They say domestic life is boring.

Ok, before ANY of you say ANYthing about how dangerous this was, and how badly I could have been hurt, Joel already said all those things you're thinking of saying, and I already thought them just after it happened, and besides, it's not like I did it on purpose.

I got my hand caught in the Kitchen Aide.

Why was my hand in the Kitchen Aide? Because it takes almost three whole seconds to turn it off and lower the bowl, so if you want to add something to what's inside, you either have to be prepared to lose those three seconds, or you have to add while the machine is working. And if what you want to add is something like flour, you can either use a measuring cup and get flour everywhere (because they don't really fit between the machine and the bowl if you haven't turned off the machine and lowered the bowl) or use your hand (because hands fit anywhere). But if 'hand' is the route you chose, you have to be focused and on the ball, because that machine doesn't stop for no one.

So I got my hand crushed against the side of the bowl by the pastry hook, which sounds delicate but isn't, and really all that happened was my middle finger swelled and will turn purple in about a week, long after it's done hurting, and my first two fingers are kind of stiff today, but it could have been waaaay worse. It was one of those moments when you're glad no one is around, because you know that you're not that hurt and that in, like, five minutes, you'll be fine, but it hurts that much that you're nearly in hysterics, and also, you're mad. It's like when you stub your toe: you're in pain, AND you're furious with a table leg.

Also, I hadn't let go of the handful of flour before the whole crushing thing happened, so when I whipped my crumpled fist out of the bowl, flour went everywhere. Also, I lost precious time cradling my hand and whimpering. So...foiled on two counts.

Life imitating art.

Ok, so I'm writing this paper on Frankenstein, right? And I accidentally have a coffee at, like, 9:00 last night, so I'm up until 2:00 working on this paper, because I figure if you're not sleeping, you may as well be doing something. Nothing is worse than lying there, knowing that you aren't resting and you aren't accomplishing anything. So I go to bed at 2:00, and I have this dream that I'm a crime-fighter of some sort. And we're looking for this eight-foot criminal. So I'm at home (even though I'm a crime-fighter now, we still live in the tiniest basement suite) in the kitchen, and in walks my dad...except that he's EIGHT FEET TALL and has a bolt sticking out of his neck. And it's Frankenstein, right? Wearing a mask of my dad's face! And so he comes over and grabs me by the shoulders, and I scream, only it's in a dream so I'm all like 'Garblargh!' but I kind of do it out loud so I wake myself up, and *whew* none of it was real. But my heart is pounding, so I reach over to Joel's side of the bed, and it's empty!!!! So I kind of scream for real this time, because I know he came to bed last night and didn't fall asleep on the couch, but then I check the alarm clock and it's 7:15 and time to get up and then I hear Joel stomping around in the kitchen in a totally non-Frankensteinian manner.

Terrifying, no?

Fixed.

I know, right? November is totally over, and yet here I am, ready to tell you about my day. Don't get too excited, internets. I have a paper I'm supposed to be working on, and you're just a hair more interesting. Also, I just spent three hours being told what to do by a tiny person who CAN'T EVEN TALK, and I need to decompress.

Ok, so Jared is my favorite baby (no offense to the rest of you who have babies, but I don't know them) and his parents were at a wedding today, so I got to cure my baby-fever by hanging out with him for the afternoon. Now, it's one thing to hang out with a baby at care group, say, when his parents are right there and if he gets tired of you, you can just hand him over. It's another thing entirely to know that you have him until they get back, and that your only hope is to make him forget that they exist. Which is fine, because babies have goldfish memories. They're all 'Nooooo! Don't leave me, daddy! If you walk out that door, we are so over! Oh, I am so abandoned! My life is so - hey! Something I can put in my mouth!'

So, awesome. However, this means that you can't say 'mama' or 'dada,' you can't sing the songs mama and dada usually sing to them, you can't go anywhere near the door, because that's where mama and dada were seen last, and you must, above all else, keep them from crying because once they start, you can't rely on their golfish memory anymore. They'll be all like 'Maaaaaaaaaaama! Oh, woe is me! Wherefore art thou, mama? Where...wha? Oh, good, a cookie. Wait...this cookie tastes like tears. Salty, wretched tears! My tears! Why was I...oh yes. Maaaaaaaaaaaama!'

