Nntza, nntza, nntza

There was a period of time where hitting the clubs was a common occurence for me and it was one of my favourite things to do.  Now, while I still love dancing, the club scene isn't really for me all that much anymore.  Occasionally, perhaps to reminisce and combat my new decade, I will go see if I'm missing anything.  I'm not.
A few weekends ago, Paul and I went to Ivy - some new supper/dance club in Burlington and while the music and atmosphere were decent, I spent most of my time observing and making a face.

The next morning, I reviewed the notes I furtively had taken on my Blackberry and these were my impressions of the club scene:

- "I'm a stylist"  There was this girl in an ill-fitting bandage dress in the bathroom who kept commenting on all the other girls' outfits with this loud disclaimer.  Yeah, I'm sure you are.  Hey, look at me, I put my own outfit together too.  All the zippers are done all the way up and the shirt isn't on backwards.  I'm sure Hollywood will be calling soon.

- There's always that one man who has his shirt unbuttoned just one button too many.  The gold chains didn't help, but he was probably trying to showcase them.  On advice from the professional stylist.

- A highlight of the night was seeing something shiny on the floor and mistaking it for a toonie.  Yep, I bent down and picked it up to be sure.  Finding change is actually a highlight of any day.  Finding actual bills, well that's just another level of euphoria.

- Paul and I were joking that we hadn't been at a club in so long that the only songs we know are really old ones or really new ones.  By 'really new ones' I mean anything we heard on the car ride there.  Apparently there is already a remix to that Goyte song. Tell your friends.

- At a club that is billed as an "older crowd", you see a couple different things.  First, there was a birthday celebration at one of the booths and someone had brought balloons that were emblazoned with "50" - if you advertised your age as over 22 at a regular club, you might be kicked out.  Second, at "older" clubs they'll play House of Pain's Jump Up and when you look around no one is actually jumping.  Maybe some people stand on their tiptoes or raise their glass a little higher, but gone are the days of bouncing around.  That's how you break hips.

- The strange opposite to the clientele at this older club was that annoying girls still weave themselves through the bar while holding hands like preschoolers.  There was gaggle of at least 8 girls who took several minutes to walk past me, all clutching to the person in front of and behind them.  Seriously, all that was missing was a teacher up front and felt nametags pinned onto their skanky dresses.

- Dude, don't wear a trenchcoat to the club.  And don't pop the collar.

Can we leave yet?

Waxing Poetic

The Madame Tussauds Wax Museum - I've never really seen the point.  People get that it's just wax, right?  It's the same thing as walking though a room full of cardboard cut-outs and if I wanted to do that, I'd just go to my neighbourhood Shoppers Drug Mart where a random Justin Beiber cut-out works the cosmetics counter.  It freaks me out everytime I see it.

When I was living in New York City, the Madame Tussauds in Times Square would put out on the sidewalk a different figure every day.  And so, even though it seems very dumb and even though he would never look at the camera, Tracy and I took a picture.  However, it is not as dumb as paying $30 to tour the museum.  They're not REAL, people!!!

(Man, what was I thinking with those teeny tiny sunglasses?)

I've always thought that the likenesses weren't quite spot on.  By this I mean, they look like a melting version of the best impressionist working the clubs off the Vegas strip.

However, it seems like they finally got one right:

 

As opposed to this utter failure. I'll give anyone $5 right now if they can identify who this celebrity wax figure is meant to be:

Another time while in New York City (or probably the same day, judging from my outfit) we actually met Scary Spice.  Those who know me, know how major a life event this was.  However, any time anyone sees the picture (proudly displayed in my kitchen, near the .... spice rack, if you will) they automatically think it's a wax mannequin.

But all I have to do is whip out the first picture that she and I took together, just moments before, and it is clear that it was all too real:

I think her exact words after our first attempt were, "Bollocks, that was shitty.  Let's try again.  And then let's be best friends.  Will you replace Ginger?" 

Stag Winner

As I've already mentioned, I detest stag and does.  But when a Friday night appears and three of your best friends show up at your door to whisk you away to a border town with the promise of $3 drinks and a couch to crash on, you don't often argue.  Especially because I now work at home, and some days pass by without talking to anyone.  By 5pm I am usually craving human interaction.
So I went.  I didn't even complain.  Eye rolling and making sure not to touch the door handles is not technically complaining.

It was pretty staggy and doey, although extremely well-attended.  That's the beauty of a small town.  You know what isn't a beauty of a small town?  Hockey jerseys acting as shirts.

