A place for everything, and everything in its place

One thing about living in a small house (under 1000 square feet) means that you really have to be organized with your stuff and have a place for everything, or risk having an always-messy house. Since we moved in we've picked the "messy house" option but it's been really bothering me lately.

Our basement, for more than a year now (but who's keeping track) has been the junk room. We each had easily enough furniture and stuff to furnish this house on our own, without the other person when we moved in together, and neither of us had a chance to de-junkify our belongings and get rid of duplicates before we moved in.

It truly was the perfect storm for a messy house. I started my job at the 7th circle of hell, leaving a furnished apartment in Ottawa, and my parents kind enough to load up a uhaul of my stuff and drive it here. Dave had all of his things from when he lived in Toronto in boxes at his mom's house and just loaded up the truck. When he and the crew arrived in the 'shwa it was pouring rain, so everything went in the closest entrance to the basement "to be sorted out later".

Later has never really come.

We're full of excuses as to why:

• Last fall and winter we set what I think was some kind of record- every weekend we were either visiting friends or had people over. I can't recall one weekend where we had time just to unpack and relax. When we did get a chance, it was far from our list of fun things to do.
• We've had eight weddings this year, including our own. In the three months after our own wedding we've been to four weddings and a funeral.
  
• We spend so much freaking time cleaning up the masses of dog hair (and cat hair, but to a lesser extent) on the main floor and upstairs that cleaning the basement just wasn't a priority.

So, the basement quickly became the repository of crap. Don't know where to put it? Throw it in the basement! People are coming over and there's a heat gun and drop cloths everywhere? Basement! Important paperwork that should be neatly filed? Pile it in the basement! Box of who-knows what that isn't labeled? Basement, basement, basement!

Thus today became the "long overdue make basement somewhat decent" day. Despite the chaos upstairs (we're having the living/dining room and front and upstairs hallways and ceilings repaired, primed and painted, will show pics later) we made a significant dent in the work that needed to be done. We now have garbage bags for "donate" stuff, plain old garbage, and recycling boxes overflowing, but the improvement is noticeable. A few more hours down there and it may even be a place we can take people on "the tour" when they come to visit. (we've lived here for a year and almost 4 months and I think my sister has yet to see the basement)

It's starting to look like we may eventually have a place for everything and everything (well, almost everything) in its place.

Now if only I had started my Christmas shopping.

Scene of the Crime

On or about the 10th day of December, at the City of Oshawa, in the region of Durham the writer was investigating a mischief (well) under $5000 complaint.*

Complainant is female, and reports hearing something smash on the floor in the middle of the night last night. Upon arriving on scene, writer found no evidence of fingerprints or forced entry to the residence.

Upon entering living room writer found a Christmas tree and met with the complainant and her husband. The complainant indicated she and her husband decorated their first Christmas tree days beforehand while dancing to this song. Complainant's husband denies any dancing was involved.


The source of the breaking glass the complainant heard was easy to find - a shattered ornament landing on brick flooring. Based on earlier observation of no forced entry, writer determined this was an inside job.


Writer observed a great deal of pet hair, specifically belonging to a cat on the tree skirt and from that deduced that two suspects - cats known to reside at the complainant's residence were the likely suspects.

I first questioned Rhett, cat suspect #1 but he provided little information to aid the investigation, and was clearly more interested in food than playing games with Christmas tree bulbs. He was quickly eliminated as a suspect, but writer thinks a search warrant for catnip may be necessary given the animal's appearance (glossy eyes, disinterest in anything other than eating, sleeping and attention). Complainant apologized for obvious dust problems on lamp and cat footprints that make said dust issues evident.


When I started to examine the glass bulb on the floor a bit more closely, the prime suspect, Scarlett the cat showed a keen interest in my investigation. From this interest, it was clear to me the only remaining suspect was the culprit. My suspicions were confirmed when the complainant conceded that she had seen Scarlett bat a glass ornament around the hardwood floor with vigour the day before.


Unable to see any reason I could bring a cat before the courts, I released her with a warning. Complainant indicates she has no fears for her safety but will advise police should there be any further incidents and will move any low hanging bulbs from the reach of said cat.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
*This is not a real police report. If it was, it would be replete with (even more) spelling and grammatical errors than are currently found in the post.

