Sunday, February 28, 2010

Canada FTW!!


Okay, seriously on air here. Being with a pub in the heart of Toronto as Crosby scored in overtime to win Canada the GOLD was incredible. Being a Canadian has never felt so sweet. Two golds in hockey on home ice. Hells to the fuck yeah!

It's a madhouse out there on the streets: flags, screaming, honking, cheering, waving and dancing. The high I'm feeling is a country celebrating together.


Friday, February 26, 2010

Bathing suit 2.0

My bathing suit hath arrivedeth. And it is charming. And adorable. And good quality. And... too long! How could this be? Well, I know how it could be. I have the torso of a child dwarf, that's how it could be.

But! A saving grace! The red panel means easy alterations. Not for me, oh heaven's no. I can't sew worth a damn. I'm taking it in to the pros. But thar be a second problem with me sailor pinup suit, matey. And that be that me chest is flat as ye olde plank.

Well, not that flat, but flat enough. My bust lives in A town, close enough to B town to smell the flowers, but not enough to get a permanent address. Now, this suit is padded in the chest for modesty's sake. No free nipple flashes. No paid ones either, for the record. But there are no cups. Granted, I don't need the support, but I'm a young small chested woman and I am accustomed to being able to harness the powers of modern tailoring to lie to the general public about my body. No cups equals no shape. No shape means my girls flatten against me under the crushing weight of spandex.

So I have my work cut out for me, because this suit is too close to happiness and perfection for me to wear it as is. I'm going to Fabricland and buying some bust cups. Then I'm going to Stitch It to have the red panel shortened and the cups inserted. Conveniently these two establishments are five minutes from each other.

And then when it's finished there will be choirs of angels singing praise to my bathing suit. Mostly in my mind.

This will be an expensive item by the time I'm done. I so don't even care at this point.

Thursday, February 25, 2010

Advice columns are bitchin'

One of my most favourite things to do on the internet is read advice columnists. Some people like YouTube, others like FML, some are into novelty blogs or online magazines or whatever. I like all those things too. But boy howdy do I like me a good advice columnist.

Mostly because it's a window into other people's problems and I'm super nosy. It's like finding someone not on your Facebook friend list has 500 pictures available to browse. It's like sitting next to someone on the TTC who's having a scandalous phone conversation and totally not aware you're listening to everything. Basically, I love people in the sense that I truly enjoy these little blips into their lives.

My favourite is Miss Manners. An oldie but a goodie, and arguably the best in the business. Decades of honing her skill in her column (and books) have made her a force. Her acerbic wit mixed perfectly with civility makes my brain tingle with glee.

Next in line is Dear Prudence at Slate magazine. What makes this one so good is the columnist has a really good head on her shoulders, and is kind of a smarty pants. Bonus: There's a weekly video with one letter animated and "Prudence" herself answering the question. Awesome.

Third is Dear Margo, the original Dear Prudence and daughter of the late Ann Landers, who has carried on her work at WOW. She cutely signs off all her responses with an adjective describing her reaction to the letter. -Margo, Revealingly; -Margo, Sympathetically; -Margo, Gaspingly. Plus she's older, has a wealth of life experience that she hints at periodically and even when she's being unconventional, it's easy to see where she's coming from.

Last is Advice Goddess. Amy Alkon beats around the bush far more than any of the others, but she always drives home her point. Hers are mostly relationship woes, but as those can be the most interesting, it's easy to overlook.

And missing from this list is tried and true Dear Abby, who frankly drives me crazy with her moralizing.

I'm now going to read Miss Manner's latest, then settle into Amy Alkon's book, I See Rude People. Life is good.

However, it can only go on so long. Women's gold medal hockey is on tonight. Priorities!

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Lame = old = okay

I have never been terribly fun. Fun being a going out, drinking it up, being silly and la-la-la. I gave it a go in my teens before I was of age, but something in me just switched off before I could even go about debauchery in a legal fashion. And I do enjoy nights out, good drinks, good company and silly times. I just lack stamina and, strangely, talent for it.

