New-FUN-land

Welcome to the Rock! Let me just say that I am so happy to have been to Newfoundland. It is beautiful, and quite unlike anywhere I've ever been.

We arrived Thursday morning, after a big rush to the airport (we were woken not by our alarm clock, set to give us a comfortable 45 minutes of getting-ready, but by the taxi driver buzzing up ...ack! ...run!) Cabbies on the Rock blathered at us in a bibbity-bobbity of language that made me think of early days in Glasgow (was that English?) Hotel overlooked the pretty little harbour of St. John's. We went up Signal Hill, not realizing it was a foggy day, and took pictures of ourselves peering into the thick cover. Went on a boat tour, saw some Minke whales("There's one over Starboard! Quick, everybody Starboard!" "Look! There's one on the Port side! Everybody Port!" Beth, standing in the very centre of the boat: "Where do I go!?! Where are the whales!?"). Got Screeched in; Had to eat some nasty bits of Newfoundland, kiss a cod, and say something in bibbity-bobbity.

We were really there for Ken & Sue's wedding though, and the main event did not disappoint.

The freshly-married lovely couple ...heading out into a fine, sunny Newfoundland afternoon.

The ceremony was deliciously short and sweet. Yes, I teared up. I'm just so darn happy that those two crazy kids got together. Afterwards, we had a wee bit of time to explore St. John's.

At the comic book store. Not only did I give them their first real-live-girl sighting in ages,

I was all dolled up, so it was a good one, too.

KFC.

Buying a lottery ticket. Somebody's getting lucky tonight...

First dance.

Ice, Ice Baby!

Bride and Groom gettin' down.

Those Newfoundlanders sure know how to throw a good party.

One more fun thing about the Rock - a couple of nights we were able to take in the George Street Music Festival. As far as I could tell, it was more of the George Street Mess, or George Street Drinking Festival. I did hear a couple Celtic bands in some of the bars, but I figure that happens anyway. Everybody now: "Her eyes they shone like diamonds..."

Pet peeve of the day

People who call and don't leave a message.
If it wasn't important enough to leave a message about, clearly it wasn't important enough to bother making my phone ring in the first place. I am a notorious call-screener. I'm using that call-display technology to the max. Please avail yourself of my answering service.

Five days on Georgian Bay

Two hours to Honey Harbour. Careful or you might end up in Orillia.
Overload the Boat Taxi. Don't worry, that cargo is mainly booze.
Luck out with the best campsite ever. Private beach. Big dock.
Sure we're on the way to the outhouses, but it means we get to meet our neighbours.
Is it beer o'clock yet?
Swim. Bake in the sun. Swim.
There are cockroaches in these woods. What is up with that?
The dudes build a fire.
Have a hamburger.
Have a baked banana. Mmmmm....banana...
Boat of old folks invades our dock. Lady stomps right through our campsite on return from outhouse, causing outraged silence and thoughts of violence.
Jump off the dock - Last one in is a rotten egg!
Jump off the cliff - Overcome your fear - There is no spoon!
Catch another sighting of the beer-drinking beast. He moves real slow.
Swim. Bake in the sun. Swim.
Giggle.
Read a book.
Operation Tan-Bum is in effect.
Was there a rain storm last night? Didn't notice.
Go for a hike in the woods. Be attacked by viscious biting insects.
Swim. Bake in the sun. Swim.
Play Euchre. Eat Trail Mix and Pringles.
Have a six-person communal bathing experience. Be surprised by a floating raft with two little boys on it.
Read a book.
Sit in the hammock.
Jump off the dock - Kung-fu fighting, yoga poses and synchronized cannonballs.
Watch the sunset.
Last night just with the girls. Too much wine and tons of giggles.
It's sad to head home, but at least rock out with 80's pop in the car.

Yonge Street Pub Crawl '06

Yonge Street is the longest street in the world. It's a thousand miles long. The life-long goal of the ambitious Yonge Street Pub Crawlers is to have a drink in every drinking establishment along it. Last year, they started at Lake Ontario. This year, we joined for the second leg - Rosedale to Eglington. Sure, it's a mere four subway stops, but it's also a long, hot day of drinking.

The crew marching up Yonge Street. Not even half-way yet.

A respectful drink outside the Mount Pleasant Cemetary. Not a pub or bar? We don't care.

Woo hoo! I'm drunk in the middle of the day!

I always make this face in self-portraits when I've been drinking.

Dunno why. Ask me next time I'm drunk.

Here it is again. This time with Kramer.

Another bar, another drink, another few feet up the street...

At our stongest, the group took over an entire patio.

It's a titty-bar, but a bar nevertheless.

I am so bored of being drunk.

Eric, the organizer/instigator.