So Jared and I are in the office, which is the furthest from the offending front door, and I'm letting him bang on the computer keyboard and chuck my water bottle on to the floor so that I can pick it up for him so that he can chuck it again and I'm blowing raspberries into his neck-fat to make him laugh, and we're having a great time, and then every so often the door will catch his eye, and his brows will come together, and his upper lip will curl, and he'll look at me all 'I'm about to cry. What are you going to do, hotshot?' to which I of course respond 'uh...here. Chew on my cell phone for a bit. It has flashing lights.'

So no, I don't need to have babies for a bit. They're really needy and demanding, and I'm not sure I can out-shout one of them. But as proof that Jared and I really had fun, and that he wasn't alternately weeping into his whiskey and back-handing me the whole time, here he is smiling.

It's because I let him eat whatever he digs out of there.

It's over!!!!

Well folks, it's November 30th and you know what that means...I don't have to post tomorrow! Nablopomo is officially over at midnight tonight, and then I can post whenever I damn well please. Not that I don't love filling you in on my business, internets, but November is the least-interesting of months. For reals.

Since I ran out of funny stories (on, like, the 3rd), I've resorted to talking about my hair, my classes, my produce purchases, my obsession with smarmy fictional opponents, my computer, a movie I watched, my computer again, my produce purchases again (?), my boots, my eating habits, the weather, and my sister in various capacities, including her longness of hair and her general uselessness.

Alls that to say that I have two papers to write and four finals to study for, so you might not be hearing from me for a few days. That's a lie. I'm totally playing fake-mommy (i.e. babysitting) tomorrow, and I'm definitely going to tell you all about it. And then I'm going to post the kickass paper I'm writing on Frankenstein. Freaky business, people.

Because I let people tell me how to blog now.

Bekah insisted that I post this picture she took of my ass because it looks three miles wide, and my legs look like sticks.
So I did. But because this is my blog, and I never want to look ugly-assed alone, here is a picture of hers. It looks like a dude's.

I have to do this...

...because Jane said so.

Wrapping paper or gift bag?

Totally gift bag. The 20-second present-wrap. And then the person keeps the bag, and next Christmas your gift comes in it. Good for the environment.

Real tree or artificial?

For those of you who don't read Jane's blog, I'd just like to quote her answer here: 'Real. Just like my boobs.'

This is not a statement on the veracity of my girls, but artificial. We had the same awesome fake tree until about five years ago, and now we (my parents) have an awesomer fake tree. Joel and I have this darling little Walmart special...

...also fake. And tiny.

When do you put up your tree?

We always did it on Thanksgiving, back when Thanksgiving was in late November (read: when we were American). My knee-high guy went up yesterday.

When do you take down your tree?

Never did. That was Mom's job. I guess I'm the woman of the house now, though, and it'll be my responsibility to de-ball the tree and fold it gently back into its box, like a prickly, synthetic child.

Do you like eggnog?

Only if that eggnog is accompanied by Robyn, and rum. Robyn? You, me, rumnogs?

Favorite gift as a child?

This Fisher Price little kitchen with fake food (I got two of the same fake-food set in the same Christmas, so I had, like, eight slices of fake bread to put in my fake toaster).

Do you have a nativity scene?

Not yet. I figure if I add one new element each Christmas, I wont feel like I'm spending arms and legs on decorations.

Hardest person to buy for?

My dad. We've bought him every trinket out of the Mini Cooper store. What now?

Easiest person to buy for?

My sister. I'd link to the thing I want to buy for her this year, except that she reads this blog. Remind me to tell you later.

Worst Christmas gift you've ever received?

Alarm clock. Enough said.

Mail or email Christmas cards?

Definitely mail. Not that I will. Just that I would prefer to have cards mailed to me.

Favorite Christmas movie?

The Grinch. The cartoon one.

When do you start shopping for Christmas gifts?

When I finish my last final.

Have you ever recycled a Christmas gift?

Something I got from a Red Robin gift exchange is making it into the white elephant exchange this year. No real gifts, though.

Favorite thing to eat at Christmas?

