Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Hats off to Berry Boy....

The Berry Queen's oldest son, Berry Boy, had to have a minor surgery this morning. I met up with him for a brief minute at the Children's Hospital to lend a hug and say hello. Unfortunately, my hugs and greetings weren't that wanted by the doctor, who glared at me and promptly slammed the door shut in my face. Hmph.

Clearly, that man is not aware that I have known Berry Boy since he was born. That Berry Boy has thrown up on me more times in his lifetime than either of us can count; that he was the baby I learned how to change diapers on; that he has been there for me for some of the most momentous occasions in my young life; that I have been there for some of his. (Although, I regret to say that I had to miss his first steps. I do hope, however, to make up for this by being there for his first son's steps. Many, Many years from now.)

Berry Boy, along with his older sister Berry Girl, and his two youngest siblings, are some of the most well behaved, loving, attractive, studious, hardworking children I know. They are absolutely lovely additions to any berry season, and because of these children, I recommend childbearing to all my friends.

So, hats off to you, Berry Boy, for making it through a really rough day, with a smile and a brave face; with hugs and hellos to your favorite field manager; with no hollering, screaming, or carrying on heard from the waiting room; and with your usual charm and flair for making things the way only you can make them.

Here's hoping for a speedy recovery so that some day soon, you can be bringing me cold cans of coke to the field for our afternoon jam sessions during berry season.


Tuesday, May 30, 2006

The sickness has me in its grips....

But I will come out on top.

I'm from the country. I always win.

SuperNan and I spent the day tracking down information on drug interactions. And when I say "SuperNan and I", what I really mean is that she googled and made phone calls while I lay moaning on the floor.

The bad news? I'm still crazy as a JayBird, so I'm stuck taking crazymeds for the rest of my life. The good news? Advil Cold and Sinus is SAFE to take with my particular SSRI. (Please note that this information was given to me based on my circumstances, and that nothing you read on this blog should be mistaken for actual medical advice.)

Shopping had to be postponed for Wednesday due to my condition. It's a good thing though. I'm a bad shopper on the best days. On the worst days, it can reduce me to tears. So, hopefully by Wednesday, I'll be ready to face the mall, snarky salesgirls, and old ladies foisting ugly purses at me.

Lord help us.


Sunday, May 28, 2006

My Aching Head....

And no, it's not the kind of aching head you get from a wild night on the town with your favorite girls.

It's the kind of aching head you have after a night of watching Anne of Green Gables Part 1 with your cat, then going to bed wondering why you have a scratchy feeling in your throat.

It's the kind of aching head you have from waking up at the crack of dawn to head into the Sub Shack for nine hours. The type where half way through the day you realize, Hey! Wait! I don't have a hangover from that glass of wine I had while watching Anne suffering the trials and tribulations of a young orphan! It's not from crying my eyes out when Mathew died!

It's the type you get when you have a sinus infection! When you have enough going on in your nasal cavity that Bush could forget about Weapons of Mass Destruction, because he could drown entire nations with the secretions coming from your nose alone! It's the type of sinus pain that makes you sound awful and act even worse. It's the type that has you calling up random co-workers a little after lunch and offering up your left kidney if only they will come in to the Sub Shack to relieve you of your duties as Sandwich Artist; if only for fifteen minutes while you head to the back room to stab yourself in the foot with a disposable bread knife in hopes of taking your mind off the pain in your head.

And now, dear Internet, I am off to bed, in hopes of waking tomorrow to find a new day. One with no nasal secretions, no pounding heads, and no scratchy throats. Or, at the very least, if I do have to spend another day filled with nasal secretions, pounding heads, and scratchy throats, at least it will be filled with heavy duty pain killers and shopping with SuperNan.

No better combination exists on this Earth.

Except, perhaps, Peach Schnapps and OJ.

And I need all the vitamin C I can get.


Saturday, May 27, 2006

Boys, Boys, Boys...

I've made a few decisions recently about my love life. I, being the blogger that I am, have decided to share these decisions with the world.

I will never again date someone without a car.

Go on, call me the shallow bitch that I am. I don't really care. Transportation is important to me. I don't have a car right now, and if I were to date someone with a car, how would we go on dates? You can't expect me to walk, can you?

I will never again date someone who is shorter than me. Life is just too short (excuse the pun) to be seen with someone who only comes up to your chin. Being somewhat taller than the average guy out there, this limits my options considerably. However, once you take into account the people I've dated in my life, the fish in the sea seem more and more similar to crab-like leeches, and so having my options limited isn't such a bad thing.

No more boys with baggage. No baggage here, thank you. I have my own shit to deal with, and frankly, I don't need anyone else's.