At this point the drinking has become very goal-oriented.

Like, let's all have a shot and please keep moving along...

The final stop: Historic site of Mongomery's Tavern< /a> .

Gimme one last drinking-face!

The last shot. Can I go to bed now?

Aren't I groovy?

I tie-dyed my own t-shirt! Check it out!

I knew I was supposed to do something...

Why does my condo hate me?

Last weekend, while to-ing and fro-ing up and down the elevator to our parking-garage storage locker, I had TWO residents of our condo building ask if I was "new to the building". New? I've been here for THREE YEARS. I smile when I pass you in the lobby! They hate me. I just can't figure out why.

Sure, my transition into the Midtown Address was not the smoothest. First, when J and I were just dating, and I would stay over lots but only just barely had a toothbrush moved in, the doorman used to confuse me with Beth, who actually did live in the condo with Jon, as J's roommates. We elicited noise complaints when I helped J assemble some Ikea furniture at midnight (everybody keeps different hours!). Then, when I did move in, I had to make certain adjustments from my old 'hood, The Beaches.

What you wear when you pop out to the corner store:
Beach: Sweats and flip flops.
Midtown: Twinset and pearls. If it's sweats, it better be Lulu.

Type of dog:
Beach: Family friendly big shaggy lab.
Midtown: Snappy little purse-dog.

Workout:
Beach: Cycle or jog outside on boardwalk.
Midtown: Choose one of FIVE membership gyms on the corner.

Neighbours:
Beach: Family whose kids you went to school with.
Midtown: No idea. Never see them. When you do pass them on the street, they ignore you (I'm talking about you, 702. I know you recognize me, bitch. The fact that our headboard hits the other side of your living room wall is all the more reason for you to be friendly. I'd be friendly if I knew the frequency and duration of YOUR sex life!).

Speaking of neighbours, one of my first encounters with some of the other people on my floor was early one Sunday morning. I was coming home from a party (I have only a few memories of the party. One of them is kung-fu fighting in the kitchen, barefoot, with Jessica), in that funny headspace between drunk and hungover, and I'm in the elevator still clutching my not-quite-empty bottle of Absolut (hey, if it's BYOB, chances are I'll be BYOBringing it back home with me!). The door opens and there they are - a middle aged couple in matching electric blue jogging suits. The brightness of their cheery attire causes me to wince and say "whoaaa" before collecting myself and saying "hi" bleerily. So, not off to the best start. But really. Who jogs at 6 AM on a Sunday?!

I have to point out that the whole building loves J. They smile and wave at him in the lobby, listen raptly to his suggestions at condo board meetings, and they even wanted him to be on the board (considerable, since he would be the only board member under 50). I'm thinking it breaks down like this: He's "that lovely boy in 703" and I'm "that hussy that lives with him".



This was confirmed for me at last summer's Condo BBQ. I went, despite my impulses which urge me to never be a joiner, in order to maybe make a few friends, or at least be friendly. I was also hoping that the only other potentially cool person in the building - the girl across the hall from us whose name I can never remember - would be there and I could re-introduce myself and we could hang. We got there promptly (big smiles for J, confused glances for me), helped set out the buns, grabbed some grub and looked for somewhere to sit. There's a really weird dude that lives in our building. He's like 300 pounds. Sometimes I see him out late at night smoking in front of the building. He's got bulging eyes, and he always wears an overcoat like a crazy homeless person. He stares. But I figure, he lives in our building - which is totally not a halfway house or subsidized housing for mental patients - so how bad can he be? I plop down at his picnic table, say "hi" and then we eat our burgers in uncomfortable silence. Meanwhile, our next-door neighbour -- the one who came over to complain that her cats were freaking out from the noise of us installing some shelves, not at midnight, but midday Saturday like normal people -- the one I can only assume is an old maid -- the one with the how-did-she-slip-that-by-the-condo-decorating-committee-ugly-doorknocker -- was chatting up J. She was actually sitting right next to me, not once making eye contact or even acknowleging my presence. I'm like, okay, Ugly-doorknocker-lady, you is GONNA talk to me. I throw myself into the convo. After a little bit of chatting, the following happens:
Ugly-DoorKnocker: So, Um, I don't know quite how to say this... Do you, live with...?
Me: (cheerily) Yup.
I let her scandalized silence draw out.
Me: We're engaged to be married next spring.
Ugly-DoorKnocker: Oh! Isn't that nice.

Why does that make it okay?! And do I meet with your approval as a suitable match for your beloved young gentleman in 703? Do I? Or is all the camping gear, camera gear and hockey gear that you've seen me hauling in and out just a little too much for you?