Lazy Saturday in the 'shwa

The dogs love sleeping next to each other - sleeps like this are occasionally interrupted by the occasional dream with them growling at each other (I presume), and seconds later, after some big sighs, they fall asleep again as though it never happened.

Best idea EVER

I think Dave, by way of the internets has found what is perhaps the world's best invention. Sure, you may tout the best invention being some immunization from disease that saves hundreds of lives, or some device that brings quality of life to others and such good things.

I, however, think this is one of the most genius inventions ever. It appeals to my devilish side. I am filled with regret that I didn't have one this time last year when I was in a job I hated. Since Dave told me about it I can't help but exclaim repeatedly "Oh my God that thing is GENIUS," and so I figure that might make it worth sharing.

It's called the Annoy-a-Tron.

It's a little magnetic device that looks like this.

It emits a very annoying high frequency noise, either at 2 or 12kHz (apparently 12 is the more annoying of the two). It emits said annoying noise every 2-8 minutes, making it unpredictable and all the more difficult to find.

It's a magnet so it'll stick to lots of desks or filing cabinets, and you could easily move it.

And it only costs $10.00!

It lasts three to four weeks on a single battery. That's three to four weeks of annoying beeps every two to eight minutes.

I could kiss the geek who invented this. I can genuinely think of some people (cough 7th circle of hell* cough cough) I'd love to unleash this thing on.

(Yes, I'm aware that makes me immature and vengeful, no, I don't care.)

What genius thing to do. You could literally drive someone out of their gourd with this! I know a few people who are deserving of such a device.

Who'd you like to see driven insane by just such a device?

(very) regional dialect

There is a four letter word in the 'shwa that is so heinous, so awful, so insulting that the most hardened criminals recoil at its ferocity.

Using it here is like calling someone the most heinous, vile, despicable word imagined. None of the most vile "yo momma" statements, or swear word combinations can match its level of insult. I'm sure fist fights, broken beer bottles, and serious injury have resulted when people used this word.

This is an interesting phenomenon, because it's unique to this area, and is pretty innocuous elsewhere, but has its own special meaning in the 'shwa.

The word?

Goof.

Add a "y" and you have a disney character, as in "don't be such a goof." Them's fighting words, especially in certain circles around here. Telling someone to "stop goofing around" is akin to wishing their hands will get chopped off and fed to ravenous wolves in their sleep, and getting an infection in the wake of it so bad that they wished they were dead. Goof. An innocuous word elsewhere has an entirely different meaning anywhere else.

Some police officers say that its sting is in homophobia here (ie it's implying you're more fond of the gents than the ladies, or are a pedophile) but others say it's just a swear word like any other.

Either way it's deeply entrenched here as a faux-pas word.

Any words like that where you're from?

'Shwa tidbits

Yeah the humidity here made it feel like 48 degrees outside today (118.4F for you Fahrenheit people). Without the humidity it was a mild 38 (100.4F). Pretty sure I could've baked a cake in my car while I was at work today. Mmm cake. Stupid afterthoughts.

If this weather keeps up I think my slurpee habit will get outta control.

We're getting married in T-25 days. I hope the weather is nicer by then. The slurpee habit is probably not helping me with the whole "wear low back wedding dress" thing I planned for myself. Hah what was I thinking? Ah well, too late now!


Oh and the chickie doing my make-up for the wedding? I called the other night to touch base. She's a friend of my mum's friend. I kinda figure it'd be a good idea to get a trial run lest it look like I was shot by the make-up gun Homer invented on the Simpsons.



The call goes something like this:

Me: Hi! May I speak to [make-up chickie]

Male voice: Hi Heather! Uh she's not here right now.

Me: [baffled. no idea how dude knows my name. Ok it's probably caller id but dude! that's freaky! Why is this random dude knowing my name and acting like we're buddies.] Oh, okay. Is there a more convenient time I could call her back?

Male voice: Yeah hi, it's Paul. She's just stepped out to get some dinner for the family. [young kids screaming in background, I look at my watch. Yeah it's 9:30 at night. I'd be screaming too if I hadn't had dinner]

Me: [still baffled. no idea who Paul dude is.] Uh... ok

Paul: Actually I know you. Remember me? [hmm not ringing any bells] I'm a friend of Bob's. We went to high school together.