For the sake of my health, and frankly life, I severely limit how much I drink. I vomit easily and can so easily lose control of all my facilities. I've certainly discovered this the hard way. I've ridden the porcelain express, long and hard. I've spent time in the hospital after a night of "hard" drinking as my lungs burned and heaved from such intense puking. This sadly has happened more than once. And from what? Oh, about five drinks of alcohol. Or as I like to call them, units.

While some people are gearing up to go out at 11:00, I'm now too tired to leave my house. I like to get home no later than 2:00. I like to leave no later than 10:00. I need a hearty meal and a long stretch of time to pace my sparse units.

So I'm not terribly exciting. I'm not an awesome night out on the town. Do I wish I was? To some degree, sure. I sometimes wonder if in fact I'm just not fun. But on the other hand, I think I'd be less happy if I made myself party more often. I don't like puking, feeling dizzy, hangovers and realizing how idiotic I was last night.

I had a nice night out with friends tonight and was home by 10:00. I had one drink. I feel fine and dandy. And something I'm finding I enjoy about nearing 30 is that it's less and less uncool to go out and drink less and less. It starts being smart instead of lame. My age is slowly but nicely catching up to my personality.

Listening to some of my friend's crazy drinking stories filled me with glee. I love them all. I feel partial regret I've not been spending my youth being nutty too. But maybe for someone low key like me, living vicariously is more advisable. I'd probably just die or something.

On a totally unrelated note, the Dude just came home with $50 worth of pork products from work. Huh.

Monday, February 22, 2010

And the crowd goes wild... with anger!

Part of being Canadian means dying a little inside when the American hockey team wins against Team Canada. UGH. They were totally prepared to play against our goalie, Brodeur. Dude's all aggressive in the net and sets up plays. He's like a defense man and goalie in one. But they used that against him. They were on it. And their goalie Miller was incredible. We out shot them twice over and dude let in practically nothing. Frig frag frack fuck.

My Facebook news feed was flowing with devastated moans and wails of disappointment and soul crushing utterances of "Ah, FUCK!" As I watched that admittedly phenomenal open net goal, I heard or rather felt hearts break across the country. But I choose to view this positively. It means an extra game, which means more time on the ice together to improve and prepare for Russia. It ain't over yet.

Moving on, moving on.

I had to do a glucose curve for Smokey. Yeah. I had to draw blood from my cat hourly and record his glucometer results. So one can imagine what kind of day I had yesterday. Understandably, Smokey does not care for blood tests. He's not a very combative guy, but he does like to complain. Many cats howl, hiss and claw. Smokey grumbles.

Me: Come on Smokey, time for your glucose test!
Smokey: Mrrrh.
(I pick Smokey up)
Smokey: Mrrrhh!
(I prick Smokey's ear)
Smokey: Mggrrrghgh! Rrraghhh!

The joys of pet ownership. The Dude and I have been talking about getting another cat. Smokey seems lonely to us, or bored. He strolls around the apartment having meowing fits. He no longer looks for Jerry, but we think he must be missing having a friend to do cat stuff with. So we're considering it. It's a very hard decision. I don't want to make Smokey's final years unhappy for him with the wrong new cat. But I don't want him to grow more and more distressed from boredom or loneliness.

It really is amazing the hole Jerry left in this apartment. I miss the little guy.

Saturday, February 20, 2010

Bathing Suit of dreams

I've done some calculations and I have spent almost $1,200 on clothes online this past 12 months. The tally?

4 pairs of socks or tights
2 accessories
2 jackets
10 dresses

And I'm want more. MORE! I basically don't shop for things in person anymore. I can't remember the last time I bought something in a mall or a real person store. It's all a part of my growing hermitism. That and I adore wearing neato special items that can't be found locally.

Take this little item. I was whining earlier about my short torso and this puppy with its unprecedenteded lack of length is the answer:

For the low, low price of $130 I can be a pin-up sailor girl.

I read the negative reviews and knew it was the suit for me:

"i was very excited to be able to order it. unfortunately, it fits very short. the bottoms and top are fine on my body, but the waist is not long enough for me."

Ooh, tell me more!

"the waist is not long enough, resulting in the halter strap pulling painfully at my neck."

Dare I say it, I think I'm in love.

