we'll instead remember him fondly, share memories, and as you'll soon see - partake in some of his quirky passions.

My strongest memories of Jonathan are mainly from when he was younger - he was probably around nine or ten-years old or so. We lived a solid 12-hours drive from the Staniec's farm in Lanigan, Saskatchewan, so we didn't see the family all that much, but when we did, the visits were memorable. We often did "kid switches" where I would stay with the Staniecs for a week or two and their daughter, Jill, who is my sister's age, would came back with my parents and hang with my sister in Fort McMurray (and then vice-versa where my cousin Kim and I would go back together to Alberta).

I remember thinking it was oh-so clever of Jon (although, sure, totally mean) that he used to call his sister "Heather" - "Heifer". It was word play! Farm word play! And he wasn't just calling her a cow, he was calling her a virgin cow! Oh, how hilarious I thought that was. Because I, unsurprisingly, was a ho-bag and a word-geek even then.

I also recall all us kids listening to this one particular Ian Tyson song in a car ride into Saskatoon called "The Coyote and the Cowboy" by Ian Tyson. It was recorded in a bar, and there's a part where Tyson and the crowd sing about a "son of a bitch", and just like the people in the bar, we would SCREAM the word "bitch" every time. Hey! Don't blame us! Just following the lyrics! There's also a part of the song that we would get into fits of giggles over because it sounds like Animal from The Muppets is hollering in the background (from around 2:05 through to 2:20 in the song, should you be listening for it. I listened to it today and it TOTALLY SOUNDS LIKE ANIMAL. We were so right!). We'd play the song over and over and over again until my Aunt Janice justifiably yelled at us to knock it off:



I remember after one particularly grueling trip out to the farm, my family had driven over a stretch of highway that was just being paved and was in no condition for a car to go over it. My dad was seriously pissed about this, as a bunch of wet tar and asphalt had kicked up and splatted all over the hood and around the wheels. We had gone to a professional car wash before arriving in Lanigan and even these guys couldn't get the muck off.

For Jonathan, this was his Everest.

"Can I wash your car, Uncle Joe?" he said, his eyes glimmering as he looked over the tar-speckled minivan.

"Oh, you don't have to do that, Jonathan," my dad said, slightly surprised by the request.

"But can I?" Jonathan asked again.

My dad was stunned. Maybe it was because he was the father of two brats girls who would view having to clean the car as a form of punishment.

"He likes it," my cousin Kim said. "Like, he, really, really, REALLY likes cleaning cars."

"Well, if you insist," my dad said, still perplexed. "But if you can't get that tar off, don't worry about it. The guys at the car wash couldn't even get it off."

This look crossed Jon's face as if to say, "this car hasn't met me yet."

The rest of us kids went off to do the things we most liked doing on the farm: ride the ATVs, form a secret spy club with headquarters in the barn, play with the new calf, and pee our pants from laughing too hard - something someone would later blame on an animal ("I sat in cat pee ..." Sure, Jen, sure. Something you should know about me: I've never let a full bladder get in the way of a good, hard laugh. It's disgusting, really.).

Jonathan, however, went to work on the minivan with a determination worthy of an inspirational 80s power ballad. I even remember him working through lunch, something I've never let happen in my 30+ years on earth.

Hours later, my dad had summoned us all to marvel over Jonathan's work. The beige-but-blackened minivan that had tiredly rolled onto their gravel driveway earlier that day now looked like it had just come off the sale lot.

"Jesus Christ," my dad said, staring at the sparkling vehicle before him. "You really did a hell of a job on that. I mean it. You really did a phenomenal job."

Jonathan smiled with a quiet pride, simply said, "thanks" and strolled off. This, too, stunned my father, as he was generally used to kids - namely a certain daughter of his - lapping up the compliments like a pig and spending the next hour explaining exactly what she had done and how hard it was and why it was so important that it be done in the manner she had painstakingly done them.