Me: [Ok I'll bite. Hamster wheel in head turning, picking up speed. Who the hell is this Paul dude who knows me from high school through Bob? .... Heeeeeey! Wait just a freaking minute! YOU'RE THE GUY WHO USED TO STALK ME IN HIGH SCHOOL. You used to show up randomly at my work until my bosses would ask you to leave! You used to call my house all the time after I told you not to call! You used to come up behind me in the hall and tickle me and scare the crap out of me. I used to elbow you in the groin/ribs for doing it! You used to come over and sit with me on the bus and I'd change seats! Gah you still sound creepy! I should've had you charged with criminal harassment!] Oh right! Paul. How are you doing?

Paul: Sooooooo I hear you're getting married. [and he said married like maaaa-reeeeed, like you did in public school to tease someone]

Me: [yeah! and not to you, captain insane-o!] Yeah I am. [oh man why do things like this happen to me?]. Really looking forward to it.

Paul: Me? [Make-up chickie and I] have three kids. [yeah I figured it was either kids or a pack of rabid hyenas at a kill site in the background]

Me: Oh. That's great. Good for you. They sound like a lot of fun [or that they may in fact had just moved on to decapitating each other in very close proximity to the phone. Seriously. Someone feed these kids. It sounds like they're starting playing that Mayan ball game where the winning team loses their heads in some sort of ritual sacrifice]

Paul: so what are you doing now?

Me: Oh just working, that kinda stuff. No kids.

Paul: I work at [a factory known, oddly enough, for sexual harassment] building [things].

Me: Oh that's great. Good for you. [awkward pause] So is there a good time I can reach [make-up chickie]?

Paul: Uh yeah. She should be back soon.

Me: Ok I'll try her again later! thanks!

[click]


I haven't called her back.

****************************************************************************

Ceiling? Almost de-wallpapered. Go Dave!

Homebuying Tips from the 'shwa

For anyone who might be in the market, I have just one tip about buying a house. It's very simple. I'll even put it in bold, and all caps.

NEVER BUY A HOUSE THAT HAS WALLPAPER ON THE CEILING. NEVER.

NEVER, EVER, EVER EVER.

No matter how pretty the house is, or how perfect it is otherwise. Run away. Do not buy it, simply run away. Such wallpaper is the work of the devil. It will cause you to invent swear words at an alarming rate. It will not only defy gravity butall laws of decorating decency, and mock you as it stays in place despite your hacking at it with a scraper and dousing it with vinegar and water.

This is even more the case when the previous owner who did this work (now known colloquially as "fucknut" or "jerkface" or "asshat") put a fresh coat of polyfill down before putting the wallpaper up, WITHOUT ANY PRIMER so now it just becomes on sticky, gooey, annoying, piss-off.

For now, I'll get back to my margarita breakfast (yes, really) before the dogs are successful at drinking it on me (yes, they've tried), and back to stripping wallpaper off the ceiling and helping Dave with the re-plastering job, which, when it is done, dried, and sanded, we will paint and prime like normal people.

Tidbits from the 'shwa

• I think I have shoes for the wedding! Yay!

• Dave said at Crappy Tire that we should pose for a photo he'd have called Oshawa Gothic. We were standing in Canadian Tire, having bought a shovel for the garden, a push broom, a bag of grass seed and a sprinkler. Yay for marrying a BFA kid who makes jokes like that.

• Oh, and if you were wondering, getting a zit right where you got stitches on your chin as a kid? Freaking hurts! Especially if you're a whiner!

• Though they were 2 hours and 46 minutes late (not that I was counting) on Friday two dudes came and fixed our AC. AAANNND within 5 minutes they could tell it WAS NOT the freaking thermostat, as we'd suspected all along! Take that stupid Bruno the mute, balding German from the other AC place! To put it in words poor, slow, Bruno would understand, I'll just say "eet iees NOT de shermoshtat. you vere vrong!" Dave put a stop on the cheque he wrote to Bruno and the other guys. Hah! Take that, completely incompetent air conditioning dudes!
  

• We ordered flowers for the wedding and finally finished up and mailed the invites. Sorry Dave, too late to back out now!

