Para-Know-Ya

There are times that I think that friendship is really nothing more than an opportunity to take your neuroses and foist them off on someone else. Really, you can take the things you are paranoid about, and share them with your friends, and that way you won't be paranoid AND lonely. It's always better to be paranoid and neurotic in company.

Kuri, months ago, commented that she was afraid, after reading about it on the internet, that her hot water tank would get plugged up, over pressure itself and explode, bursting up through her basement and sailing through her roof. (No, the myth busters episode didn't help any.)

Guess what I worry about at 2 am, when I can't get to sleep? Guess who was in her basement looking at the hot water tank, realizing she didn't know what a pressure valve looks like?

A few days ago, I was telling my co-worker Mr. T, about Mr. Spit and I making puns for an hour the night before, about chicken at a restaurant. It's one of the ways we entertain ourselves, not the only one mind you, but one way. We like puns around our house. We like them a lot, and we really like the groaners.

He told me that people who are obsessive-compulsive are extraordinarily good at puns.

So, at 12 am last night I was trying to decide if I am extra-ordinarily good at puns, or merely just good. I'm trying to decide if I have any other symptoms of OCD, which is hard, because I know nothing about OCD. Which does not stop me from thinking I have it.

I know it has something to do with never being quite sure that you've turned the oven off, and I realize that I haven't worried about that in forever. Then I remember that my oven doesn't work, and I start wondering if it is possible that my broken (completely broken) oven would randomly turn on, and then start a fire. Also there is likely stuff stored in my oven that is not heat proof. (No, not wool, chocolate from San Francisco).

And I'm wondering, could I be OCD? Wouldn't I know by this time? Wouldn't someone tell me this? Mr. Spit has an entire degree in Psych, wouldn't he have mentioned that I should get some help?

So, that's what I did until 1 am last night.

**************
The good folks at Mental Health Today have a lovely little quiz on OCD. I do not have "any clinically significant obsessions".

So, Mr. T, a special present just for you. I know they are your favourites.

Because I'm Curious

I was getting dinner for the dogs, after eating my own (Mr. Spit is out of town still), and I got to thinking about all of you.

I'm wondering. . . .

What did you have for dinner last night? No, really, I'm curious.

(I had fresh perogies from the Farmers' Market - potato, bacon and onion; sour cream, a BC nectarine, a glass of 1% milk and about 8 tootsie roll's.)

Really, c'mon, dish. What did you eat?

Yes, that is a perogy on a fork. It's from Glendon, Alberta, and it's part of Mr. Spit's personal "big things in Alberta" photo album. I spared you the giant kulbasa sausage from Mundare, Alberta, mostly because I didn't think we could trust Aunt Becky to behave herself!

A Vulture Ate My Blog Post

No, really.

Sigh. I really, really like Hallowe'en.

I think Fall is my favourite time of year.

Monday Miscellany

I was walking through Chapters(1) on Saturday, looking for something for a friend, when I saw it:

A ball of elastics. You know, like you put together in your first job when you were bored out of your skull, and couldn't think of a single thing to do? Possibly you even spent days working at this, but all you had were the ugly, boring beige elastics, because your company was to cheap to get coloured ones. Maybe you even stole a few of the ones that come with broccoli at home, in your mother's Fenian drawer, because they were good for starting the ball. And possibly your ball was quite large, and weighed a bit, and yes, you really were that sort of child who came home with notes in her report card about fidgeting.

Possibly. But, not quite. These elastics were colour co-ordinated, and the ball was perfectly round. It was just perfect.

And, this ball of elastics cost $12.50.

Think for a second. Who sat in a marketing meeting and thought "I've got it, we are going to sell a ball of elastics, red, blue, yellow, green, all wrapped up, and we are going to charge, umm, $10, no better make it $12.50? It'll be a best seller man, we'll make our fortune."

And then, after I had spent more or less the whole weekend with this ball of elastics running through my head(2) - mostly wishing I had given into my baser self and seen if it would bounce off the wall of self help books next to it, just as I was typing this,

I thought,

(No, really, I did)

How do you put that together? Do you suppose there is a machine? It can't be by hand, that would be demented. And how would it feel to be the inventor of that machine? Would you go to cocktail parties, and with a glass of white wine in one hand and a shrimp voulavent in the other, would you look at the other guests and say "I'm filthy rich because I made a machine that puts elastics into balls. Yes, that's right, any colour, any size ball(3), we hold US Patent 2211028, and baby, I don't mind saying, that little patent has us rolling in the dough."

And who comes up with this sort of thing? What kind of a life do you have to lead? We've got war torn regions, anopheles mosquitoes, Jon and Kate divorcing, and someone came up with a machine that puts elastics in a ball. Who is that person?