Byatch, you're mine. My ass will fill your spandex. Come to Jendra.

Friday, February 19, 2010

Nosy bout the monies

I hate money.

Actually, no, I do enjoy having monies. Having the monies means being able to pay rent and buy new dresses and feed my cat. But I hate it. I hate the concept of it, saving it, budgeting it, managing it, thinking about it and paying things off.

Oh, it's satisfying to pay shit off. And it's a comfort to be able to do so. And I'm too meticulous and paranoid a person to ever not closely manage my finances. And the Dude's finances (this is his wish, so no I'm not diving through his personal accounts and taking over).

It just effing sucks. When I was 22 I was making much less. I also barely saved my money. I just spent what I earned, no more, no less. Now I'm thinking about retirement savings. R-fucking-SPs. I'm also thinking about future home ownership. I have a downpayment, but blargh if prices on homes in the city don't seem to go up, up, up.

I'm not drowning in debt. I don't actually have any debt. Again, I'm too anxious to incur any. I find myself increasingly curious about other people's finances. I don't ask, but I burn to know. Are they house poor? Are they putting away 10% of their income? What are their mortgage payments and property taxes? How much was that wedding or vacation?

It's sometimes a shock to learn the answers. Actually, it's always a shock. Every now and then I'll be revealed a tidbit of info about someone's finances and I'll wonder either how they can live with themselves or how they managed such awesomeness. I wanna be awesome too.

Being awesome used to require cute shoes and a cool haircut. Adulthood has totally upped the ante. Fucking retirement, house downpayment, emergency fund savings. Le sigh.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Coulda shoulda oughta

The watching of the Olympics continues. It's getting a little out of hand. (**side note, I did not know there was a luge with two people lying on top of one another. The hell?**) But tonight I took the time away to go to dance. I tried a new class tonight called "Just Dance". Supposedly an all-levels class. Sounds fun, right? If realizing how little you know and how crap you are compared to a real pro is fun, then I had a night of total awesomeness.

No, no, I've never been under any illusion that I'm a magnificent dancer. I'm not angling to go pro. I just want to dance and have fun. But man, if there is anything that kills the buzz it's trying to keep up with a highly advanced dancer as she rocks every move she knows in quick succession while you in your novice glory pull off something resembling a weak jig alongside her. I dunno. If you can't participate, it's less enjoyable. She was pulling out moves I'd never seen before, never mind learned.

So back to structured classes for my skill level. There's another gala coming up in June. It'd be nice if this time I had a flatter stomach for it, but I'm not holding my breath (or doing extra sit-ups or cutting back on ice cream or anything that might lead to said flatter stomach, so never mind).

I've begun to really think more about how I'm going to age. I'm not flexible. Never have been. I have this fear I'm going to become this old rickety fart who pulls out her back while she's bending over to do up her velcro shoes. And I fear this will happen when I'm 40 instead of 70.

Sometimes I don't feel young. Like when I can't stretch properly, or when I think my bowed legs are getting more pronounced, or when a night of casual drinking makes me feel haggard and feeble.

I suppose comparing yourself to anyone is going to lead to unhappiness. And watching myself flounder so foolishly beside someone very beautiful and accomplished tonight, who was about my age, was a bummer.

I'm also on my moon time. I love being able to excuse wimpy feelings on hormones and wimens problems. At least then when you feel down on yourself, you don't have to feel totally responsible for it.

I should take up yoga.

Monday, February 15, 2010

Go us!

I've been watching the Olympics with a bit more gusto than previous years, mostly due to age. When I was 23 and 19, I was less concerned about stuff like this. Now I'm all, GO CANADA! My heart raced with excitement watching the men's moguls and seeing Canada win its first gold. Who knew it could be this enjoyable. Well, hundreds of millions of people knew, but anyway, moving forward!

My aunt in Vancouver sent me these for Christmas!

█ ♥ █

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Choo Choo Choose you

Today be Valentine's Day. Once when I was 16 I was heard to say, "I hate Valentine's Day because no one ever loves me!" I was being facetious with a large grain of angsty teenage truth, but I said it in front of my best friend, who has remembered and repeated the quote to me ever since. When my mom heard it that year she was offended. "I always make you feel loved!" Ah, moms. But she did always give my brother and me Valentines.