• Two large dogs having diarrhea (called No Fun Bum or NFB in our house) on different days this week meant hours of gastrointestinal fun for all. Don't worry, details are ot forthcoming, I'll just say it was highly gross and not something we ever hope to repeat (for their sakes and ours) and move on. We used so much bleach to clean the floor today it smells like we have an indoor pool in here. Sadly, we do not. But! We have air conditioning! And it works!
  

• While out running errands today we were cut off by a guy in another car I named Hairy McRomanNose. I thought about calling the police, but really, I think the universe had already punished the guy enough.

• I got a new pair of running shoes and running capris (they were cute! and on sale!) and took both for a spin tonight. I didn't go far or fast (4k in 30 min) but it was still good to go out. And now, I'm gonna plunk myself into the tub and use a little of the Uplifting Mandarin bubble bath from The Body Shop we were given cause it's the closest thing I can afford to a slice of heaven.
  

Oh and Rhett? He's so very tired and enjoying the new ikea basket:

nothing says summer like

• taking the end slice of watermelon and a spoon and carving out your own bowl, complete with a two foot spray radius of little watermelon droplets, including spots on your sunglasses.

• the first sip of homemade green tea iced tea

• the smell of freshly cut grass
  

• the smell of hose water on the pavement on a hot day

• the perfect breeze through the front screen door

Now all I need is a hammock and a week off from work to enjoy it! Hope it's as beautiful where you are as it is here!

A camaro in its natural habitat

It's been statistically shown* that dog walkers are more likely to find dead bodies than non dog walkers. I hope we never have that kinda luck, but being out for walks** with the dogs means we notice lots of little things in our neighbourhood. Things like who uses pesticides on their lawns, whose gardens look great, how long a house has been for sale, and who is always arguing when we walk by, that kinda stuff.

Not far from our house is something in a yard which we both think is a perfect encapsulation of life in the 'shwa. I could write paragraphs trying to explain its socio-economic status, geography, and history, but for those not familiar with the area, we're practically a suburb of Toronto,*** but are still firmly entrenched in mullet country complete with big raging SUVs and trucks, white bread restaurants, and blue collar charm. I saw another minivan today that had spinning rims.

In fact, there's a perfect illustration of the 'shwa just a few blocks away. On the way to the P-A-R-K**** we walk past this:


It's what I call a camaro in its natural habitat: overgrown by long grasses, rusting out, and on blocks. Sadly, the happy days where its mullet-sporting owner would blast the tunes on a sunny day windows down, drumming on the steering wheel, head banging to the beat, honking at "chicks" and flashing the devil sign with his tongue sticking out look like distant memories. Apparently the owner was a Zeppelin fan. I think the car has climbed its last stairway to heaven.

Ah the joys of living in the 'shwa.

_________________________________________________________
*I completely made this up, but so often when they discover a body on the news it's someone who was out walking their dog.

**Or runs, but lately detaching my ass from the couch takes tremendous effort so there hasn't been much of that.

***Safely the most multicultural city in the world. Unfortunately the 'shwa offers little in the way of diversity - last I heard it was 94% white.

****If it isn't spelled in this house the dogs whip themselves into a frenzy. I think the train of thought in their heads goes something like "Park? We're going to the park? Really? Park? Did she say park!? OOOH park! Park park park park park! we get to go to the park! Really! Park!"

Another 'shwa moment

I've got a slight tonsil infection (I get enough of them to know what it is right away) so when we woke up Saturday morning we decided to splurge and go out for breakfast.

We ended up at the Golden Girdle* after realizing the local haunt we planned to hit wasn't open for another few minutes.

To put it mildly this buffet was badly organized. Half the time there weren't any plates to be had.

It takes a special kind of stupid to put the syrup next to the fries, several trays before you actually reach the waffles or pancakes. It's also pretty craptacular when you don't actually have any pancakes at a breakfast buffet. The whole time we were there were no pancakes to be had. They brought five waffles out every 20 minutes which meant the sixth person in line (and everyone else for the next 20 minutes) wouldn't be eating any waffles. It was leading the most calm of people to get pretty ticked. One smart dude said after checking out the buffet that he was ordering from the menu. If only we'd been that smart. The people who were lucky enough to get waffles had to back track to find the warm apple goo and syrup, rubbing it the yummy waffle smell in the nose of the sixth person who didn't get any.