There was an activity at this event that I hadn't seen before - hammering a nail into a log.  That's about it.  Since I wanted to be supportive and because the food hadn't come out yet, I stepped up to the plate.  The game was affectionately called "Aaron's Whack Off".  I hope Aaron was the groom.

I did pretty well and my name went up on the scoreboard (aka piece of construction paper taped to the cinderblock wall).  I then lost, then won, then lost, then won (!) money at Crown & Anchor and cringed through some tiny person stepping on my toe.  Fair to middling night all around.

That was until my luck began to change.

Apparently my five hammer whacks had earned me a spot in the championships...against the mother of the bride.  So we had a Whack Off Off.  "I will cruuuush her."  Because we were both equally terrible, it took five rounds for me to beat her, but the pride was extraordinary.  Oh, she'll be fine - she can experience the pride of seeing her daughter walk down the aisle.  Or something.  All good, except for my friends now calling me the Whack Off Queen.  Although there are worse nicknames.

In addition to the pride that stayed with me all the way until the cake was cut, I received a $25 gift card to McDonald's.  Oohhhh yeeaaah.

But that's not all!  My night just kept getting better - I won the booze basket!  It was filled with a couple hundred dollars worth of random booze -  I know the exact amount because I returned it all at the LCBO the next day for things I actually like/am too cheap to try on my own.  I don't know who actually drinks Tequila Rose or Sour Puss, but I'm sure there were a couple of townies giving me the evil eye as I paraded the (heavy) basket around the legion hall.

I guess all it takes to make me enjoy the dreaded stag and doe is a little victory and free Big Macs and Chambord.  But, please don't make me go again.

His & Hers

What are the chances? Yeah, what are the chances that we both dressed like middle-aged government workers with their finger on the pulse of the hot colour of spring: tangerine?

We're kindred spirits.

Deets About the Eats

One of my New Year's resolutions (since I was 15 years old) is to eat better. This year I got a little more specific and gave myself a break with the details. I resolved to at least "make proper meals as often as possible". Living alone with no set dinner times or requirement to fulfill the four food groups is both an awesome freedom and a license to be lazy. Often I'll end up calling cheese and crackers or cut up pieces of ham a complete dinner. So, I have made a concerted effort to make real meals.

I've discovered that to take the task on for every day of the week is quite the chore. Especially for one person. I've been inviting people over randomly and at the last minute to help me eat my dinner. It makes all the effort a little more worth my time and effort. Plus they usually bring wine because they think it's a real dinner "party".

Seriously, to cook a three-piece meal takes up every element on my stove, including the one that doesn't work, and my oven. It's not at all hard, but the amount of time and dirty dishes one plate produces is irritating.



Another layer of the challenge is my ongoing lifelong goal to make every single recipe in all of Barefoot Contessa's seven cookbooks. So, I view each meal as an opportunity to knock a dish off the list. This is why I attemped meatloaf. I never liked it as a child and as an adult, it just seemed incredibly dull. A brick of meat. That's it. Why would I want to eat that?


However, Ina Garten's turkey meatloaf was pretty great. But even though I halved the recipe, I still ended up with a huge loaf. I ended up using slices as bread for the next week. Ever tried a bacon/meatloaf sandwich? Well, don't.


Another way I'm accomplishing both my goals is by hosting dinner parties. I've always enjoyed hosting parties, but the dinner party is great because it's more intimate and I get to be the little hostess in the apron. Yeah, I like this part. My goal is to host one a month with different guests.


The March party was my first formal dinner party of 2012 and it was a great time. It was particularly challenging as one guest was gluten free, another was pregnant, and another still was a vegetarian who is allergic to sugar. Faced with serving salad and water, I came up with a gluten-free turkey lasagna as the main course. I have always wanted to attempt a lasagna and it was incredible. I was shocked - even the Italian guest approved. I also made a caesar salad with anchovy dressing and strawberry French tarts with créme Anglaise - all homemade. We washed things down with Tom Collins cocktails.



I also took the plunge for Easter and took on the large family dinner - I did my first pork loin. It's so fun being this age when everything I make is "my first". I'm sure when I'm in my fifties I'll be so sick of meatloaf and pork loin.





After all this food talk, I'm pretty famished now. Grilled cheese anyone?

Hip To It

Easter dinner conversation:

Brother: I was at the cottage and this fox came up to me while I was shovelling the car out. So, I was trying to think of ways to keep it there and I had some Cheerios in my trunk so I fed them to him. Right out of my hand!