All this is building up to this year's BBQ. I'm going. I'm going to be wearing a sweet-as-pie pink sundress. I'm going to bake freakin' cookies. I am no longer satisfied with being the rebellious outcast. I am going to make them love me. LOVE ME.
And then I'm going to rip their hearts out.

Signs of the Apocalypse - Ideal for S'mores and other treats

It seems that my name and address have been added to a catalog mailing list and suddenly I am the recipient of all kinds of interesting marketing. I got Abercrombie & Fitch, which will be so handy next time I want a $50 torn polo shirt. I also got a weird little catalog of miscelaneous gadgets that include "The Marshmallow Rotisserie".
Now, I'm not up on my Revelations, or any of the bible for that matter, but I'm pretty sure that the world deserves to be ending when anyone thinks that The Marshmallow Rotisserie is a good idea.

I especially love that everything in the catalog is a "The" - from "The Underseat Rolling Carry-On" to "The Adjustable Pool Recliner" to "The Superior Spa Wear" - the whole catalog is a weird experience. My second-favorite item is "The Turkish Shower Wraps." Because: "While most towels come loose easily, and must be constantly re-tied around the body, these wraps fasten in place, and are fitted with pouch pockets into which lip balm, jewelery, sunglasses or shampoos can be placed." I'm so happy to know that the problem of what to do with my sunglasses while I'm hanging out around the house after my shower, clad only in an annoyingly loose towel, has finally been solved!

Imagine the inventor of The Marshmallow Rotisserie: "Guys, you know what really bugs me? How when I'm roasting marshmallows and I put three on the stick, they all roast unevenly. And all that turning the stick over. What's up with that?" I mean, what the hell? Imagine the kids, unable to continue roasting all three of their marshmallows - naturally, they've supersized and they eat them three at a time now - because the battery died. Or packing that thing on a camping trip. (NB: Anyone who brings The Marshmallow Rotisserie on one of my canoe trips will be marooned on an island with it, and only it.)
Walk into the woods and get a stick, dude.
The inventor of The Marshmallow Rotisserie deserves to be beaten severely. With sticks. No, wait! Wouldn't it be so much more effective if the beating stick had three independant arms, and a motor? Then I could just stand there while the blows rotated at a steady pace, bashing his head in.
Please take me off your mailing list!!! I'm afraid of the end of the world!!!

Pride!

In celebration of Pride, I started the day with a kosher brunch and live klezmer music, and ended it with Bar-be-que Pork Ribs. I'm all about the diversity.
Saw the Pride Parade for the first time in years. It often falls on Canada Day weekend and for many years I went to Ottawa for that celebration. These were my only visits to Ottawa in recent memory and as a result I am certain that Ottawa consists of only a very few things: Irish pubs, Celtic bands, white people waving maple leaf flags, nuns, army boys, and me being very, very, very drunk.
Anyway, back to Pride. Parade went like this: big corporate float/promotion, big city/regional organization being supportive, small walking group of weirdos, big corporate float. Something I've got to say to one performer in a Copacabana outfit: If you want to dress like a woman, you really ought to wax like one too. Say it with me: Bra-zil-ian. I'm not being prejudiced, I just happen to like my homosexuals the way I like the rest of my world: clean, well-dressed and good looking.
It was a lot of fun, though. Full of good feelings, acceptance, and 905-er vicarious thrillseekers.
Highlight was the dude that invaded my personal space and then asked if he could take a picture with us (us being myself and Jenn).
Jenn: You want us to take your picture?
Dude: No, can I take a picture with you two?
Jenn: (big sweet smile) No.
Fucking tourist. Luckily we were rid of him when a naked man went by in the parade and the space-invader nearly shat himself in excitement, digital camera held high above his head, and ran off along the side of the parade snapping wobbly ass to his heart's content.
Actually, the highlight was the firetruck with the half-clad firemen pumping away on the back. Women are so predictable.

God is two people in matching outfits

Ah, weekend. Not so different from my weekdays, these days. While I was grabbing some clothes off the floor, finding a scarf to cover my level 3 bed-head, and heading down to the Market to meet Jessica for some food and fun, something much more interesting was happening "elsewhere". I share:

6 AM (at home)
Thing 1: Wow, we sure did sleep in today, hon. We better get going if we want to make it to the market soon. What do you want to wear today?
Thing 2: I know! How about our blue dolphin shirts!
Thing 1: The ones we bought at Marineland that time? I love those shirts! Remember how it was a close call and they almost didn't have your size? I'm so glad that the girl checked the stockroom. Here they are, they were hiding under the red tiki shirts. I'll go get the tandem bicycle from the shed while you get ready.