There were those smiley faced fries there too, which I've always wanted to try. Unfortunately they're oven fries that are designed to be baked in an oven. Deep frying them will make them soggy and leave them dripping with grease. That was a taste I care never to repeat.

They did have some fruit though - watermelon that had been cut up a couple of days before and was dry on the surface. The omelette bar, though, was good.

The busser for the tables was so efficient that she took our plates, glasses full of water, and cutlery before we were even done, and we had to wait another 15 minutes while our food chilled to get any utensils.

The 'shwa moment came at the end of the meal. En route to the buffet noticed a dude who had "mom" and "dad" respectively tattooed on the tricep of either arm (though no definition was visible to the naked eye) of each arm. I could still smell fresh ink he had so many tattoos. He was sitting there with two boys who were thoroughly enjoying playing with their food and throwing it at each other. I'd bet money he was a weekend dad.

As we were leaving Dave was a few paces ahead of me and we walked past the dude again. He now had his shirt open revealing more fresh ink and a freshly shaven chest, complete with the orangey glow of fake tanner.

As I walked past him he looked me up and down in that gross "oh man I'm gonna need to bathe after this" way, and the moment I passed him he muttered in a low, emphatic voice "ssweeeeeeeeeet." Evidently he approved.

I don't think we'll be eating there very soon.


*yeah, I know it's the Golden Griddle but calling it the Golden Girdle is my reminder that I'll need to wear one all the time if I eat there very often.

Cooking in the shwa

I'm starting to realize that I'm getting married in about four months, and that my bum has become more comfy now that I've been living with Dave for about seven months. I'm also realizing that unless I do something about said comfy bum I will in short order be "the woman standing in front of 150 people in a church with back fat spewing out the back of her dress," and having that look immortalized in hundreds of photos. Imagine my excitement.

So in the "trying to eat healthier" vein I decided to make grilled mushrooms for dinner. And, since it was super easy and, at least from my perspective sinfully delicious I thought I'd share.

Take some portobello mushrooms caps. Pierce them with a fork so that any liquid from cooking them drains away. Place on a rack so they can drain, add garlic and whatever spices you'd want, and if you're feeling bad some cheese. I used thin slices of boring old low fat cheddar but you could use some wicked provolone, goat cheese, feta, anything really. Throw them in the oven on broil for about 10 minutes on a rack halfway down the oven. Voila! They're yummy and probably aren't too bad for adding to the comfy bum state.

Efficiency, thy name is woman

We actually rented a carpet steamer Tuesday night, and got around to using it Wednesday night. We just have the basement carpet to clean, since the rest of the house is hardwood floors. The carpet was getting dingy from both "muddy dog paw" and "boys who helped us move in during a rainstorm" stains. Since we had to return it tonight, I decided while Dave was at work that I'd finish off the job.

It was easy, really, once I figured out how to work it. Yes, it really did take me a minute or two. After that, I packed the steamer and the mostly useless upholstery brush up and lugged them upstairs and out to the car.

Carpet steamers leave carpets pretty wet. So, we thought turning up our trusty little dehumidifier on Wednesday night would help things dry out by morning. It sounded fine, and, having just bought it in August, I didn't suspect a problem until we found it still making all the right noises but with no water in its little bucket this morning, despite running all night.

So, I figured no big deal, I'll just take the dehumidifier back to the big box store from whence it came after taking the carpet steamer back to the grocery store.

I thought I'd cleverly stashed the dehumidifier receipt in its box in spite of the chaos that was going on at the time. We had just combined households for the first time, in the middle of a rain storm (before this we lived 500 miles apart) and had the added fun of his dogs and my cats mingling for the first time. Apparently I hadn't done the clever stashing as planned since the only thing I found in it was some styrofoam and the cats' nail clippers, which, while a great find, wasn't the receipt I was looking for. I lugged the dehumidifier into the box and upstairs to the car.