Sister: You had Cheerios just randomly in your trunk?

Mother: Oh, he has so much junk in his trunk.

*laughter*

Mother and grandparents look bewildered.

------

Later we taught Mom that WTF stands for "Why The Face?"

Synagogue Revamp

Before:

After:

This is what I do. I save lives. Lives of the parties. One Chiavari chair and overused photo booth at a time. And I carry very heavy binders. You can't teach this kind of genius.

Lowest of the Low

When I used to have a job that required me to leave the house and my pyjamas in the morning, I would often listen to the radio shows on my drive to work. Virgin Radio 99.9 has a recurring spot where they indulge paranoid or rightfully worried people who want to confirm whether or not their partner is cheating on them. Have you heard this?

These distraught people, usually women, would call in and spill their story about neglect, recent gym memberships, long hours at work and their suspicions of infidelity to the most heartless voices on the other end. Then the radio hosts put their plan into action: they call the alleged offending partner and offer them up a bouquet of roses or some night on the town in exchange for answering a short survey. Then, once the idiot agrees, they ask them who they want to send the flowers to/go out on the town with and every single time I listened, the person named someone other than their spouse/partner. At this point, the spouse/partner, who has been listening in along with most of the commuting GTA, freaks out and the offender is bewildered, caught in the act and completely blindsided. This is the premise. These are my problems with it.

1. Have these people never heard of mature communication? Or biting the bullet and asking their partner for honesty? You know, having a grown up conversation instead of throwing them under the bus and "catching" them in a most inappropriate way.

2. The radio hosts obviously see this as a great sport and they're out for blood. And ratings. The female one always offers the insincere 'last chance out' where she clearly does not want to provide this sniffling girl with any other options. Who came up with this idea of airing dirty laundry and involving complete strangers and sharing the unfortunate news with loved ones in the worst way possible?

3. What kind of idiot accepts a free anything after answering a survey that consists of 3 questions about their latest oil change? Nothing is free, buddy. Hang up! And who sees a survey call at 7:30am as legitimate anyway? How these dolts haven't managed to trip up all on their own and get caught is a mystery to me.

4. Granted, infidelity is one of the worst things you can subject someone to and it is the least respectful way to treat a partner, but this caper is very low as well. Blindsiding someone you love on the radio, in public, about any part of your relationship is just so repugnant. It makes me so uncomfortable to listen to this level of distress and pain, that I always change the dial right away. And this level of distress and pain in the morning? Before donuts, cocktails or lattes? Not cool.

5. Who's to say that because John Doe said some other girl's name when faced with the opportunity to send free flowers, it means he is cheating? Maybe he wants to send flowers to a friend who's having a hard time...perhaps someone's who's just been cheated on. Boo ya! Or maybe there are other extenuating circumstances or reasons to give the guy a chance to explain. Instead, the wronged chick freaks out, berates and accuses him in the public forum and probably locks him out of their house.

6. Why would anyone call someone named Mad Dog for advice or assistance in their life?

#winning

And this is why I like Winners:

Walleyed

I've lived in my house for two years now and I'm finally filling my walls.

Project #1:

Living room - I had been collecting these empty ornate frames at garage sales for several years and was unsure what to do with them. I also bought some frames with paintings and after the disappointment of not finding any proof that they were priceless works of art or had treasure maps hidden behind them, I had quite the collection.


I came up with this idea and spray painted some of them high-gloss black. It's my favourite project in the house. And very inexpensive. Nevermind about all the holes I'll have to repair in the plaster one day.

Project #2:

The gallery wall has been done everywhere, but I still really like it and thanks to IKEA, it's pretty easy. The hardest part is getting them all even and level. But by the time you get to this wall in my basement, you've likely already knocked your head on the low ceiling, so your perception might be skewed just enough.



This is my favourite picture I've taken - it was from my last LG Fashion Week when I worked in events in Toronto. It was a snapshot of my what my days there consisted of - all-access pass, stilettos, lattes, phone. The only thing you can't see that clearly is the stress, lack of sleep and snobby models. But they're there.

Makin' Bacon

I like bacon. Quite a bit. I can't think of any savoury food that would not be improved with the addition of bacon. Crispy, please.


So, when I first went to Chuck's Burger Bar on Locke Street I was quite surprised when I balked at the bacon burger. Not a beef burger with bacon atop, but a full patty made solely of bacon. Chopped up and formed, I suppose. For some reason, I couldn't do it.

But I persevered. Why do people climb Everest? Because it's there. While it took me three more visits to Chuck's before I could order it, I finally did, head high, challenge accepted.