No more boys with pasts, either. I'd prefer someone who hatched from an egg yesterday, without irritating parents, siblings who hassle me when I visit, or an older sister who wants to do my hair, fix my makeup, and turn me into the perfect Barbie Doll so her brother can take me out on the town. I wear Jeans. High waisted ones that cover my back fat. I don't need some random guy's family giving me fashion advice. Or life advice. Or teaching me how to decorate my house with three pieces of yarn and an egg carton. I'm not Martha Stewart, Kate Moss, Barbie, or anyone else. I'm me, I live in a sty, and I wear my hair in ponytials.

See, I used to have no set list of standards. I used to be this person who was not shallow, who was understanding of people's problems, who allowed people to walk all over me because, well, life is tough, you know, and he's had a rough time with XYZ problem, and well, you know, he's just so nice when he's not treating me like crap.....

Honestly. I realized the other day that I do that. I was reminiscing about a certain boyfriend I had back in the day, and I was thinking: "If only he had ever picked up the phone and called, and if only he had ever shown up for one of our dates, and if only he hadn't left me sobbing and alone all the time, it would have worked out so wonderfully...."

Good grief.

That girl is gone. I'm a heartless bitch, and I love me! If you don't, well, I have a cat.

And my cat thinks I'm great.


Friday, May 26, 2006

This is me getting famous....

I recorded last night.

It rocked my socks.


It rocked my socks like rocking my socks was recording's job.

I got my second song called "Do You Know" down with one take of the guitar, and one take of the singing. ONE TAKE. That's huge. The last time I recorded, it took eight hours (count 'em up, Boys! Eight hours!) to make five minutes of music. Last night I got two songs down in less than three hours.

I learned so much the other night about styles and opinions with regards to making music. It's really hard to explain, because the first time I recorded was such an awesome experience. But I found it very stressful and difficult. It was sort of mechanical and really hard for me to follow because my music is so personal to me.

I did one song for a competition that I heard advertised in a magazine. Who knows if these things are legitimate, but it's a chance to get some feedback, and feedback from professionals is about all I'm hoping for at this point. (Of course, in my daydreams, a dude like Simon Cowell gets my CD and lyric sheet, and decides to fly me into Hollywood in hopes of having my first single released next Tuesday, but really... ?) I did the one song, called She Said, because if it gets pirated, or if it gets shot down, I won't be terribly disappointed. It's one of my better songs, but in terms of it being personal to me, it's not. It's the only song I've ever written that has no real bearing on my life.

It was wierd for me to sing and write about something that's not my life. It was hard, too, because I know how everyone knows my songs and how much they are about the real me. I'll sing a new one and my best friend will roll her eyes and say "I wonder who that's about!"

Next week I'm going home again. I hope that I can get the song out to the competition and get my biography and pictures done. My mom has a new digicam. I'm thinking me, in a red sundress, with my hat and guitar, sitting on the fender of the John Deere. If that doesn't scream "I'm a country girl!", then I don't know what does. I'm also hoping to call my brother's friend again and see if he can't record me two more songs.

Life is good. Very Good indeed.


Wednesday, May 24, 2006

A Perfect Waste of a Perfect Day...

I've been sneezy as of late. I hate sneezing. It seems as though I have developed allergies as recently and I have been fairly stuffy.

This is a problem this week as I am planning on singing on a CD tomorrow. Singing while stuffy is not good or nice or beneficial to someone who is sending out a demo to professionals.

So, SuperNan decided to help out by feeding my a little pink allergy pill.

She may as well have slipped a Roofie in my drink at a bar as I subsequently spent the next six hours unconscious.

And it was sunny out for the first time in weeks!

Dixie is my dog. Mine, dammit!

Today there were some hydro workers on the road, ridding the countryside of trees that would be in the way of us getting our trusty hydro services. Before the six hours of unconsciousness occurred, I went to the store and managed to drive by some of these rather attractive characters. On the way to the store, I was wondering how I could go about stopping to chat with these men.

On my way back home from the store, I was giggling to myself about the ways that I could stop and ask these lovely creatures for help.

Lo and behold, my Dixie Dog was trotting her little self over to chat with the hydro workers. I stopped the car directly beside them, the gorgeous sweat pant-wearing goddess that I am. I thought to myself how smooth and chatty I could be with my unwashed hair and makeupless face.

I promptly decided to holler at the dog, toss her in the back seat, and sqeal my tires as I made my studly way back to the ranch.

I give her props though, at least for trying. How many girls can say that they own a dog who tries to pick up cute, employed men for her?


Sunday, May 21, 2006

A day in the life...

Occasionally, someone comes into the Sub Shack who has never had contact with a sub. It's always an interesting experience.

Part of what makes this experience so frustrating is that people don't realize that along with ordering a sub comes a committment to answering close to thirty questions. And no, I'm not joking. You must make all the decisions. You must choose your bread, choose your cheese, choose whether or not you'd like your sub toasted, choose from about ten different toppings, sauces, salt, pepper, parmesan, cookies or chips, bottle drink or fountain drink, cash or debit...

According to the Laws of the Sub SHack, we must ask every customer each of these questions.