Since it's not yet flip flop weather here yet, I went upstairs to put socks on before heading out, only to step in something wet upstairs in the bedroom. Prometheus (Yep, Russian dog, Greek name) looked up at me sheepishly as I yelled (not at him) all manner of obscenities about what this new wet liquid on my foot could be. I even asked him but, being the type of creature who eats entire bars of soap (and is also fond of eating my underwear) he had no answer for me. I even told him later that the wet goo was probably a result of his kleenex eating habits, and that kleenex was not part of the doggie food groups but got the same blank stare I got earlier. I stopped wondering and swearing long enough to wipe the goo off my foot in disgust (with a kleenex he likely ate after I left) and threw a pair of socks on, only to realize by the time I got downstairs that there was still an icky wet feeling between two of my toes.

At the grocery store I found myself being stared at by a woman in the paring space beside me who looked like she would rather eat a bowl full of cockroaches than get out of her perch in her van. Her husband (I assume) was exhaustedly slugging the boxes of pop and tv dinners they had bought into the van while she sat there with the van running, barking orders at him. She looked at me as though I had horns, and pity like she wondered what I'd done wrong not to have a pop and tv dinner slinging man of my own. It was truly a 'shwa moment. I lugged my wallet, cell phone, car keys and the big lug of a carpet steamer and its hoses into the grocery store from whence it came. Her van was still running with her in it when I returned to the car. Apparently not everyone got the whole "fossil fuels are bad for global warming" memo.

I hit anonymous big box store, lugged the humidifier in the door and explained I had no receipt but could they please take back the defective humidifier and give me a new one and I'd be happy to get out of their hair. After some deliberation and calling in some reinforcements from another department they agreed and the guy went to get a cart to bring a replacement dehumidifier out to me. When it arrived, I thanked them and grabbed the box (almost the size of my arm span but not really that heavy) from the cart and walked with it out the door to the car.

I had planned to do much more tonight but ran out of steam, hence the title not really fitting this post. Here's hoping the list in court tomorrow is short and I can spend some of the afternoon getting housey crap done before the new couch arrives Saturday!

True to form

The day of the Blue Jays' home opener game has a repuation as being a day with odd weather. Even the first ever Jays game was a snowy day. [EDITED TO NOTE: I have no idea where I found this picture, but it's a good one, eh? Thanks to whomever took it]





This year's weather was no exception - we had an odd (and happily short) snowfall this afternoon that coated the tulip and daffodil leaves (and hyacinths, though I didn't get any pics of them) outside in the garden with a delicate layer of snow.

Signs of spring in the 'shwa

When out for my first rollerblade of the spring yesterday (and I can tell you, thanks to my new cool gadget that I went 6.43k with an average speed of 12.5k an hour, which is slow but I had hills and traffic lights to contend with) I noticed a definite sign of spring in the 'shwa.

A guy was standing in his driveway, washing and washing his monster truck, complete with big tractor wheels. It was bright tonka truck red. On my way back he was drying its giant shiny rims, bit by bit, with a paper towel.

I can't remember if he had a mullet or not, but figure this is a sure sign that spring is here.

Adapting to our environs

My parents have a spa in their house that they use most days to relax and unwind after a long day. The jets massage my already flabby back to butter, the noise of the jets drowns out whatever your brain is still screaming about from work, in short it's the perfect way to relax after a hard day's work.

We often crave a dip into my parents' spa after a long day's work, but the 35 minute drive there makes it a not-so-practical solution. Add in the fact that after about 15 minutes in the spa you're ready to sleep like the dead, which makes matters worse.

This makes us perfect candidates for getting a spa of our own.

Unfortunately, we're not the sort that can afford a spa, unless our grand plan of winning the lottery unexpectedly pans out there will be no spa in this house.

Reality gets in the way again when you consider that there'd be nowhere to put it in our tiny house, it wouldn't fit through either doorway, and the old wiring in our house probably wouldn't power one anyway.

The 'shwa is known for being a pretty ghetto, blue collar town and I think it's starting to rub off on us. To remedy our spa-less situation we've come up with what I'm sure would be viewed as a wonderfully ghetto solution.

We fill up our tiny bathtub (which takes up half our tiny bathroom) with water and bubbles (it at least gives the illusion of wonderful pounding jets) and just soak. We take turns on who gets the "bad side" which means sitting with a faucet in the back. It's a great system. Sometimes, we even break out the dollar store inflatable bath pillow. When it's been an especially bad day, we bring up our plastic ikea glasses and open a bottle of the finest Barq's diet root beer.