This is how it arrived:


This is how it was when I threw in the towel:


It was quite awful. Really quite awful. It had a bouncy consistency and tasted like fat, not the smokey, crispy bacon I enjoy. It was like a grizzle cake. I ended up having to remove it and enjoy the bun, Brie and other toppings on their own. I thought I would feel like a failure, but really, just because you can, doesn't mean you should, Chuck's. I get why they offer it, but it's so bad.

It reminds me of one Christmas when I bought someone bacon flavoured envelopes and lip balm. Fail.

Speaking of pork, this advertisement baffles me:


This is the tactic the Pork Board is taking? And furthermore, there's even the need for a Pork Board? They have bacon, people! They don't need any public relations assistance. As long as people stay clear from bacon burgers, regular bacon is their golden ticket.

So, how exactly is this meant to encourage pork purchases? It "fits"? With my flip cell phone? Even I don't have one of those anymore. With my girls' nights out? Cosmopolitans, Manolo Blahniks and sausage links - a natural combination. With buying a house? Unless I am moving next door to a slaughterhouse, I'm not too concerned with pork and its production when I'm considering knob and tube wiring and whether the house comes with its own recycling boxes. With getting married??!! Sure, whether or not they like bacon will certainly be a determining factor in my mate selection, but the two in this ad look a little too smug. What - did they invent bacon? Everyone knows Francis Bacon did that. You know, and empiricism.

So long, farewell....

My group of friends is now big enough that we've resorted to the "Gooooo team!" goodbye instead of individual hugs. We actually put our hands in the middle together. I've been trying to get them to adopt this amazing send-off that I first saw among a group in Ottawa. I was living there for a while and had glommed onto this group of friends and when we were all out at a pub and one person went to leave, all the others would applaud as they departed. It was phenomenal. The rest of the bar would be curious about what was going on and, being the polite Canadian joiners that they are, would often join in. It was such a great way to leave the party. So far, it hasn't caught on over here. But I'll keep trying.

As Dorky As Anne Hathaway

In my head, this seemed like a creative idea.


In reality, I look like a complete dork.

The point was to visualize every one of the 9 Best Picture nominated films at this year's Oscar party.

The Artist - the cigarette holder
The Descendants - the lei
Moneyball - the baseball covered with dollar signs. Duh.
Tree of Life - the WTF sign - from what I heard, that movie was a complete mind baffle
The Help - the apron
Hugo - yeah, ok, fine, I got nothing
Midnight in Paris - the beret and my watch was set to midnight. It's in the details, people.
War Horse - the hobbyhorse
Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close - you can't tell from the picture, but I spent the night talking to people extremely loudly and incredibly closly. It was awkward.

Dodge This

So, it's a new year and along with a new job and a new relationship, I have a new "sport" at which I'm rapidly becoming mediocre. Actually, I should probably remove the quotations, because dodgeball isn't messin' around. Yes, that's right, I am on a dodgeball team in a 1000 person league in Hamilton. I was asked to join by a new friend, who, I'll be honest, I wanted to get in good with. If one of my already locked-in friends had asked me, I might have waffled a bit. But New Friend Winnie wants to be an enthusiastic joiner. Always. So, I jumped in. I also invited my friend Tim, who I had recently discovered to be quite athletic and a joiner himself.


My favourite part of dodgeball has got to be our team name: the Daj Mahballs

I love telling it to people and it's even better when we're wearing our shirts with the custom logo.


Not all the teams have matching shirts, but I'd like to campaign for an Originality trophy - we're a sure thing since the other team names are way lame: Dodgers, Fight Planet, Not In My Face.

If they were to give out an Originality trophy, it would be the only way we could possibly even come close to qualifying for a win.

We are terrible. Truly terrible.

We have lost EVERY single game, most matches and have come pretty close to being kicked out of the league due to a display of poor sportsmanship and one strange instance of random piano playing. Our team is pretty dejected. I, on the other hand, still really enjoy playing. It would be nice to win and I'm usually pretty competitive, but for the most part I still walk out of there with a smile on my face. And often, a bruise.

It might be because I keep thinking back to the first game and how much I hated it and how close I was to simultaneously crying and vomiting that every game since has been a delight. I was not at all prepared for my first taste of dodgeball. I was only armed with LuluLemons and the story of my friend who got a broken nose upon her first failure to dodge. I pretended to stretch alongside my teammates, but I really have no idea how to do that. Then they just sort of throw you in there. Getting hit wasn't so bad, but the running, jumping, dodging and general endurance required for an hour of this game was more than I could handle. It was, hands down, the most intense cardio activity of my life. One girl on my team actually DID throw up.