Baking. LOTS of baking.

White or colored lights?

This question is so racist.

Favorite Christmas song?

Oh Holy Night. Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaall on your kneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeees and heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeear the angel vooooooooooooooooooooices, oh NIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIiiiiiight deviiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine. What's not to love?

Travel for Christmas or stay at home?

I would dearly love to spend at least one day at home, in my pajamas. Please let that happen.

Can you name all of Santa's reindeers?

I like that 'reindeers' is pluralized with an 's.' And yes I can name them all, because I have the internets.

Angel or star at the top of the tree?

My mom has a little crow atop hers. I love him. Mine has a star.

Open presents Christmas Eve or morning?

Hmmm. What with this whole married thing, all our traditions are turning on their heads. We always did Christmas morning...get up, have a coffee and a muffin, sit around the tree and watch each person open their gifts, one at a time. Now...I guess we'll see.

Most annoying thing about this time of year?

That everyone can't adjust their schedules to suit me. Because it's all about me, right?

What I love most about Christmas...

How, beforehand you think you're so busy, and then all the preparations are done and it's just a lot of sitting around and visiting and eating and visiting some more and napping on the couch because you have nothing pressing to do.

The Lighting of the Tree, or Two of Us Are Useless

Last weekend I went to my parents' place in Burnaby. My sister's boyfriend Darren came over to help us set up the tree and then watch back-to-back episodes of What Not to Wear. We like him.


Part of what we like about Darren is that when I say 'help us set up,' I mean 'help my mom set up so that my sister and I can run around like idiots.'


Observe.

Darren working. Bekah not working.

Darren still working. Me not working.

Darren pausing to show off his work. Bekah continuing to not work.

Darren subtly working. Me overtly not working.

Mom joining in because she realizes that only one of the three is working. Bekah not working.

Mom noticing Bekah not working. We call that the 'hairy eyeball,' folks.

Me supervising while mom works.

Darren working. Bekah not doing a single thing to validate her presence in this picture, but needing to be in it anyways.Me also in a picture that I have no business being in. Darren continues to work.

And the moral of the story is...tall = usefull. Also, I like gingersnaps.

Winter has come!!! It's finally here!!!

So, I get out of my afternoon class early, and I'm trudging home at around 4:30 in the pouring rain, griping and grumbling about how much I hate the pouring rain and how stupid fall is, and then I go home and polish up my paper and have a little nap and eat some soup and put my boots back on and head out the door and hey! What is this?

Is that rain, that heavy mist you see falling? NO! Allow me to clarify for those of you not living in the beautiful Fraser Valley....

It is snow!!! Big fat flakes of snow!!! And it's sticking, and with any luck it'll snow four feet overnight, and when I wake up tomorrow, I won't have to go to class because it will have snowed too much for me to WALK THE SIX BLOCKS TO SCHOOL!!!

Hello peaches. I'm doing it again. The desktop that I've been hoo.king my laptop up to so that I can see what I'm doing...it a splode. So I'm typing in the dark. Joel's on the other computer, doing 'real work,' ans I was just about to head off to bed when I realized that I hadn't given you your daily dose of my desperate postings. November is the worst month for nablopomo what with all the finals I have and all the papers I'mw riting and all the not-interesting I'm doing. But december will be here soon, and then I'll go back to only posting when I have funny things to tell you. This is dumb. I'm going to bed.

Hoooooooome, home on the range...

...where the deeeeer and the antelope graze!

Things that I grazed while paper-writing at my parents' house today:

- a bowl of expensive luxury cereal

- several string cheeses

- most of a bag of all-dressed ripple chips

- a bag of dry, tasteless 100-calorie popcorn

- a bag of salty, delicious jalepeno-flavored popcorn

- a handful of chocolate-covered almonds

- a cup of expensive luxury coffee

- a small mountain of real fruit gummies

- a larger mountain of wine gums

- a hunk of a Lindt chocolate bar

- several gummi frogs (made with real fruit juice)

- a Christmas orange I found on the porch

- a tums

As good an excuse as any.

I've decided I can't write this paper. I heard that thinking shrinks your ovaries.

Sometimes, I just don't need your help.