I think we'd impress Mr. Darwin with our quick adaptation to our new environment.

Cool 'que

It was a gorgeous day here - bright and sunny but it hovered around freezing all day (it's -3C right now, -9C with the windchill). Unfazed by this, we decided that today was going to be the start of BBQ season.

Just after Christmas this year my grandmother gave us her barbecue. It was a gift to her and my grandfather from my parents a few years ago, and she had always been afraid to use it. Actually, to be more accurate, she expected to be blown to smithereens by it. This expectation meant that unless my parents or uncle were there, it sat idle.

We were all too happy to give it a new home. Dave fired it up tonight and man was it good!

Farewell to the frankencouch

I've mentioned before we don't have swanky digs. My clothes are stored in plastic dressers. Our loveseat has been named the "frankencouch" because it started coming apart at a seam some years back and I had to make some serious repairs so there weren't foam bits every time you sat down. Unfortunately, the only way to repair the ripped cushions was to take some yarn and a big darning needle to stitch it back together. This obviously did not bring some pretty results.



I wish I could say "at least it's comfortable," but sadly I cannot. I even had to make the same repairs to the full sized frankencouch that's still with my parents.

Come to think of it, the only furniture in this house isn't a hand-me-down is Dave's (none too swanky) ikea chair, and I think we can all agree that ikea barely counts as grown-up furniture.

We made a couple of trips "browsing" for furniture wherein we found ourselves getting up and plunking down on more pieces of furniture than I'd care to admit. With each plunk came the analysis of whether it was what we were looking for.

The couch had to be comfy to both of us, nice to look at, suited to a more formal room but casual at the same time, and easily cleaned up given our "zoo." That's why we really wanted leather. You wouldn't believe the amount of hair we have to vacuum off the frankencouch every week from the cats lounging on it, and the dogs, who we're both pretty sure sneak up there the moment we leave the house. Since leather doesn't trap and attract hair like fabric does, we think it'd be perfect, really.

Agreeing on "the" couch was difficult. Dave has comfort as almost his sole criteria. Despite his art background, looks were less important. He would be happy to get one of those big fluffy lazyboy chairs that look more like a stack of oversized muffintops. Those chairs and couches look like to me they're just waiting for you to take them home and open up the cheesies and the box of donuts and grab the remote. In short order you would swell to the ranks of the morbidly obese to fit the chair's ginormous proportions, and later die, still in the chair, despite numerous well-intentioned Maury Povich interventions.

I'll admit I am a bit of a clean lines kid so the plain, stylish couches attracted me, but I was usually disappointed because they were as comfortable as sitting on a stack of cardboard.

So, when we went shopping a few weeks ago we both agreed we liked one couch and it fit our criteria but I was still not 100% sure, even when there was a 50% off sale THAT DAY ONLY! Yeah, I figure if they can have that sale once, they'll have it again soon.

Tonight we returned to find yet another a 50% off sale, and the sales people (who were painfully obviously on commission and circled like hyenas) told us it was an additional 20% off the already 50% off tag, so we ordered this couch and chair, and ended up spending less than we had originally planned. In 4-6 weeks this is what we'll be sitting on:

And yet, despite my excitement for new, pretty furniture, I feel bad for frankencouch. It seems mean of me to just give it away to another home just because I don't like the way it looks and it's falling apart.

It did nothing to deserve being covered in blue stripey fabric which quickly fell apart, and now, after years of being available to plunk my butt down on it, the only thanks it gets is a trip to yet another home (I am its third owner, and it's lived in 3 places while with me, shipped across the whole province). Of course I'll donate it to a good cause or find it new digs (or let it become the animals' couch in the basement, not sure which) but I feel badly its glory days are numbered. I guess I'm just odd that way.

Roundup at the Corral

People watching is a sport I've always enjoyed. It's why I don't mind taking the train, subway, or the bus to go places. The huge variations in the human species never cease to fascinate me and I always seem to meet interesting people, especially on GO buses. While we all, for the most part, have the same fingers and toes, the way we behave, percieve and live can seem SO vastly different. I'm not making value judgments, I just find it fascinating to watch.