This year the Dude and I are staying in to enjoy our sparklingly clean apartment. Man, it looks good. They missed some spots, but they were far more thorough than he and I have ever managed. On our agenda for the day is to watch some movies from the list. We only have 10 left. The Time Traveler's Wife will be on there. Also we're going to have my favourite soup ever, which is a concoction the Dude made up and has been perfecting over time. I call it Thai soup for lack of creativity. It's full of veggies, garlic, satay, coconut milk, chicken, chilli peppers... Oh God, it's good.

And the Dude gave me my present last night. Why last night? Because he can't keep a secret.

Now, I'm pretty good at stringing him along, misdirecting him and holding my tongue about what I get him for gifts, unless it requires prior planning and then whatever. Like the bag I got him for Christmas. I told him a lie about how I checked out the bags he had admired and they were several hundred dollars and I couldn't afford it. Or on his birthday I told him not to buy himself anything, and that if he tried to guess what his present was, then that wouldn't be it anymore if he was right, and I'd get him something else.

He tried to string me along a little. But he slipped. He said, "The lady said it doesn't expire." A-ha.

Me: It's a certificate of some kind.
Dude: Uh... oh... Damn it!
Me: Now, what sort of certificate could it be?
Dude: (Grumbling)
Me: It's a spa certificate isn't it?
Dude: Fuck!
Me: Gimme!
Dude: Damn it! Fuck!
Me: ^_^

I'm so utterly jazzed. I've always, always wanted a spa day and this certificate is for "the works". Exfoliating scrub, massage, facial, manicure, pedicure, and lunch. Oh boy! There are certain indulgences that make me melt, and spa stuff is pretty much at the top of the list.

I'm happy.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

w00t for Canada!

This is the cold that never ends. Yes, it goes on and on, my friends. Somebody started sneezing it, not knowing what it was. And they will go coughing on forever just because this is the cold that never ends...

Yeah, still sick. This one has been a bit of a trip. I've been getting bouts of feverishness tossed in for good measure. And tomorrow is Valentine's Day. I really want to be well enough to enjoy it. You know, you get through a chunk of cold and flu season unscathed, and you start to think you're immune. Well, my body sure showed me.

So! The opening ceremonies last night were pretty fantastic, except for the hydraulics fail at the end. Can you imagine being the dude responsible for that? There's some work you don't want on your resume. But other than Canada's failure to achieve a proper erection to light the torch, they were still able to rise to the occasion. Heh.

I thought overall, it really captured our country. I loved the fiddlers, and the skaters around the rockies. The Inuit bit at the start was very Lord Of The Rings. When the white-garbed Inuit with the staff slammed it down and caused those rippling rings, all I could think of was, "You shall not pass!"

And good old Wayne Gretzky lit the torch, inside and outside. I was pleased it was him. He's an athlete, he's a Canadian hockey hero, and everybody loves the Gretz. Rick Hansen was a cool choice, too. It looked like a rough push into the stadium, though. Maybe dude could use some snow tires.

I'll be watching hockey and figure skating. Those are my favourites. I care about the others in terms of medals, but I'll take the time to watch the events I really like.

Go Canada!

Friday, February 12, 2010

Sick and Valentines

Still sick. Had a woozy doozy of a day yesterday. Actually had to take the day off work, and when you work from home, that says a lot about how crap you feel. Today I worked and it took me forever as I hacked, sneezed, coughed and slugged my way through my job.

And now I have a glorious three days off. Recovery is ahead. Though tomorrow maid service is coming to clean the apartment and the Dude's stepbrother and his fiancee want to take the Dude out to a belated birthday dinner and I'm invited. I'd like to go, but we'll see how I manage with this nagging cough.

As for the maid service, it's my Valentine's Day present to the Dude. Past years I've sprung for a couples massage, or a hotel room at the Gladstone. Romantic stuff. This year I'm being pragmatic about what will bring us closer together as a couple. The Dude's been talking about hiring cleaners for over a year. He loathes to clean (Fancy that!) and so this is right up his alley. And in turn, it's also up my alley because although I am less adverse to cleaning than he is, I don't care much for it either.