So, when a newcomer comes up to the counter asking for a sub, they really don't know what they're in for, until I start bombarding them with inane questions about their choices between the five different cheeses.

Occasionally I get a real bright spark who asks questions in return. My favorite response to the question "Would you like a bottled drink or a fountain drink?" is "What's the difference?"

I always feel like saying "Well, Dumbass, the difference is that one is bottled and one is from a fountain." Actually, usually I do say that, making sure to draw out certain words, and ommitting the Dumbass part.

Today a newcomer came to the Sub Shack and ordered a steak sub. He appeared to be terribly inconvenieced when I started interrupting his conversation to ask him questions about his sandwich preferences. There are, as I say, five kinds of cheese now available for your dining pleasure.

So, I asked which kind of cheese he wanted and he looked at me as though I had just discovered the extra numerals at the end of pi. He was absolutely astounded that I had at my fingertips that ability to tantalize his tastebuds with a choice between five cheeses.

So, he asked if he could have a mixture of cheese, and I said yes. I offered him the standard choices because I didn't want to totally blow him away with the above-and-beyond choices (Those being grated Monterey Jack and grated mozzarella).

Me: Would you like Swiss, Cheddar, or American Cheese?

Him: Yes please

Me: Well, there are three choices. Would you prefer Swiss, Cheddar, or American?

Him: Yes, that sounds good! Can I have both?

Me: Well, yes, you can have two kinds, but there are three available. Swiss, Cheddar, and American.

Him: Yes, I'd like both!



Me: You mean-

Him: Yes! Both of them!

Me: Great. I'll just put those right on and then go into the back and kill myself.


What's more exciting is that it seems that no one wants to work weekends this summer, so I get to do all the opening shifts for the entire summer. Which means that every weekend morning I get to get up at six to bake bread and slice vegetables. Because no one else wants to work, next Saturday and Sunday I'll be working nine hour shifts starting at seven in the morning.

This is my life.


Friday, May 19, 2006


Hey, guess what I"m doing next Thursday at six pm.?

Getting famous, that's what!

Well, not entirely. But, I have an appointment to make a demo CD with a guy my brother knows.

I'm so excited! I've recorded once before, and I had a blast. The outcome was not exactly what I expected (And by that I mean that I sing country western. Make all your hillbilly jokes now, but Dude, I love that music. SO, being a country western singer, I didn't exactly expect my music to be turned into Techno/dance. The production was good, the dinging was fine... I'm just not a techno kind of girl.)

Recording, for me, is kinda scary. For one thing, I don't actually know how to play the guitar. I do some basic chord runs with some pretty basic strums and that's it. None of my music has interludes or bridges with raging runs through them that make you say "Dude, that girl can play!" (What is up with my recent overuse of the word Dude?).

So, anyways. This has been on my to do list for years now. One more thing to strike off!


Wednesday, May 17, 2006

I want to get famous, Dammit!

For years now I have been toying with the idea of releasing a demo CD. (Hah. I just said releasing. What I really meant by that was "Begging people in the know to listen to my songs")

Making a portfolio isn't that tricky. The web is full of how-tos and such. Pretty much, I need a general picture of me, and a head shot. I need three of my best songs, lyrics included, and and a one page biography. This I can handle. Hell, my best friend's boyfriend works at a John Deere dealership. If that isn't a country singer's dream photo shoot, I don't know what is.

But why is it that summer after summer passes that I simply don't put it together?

I know, deep down, that the chances of someone wanting to sign little ol' me from the little ol' ranch in little ol' NowheresVille, Canada are slim to none.

But at the same time, I know that when I wake up on my fortieth birthday with a house full of screaming kids and a mortgage to deal with, I'm really, really going to regret not doing this. At the very least, I'll have a drawer full of rejection letters that will say "Hey, Girl, you tried!"

Part of me wants to promise myself and my blog right now that I will not, under any circumstances, let another year go by where I don't put together a portfolio.

But part of me knows how silly that would be, because the chances of me not doing it are greater than the chances of me actually getting around to it.

I need a serious kick in the butt over this. I need to do this for myself.

Off to ponder it a while longer.


Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Love is a funny, funny thing...

There is a boy in this world who has butterflies for a girl.

This girl does not have butterflies for this boy.

I, however, do have butterflies for this boy.

This boy couldn't care less about my existence on this planet.

This is where I smile, heave a sigh towards the heavens, and thank God and Bigman for bestowing a cat on me. At the very least, while I'm having unreciprocated butterflies for a boy who doesn't care for my existence, I can have my hair chased about my pillows by a kitten who, when I come bearing food, pretends to like me.


SuperNan to the rescue once more...

Clothing has been, and I suspect forever will be, the bain of my existence. I can't stand clothes shopping.

Berry Queen has given me advice several times on buying clothes. You have to ask yourself three questions, and you much be able to answer all three with yes. These are: 1) Does it fit me? 2) Is it esthetically pleasing? 3) Can I afford it?