Now that we're a couple months in, it doesn't feel as intense, but it's still a hardcore work-out. We've been learning some strategies and are trying to work as a team, but I'm pretty sure we still look as haphazard as our first day.

Here's why we can't win:

- Too many chicks. We've been watching the A division teams and they only have the minimum number of girls, 2. We have about 7. And girls can't throw. We just can't. We can dodge and try to catch, but throwing is not our forte.

- No communication. Most of us don't know each other and this is our first time playing together so it's hard to get on the same page. Plus, we're just NOW learning some tricks of the game. Did you know that balls to the head don't count if you're standing upright in a non-athletic stance? This isn't really a trick of the game, just something I learned along the way.

- Not angry enough. We need to go all Red Ross on their asses. But by the time we realize this, we're already exhausted.

- Getting hit doesn't hurt that much. If it hurt as much as I was thinking it would, I'd do anything to avoid getting hit. Sure, winning is a strong incentive, but pain is a greater one.

When my friend mentioned that she and I are now part of the same league, I excitedly asked, "Really??! Will I get to play against you?!" Her response: "Oh. No, sorry sweetie, I'm in the A division." This is code for: "When I see you there, I have to pretend not to know you."



My second favourite thing about dodgeball? This joke about the league organizers, who are predominantly lesbians: They've been dodging balls their whole lives.

Thank you! Good night!

2011 - The Best Year Ever

In reviewing 2011, here are some things that happened:

- I walked out of the first movie ever. I dislike wasting time. However, I dislike wasting money even more. So, for me to consider throwing away $11.50, a movie has to be pretty unbearable. Plus, I was in the middle of an aisle. And years earlier, I managed to suffer through Glitter without giving up. So this should give you an idea how bad "How Do You Know?" was.



- I tried new things. A lot of new things:

- badminton
- rock climbing
- horror movies
- snowboarding
- dating against type
- hitting police officers with my car - nope, not my car...my boss' car
- tennis
- trampolining
- cleanse diet - quite possibly the worst idea of 2011
- gay dance clubs
- gluten free food
- working out seriously
- mystery shopping - uh, I mean, nope, nothing to see here, move along
- charcoal barbecues
- speed dating
- Goodness Me nutrition class
- country music
- Toronto Beaches...or is it Toronto Beach
- watching The Sound of Music, finally
- cutting down my own Christmas tree
- freelance work

They were met with varying levels of success. But looking over the year, it did live up to what I titled it at the beginning of January:


- I was asked to be a Maid of Honour. My best friend Naomi got engaged to my badminton partner Tim. I guess he's more than that and he wasn't originally my badminton partner, but now it's our thing. Helping them plan their wedding has been lots of fun and I can be more honest with her than I can be with my clients. For the most part.


The best part about the wedding, well, besides the displays of eternal love and commitment between two people I care about, is my dress! Yes, MY dress. It's stunning. Granted Naomi's dress is even more stunning, but we're both pretty stoked about mine too. In fact, we selected my dress before the big white main event dress. I have a feeling I'm going to pull a Miss Havisham and never take it off.

- My friends really kicked it up with Christmas cards this year. This might not warrant a bullet point to you, but as someone who has been sending out Christmas cards since the ninth grade, I'm thrilled that people are finally reciprocating. This past year saw the highest number of cards received. Thank you for finally getting the subtle hints I've been dropping for the past 15 years!

- I bought these shoes. And I found someone lovely enough to indulge me in a public place by holding them so I could photograph them. How do ya like that?

Worst. Blogger. Ever.

Returning to posting after almost three months is a daunting task. I vacillate between not knowing what to write about and not knowing where to start.

Staring blankly at the screen while acting pretentious at a Starbucks, this is what I've been able to come up with:


I took this picture months ago and it is as baffling today as it was then. Glue stick and batteries? Is this really a natural combination?

Ok, I'll keep trying.

Worst. Baker. Ever.

Betty Crocker, we have a problem.
I am in the middle of my week of party preparation and have been baking up a storm. Last night was pecan squares and Barefoot Contessa warned me that the filling would bubble over during baking and to place another pan underneath. Done. Safely in the oven, I went downstairs to tend to something terribly important, like blow drying my hair or something. A few minutes later I came up to the kitchen and entire first floor filled with smoke with more smoke pouring out of the burners on the stove.