My goodness, my throat feels like ass. Maybe a nap is in order. I'll grab Smokey. He's always up for a nap.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Sick 'n stuff

I'm sick. Not terribly so, but enough that living sucks. It's a basic cold, mostly a sore throat that makes it hard to talk or swallow. And though I've downed a ton of Halls, some Benylin, and I've tried to sleep this off, what helps? Uncle Ray's hot chips. Go figure. It burns to eat them, but it burns so goooood.

The Dude's been taking care of me. I don't do sick well. I never have. I always get over stuff pretty fast, though. Maybe because I stop doing everything once I'm sick and give myself a chance to recuperate. Or maybe I'm just a wiener. Whatever.

I go rest now. Zzzz...

Tuesday, February 9, 2010


A couple evenings ago I watched a show on Doc Zone called Hyper Parents & Coddled Kids. Nothing new there. Look around and you'll see spoiled brats everywhere. They show up late, don't pay their dues, are rude and obnoxious to strangers and blast their music in public, careless of whoever else has to hear it. I made a point to watch this show because it's a current and longstanding frustration of mine.

Interesting thing is I was raised with this generation. Somewhere around the early '80s with the self esteem movement is when the awfulness began. And I'm thinking it must have gotten progressively worse as more and more parents have tried to one-up each other in scheduling their child and fixing their problems. I mean, I got a trophy just for showing up to softball. There was self esteem biznass in elementary school. But my mom also let me reap the consequences of my own actions pretty much all the time. I was born in '82.

I grew up with kids being punished, held back and moved forward in grades according to their abilities, failed tests, awards for achievement and discipline in schools for laziness and rudeness. Parents left their kids in the car for a few minutes at the corner store. Kids took the school bus and waited outside for it and it drove away if you weren't there.

All the kids I know minus one or two had one activity, not three or four. Out of my school friends, one did gymnastics, another did figure skating. I took piano lessons. In the summer we played softball. I knew a couple boys took guitar. And then for the rest there were school sports-- which you had to try out for. I never made a team, though I tried.

The kids who I really think have been ruined were born a little later than that, maybe about four or five years later. I first noticed it in high school in my OAC year (That's the old grade 13 for you non-Ontario people). The school was flooded with grade nines, as usual. But this batch was different. They were noisier. They were more obnoxious. They had no regard for seniority.

They did things that my year wouldn't have dreamed of when we were in grade nine. They mouthed off to senior students, blocked them in the hallways, and generally behaved like they owned the place. People were talking about how entitled they were. I didn't know at the time that they were a taste of the new narcissists that had been reared into the world.

Now I'm 27 and high schoolers are ludicrous. And sure, there must be some sort of generation gap... but really? 10 years a generation does not make. I'm not so sure it's a gap. I'm still quite young, not in my 70s and reliving the good old days when people had respect. Frig, people have probably never had respect.

But you hear it all the time. Parents calling the schools to solve their children's problems. I go to belly dance with a swim instructor who can no longer fail children. Yeah. What? I so got my ass handed back to me in Maroon. They failed me and I took it, my mom took it and that was that. Obviously I was not ready to advance. Know what they do now? They changed the system to more levels and if a child can't meet all the requirements, they're labelled "weak swimmer" and moved on. According to the swim instructor, failing the children is not worth what the parents put you through. Like little Timmy won't get into Dartmouth if he fails swim class when he's 8 years old.

When I played softball at 8 years old, we kept score. This is considered in some circles to be too harsh. When I graduated elementary, one award was given to the best overall student. These days all children get a medal or none do. What's wrong with competition? I'm pretty sure these now 20-year-olds are going through life thinking they're pretty awesome without any actual proof.

Another good book to read about this topic is Pregnant Pause. I found the author occasionally obnoxious and judgemental (what does she care if a woman wants a home birth? The stats say it's not dangerous, if you actually read them), but in many other ways she totally hits the mark on what's wrong with raising children in today's world: other parents. She chronicles the BS names her friends and contemporaries are naming their kids, the lax attitudes towards discipline, the fear of the word "no" and the hyper maniacal scheduling and anxiety.