Each time I attempt to purchase clothing, I inevitably come home with ill-fitting, unattractive articles that are beyond my price range. As you can imagine, my closet is full of such articles. I have ugly, ill-fitting clothes in my closet that still have the tags on them. Usually, after a trip to buy clothes, I end up wearing my favorite old blue jeans and the Metallica T-shirt my brother bought me while sitting on the couch drowning my sorrows in a bottle of Strawberry Zinfandel.

SuperNan has a unique skill in finding me clothes that fit and that are attractive. She, like most moms, knows how to tug at the waist band, examine my ass, and make sure the ankles aren't constrictive. So, I try to not do any shopping without her.

Last week I noticed that the last two pairs of jeans that Nan bought have holes in them. The waistband of my favorite stone washed has let go, and there is a hole in the crotch of my dark denims. This was enough to reduce me to tears, while consuming cast quantities of Hamburger Helper with a dear friend from first year.

So, yesterday SuperNan and I headed to Wally World, intent upon purchasing jeans that were within our (and by our, I mean her) price range, that would sufficiently conceal every last ounce of back fat, and that would make my enormous thighs appear somewhat... less enormous, if at all possible.

And we did it! We found pants! Back fat, be gone! The world shall have sightings of you no more! Thunder thighs, be concealed! You shall jiggle about in hole-y denim no longer!

Life is worth living!

And you know what the thing is about properly fitting pants? They make you feel good. My ass is completely hidden beneath the denim of a pair of Levi's as we speak. I can bend over to pick something up (Well, theoretically, I could, if not for my back pain woes) and not have small children and felines running for the hills at the sight of my exposed ass. My back fat isn't pushing the tops of the jeans down, and as a result is not pushing the bottom of my shirt up. I look better, feel better, and can walk around with confidence knowing that passerbys can not take in the sight of my newly rounded frame.

It's a good feeling. I recommend you go out and buy a pair of well-fitting blue jeans today.

I'd also like to take this little bit of cyber space to say thanks to my Dear Mother, for coming to my rescue once again. You rock, Mom.


Sunday, May 14, 2006


Back in the city for a few quick days. Coperni-kitty and I are ever so happy in our new place.

I have solved Copernicus's odor problem. It was solved with the non-certified kitten chow from Wal-Mart. If the damn cat gets rickets at this point, I have a wonderful balcony that would be just perfect for tossing a kitten off of.

Well, I wouldn't actually balcony-toss my cat. Sheesh.

This week I have five consecutive days in a row off work. How do these things happen to me?! I'm so thrilled! Thank you, Dear BossMan!! This gives me a perfect oportunity to head back to the ranch and start the garden for the year. Produce this season includes Green beans, Yellow beans, Cucumber, Peas, Sweet Corn, and of course, Canteloupe for the five year old in my life.

I hate Karma.

Karma is a bitch.

All my life, I've detested those people who moan and whine about their back pain. They have irritated me endlessly since time began. In fact, they rank right up there with those idiots who feel a slight tingling behind their left eye and go on to anyone who will listen about their migraine headache pain. And those other idiots who turn without signaling, or those other idiots who buy organic tofu.

Back pain whiners make me want to stab myself in the eye with a pitch fork. Twice.

For the Karma part of this entry? I have had a back injury in my lifetime. It was nasty and unpleasant. It resulted in me losing feeling in my right leg. Occasionally it strikes me to this day, and it is fairly... not nice.

Today, I've been stricken by a different type of back pain. Perhaps this is God's way of punishing me for wishing a heart attack on the fuckshit who was snippety about the amount of salt I put on his sub. Either way, I can hardly move.

I've taken five Ibuprofen pills and three Tylenol pills, and the pain has only subsided a little bit. It took me about ten minutes to get into my socks this morning before work and my coworkers spent the morning laughing at me as I had to stoop at the knees and occasionally kneel right down on the floor to get the bread out of the humidity stabilizer and into the oven.

It was not a fun morning.

One co-worker was so helpful as to suggest that perhaps it is my hundred and five year old bed that is causing the problem.

If I have to deal with one more issue surrounding that bed in my lifetime, I will throw myself off the balcony.

While my co-worker was giggling hysterically at the possiblity (Or, more likely, the probability) of my mattress being made of straw, I was forced to hobble back to my purse and fetch more painkillers. It was either that or kill her with disposable bread slicing knives, and I didn't have enough energy for a homicide at that point in my day.

The good news is that my dear friend is coming over for dinner tonight. We're doing it up discount style with some Hamburger Helper and no name cola for dinner. Usually when we get together, we end up spending about eighty dollars each on booze and food in a single night. We're trying to avoid that happening as we are now responsible, mature adults who have rent to pay.

And if that goes out the window, at least we are credit-card holders who, if all else fails, can resort to a little help from our friends at Visa for a good time. Our friends at Visa never let us down.