All of that aside, I can't help but think: I bet the ball really would have bounced off the cupboards above my co-workers' heads. With a thunk and everything.

*******
(1) like Borders and Amazon, if they also sell useless office supplies, in addition to being out of every book you might want to buy on a given day.

(2) Yes, it does disturb me that I spent that much time thinking about this - but there you have it.

(3) I know what you are thinking Aunt Becky, and I'd just like to remind you that God is watching.

Hot Dogs

I went to a volunteer thing on New Year's, raising money for a friend's pre-school. She asked if I was going to blog about the experience, and I said yes.

Which leaves me wondering what to blog about.

The T-Shirt Promise
I think it all began when she sent out the information about the event. We would be in a picnic shelter, with a very large fire. Apparently dear readers, we would be so warm we would be running around in our t-shirts. I thought this sounded, well a bit strange, given that it was to be -30C (-4F), and I kept thinking that this seemed a far fetched claim.
Perhaps, unsurprisingly, I spent no time in a t-shirt. Well, no, that's not quite accurate. I was wearing a T-shirt. It's just that I was wearing 4 layers over that. We teased said organizer, leaving her to splutter that she was told t-shirts. C. in case I forgot to mention it - you know, because my brain was froze- I think, just maybe, they lied to you. Just a tiny bit. But, as interesting as the t-shirt assertion is, there really isn't enough of the story to write a blog entry about.

People Aren't Just People
I could tell you that people who live in so-called bedroom communities are, well, different than those who live in the inner city. But frankly, this just seems to be a stupid thing to say, unless I can call out exactly what those differences are. And I have a post about stopping and staring, but it's not quite ready to be teased out of my brain.

I could, perhaps, tell you the story of the hot dogs. The $1 hot dogs. And tell you all of the snappy retorts I wanted to come back with.

Yes, that's what I will do. I will tell you about selling hot dogs for a dollar.

"Are they organic?"
It's a hot dog. By it's very nature, it came, mostly - I think, from animals. Yes, definitely. There were animals involved at some point. I'm almost sure of it. If you would like to be more precise, they have carbon in them. Probably to a greater amount on the surface. I remember the edict from 1st year University Chemistry - Things That Have Carbon in Them are Organic. Yep, absolutely, they're organic. I think.

"Do they have trans-fats?"
Oh, it's a hot dog. A generic hot dog. The ingredients are (mostly?) written on the side of the plastic wrapper. I would say there is a distinct possibility that the trans-fats will be the healthiest thing in the hot dog.

"What's in them?"
Now, I'm not sure about you, but I learned really early in my life that there were a few questions it was better not to ask. If gravity really works, when to do the hoke- pokey, and what's really in a hot dog. What were you doing when you were supposed to be learning this lesson?

"Were they humanely killed?"
Funny you should ask. We went to the free range hot dog farm just this morning. The rancher wandered around, he asked all the hot dogs, and only those that volunteered became your dinner. Now, you really shouldn't ask about the ketchup. You don't want to know about the tomatoes.

"Are they fair trade?"
Well, we went to the grocer free range hot dog farmer. We gave him a surprisingly small amount of money. He gave us 200lbs of hot dogs. No one called the police, the sheriff, their mummy or their therapist. I'd say they're fair trade.

"Are you qualified to cook those?"
Well, let's see. I have a degree with a double major in economics and political science. I am a great gardener and a pretty good cook. Ok, I'll admit it, I'm not the greatest housekeeper, but I'm a pretty darn good knitter. Mr. Spit has a degree in psychology, and he used to know locations of nuclear subs (no, really, when he was in the military he did). They let him build bridges, as long as he gets the right permits. We make pretty good money, and we haven't declared bankruptcy. Neither of us are in jail. Are you qualified to eat a hot dog? What if you choke?

Hi

Hi.

This is me.

Waving at the internet.

I'm not dead.

Just nothing to write today.

Go read Mr. Spit's post. It's beautiful.

See you tomorrow.

Toronto

Dear WestJet:

Thank you for exceeding my expectations. My last flight, only a short month ago was Air Canada and American Airlines. 'Nuff said.

But honestly, when you asked me about what you could do better, I was hard pressed to not mention something about the wailing banshees small people on the plane.

Now understand, WestJet, this actually isn't because I hate children, nor is it because I have just lost a child, nor is it because of infertility. This has nothing to do with that. This has to do with the fact that there was:

Not one child
Not two children
Not three children
Not four children
But five (5) - yes FIVE children, all sitting within 4 rows of me.