You know, I want children. I really do. And more over, I think more sensible people need to be breeding.

Monday, February 8, 2010


Hey, last post was my 100th! Awesome.

Yesterday the Dude and I celebrated his birthday a few days early. He's been working so much, that we figured a Sunday was the only day safe to make firm reservations. I like his birthdays. They're always so relaxed. He's not big on parties for himself.

So we slept in and he opened his presents. I gave him some Adobe Photoshop manuals he wanted, which made him happy. We lazed around all day, then went out to dinner at the Keg Mansion. It serves his favourite steak, so it's an easy standby. It's not really much of a causal dining experience. Every time you go they ask you if it's a special occasion. They brought the Dude an ice cream cake with a sparkler.

And so now he's 29. Well, he will be on Wednesday, but who's counting? He says he won't care when he turns 30, but who doesn't care at least a little? I know I'll care. Hell, I named my blog after it. It's a milestone birthday. Your body changes in your 30s. Your priorities often change. It strikes me as one of those ages where you've got to be more serious about your life. The 20s are about making mistakes, figuring out who you are and what you want. You're allowed to be an idiot.

If you're still an idiot in your 30s, you're not just young anymore. You are actually an idiot.

Thinking on my parents, my dad was a married father of two by 29 (though the married part would not last long into his 30s). And at 29, my mother was childless and unmarried. I know how she spent her 30s. She got started on a family. But her 20s were spent working, some travel, moving around, living in the city and having relationships. Had I been more curious about her when she was alive, I'd know more.

But as a kid I only wanted to know about her childhood. And as a teen, I only wanted to know about myself and my friends. Her 20s have a lot of question marks for me. My aunt, her closest sister and friend, tries to fill in the blanks. But trying to tell someone else's life story is a challenge. No matter how close you were or are, you still don't know all the details and chronology can get confused and you remember things differently, and it's from your perspective so certain events or people may have seemed more or less important to you than they may actually have been to the main character of that life story.

I was thinking about this at dinner, though less organized. The Dude wanted to know what I was thinking about. I kept these thoughts to myself at the time. It wasn't really Keg Mansion conversation.

I've been thinking about the daughter I hope to have one day. The more a woman knows about her mother's past, the better off she'll be. Even if it's sad or terrible or boring. I wish my mother had kept a diary. Or written some letters. There's something that seems wrong about her dying, beyond how untimely it was. I should have known more about her.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Hearts and Rainbows

And the hair, she is le done!

Loving the books behind me.
Makes a vain photo look all intellectual-like.

Bit of a dark photo, eh? I'm going to wrangle the Dude into taking a better shot with a real camera when he gets home. But I loves the hair, hearts and rainbows! Plus I got two compliments on my dress:

Yes, I specifically dressed up to get my hair done. Why? Because I'm not going anywhere tonight and it was my one crack to look as awesome as possible in front of a few people. Oh, I'm aware it's silly. I did it anyway.


So Smokey is okay. Still a diabetic, but he needs less insulin, or so the vet is thinking. So that's all well and good. However, like predicted, he's going to need special care in about two weeks. I'm going to do at at-home glucose curve. Oh yes. See, I have to test his blood sugar once an hour for a day. Yeah, so drawing blood from my cat hourly should be a good time. Good way to spend a Sunday. But it's Smokey and I loves him, so I'm obviously going to do it. I never knew being diabetic was so expensive. Those test strips are about a buck each. I'm glad I don't have it. Jebus.

In more superficial and girly news, I finally get my hair done today. I haven't had it cut and coloured since... Late October. It's February. I just kept putting it off and now it looks like ass: roots, split ends, no shape, blah-blah-blah.

So here be the before picture:

Note the grease, as the roots are less obvious in this light.

I'm still trying to grow it out. I'm several inches away from a goal length that is vague and mysterious. I'll just know when I have enough hair. I started growing it out around the same time I quit wearing pants a couple years ago. Yeah, I avoid pants at all costs, unless a dress or skirt is just far too impractical.