Jon's love of cars - and cleaning them - became a hallmark of his, as was the way he mowed a lawn (alternate directions each time, no going back and forth, and whenever possible, he'd get two mowers going to pretend that he had a dual combine set up). There was the wrong way, the right way, and the Super Meticulous Jon Staniec way of doing these things. These things were so much a part of him that this weekend, his family recently asked everyone to mow their lawns or wash their cars "as Jonathan would" while thinking of him.

D-bag Condo Girl here has neither a car nor a lawn, so I improvised:

It is so not the car Jon would go for, but alas, the little gift shop I went to had no sports cars. It was this or a pink new Beatle with flowers on it. Of the two, I'm pretty sure this is the better choice to honour Jon's memory with:

Sparkling new!

And for the lawn ... the closest thing I could find was organic wheatgrass at the market:

Thank you, superfood-loving-hippies-and-yuppies of Toronto.

Even with scissors, I didn't do nearly the good job Jonathan would have done. That, I can guarantee.

If you're a friend or family member of Jon's, please share your thoughts here or on the Facebook event that Jill set up.

To live in hearts we leave behind
Is not to die.
-Thomas Campbell

We miss you, Jonathan, but you are far from forgotten.

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Say Hello To My Little Friends

Late last week, I started writing a post titled "I Am Becoming The Honey Badger".

Because honey badger don't care. Honey badger don't give a shit.

I had officially had enough with this home selling business and no longer felt like being real estate's bitch. I realize that in most markets, having a home for sale for a month is totally no big, but for this market, it felt like it was dragging. People in our building typically sell their homes in two to six days. We were getting steady traffic in our place - between two and five showings a day everyday - but no bites. As someone who works from home, I was starting to find it just a tad obnoxious having to keep the place uber tidy and having to leave all the time to let people view our home privately. You know, so they could enjoy a quiet moment to pee on our floors. Ah, YAH, IT HAPPENED. There is nothing like opening your doors to strangers to make one think less about the human race as a whole.

As you may recall, I was feeling so fed up that I even turned to stupid no-good cupcakes and Catholic superstitions that involved burying a plastic religious icon head-first in a pot of flowers. In other words, my mind was unraveling.

And then on Friday I finally turned to something I liked: my 1950s magazines and books. We always had fun with our 50s Housewife Experiments and our home felt so devoid of fun recently ... so I decided to honey badger it up and do some old school cooking and baking in my cute little dresses between showings. I didn't care if these concoctions ruined the depersonalized aesthetic of our home, because I just didn't give a fuck anymore. Not one crazy honey badger fuck.

My Betty Crocker Picture Cook Book says:

Well, gee, that's all that was missing from people thinking of my condo as a home? Done! So I spotted a recipe for the ultra girly Pink Azalea cake:

... and added my own sweet touches to it. I'm not normally a "pink" kind of person, but this cake is simply adorable, especially once I housed it in a little glass cake dome:

Still on a wholesome kick, I made some strawberry pie:

I then came across an ad featuring the pre-Bob Barker host of Price is Right, Bill Cullen, shilling for a tea company. Just me, or does he sort of remind you of Matt Damon, if Matt Damon was completely drained of all sex appeal?:

And so, I made some home-brewed iced tea with lemon slices, baked some chicken breasts, prepped some corn on the cob and made some potato salad.

I was feeling really happy - finally able to get in the kitchen and DO stuff rather than delicately walk around my home afraid to disturb things. So, naturally, I took it too far: I decided to make The Crazy 50s Shit That Makes Me Laugh.

Remember that green soup with dicks in it? Remember the great names you came up for it? Well, I found the official recipe for it in my Woman's Day July 1959 magazine:

Wanna know what it looks like in person?

No. Definitely not.

Too bad!

Not nearly as green. More, brown, really. Dick a la Sewage. Ah well, in the fridge you go! Just be grateful, soon-to-judge-my-home visitors, that I didn't just leave it on the stove top. Because I was tempted. Seriously, seriously tempted.