There was the lovely little boy who sat in front of me. He sang 99 bottles of beer on the wall. I'm not sure if he sang all the verses, but judging by the stunned expression of the business traveller sitting in the same row, I think perhaps yes. I also think he was the one withe the, erm, flatulence problem. Maybe you could get some medical help for him? Or possibly could we have those air bags now?

There was the lovely little girl who sat across from us. We were all thankful that she was in a car seat. We did; however, wonder if the car seat would fit in the overhead bin, and if the bin was, how you say, soundproof? It's just, I had turned the volume on the new ipod alllll the way up, and I could still hear her. We also wanted to take up a collection for alcohol for this wee creature's parents, who looked, well, all done in. One got the feeling that maybe their day had not started in Edmonton, and if it didn't end soon, well, there were going to be parents eating glass in the airport lounge.

Then there was the twins, yes TWINS in front of us. Who were not screaming or farting (although, I wasn't sitting behind them, so who knows). But they, well, they had no volume control. None. And their mother had none either. You know how this goes. They raise their voice, mum raises hers, then they raise theirs. But, I did like the time out threat. I think all of us wanted one of those. Especially if we got to leave this plane to do it. We were just waiting for the threat to "turn this plane right around and go back home!"

Finally there was the earphone boy. Who was not taking off his earphones. Even after two flight attendants told him the plane would not be taking off until he did so. Seriously. We were about to start taking off, we had already taxi'd out to the runway, and he wouldn't take his ear phones off. I was glad he did. There were a lot of other adults who were willing to "help" his mother compel him too. . . .

Anyways, so if you wanted to make my flight experience better, how about some duct tape? No? Well, what about ear plugs?

PS - Loribeth: I waved out my window in your general direction.

I'm going to bed now.

Invincible Spring

In the midst of winter,

I discovered that there was within me

an invincible spring.

Albert Camus

Which is a good discovery.

This is the view from my front porch,

here in lovely Alberta,

on April 20th.

Yep, that invincible spring, it's a good thing.

Furball Number One

I'm not sure what one posts about the day after breaking up with her family. Seems a tough act to follow. So, I could post about:

- the fact that Health Canada is very likely to tell me my water bottle causes cancer. or something.

- the fact that Wikkipedia is telling women that if they just breathe deeply, they can stave off pre-eclampsia. Damn, if only I had known.

- what I'm knitting at the moment.

- the fact that Mr. Spit is out of Town. (Yes, if you wanted to break into my house and kill me in my sleep, this would be a good time to do it. But honestly, wait, my mother is waaaaay ahead of you!)

- I bought this jacket at JC Penny, on sale (yes, I buy my clothes across the border and have them shipped.) I'm not sure it fits on me, or if it just looks really funny, so I wanted your opinion. I think I look a bit Quasimodo-ish in it.


But really, I thought I'd introduce you to one of the family members I'm not going to dump.

You've met Mr. Spit. So who else?

Ahh, I've got it.

Just on Sunday Mr. Spit was asking why we had dogs (The larger one had had another "accident" in the bathroom). I pointed out that there was one simple reason we had dogs. . . . .

All I have to do to make the "fur children" happy is to come home. There is no one else in the world I can say that about. Mr. Spit likes me, an awful lot, but honestly he's not always thrilled to see me.

This critter on the other hand?



I'm the greatest thing in the universe to her. And all I have to do is show up. And rub her belly. And feed her. And tell her she's a pretty girl. And love her. And rub her belly, and dress her up in bandanna's. And let her sleep wherever she wants.

Yep, this is Maggie. She's our first "fur child", we've had her for 7 years now. She's gone from being an obsessive, neurotic genius to being a sweet, well rounded dog. Hasn't eaten anything in a long time. Which is good, because the first year it was three (3!) seat belts, a coke can, a rock, a pumice stone, a kennel, several blankets, a few books, some clothing . . . We had a dog who went to daycare, she couldn't be left alone. (She turned into a barking, quivering pile of goo - a bit of separation anxiety, that)




There she is. Do you wonder why she has a fan club?

And in answer to your questions:

Border collie with some German shepherd, and maybe some whippet. Honestly, she's a generic brown dog.

Yep, weighs about 50 pounds.

No, her full name is actually Margaret Thatcher, but I have no idea why. She's about as unlike the Iron Lady as you can get.

Yes, she's very loving. Hasn't met a person she doesn't like. Except maybe the cat. And sometimes her "little" sister.

Can we Interrupt the Abortion Debate for just a moment?

I have an email from both Mr. Slater (Boundless Editor) and Mr. Kaufman (the Writer). I'll publish those on Monday. (Mr.Spit has the blog for tomorrow - Stay Tuned!).