My late 20s seem to be calling to me to be more feminine. I was actually never really that girly in my teens. I had short punky hair. I never wore the kilt for my uniform after grade 10, opting for pants, and I wore skater sneakers instead of dress shoes. I had a bob in college, dressed like a hobo, and wore makeup about twice a year.

After college I settled into moderation and looked more like a normal woman. I acquired a couple girly things to wear, grew my hair to my shoulders and started wearing makeup half the time I went out.

But this, this is something else entirely. I feel sad when I have to wear pants. I really enjoy putting together a nice look and making my face look more attractive. I love the process of making myself pretty.

I remember before my mom died, I went to see her in the hospital. I was 16 and she saw me in an outfit she liked (rare) and she said that it looked like I finally found "my style." And of course it was just wishful thinking on her part because she would never see how I'd turn out and she knew it. But I was wearing a skirt that day. And so that little memory makes me smile.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Smokey's Day Out

So weird there being no cats in the house. I really don't like it. It doesn't feel like home without Smokey here. Little guy's at the vet till 6:00 tonight. He's getting a glucose curve done. There's a chance he may not even be diabetic anymore. Wouldn't that be awesome!

With my luck, though, probably he needs some sort of pricey treatment and extra care. He is 16 and a half. I can't hope too hard for miracles.

The cat feeder went off at lunch time for Smokey's afternoon snack. I heard no pitter patter of his little paws running to eat. It was a lonely feeling. I miss him, and it's only been a few hours.

The vet technician observed I must be very attached to him, being a childhood pet. I am. I really don't think it's possible for me to feel more love than this for a cat. He's been my friend almost all my life. He's peed on me, ruined things, caused me inconvenience and worry. He's often needy and keeps me up at night. He meows all the time. And I wouldn't change him.

It's surprising to me all the same that one day without him at home feels so bad. I'm happiest at home when the Dude and Smokey are here and we're hanging out together. Where they are, my home is.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Rescue Smokey

I had a rough night last night. Shortly after writing my last post, things started going a little nuts.

It all started when I caught Smokey taking a dump in the kitchen. It didn't seem like it was a conscious choice on his part, though. Something about it seemed kind of involuntary. What came out was hard (Actually when I picked him up to take him to the litter, a hard chunk flew out. Just when you think you've seen all your cat will do to you), and so I thought perhaps his old age was giving him some minor constipation. No big deal.

Then later after my post, Smokey started caterwauling like a pitiful beast. He's been meowing for Jerry all month, but this was different. Then I heard more tiny thuds of what I thought must be more poop, which made me nervous. One time is negligible. But twice?

So, I cleaned it up again and while doing so gave Smokey a little push to the side to get off the boots. He fell over and could not for the life of him seem to get himself upright. He warbled and howled like a drunk and in startling fashion appeared to drag himself down the stairs to cry.

So I got his glucometer, worrying this had something to do with his diabetes. Also I was hoping it did, because knowing the problem means there's a chance I can fix it. I drew some blood from his ear. Normal readings should show a number between 4 and 8. Smokey's? 0.8. Yeah. Holy. Shit.

So I had to act fast. I ran to the kitchen and grabbed some honey and rubbed it into his gums and tongue. Then I got some of Jerry's leftover recovery food, thinking that it must be super calorie rich and fatty and all those other good things which might boost his blood sugar. Then after he ate it, he ate a huge serving of his dry stuff, then treats, then more recovery food.

I watched him till 4:00 a.m. His blood was reading 1.1, which was still too low, but we were past the peak of his insulin effects and his blood sugar going up was a good sign. I fell asleep exhausted, but not without worrying myself stupid.

Sometimes owning a pet gives you an idea of what having a child would be like: late sleepless nights, worry, fast thinking, making appointments and shelling out money for their wellbeing without a second thought. I'm waiting on a call from the vet to get some advice about where to go from here, and to make an appointment to make sure everything is okay.

I love my Smokey, I really do. He's curled up with me now. I wonder if he realizes how close he came to death last night.

To lighten things up a bit before I go, check this out. Best signs ever. Also, I got my dress in the mail. Hey-oh!