Now that is a friend indeed.


Thursday, May 11, 2006

Home again, Home again, Jiggety Jig....

At the ranch for a quick visit home today. Berry Queen made her way over in the afternoon. We never managed to break out the banjos, but we walked together in my field of dreams and discussed fruit growing tactics. SuperNan wants me to have our province's Berry Expert down this summer to check out the land. It turns out that he's cheaper than we originally thought... so perhaps I can run down some more feasability options this summer.

The morning greeted me with a five year old demanding porridge. SuperNan and I spent the morning in the pool area, gearing up for summer. I meandered about last year's garden, speaking with the above mentioned five year old about this spring's growing options. He thinks that some Canteloupe and peas would be optimal. I agree.

Later in the morning I perused the old chicken coup, where my best friend and I had our failed chicken operation. I'm thinking that by next spring, I can have it fixed to house about eight to twelve chickens: eight for our tummies, four for eggs. I can make a raised slat-floored pen to house some pigs and sheep. Buy a heat lamp, set up a water system.

I was perusing the property for a good portion of the day. Just meandering. I can't get over how claustrophobic and stuffy the city is. I'm surrounded by people I don't know, who I'll never meet. Alone without my roomie the last few days, I've really been contemplating living there for much longer than the next twelve months.

And I can't do it.

The first thing that struck me when I got home was the amount of green that is here in the sticks. Everything is green. The lawn is luscious, the trees are covered with bright green leaves. SuperNan's garden is coming up in droves, the plants gorgeous and full of life. There are birds and insects everywhere. Singing. The sound of nature. The sounds that I can never hear for the sirens and beer wolves in the city.

Time McGraw has a song called "Where The Green Grass Grows" It, like so many other country songs, speaks so directly to me that it makes me want to lay down and weep.

"Well I'm from a map dot
A stop sign on a black top
I caught the first bus that I could hop from there

But all of this glitter is getting dark
There's concrete growing in the city park
I don't know who my neighbors are
And there's bars on the corner and bars on my heart

I'm gonna live where the green grass grows
Watch my corn pop up in rows
Everynight be tucked in close to you
Raise our kids where the good Lord's blessed
Point our rocking chairs towards the west
And plan our dreams where the peaceful river flows
Where the green grass grows
I'm coming home.

Twelve months. I'll make it through this. One more measly little year.

Then I can live where the green grass grows.


You know you're officially in college when....

I got my cat stoned the other day.

It seems that our apartment has an issue with black mold growing in the bathroom. The bathroom is technically an illegal one, without a fan or a window to let the condensation out.

Some of you will probably be thinking: Move! Don't let them make you live like this! To you I say: Have you seen where I last lived? The lack of a single fan in the bathroom is not enough to ruffle my feathers after having lived with brown water; (Remember the day my hair turned orange, and I hadn't dyed it? Right.) having lived with crazy ladies and a landlord who runs the place like some kind of nunnery, with rules about when and where you can shut the doors, who and when you were allowed to have guests, what gender those guests were to be; and of course, my all time favorite: The decree that no one shall open a window without permission. Sorry, but I simply don't have the energy to be up in arms over a little bit of mold.

Azia decided that we should re-grout the bathroom. Now, I don't know how well you know me, but I generally greet home renovation projects with about as much enthusiasm as I greet having my wisdom teeth removed on a discount dentistry budget. And yes, I have had my wisdom teeth removed the discount way and no, it was not fun.

I decided to beat her to the punch, so to speak and decided to buy the perfect bathroom spray product that guarantees to clean, disinfect, sing a song, and cook your steak to perfection every time.

I sprayed it down for the first time and both of us felt a little headachey and woozy, and slightly as though we had downed three beers in quick succession. (Which, perhaps we had... it's hard to remember what happened when in terms of how much beer we consumed our first weekend...) Not to be deterred, we marched onward to Ikea and decided to buy ourselves some lovely curtains.

We came back to our apartment to find that the bathroom was clean, seemingly disinfected and the spray bottle was happily singing the Oscar Meyer Weiner song and frying us some steak in the kitchen. Or, perhaps we were still high from our morning of bathroom cleansing. Regardless, the tiles were gleaming and white, with only a speck here and there of the nasty black mold.

We decided to douse it down again. Only this time, we all but emptied the giant bottle. We decided to open the balcony window because by this point, we were feeling more than light-headed.

I wondered if perhaps it was our imaginations, when Coperni-kitty stumbled into the room, eyes crossed, batting at her nose with her paw.

Nothing says "College Students" like a stoned cat, drug dealers on the street in front of our new home, a case of empties on top of the designated beer fridge, and black mold in the bathroom.

Only, now we don't have black mold in the bathroom, so I guess life is not too bad after all.
In other news, my internet connection in the new place is pretty bad. I'm waiting until my roomie comes back so she can get some internet hooked up. She gets a discount wiht the company she works for, so it's better for her to get the connection than me.