And the pièce de résistance in my cooking and baking spree? Want to take a guess?

If you'll recall, the first "fancy" gelatin mold I tried to make did not turn out well. At all. It was a sloppy wet mess that exploded its contents all over the place - not unlike a teenager who has drank too many wine coolers in the woods behind her house. Certainly not speaking from personal experience there or anything. With this home situation being so out of our control, I decided that I was going to try to tackle something that had challenged me before, and I was going to succeed, dammit! I went for something layered and colourful with silly things inside.I was going balls out with this jello mold and if it splatted on the floor 30 minutes before our next showing, so be it.

Oh, what a thing of repulsive, fantastic, proud beauty:

That's lemon jello with lemons, orange jello with carrots and lime jello with celery. Sounds disgusting, but by golly, did it ever hold together well! I was one drink away from extending my arms and screaming out the window, "I'm the James Cameron king of the world, motherfuckers!"

I gave the gelatin mold the "glory spot" in our fridge - right underneath the bulb. There would be no escaping it, should anyone viewing our home open the fridge. It was my crowing jewel in my collection of Food I Made Once I Stopped Caring About These Weirdos Coming Into My Home:

We then had people come in for a showing early that evening.

And on Saturday?

They gave us an offer.

Today the condition on that offer was removed, so it's official. We've sold our damn condo!

Maybe it was dear St. Joe (who is indeed also killing the flowers as I predicted). But maybe, just maybe, it was the jello mold. Both shall have places of honour in my new home.

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I Can't Believe I'm Doing This

Meet St. Joseph.

Well, his tiny plastic counterpart, anyway. If you believe in Christian mythology, you probably hated that I referred to it as 'mythology' just now St. Joseph was Jesus's incredibly understanding step-father who married a preggo Mary even though she wasn't carrying his child. He had to be coaxed into it somewhat by an unnamed angel - who I think should be called Maury - who opened a manila envelope and confirmed that God ... (wait for it) ... WAS the father.

Anyhoo - because Joseph provided a home to Jesus and Mary and since he was a carpenter who could make stuff (like condos?), some folks (mostly Catholics and crazy people ... sometimes one in the same) consider him to be a bit of a miracle worker when it comes to buying and selling homes. Like everything concerning religion, it's a bit of a leap.

With our home-selling woes in mind, my mother-in-law and her sister went on a trek - a pilgrimage if you will - to find us a St. Joseph statue. They found one in what sounded like a church gift shop. I know it's been a while since I stepped in one, but churches have gift shops? Are there small McDonalds near the check-out too?

So, behold, my St. Joseph Home Selling Kit, direct from China heaven:

The child labourers angels forgot to paint St. Joseph's beard, so he appears to have a MASSIVE chin. He looks like what I imagine Brian Mulroney would look like if he was a happy stoner going to a toga party. And is it just me or does Jesus look like a baby Princess Leia?

According to the instructions, you're supposed to bury St. Joseph, head-first, into the ground at your property line, facing your home. You do this while reciting a prayer that basically tells Joseph he's going to stay in that uncomfortable position until he helps you sell your home ... which sounds rather terrible and Gitmo-esque. Hardly a nice way to treat someone, let alone a saint carrying your savior ...

But I don't believe in any of this stuff, right?

Down you go, Plastic Magic Man! Sell this home!

As I'm in a condo, I couldn't very well drill a hole in the sidewalk, so my planter had to do.

I believe that one of two things will happen: we'll sell this condo soon or my potted Kalanchoe will die from St. Joseph's wrath / the fact that I probably tore up some roots shoving him in there. Want to take a guess which will happen first? A third option of me getting what's coming to me due to my giddy blasphemy is also a valid answer.