I think it was on the plane to Thailand that I watched 'Failure to Launch.' No, that's when I watched 'Jaws,' and woke up the kindly Mexican next to me when I screamed. Sharks are scary.

At any rate, some time in the last five years, I saw 'Failure to Launch' on a plane. I forget the exact premise...something about this guy who needs a girlfriend so his parents hire that girl from Sex in the City to lure him out of his bachelorhood, and she's outlining her plan to someone and it goes along the lines of '...bla bla bla, and then I let him teach me something, bla bla bla' because guys like to teach girls things, and letting them do so makes them feel more competent and manly.

Joel likes to teach me things, and is forever explaining scientific concepts to me. I actually mostly like it, because I am a nerd, and because, in return, he lets me expand his vocabulary for him. By the time we have grandkids, I will be a mad scientist, and he will be a thesaurus. It will be awesome.

However, if it isn't your husband or boyfriend or four-year-old nephew or a guy whose parents have hired you to seduce him, this trait is more irritating than fun. So this guy today tries to explain to me what is wrong with my laptop screen, based on what he has observed from a distance (i.e. the screen does not work). The hell do I care what is wrong with the screen? I'm not going to let him try to fix it. I'm not going to fix it. Why are we having this conversation, and why don't I have any chips, because really, that's the relevant issue here.

Dumber than I should be.

What's this now? If I wont give you a real post, I should at least tell you how I deleted three pages of a paper I was working on the day before it was due? Very well, internets, but only because I love you.

So, we have these two computers, see? But one of them, it's not a real computer. It's just a desktop monitor hooked up to my laptop, because the screen on my laptop is kaput. So I have to sit on the ground, with my laptop in my lap, and look up and to my left at the monitor, which is on a low table. This is hard on my neck.

Joel usually works on the desktop (the one without the laptop attached to it), but when he's not, I like to email my assignment and all relevant notes to myself, and then move to the desktop and check my email and then work there until Joel comes back, and I have to switch back to the laptop/monitor/neck-hurter. This results in me having several copies of any given assignment, all in various stages of process, and all named the same thing because I'm too dumb to, like, number them or something.

So the other day, I emailed myself the paper, and then headed over to the desktop and instead of 'Open this file' which I usually do, resulting in a new copy of said paper, I just saved it over the older copy on the desktop. Turns out, I had mailed the wrong copy to myself, and saved an older copy over a newer copy, losing several hours worth of strenuous work.

And no, the newer copy wasn't still on my laptop and I don't know how that happened and don't ask me these things, I'm a dolt. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a midterm in three hours.

The best I can do.

What's that, you say? Yous alls want a proper post, with deep thoughts and witty sayings and funny stories about how I always think I'm pregnant (I don't any more, but those were a rough couple of months)?

I made buns today.

Because I know you want to know.

If you want to know how my boots are doing, they're awesome. I stomped through every bit of inclement ground on the way to and from and to and from school today.

If you want to know how my assignments are coming, they're lousy. I just lost three pages because I am an idiot, and I don't really care to explain how, because now I have to go rewrite them.

If you want to know how many brain cells I have, you can come count them. They're lying in a puddle on the floor beside me.

If you want to know anything else, you'll have to wait until I'm done tearing out my hair.

Fly safe

Yesterday, Joel and I took a homework break to watch 'Alive,' that movie about the rugby team that crashes in the Andes and ends up eating their dead teammates. You know the one. A very young Ethan Hawke is in it.

Anyway, there's this one sweet older couple (older as in '...than the early-twenties rugby players') and they're always cradling each other and looking to each other for support and whatall, and then there's an avalanche and the woman dies and the man is heartbroken. At this point, Joel turns to me and says, 'If I'm ever plane-crashed into the Andes, I hope you're not there.' He paused, and I waited for something along the lines of how he would want to know that I was home safe, or that he wouldn't want me to suffer like that, or how at least then someone would be able to care for our children, or something, but no. 'You're an icicle,' he says. 'You would forever be putting your cold feet on me.'

What to do with the rest of today's afternoon...

I headed into Burnaby today so that my daddy could take my computer apart and replace the fan, and take a stab at fixing the screen. No dice on the screen, but the fan is blessedly silent.