As a result, my blogging is sporatic at best, so try to bear with me! I've tried writing five (5) "So sorry but my connection sucks" posts, and each time, the connection is lost just as I'm about to post. Sigh. It's a hard life.



Wednesday, May 10, 2006

My precarious internet connection...

I haven't been blogging of late as often as I'd usually like. Which sucks! I love my blog!

It seems that the new place is wonderful, but ther wireless connection is less than stellar. I had a wonderful post all made out last night, but I couldn't post it because the connection was lost. Sigh.

Anyhow, I haven' fallen off the face of the Earth, but I have been having inernet problems that have been driving me crazy!


Sunday, May 07, 2006

My New Home!!

Thanks to my dearest BigMan, I had the use of a digital camera all weekend! And what better to do with that digicam than to show you around my new home! Thanks so much, Davey!!

This is the kitchen. Note the luxuries such as a full sized refrigerator, full size stove, full size sink (That runs Clear water!) and the masses of cupboard space.
Here we have our breakfast nook/dining area. This is the table that my dear parents gave me. Thank heavens, or we would still be eating on the couch like ... well, like normal college students. Fortunately, we have class. And a table.
This is the TV stand. Note the flowy curtains in the background? The candleholders about? We've made our house a home. And if you don't take off your shoes before you enter, you're likely to lose your left nipple.
The couch!! My roommate's parents were incredibly gracious to drive over four hours with this most lovely furnishing in the back of their pickup truck. In our old apartment, we didn't have a couch and were forced to sit on our beds 24/7 like ... well, like people who didn't have room for couches. Thanks so much, Mike and Ginny! We love it!!

Here we have the living room in its entirety. Note the hardwood floors and abundance of space. The main selling point of this apartment was the price. The second selling point was the amount of natural light we could get. Savings on Hydro, and les risk of acquirings SADS. What more could two girls want??
This is our balcony. We love it. It has a great view of the city, and allows us to spy on the drug deals going on in the street below us. Since we can't afford cable, this is incredibly important.
View to the left.
View to the right.

This is the shelf in my bedroom. I assembled it myself from Ikea. Now I hate Ikea. But, I have a shelf.

Hopefully I'll get some more pics of the housewarming party up soon. But, I thought I would give you a glimpse of my new Palacial Suite so as to satisfy
  • those
  • who didn't make it to my party.

    Thanks for looking!!


    Thursday, May 04, 2006

    My best friend is coming!

    My oldest and dearest best friend is coming to visit me tomorrow. I can't wait to see her.

    We've been best friends since the dawn of time. This friendship has been wrought with separations, life alterations, drama, insidious family injuries, family drama, and so forth. This girl has been there for me every step of the way.

    We have picures of us together in Kindergarten, dancing in some ridiculous school play. We were separated then, when I switched out of Catholic School and she moved to B.C. She came back in fourth grade, and we were fast friends. We were separated again in fifth grade, and weren't together again until four years later, in ninth grade. By that time we had different interests (Me: boys; her: livin' it up). We were separated again then, to be reunited after my first nervous breakdown in twelfth grade.

    Since then we have been through a multitude of failed marriages, college applications and acceptances, university applications, engagements, wedding plans, family members reproducing, on stage performances, the loss of pets, friends, family, boys, and hair pieces, and about everything else that happens to a girl between being seventeen and now.

    She was also there the day that my car caught on fire while I was driving it down the road. She watched as I threw a temper tantrum on the side of the road, kicking the damn thing and swearing.

    She was there for my failed red veal operation. She was there to toss around feed bags full of corn, observe while I shoveled the shit, and point and laugh while my dad and I wrastled the calves around in an attempt to weigh them. She was my business partner in a scheme to raise chickens and sell eggs. Unfortunately, that went under when an owl came and ate our chickens.

    When we were in fourth grade,Terri was always doing totally cool things like telling the teacher to fuck off and getting sent to the office. She was always the more outspoken one of us. I was always more shy and quiet, observing my environment. When people made fun of me at school, I'd quietly walk away. Not Terri. She would stand up and call the stupid fucker to his face, and that made her my hero, because I never had the balls to stand up to someone who hurt me. It's a flaw I deal with to this day, and to this day I wish I had more of the "fuck off" that Terri has.

    She tells it like it is, no matter what. She doesn't hesitate to sing "Take your meds, Crazy Girl!" When I sleep over at her house. Because she views my insanity as something that is frickin' hilarious, and as a simple fact of life. You may as well accept that you're nuts. This is her motto. I can tell her about the scary thoughts and fears that come with being OCD. I can tell her about the urges that overcome me, that I can only stop with insane behavior. I can tell her the things that are on my mind that scare me. And she's always there to say something that makes me laugh and cry and say "Good God, you're right." (Her advice usually falls into the category of:"Good Grief. You're fucking nuts. Quit it, will you?" Now, by all professional standards, this is not the way to deal with a crazy person at all. But with Terri, it works.)