Now I've mentioned that we live in a white bread city before, and when I describe it that way I truly mean it. While it's apparently one of the fastest growing areas in all of Canada, it's never shaken the "unsophisticated, bottom feeder filled boring city" image. We ended up here because we both got jobs here, and it certainly has its advantages - close to the city, my parents, and housing is way more affordable.

Last night we decided to venture out with a group of Dave's work colleagues to hit one of the local, and evidently legendary bars in town. This, in keeping with the above description, was not a bar where "shaken or stirred" were ever uttered. It was your stereotypical roadside country music bar where the music was hurtin' and the patrons looked to be hurtin' as well. We had never been there but heard the people-watching opportunities were fantastic. We were not disappointed.

We paid the cover (there was a live band playing who were pretty good, even if the music they played wasn't my scene) and we collectively tried to keep our lower jaws from dropping.

A colleague of Dave's and I had a punch-buggy like game we worked out before arriving: whoever spotted the mullet first could punch the other in the arm. Had the spectacle of the whole evening not been so distracting it's quite likely we'd be the first people ever hospitalized for playing such a game. As it were, there were simply far too many people for us to gawk at beyond the plentiful mullet-set crowd.

There was, however one mullet so worthy of mention I cannot pass her by. This one was dyed straw blonde. In the front it was a Farrah Fawcett flip, only it was cut short, more like granny hair flipped back at the sides and helmeted with a liberal spraying of hairspray The "party" section in the back was fairly unremarkable, straight, with an obvious curling-iron flip under at the bottom. It was just long enough to reach the back of her skintight leopard print tank top which was trimmed with black lace. It was clear that this woman, likely in her late forties (if I'm being generous), had spent a great deal of time creating just such a look.

And it had paid off. She had managed, that night, to rope a short man with black hair, who was balding and sporting a black and white bowling shirt. I would guess he was a few years her junior. I think he was wearing a few gold chains but I'm not sure; that detail may just be my imagination running away with me. Their moves on each other on the dance floor fascinated me in a car-accident like fashion. I could not help but look. If ever it were possible to get pregnant (aside from age issues, of course) by dancing, this lady would surely be knocked up.

Our best-dressed candidate for the night who was a cougar, likely in her late thirties cutting up the dance floor sporting a short, high waisted denim skirt, black opaque tights, footwear I can't remember, and a black body suit on her upper half, covered over by a flannel grey and black plaid shirt, tied jauntily just below her breasts. To top it off I think she wore a light coloured cowboy hat which may have belonged to her gentleman-caller. Together they seemed to pace from the dance floor to their table constantly. One song would be over and they would head back, only to turn around to dance through the next one.

Another couple, likely in their early fifties (or later) chonologically, but in their teen years judging by their Public Displays of Affection swung around the dance floor the whole night, the beads from the ties around on their cowboy hats swinging as they made their moves on each other. They seemed truly in love and completely unaware there was anyone in the bar but them.

The cougar sighting opportunities were excellent as well. There were gaggles of men closer to my age who came together as a pack and (audibly) picked out their next cougar target. One couple I wasn't sure was a cougar situation until I met her in the bathroom where it was clear to me she was much older than I had realized. She wore clothes I think of myself as being too old to wear and more for the prostitot and teen set than someone in their late twentites.

A good time was had by all, even if our good time was, in part found in our fascinations about other people.

Wherein we get our asses kicked

So with less than six months before the wedding and both of us having recently sprouted comfy-bums (wherein you're happy in your relationship and your butt develops an attitude that it can grow to whatever size it wants because it no longer needs to impress anyone), we've started to hit the Y again with renewed vigour. I'm not a fan of my increasingly comfy bum.

And so, we've decided to go to a spinning class tonight. For the uninitiated this is where you're on bikes as a class and an instructor proceeds to torture your comfy bum for an hour, leaving your face flush and drippey with sweat, heart pumping and brain hoping your lungs will recover from the burns.

And I genuinely mean torture. It was great and made us work hard, especially since we're both STILL getting over colds and aren't yet 100%. We celebrated by taking a nice long bath to soothe what will definitely be jello legs tomorrow.

Hopefully with lots more classes our bums will be less comfy looking!