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I Sold Out And All I Got Was A Fat(ter) Ass

If you've read my recent posts from the past couple weeks, you'll know that we're attempting to sell our home. Yep, she's still on the market. It's not without interest, though. We've had all kinds of visitors everyday and holy eff I cannot wait to unload a vent about the things these pig strangers have done in my home - so it's just a matter of time .... heh?

Late last week we were in a particularly good mood as we had repeat showings scheduled with two different parties, both booked at 8:30 PM. For one of these couples, it was their third appointment and they were bringing their parents, which means they're intellectual infants who should put on their big girl panties and make a decision for themselves there's some serious interest going on. Patrick and I allowed ourselves to get totally greedy and start fantasizing about these potential buyers bumping into each other in our apartment and getting territorial and then us promptly getting two amazing offers the next day to choose from or bargain with.Oh, we were giddy.

And so, to seal the deal, I decided to go all out and sell my soul:

I got cupcakes. From Prairie Girl Bakery.

I still had my beloved donut display out (which I refreshed with new donuts as the original ones were starting to get, uh, warm). But then I thought, "Cupcakes have broad appeal. I can't count on everyone being as hip toward the prowess of donuts as I am. Let's charm the pants off these generically-minded people through baked goods!"

And yes, I really thought that. And, yes, I have that low of an opinion of people I don't know. And, yes, I really thought cupcakes would be the tipping point. And, yes, I am an idiot.

And so I ran to the bakery that I had previously been so disappointed in due to its misleading name and scooped up a half dozen of their cupcakes for the WTF price of $20. I imagine after reading how much I spent on six not-even-personalized cupcakes, several friends and family members from back home just had their suspicions confirmed that I have become a Classic Toronto Douchenozzle. It's true. I am. But, hey, selling and buying a home! Outrageous spending comes with the territory! Defensive Argument Followed By An Exclamation Point!

So I put some cupcakes in the fridge on a precious little stand, next to some bubbly and organic, local strawberries ("Did she just make a point of letting us know the strawberries were organic and local? Ugh. 'Classic Toronto Douchenozzle' is right"). Placed a few on the table - again, on a little glass stand with a note inviting our chumps dear guests to enjoy them.

And then I updated the flowers in our bedroom with peonies that were just on the verge of exploding into a fluffy feather-like bloom, because peonies are special and so is our apartment.

And then Patrick and I anxiously waited at the nearby bar for our home to work its cupcakey charm.

Bzz Bzz went my cell phone at 7:45 PM.

It was an e-mail from the real estate booking system:

"8:30 PM Appointment: Canceled."

Aw, crap. One of the parties (the people who would just be there for their second time), had decided to cancel their appointment. Unfortunate and it had surely ruined our dreams of a multiple-offer situation, but ... well, what can you do? Our Realtor later learned that the person coming to see our home was torn between ours and another one nearby - but decided to put in an offer, which was accepted, on the other place. You win some, you lose some, right? And it had always been these third-showing people that we had the most faith in.

So, we took it on the chin, settled in, and ordered another round.

Bzz Bzz.

At 8:35 PM, five minutes after the appointment was to start, was this note on my cell phone:

"8:30 PM Appointment: Canceled."

I had actually been in the washroom when the message came in. When I returned to the table, Patrick looked sick and said, "And the three-peaters just fucking canceled too."

And I thought he was joking because Patrick thinks giving people feelings of anxiety is hilarious. It's something I've told him really doesn't make for good jokes but really makes for good divorce proceedings.

But he wasn't joking. And so we dragged our sorry asses back home, defeated and disappointed - but still holding out hope that maybe these people just had to reschedule.

The next day we found out that they had changed their minds about the place. Their Realtor sort of sighed with ours, explaining that he had been to A LOT of homes with them, multiple times, and that they were extremely cautious first-time buyers. In other words, the worst clients he has ever had and the real estate equivalent of prick teases.

Which brings me to this question:

When you think of foods that you eat angrily (surely a topic we've all thought about. No? Just me? Of course.), what comes to mind?