    When we were little, I used to think that her mom was the best thing since sliced bread. She would let us do totally cool things like stay up until one in the morning watching horror movies. I blame Terri's mom for my uncontrollable fear of the dark that lasted well beyond the age of sixteen for me. She would also do such uncanny things as swear in front of us, and allow us to use a calculator for our math homework. The day she allowed that was the day that I accepted her as an honorary SuperCoolMom into my heart. Calculators and I are buds, and she allowed that friendship to flourish.

    I've always had a secret crush on her older brother as well. Every girl has to have a friend whose older brother she can have a crush on. It's totally safe that way. We can never date, but every time I see him I can think "Dude, he's yummy." And she can think "Dude, if you think that one more time, I'm going to murder you in your sleep."

    Terri and I are pretty different people. At the same time, we're identical. It's amazing to me when I see this strong, powerful woman admit some inane fear to me. I always view her as the one without flaws, the one who is there to support me. When she needs something from me, I feel so empty, so useless, because I'm sure that no matter what I do, it will never amount to the good she has done for me in my life.

    So, my best bud is coming tomorrow. I can't wait. I want to see her, to laugh with her, to show her my house and my cat and introduce her to my roommate. I need her help in putting up some shelves and she is the type who doesn't get defeated by such tasks as sticking a piece of wood to a wall. This is why we get along so well. While I'm crying in my Circa 1901 bed about the fac that I have nowhere to hang my DU camo housecoat, she's hauling out the hardware and rolling her eyes.

    She's my best friend. And I can't wait to see her.


    Discoveries in the new home...

    Coperni-kitty is back with me, and I couldn't be happier. She sleeps her cute, kitten-y little self beside me every day. She greets us at the door when we come in, and howls in protest when we leave. She chases toys about the kitchen while we cook, and sits happily by the windows while we eat. SuperNan has taught her to fear tabletops, and so she has given up sitting beside my plate while I eat and helping herself tot he occasional tidbit. I love her, and I'm so happy to have her back in my life. I extend, once again, my sincerest of thanks to Bigman and SuperNan, for 1) Finding my kitty and 2) Babysitting my kitty while I was in the Depths of Hell.

    There is but one problem with my kitty. It's one that has been upsetting my roommate and I endlessly.

    Remember that Episode of Friends where Phoebe sings about the smelly cat?

    Coperni-kitty has become the smelly cat. She smells awful.

    It's not so much her that smells, as it is the odor that she leaves behind every time she uses her facilities.

    Her facilities, unfortunately, are located in the same house as Azia and I.

    There is really no polite way to discuss this issue, and Lord knows I don't want to go offending the internet with tales of my odiferous cat.

    I'll say now that this is not a pleasant thing to be dealing with, and that a solution must be found posthaste.

    If not, it's off the balcony she goes.


    The other issue I'm currently dealing with is the bed that I got courtesy of my grandmother.

    It's wonderful to have a bed.

    I'm not complaining about the fact that I have a bed.

    Please, dear Lord, do not let anybody who has had a hand in my getting a bed take this the wrong way.

    The bed is stamped that it is circa 1901. And no, I'm not exagerating, or making it up, or anything. I'm telling you the truth dammit, and the truth is that I'm pretty sure the damn thing has given me nerve dammage because yesterday at work I could hardly stand up straight because of the shooting pain in my spine. I wasn't that concerned until I lost all feeling in my left arm.

    Fortunately, it was only a temporary loss of feeling. This too shall pass, I'm sure. Until then, I figure it's a good thing that I'm right handed: I don't use my left hand that often anyways. So we're safe.

    For now.

    Unlike me, Copernicus loves this bed. She thinks it's great.

    I've a feeling that the fact that Copernicus loves the bed has to do with the fact that it has spent the last six months in a barn. Now, fortunately, no livestock have been inhabiting this barn for quite some time. However, there is a certain odor that remains in a barn no matter how long it has been without livestock. It's not a bad odor, per se. It is more like a musty smell of straw and dander, feed dust and chafe. I find the smell very comforting and homey when I walk by the barn on my weekends at the ranch.

    However, I have never, at any point in my life, expressed a desire to be immersed in this odor while I sleep. Copernicus, on the other hand, wants nothing more than to rub and purr into the odor of dust, dander, straw, and chafe. She rubs her happy little self into the sheets with a grin of staisfaction on her face. (Yes, my cat can grin, dammit. She is that special).