But today, today there is something more important!

The 27th was Anna Banana's birthday. She probably doesn't want me to tell you all how old she is, so I'll tell you she turned a number with a 3 and a 5 in it. Anna is grand. She's smart, she's funny, she's kind, she's compassionate, she's got good hair. She's one of my favourite people at work. (Ok. let's be honest, she's one of the only people I work with that I like!). I like her even if she lives in the only place in the universe where you can wear a string tie and cowboy boots with your tux. She's also the mother of the cutest child in the universe!

Today, you will notice, is the 29th. That's two days past the start of her birthday. So, both you and Anna would be reasonable in asking: "Will Anna be getting her birthday gift soon". Yep, that'd be a reasonable question.

Umm, here, look at these pictures. Yeah, that's a beach off highway one in California. It was really, really pretty.


And this one. Those are elephant seals. They are really cute. We stood and watched them for a good half an hour. They were so cute. Especially when they scratched their chins with their flippers, or rolled over and stretched. They must be the laziest things in all creation.

Oh, and this one? That's me about to get really wet in the surf, at Carmel by the Sea. Unfortunately Mr. Spit was so busy taking pictures he didn't have time to warn me I was going to get very wet. He had time to laugh at me though.

So these images, they are my pitiful, wretched, humble attempt to explain why . . .

Anna's birthday gift, well, it looks like this. That's a sock cuff. Haven't quite started the heel portion yet. But I'm close - about 5 more rows!


Yeah, the other one, it looks even worse.

So, everyone join with me:

I am a bad friend. I was supposed to be knitting on the drive to San Francisco, not watching the scenery, admiring the sea lions or getting wet. (hanging head in shame)

I have to go now, I need to be knitting.

Soon Anna, I promise.

God of the Clothing Universe

Dear God of the Clothing Universe:

I'd like to say, I'm not so sure about the underwear thing. I try to be frugal, so I wore my non-pregnant underwear into my pregnancy. I'd like you to know, maternity underwear is ugly, and uncomfortable, and not at all made of natural fibers. So, I didn't purchase it. I wore what I had. And I wasn't that pregnant. We aren't talking watermelon here - maybe large cantaloupe. So, it would seem unreasonable that the elastic should fail.

It would seem particularly unreasonable that it should fail while I am walking to get a latte in a shopping mall. And it would seem that it is completely unfair to be walking and thinking, oh God, my underwear is falling down. Crap. I can't grab it. I'm in public. I can't do anything. Great, it's still falling, Ok, it is now at the same level as my crotch. Uh huh. My but is not small, so why couldn't it hold it up. For that matter, my hips? They are curvy. Are you really telling me that they aren't large enough to hold up elastic? So, the only thing holding my underwear in place, as it has fallen down, and has long since said "arrividerci", "sayonara", "adios" to my waist, is my pants. Which are a size 18. And I'm not a size 18 any longer. I'm smaller, but I couldn't find a belt this morning, and my belt loop broke. So, I'm not so sure about those either.

Why are these people talking to me? Don't they know I'm in a crisis. I am praying here. Oh, when are we going to get back to the office. Can anyone see that there is a bunch around my nether regions? Are they wondering - "What is up with her ass?". This is uncomfortable, and feels strange, and I am. Not. Happy. And I'm wondering, those dreams, where you are naked in public, is it really so bad? It is, isn't it. We won't talk about the stretch marks. Or the need to shave.

So, God of the Clothing Universe - the only reason I am talking to you at all any more - this morning, when I looked out the window, and was thinking of wearing a skirt, you said "Wear the Pants".
Amen.


This is a bit of re post, if only because the underwear that fell down, I forgot to throw them out, so here I am again.

Knitting in Public

I skived out on church pursued an alternate worship strategy this morning. I was sitting in the nice brown leather chair, next to the fireplace. I partook of communion a non fat latte and a banana walnut muffin and sat knitting and people watching. (Hey don't look at me like that - the Carrot was closed. )

These two women walked in - hot and sweaty, in their spiffy running tights, and sat drinking their ice water and tea with green crumbly bits - not even coffee. Honestly. Made me tired just looking at them.

So, the one looks at the other, and says "I went to University with this girl. She knit. All. The. Time. I took her to a hockey game, and she brought her knitting".

I thought about all the places I have engaged in public knitting, and thought about speaking up. I realized I knitted through my entire class yesterday. I have brought my knitting to restaurants, on car rides, to support group, to bible study. I smiled to myself, and I just kept knitting. I have to confess, I also thought - "I can hear you. I'm knitting, not deaf".

I'm knitting this:

Then they started talking about running sprints. I packed up and went home then.