Nuts you have to crack open yourself? Hard-boiled eggs? Anything from the Taco Bell Value Menu?

I have a feeling that 'cupcakes' probably don't come to mind. Despite the fact that I think they're overrated, even I have to admit that cupcakes are light and sweet and happy and the sort of things you serve to celebrate stuff like baby showers and businesses launched by twenty-something girls.

But after I got off the phone with our Realtor, my head slowly turned in the direction of the kitchen. And I know it makes no sense, but my eyes locked onto the puffs of cheerful icing. And I seethed. And I maybe accusingly screamed, "YOU! YOU DID THIS TO ME!" At cupcakes.

And then I ran over and showed those cupcakes a lesson. Disappoint me, will you? Mock me, will you? FEEL MY RAGE, CUPCAKE! The vanilla cake with chocolate frosting got bitten and torn up and then thrown into a vat of stomach acid for good measure. It wasn't an eating experience, it was food torture.

It's a small miracle that I didn't eat the rest of them on the spot. Sure, I had another later on, still angrily, and Patrick had a couple when he got home, not so angrily (unlike his ridiculous wife, he does not have a "strained relationship" with specific baked goods). The cupcakes had started to get a little stale from having sat out, so we tossed the rest, not even bothering to use them as props - out of principle.

Because cupcakes? Are so dead to me. Officially.

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Change Rooms for Dummies

Signs that Someone is in a Change Room:

1. The door is closed.
2. The door is locked.
3. There are hangers on the door.
4. You can see a shadow moving about.
5. There's a voice inside embarrassingly singing along to the Phil Collins song that is playing on the store's speakers.
6. The voice suddenly stops mid-Sussudio to yelp, "Someone's in here!" when you repeatedly try the handle (funny how you didn't bother to knock first).
7. If you're unable to bust the door down (despite a great effort!) and it suddenly opens, revealing an annoyed and hastily dressed person inside, SOMEONE IS IN THE CHANGE ROOM, YOU FUCKING SAVAGE.

Seems I can never go to Winners without an incident ...

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The Reveal! Buy My Amazing Downtown Toronto Condo!

Our condo will officially be on the market today! Want to see what a few years of slow renovations and a few days of frantic cleaning will do to a place? Here are some pictures (and you know how I "joke" about living in an IKEA showroom? See if you can count all the IKEA stuff in these pictures. It's humiliating!).

Our entrance:

The loo:

The kitchen:

As you know, I find cupcakes a tad overrated, and so I went with a simple glazed donut display instead. It's as much a political statement on desserts and a show of my support of the pro-donut movement as it is a mouth-watering feature:

And while Patrick became rather enraged over the time I was wasting "doing that shit" gently questioned whether it was worth it, I also made sure the insides of our cupboards were enticing to the more investigative potential buyers:

The dining area:

The living room:

The den:

The boudoir:

Lovely, yes?

While we tried to neutralize the place as much as possible, there are still little hints of our personality here and there. I couldn't help it:

I'm just glad that it isn't customary to post pictures of the owners along with their property. Ours would NEVER sell. Over the last few days, I've been looking more and more like Khalid Sheikh Mohammed in a Land's End dress and a pedophile pin. Can't envision that? Here you go; my MS Paint wizardry is at your service:

Kinda not kidding. You can't tell me there isn't a certain resemblance between KSM's tired I-hate-this-shit frown and the unhappy and bagged look I get now and again.

And that's on the days that I bothered to acknowledge that I was a female. Most of the time I wore a "working around the house" outfit that is about two degrees worse than what most people wear camping but one degree better than what most people wear to Walmart.

But I digress (imagine that).

Should you be a serious buyer looking for an updated, awesomely laid out 1 bedroom + den apartment with very reasonable condo fees in the most amazeballs neighbourhood in Toronto where the Financial District and the St. Lawrence Market meet, do contact my real estate agent and book an appointment!

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