    The other concern that comes with this bed (Circa 1901, having spent the last six months in a barn) is that it may or may not have brought a mouse into the new digs. Every night, my Coperni-kitty and I lay our pretty little heads down to sleep, and Copernicus gets distracted by something that is outside of my hearing range. She makes a little hunting kitty sound, gets up, and proceeds to dig until she can wedge her way into the box spring. (Ever seen a box spring that is circa 1901? It's somewhat different that the luxurious creations of the Sealy Matress company, let me tell you.) Once she has wedged herself in there, the chase begins. She goes up one end and down the other, she runs in circles and shakes the entire bed. It could easily be a giant dustbunny, or a fluffball, or a feather that has left the mattress (I'm pretty sure that the matress is stuffed with feathers rather than actual mattress stuffing materials....) However, having had the experiences with rodents that I've had in my lifetime, it would not surpise me in the least to find that my bed has brought with it a friend.

    So, every night, without feeling in my left arm, I am lulled to sleep by the sound of Copernicus chasing what sounds like a mouse beneath the 1901 box spring of my bed, surrounded by the musty smell of straw and chafe.

    It's good to be home.


    Wednesday, May 03, 2006

    Changes, Changes....

    I'm currently in the process of adjusting to all the new changes that come with living in my new house.

    Living in a new place is terribly wierd. It's strange. Like, I leave the Sub Shack at the end of the day, and I turn the wrong way to get to my new home. The key to my house is blue, instead of gold. My Property manager pretends to be concerned when something is wrong. The water is clear, not orange. The temperature of that water is adjustable, not one hundred percent one way or the other.

    The place is huge. I was thinking today of jogging laps around the living room to get some exercise. We've lived here for going on three days now and neither of us has had to call the police on our crazy neighbors even once. There are so many changes to adjust to.

    I've successfully quit smoking again. My last cigarette was Sunday night, and now it's Wednesday night. Hopefully we don't have any more slipups like we did last week. I simply can not believe how quickly the balance in my bank account went down while I was buying cigarettes. Wowza.

    The new place has an odd phenomenon about it.

    As I have mentioned in the past, an Incredibly Beautiful Man lived in our apartment before us. We have toured about the apartment building a number of times. On each of our travels, we have come into contact with a number of other Incredibly Beautiful Men. They are everywhere. It's odd. My last house was full of toothless, elderly drug addicts. This place is full to the brim of fit, attractive, well groomed, perfectly tanned, Beautiful Men. I'm not sure why this is happening to me, but I like it.

    I have yet to prepare a dish in the kitchen (Mostly because I have had about two dollars in my bank account over the last few days. Sigh.) But, there is counter space! A full sized fridge! Cupboard space! And a sink that is big enough to wash all your dishes at once in!! And, get this! Enough counter space to actually place your dishes so we can dry them!!


    So, indeed, there are changes to get used to.

    In all though, I think I can hack it.


    Home sweet home!!

    So, moving day has come and gone. Let me tell you, moving sucks.

    I think we had about four pickup loads while my roomie's parents were here, along with three trips in my mom's SUV. Then, Big Brother and Bigman had to make a trip out from the ranch with my bed, and to pick up some of my bigger furniture items.

    The afternoon brought the opportunity to go to Ikea to pick up some household necessities, like glasses, a toilet bowl scrubber, a set of mixing bowls, and that sort of thing.

    I am now the proud owner of my very own Ikea bookshelf. Let me tell you that the idea of buying cheap furniture and assembling it yourself is a very, very stupid one. I was exhausted, tired, my muscles achey, and my mood not so sunshine-y when it came time for me to assemble the damn bookshelf.

    The pictures? Stupid! That little guy with the smiley face on, happily assembling the shelf? I would love nothing more than to wipe that happy grin off his face with the back of my hand. The instructions? I ended up skipping three steps and eventually I just started hammering the damn thing together. And that stupid little guy with the happy little grin on his face just kept grinning. I could have killed him.

    Now, the thing that gets me is not how much anger and rage a single piece of furniture can cause in my life. It's the fact that I have such anger towards the little picture guy. I mean, I could have strangled him. I wanted to hit the little bastard. I was feeling a level of animosity towards a cartoon picture in an Ikea manual that is usually reserved for the assholes who demand their mayo on the other side of their meat, or who demand that I change my gloves between serving them and someone else. Cuz, you know, that will like, totally make me a better vegetarian, Dude.

    Anyhow, the shelf is assembled. It took some hammering, some swearing, and some desperate searching for cigarettes because I figured that there had to be one around here somewhere, but there wasn't and I can totally handle this amount of pressure. Totally.

    Like it's my job.

    Copernicus is happy as a lamb. I'm watching her as we speak, curled up on my bed, purring happily, dreaming sweetly of whatever it is that cats dream about. I'm so happy to have her back with me.

    I have never been better. I love the new place. It is bright and sunshiney and wonderful. I'm trying to convince the Berry Queen and SuperNan to come in and have a viewing on Thursday. My dearest best friend is coming in on Friday. I have space in which to put people! I have a couch (Thanks to My roommate's parents! Thank you!!) that company can sit on! I have a bathroom that's not scary!!

    Life is worth living.