I learned the following things:

- Fires require oxygen to thrive - it's true! The second I opened the oven door the fire expanded into a fire ball and spread quickly.

- I am not calm under this kind of pressure. I just started yelling "Help" and the names of the tenants upstairs for no real reason while I frantically panicked and planned my next move.

- Using a fire extinguisher isn't that hard. However, having never used one before, trying to read the instructions through smoke and fear is fairly difficult. "Pin? What pin? Where is the PIN??!!!"

- Fire extinguishers (at least mine) are filled with powder. I had no idea. I thought it was a liquid.

- Said powder will cover every surface in your house. You will be pissed.

- My legs shake uncontrollably when faced with that kind of adrenaline and panic.

- My tenants cannot hear me when I call for help, nor do they seem at all concerned with their home filling with smoke. It's clear that I'm on my own here.

- I hate pecan squares. And I'm pretty pissed at Barefoot Contessa too. How about this, INA, make the squares in a container that won't spill over and ruin my entire evening??? Huh, INA!?

- I can ingest a considerable amount of fire extinguisher powder with little to no effect.

Means to the End

Have you seen this billboard around town? Now, I consider myself very blessed to not yet know the cost of a funeral, however, this seems to be a new level of depressing. In a perfect world, I believe that a funeral should represent the person's life and attempt to be a remembrance. I certainly don't want my funeral to be 'basic'. Hmmm, perhaps I should start saving up now.

I've already mentioned a song that I'd love to have play at my funeral and it might be strange to say, but I've got some other ideas as well.

If fact, when I was in high school (believe it or not, the most heightened period of my self-absorbed introspection) I would often think about who would attend my funeral. It was morbid, but would my crush from calculus come? My boss at the golf club where I worked? That person I don't like - have they been able to tell?

I care a lot less these days about who would be there because I know the people in my life and what I mean to them and vice versa. So now that the guest list is intact, I should start thinking about how to ensure they'll have a great time. I am nothing if not an eternal host.

Food:Selfishly, I would like the food to be only ones that I like. Or liked.
- sushi (and none of the seaweed salad filler)
- sandwiches (I am currently undergoing a lifelong search for the perfect sandwich artist in my absence. This is what wills are for right?)
- Nanaimo bars and other squares baked by someone's grandmother. Obviously not mine.
- pie, and lots of it
- cheese, and more of it

Beverages: (How else do people deal with grief and spill crazy stories about me?)
- Cosmopolitans
- Manhattans
- milkshakes
- pink lemonade

Activities:Yes, this will be an active funeral. In fact, I'd like it to have a theme somehow. Ok, fine, "How Awesome She Was" will suffice.
- trivia - You know how at weddings sometimes they ask trivia questions about the couple to get them to kiss? I like this idea for my wake. The prize for each correct answer: I won't haunt you.
- Dance Off - I'm already expecting to come down to Ryan and Paul in the finals.
- Distributing of my greatest assets: 5 vintage Spice Girls dolls in original packaging (Dan, you're the front runner for possession), and my hand written journals (these should go to someone with the tact to delete sensitive passages)



Venue:- If Westminster Abbey and New York's Bloomingdales are unavailable, try any other place of worship.
- Outside would be cool, but only if it's a perfect day. I really like Gage Park, but then there is the risk of random weirdos wandering into the service. Try to avoid that, unless they're my friends.
- As far as ashes being scattered somewhere, I like the romantic notion of this, but I'm pretty sure it doesn't look the way it does in the movies. I've still got some time to think about this. Right??

Ok, it's Friday afternoon, I think it's best for me to stop dwelling on the end and get out and live my weekend. It promises be a good one! Lots of Christmas baking, live music with talented musician types, a holiday party, last minute shopping and sushi. Viva la Winnie!

Tree Trimming

Since it feels like April outside I thought I should throw on my galoshes and get around to fixing this:
The forlorn emptiness.


Armed with fresh greens, the bottom branches of my Christmas tree and detailed instructions from my Mom, I gave it a shot.


Hmmm. Not sure this is how it was supposed to turn out. And that's its best side.

I think that's it for the exterior of my house this year - all we need now is some snow. How do people in California even pretend to get enthused about the holidays? A green Christmas is pretty sad.

Huh?

I am officially adding this to the list of things I don't know:


What the heck is that thingy on lamps that hangs below the light? See it? It's like the wattle on the turkey, but surely it must have a purpose. Almost every desk lamp has one and it always baffles me. *insert dim bulb joke here*