Bathing beauty

The mad insomniac strikes again. Well, it's only 1:30 a.m. as I'm writing this. Really, it's not an issue till 3:00. That's how I roll.

I love Lost. I <3 Lost. I watched it tonight, all glorious two hours of it, plus the hour-long recap, which was much needed. Usually when I love a show, I hate for it to end, but I'm digging this last season bit. I respect a story arch that reaches an appropriate and timely end. And I want closure.

I don't remember TV being this awesome when I was younger. I really don't. I mean, the late greats are always sited as M*A*S*H*, Cheers, All In The Family, Dallas, I Love Lucy. And in my youth there was the much too short My So-Called Life, plus Seinfeld, Friends, and the big hit 90210. And the Simpsons are still going strong, though they kind of jumped the shark back when Homer probably actually jumped a shark out of lack of better ideas five years ago.

But let's be serious. Cut to the now and the not so distant past. The Tudors. Dexter. Sex and the City. Arrested Development. Lost. Glee (fuck yes). The Office. Six Feet Under. Curb Your Enthusiasm. Mad Men. True Blood.

HBO has improved TV. They're not behind every good show, but they set the bar high. And despite the fact I loathe raunch, relaxed censors make for better almost everything. And I do so enjoy good storytelling, which can only be done properly when you don't have to work around too many off-limit words and subjects.

But enough rhapsodizing about TV.

Allow me instead to wax poetic about this bathing suit:

I can hear an angel's choir at the thought of possessing
and wearing this hot little number.

I've wanted it for about a year now. Frankly, with such indecision, it's a wonder it's still available. The only thing that is holding me back is my unfortunate short waist. My torso and a dwarf's torso have a lot in common. I've come to embrace empire waists. For the most part I'm A-OK with this. However... One-piece bathing suits have always been a great desire and the bane of my bathing suit shopping existence because there's always an extra 2-3 inches of fabric that has nowhere to go.

And how returnable are bathing suits anyway? My guess is not at all returnable. I don't care to purchase a bathing suit from any company that would allow returns anyway. Once a bathing suit has known some strange woman, I don't want it knowing me.

Those happy little straps are adjustable, which is good. But that torso do look a wee bit long, dontcha know. Le sigh. But maybe I should risk it. Maybe there'd be a way to alter it in some fashion. I don't care if there's weird zig-zaggy cuts so long as I can wear the damn thing.

I am no fan of the bikini. It's all well and good when you're standing up in good light, but the second you sit down, even if you weren't sucking in before, you're screwed now. I've shed tears in dressing rooms trying on bikinis, and I don't even hate my body. I've posed nude for artists. I've belly danced in public with an exposed stomach. There's just something about a bikini that brings out the worst in my shape, or in my feelings about my shape.

So fuck it. I'll just go ahead and get it.

Tuesday, February 2, 2010

My stomach is aging

I'm back in the big smoke, after a visit in my hometown to see my friend. I'm reminded yet again of the fact I'm not 22, as my stomach is still unsettled from drinking too much, and it's 1:00 a.m. Two nights of too much wine. Dude.

Good company, though, and good times. Always the good times. We ate crap, listened to music, shared internet favourites. And everyone should have someone in their life who they know stupidly well and who they can paint with drunk at 2:00 in the morning. It was never on my to do list, but it should have been.

I told her I was going gray. I was unprepared for the enthusiasm of, "Aw! I want to go gray too!" Which made us laugh because it's not like waiting to get your first period. Sadly when I went to the bathroom to root out some proof, I found four white hairs without even trying. Sigh. I have booked my hair appointment for this Friday.

And it's back to the grind tomorrow.

I took a Gravol to settle my aching tummy. Hopefully it'll double as a sleeping aid, 'cause I slept off my hangover till 1:00 p.m. today and that doesn't bode well for sleep tonight. The Dude is already snoozing away, and will be getting up at 6:00 in the morning tomorrow. Blech. At least I'm not him. 6:00 a.m. shouldn't exist.

I'll write something better when I feel less like utter ass.

But for now, here is something that my friend showed me on YouTube. And here is something I shared with her. What did people do before the internet?