Since I was in town, Bekah and I had a sister-day. We both have major assignments to do, but some things are more important than schoolwork. Like hair. Remember how I had long hair, that one time?

Well, my sister had long hair, too.

It was nuts, really. And kind of ratty at the top, because it was too long for brushing. And what does one do with long hair? One cuts it off.

Choppy choppy! I was there, of course, for moral support. And to document it on film. And to suggest that she keep the straggly ends (she vetoed).

Now she looks fabulous. See? How cute.



Now, one does not public transit one's way all the way downtown unless one has errands (multiple) to run. I have been tromping to and from school in my summer shoes for the past few months, in the rain, running the risk of pneumonia, all because I refuse to wear real, sock-friendly shoes. I will, however, wear moonboots. My sister has a pair of moonboots that I've coveted for ages, but the Army and Navy only had them in a size six, which I am not. Instead, I got these rockawesome bad boys.


Business on the bottom, skinned-muppet on the top. I know, they make my calves look monstrous, but I couldn't tuck my pant-leg all the way in, because they were soaked around the ankle, and I wanted to wear them immediately. My feet were wet and cold, and so as soon as we got to the bus stop, I handed the umbrella to my sister and proceeded to change shoes on the street. Except that after I dragged my ski-sock onto my soggy foot, I realized that the boots were still attached to each other, and by an elastic thing, not a thing you could snap with your hands, so I had to hop around on the one foot while I rummaged in my purse for my keys and tried not to put that foot on the puddly ground and tried to stay under the umbrella, and then when I got the boots apart, I had to wring out my jean-bottoms because they were too soaked to even think about putting them in shoes, and I was bent over trying to lace and tie up my boot and my fingers kept getting stuck in the fur, and my sister would reach over and try to pull my shirt over my exposed crack without dropping the umbrella and my purse, and then my second boot fell over and the fur on one side got soaked and matted, and the bus was due to come any second, and I was convinced it would roaring around the corner just as I was be-socked and unshod, but I got both boots on and the laces jammed into the tops for later tying, and we were asked by a man in a wheelchair if we liked art, and if we wanted our pictures drawn, and if we had any paper he could draw us on (because he didn't), and did we have any spare change, all before the bus came. Whew.

So now, with our similar hair-lengths, and our matching moonboots, we look like sisters, no?

And that is the story of what I did today. Also, we put a scarf on the dog.

And my brother fell asleep while checking his watch.

Scurvy-free since 1982

A week or so ago, I bought my first Christmas orange of the season. Today, I bought a whole delicious box.

Let the Eating-of-Whole-Delicious-Boxes-by-Myself-in-the-Six-Days-Before-They-Go-Bad-Because-Joel-Doesn't-Eat-Citrus-or-Even-Fruit-Really commence!

mayday

My computer screen has gone black, and I am blogging blind. I know that things are working, because I took notes in my class like this this morning, trusting to my typing skills. This is the worst possible time for this to happen. Joel has a paper due, and needs the compute for his research and paper-writing. I have three papers coming up (I want to backspace and tye'four' papers, beacuse I just rmeembered another one, but I can't see to backspace). I'm bringing my computer in to my daddy on Saturday...if he can't fix it, I'm doomed. This is ridiculous. Good thing I know how many 'tabs' it is until 'Publish Post'

I'm pulling rank. Do this now.

I have spent very few moments of the past week or so doing things that I actually wanted to do. I have had a lot of dry, tedious moments, and a very meagre amount of amusing moments. HowEVER, I spent a good two hours on Monday laughing myself into a state, and I would like to pass along that privilege to you. See this movie:



I'm not even going to play it up for you. I keep trying to describe it to people, but you all know how that goes. You have to go and see it, and then you have to find other people who have seen it (you can come talk to me), and then you have to talk about how you nearly killed yourself laughing, and then one of you has to say 'He's appointed himself judge, jury and executioner' so that the other one of you can say 'But he's NOT Judge Judy and executioner!' and then you will both laugh. I hope I haven't ruined that one line for you. Please go watch this before I ruin the part where the one lady hits the other lady in the face with a wet-floor sign. Like, right in the teeth.