9:30 AM (at the market, giddy from an exhilarating tandem bicycle trip)
Thing 2: Oh, look at these wonderful kitchen gadgets, I'm going to pick up a strawberry huller while we're here. And a new spice rack.
Thing 1: I'm going to get some new oven mitts. Shall I get you a pair?
Thing 2: Yes please! Hang on, hon, let's get out of the way of these two young ladies trying to take a picture - we're in the background.
Thing 1: Isn't that cute how they want to take pictures of each other for no reason?

9:45 AM (still at market, after being lost in the crowd for a while)
Thing 1: Look at these yummy ribchops. We should get some and put them in our matching backpacks. Hey honey, do you keep seeing flashes of light and hearing giggling? No? Well okay, let's get some bananas from over there.

Eatin' Sea Spiders

Last night "Cape Breton Beth" prepared Lobsters for us. You really gotta work for that dinner, man. For starters there's the fear factor - while still living and moving, those beasts are freaky. J and I watched from the safety of the kitchen doorway while our hostess chucked them into the pot. Even then, once they're on the table, I half-expect one of those many legs to twitch, or the claw to snap. And stop starring at me, damn it! Luckily we had a good instructor teaching us how to eat a lobster. There's something very primitive about tearing apart the thing you're about to feast on with your hands (and maybe using a hammer at one point - that was really fun. More foods should require a hammer.). It's so decadent, especially with all the dunking into garlicky butter. Mmmm.... The table was decked out in plastic covering, as were we, and in no time there was lobster shrapnel all over the place. The best moment was when J looked down and discovered that his plate was actually completely empty, and dinner was spread all over the table around it, instead.
Partway through the meal, our host thought that it would be a nice thing to point out that lobsters actually belong to the arachnid family. (I just had a flickering thought that I would link through to some site proving that, but then realized that would entail searching the web for arachnids and I have absolutely no intention of stumbling onto any website so devoted. Ick.) Now, deep within, I knew this. I knew that all those legs that articulate in such creepy ways were no accident. All the same, I didn't need it pointed out!
Here's something super freaky:

Lobsters are capable of reflex amputation (autonomy). They can discard a limb to allow escape so as to prevent more serious injury. Lobsters have the ability to regenerate some of their body parts; for example, the claws, walking legs, and antennae. The fact that lobsters are capable of limb loss and regeneration is indicative of a very primitive nervous system and their differential sensitivity to pain compared to humans or other types of animals (they can "drop" a claw, etc. and go off like nothing happened.Could you drop an arm or leg like that?).

Now I'm thinking that maybe we should just leave the lobsters alone, in case they stop being so primitive someday. Or keep eating them to let them know who's boss!

Husband

So there's a heavy word.
Yup, I got me a husband. Why is that weird? Well, it feels like it took a long time to get to it, and it doesn't feel natural yet. In my head I'm still that girl in high school who didn't date. I remember when I was trying to decide if it was alright to call this particular dude my "boyfriend". I was always uncomfortable with the word "Fiance" (I mean, really, could they think of a more awkward word? My friend suggested to me that "betrothed" was pretty bad too, but I kinda dig it) and often reverted back to "boyfriend" during the engagement. Like: "This is my boyfriend. We're engaged." In fact, the only time that "fiance" ever rolled smoothly off my tongue was when I ran into my high-school archnemesis (though I doubt she thinks of herself that way, probably more girl-with-whom-I-have-a-long-and-complicated-history-of-competition, but there's nothing like unadulterated hate to keep things dramatic) and I got to say: "Here's my Fiance" smuggly while she strained through the crowd to try and find her boyfriend. Ha! Take that, competition girl! I don't care if you are a triathelon-running engineer pursuing a law degree! I'VE got a real, committed relationship!
Anyway...
Now I've got me a husband. Despite the fact that I totally love him to bits and never have any intention of us being apart, or like, seeing other people or whatever, it's still a big deal.
Don't even get me started on being a Wife.

Bad kitty!

Is it any wonder that I don't like cats?
Don't be fooled by the overalls and the apparent baldness - that isn't some old man midget, that's ME! At the tender age of nearly-two, in my Grandma's back yard, with her evil evil cat - Gummitch. Even now the name strikes dread into my heart.

My grandma just gave me this picture recently. She took the original into the photo shop and had copies made. Copies. More than one. Considering that Grandma uses a walker, this involved some effort. She thought I might like to have this picture. Why? You ask? If I knew this answer, I would understand a lot more about the world, and maybe about my Grandma, than I do now.

But look at me! I'm so little! I don't even have hair yet! Why did they put me so near Gummitch?! Why did they distract me at such a crucial moment? (Look - look at the trusting, innocent way I'm looking at the photographer!) Why, for the love of god, WHY didn't they just let me go on watering the garden with my little yellow watering can?!