A plague o’ both your houses!

The chicken pox descended upon our house last week and it is amazing exactly how much chaos can be created by locking a bored six year in the house for four days. Each day is an escalation in the scope and pure magnificence of the disaster.

I fear for tomorrow.

I have learned a few things this week:

1) Playdough ground into a pair of tights is a laundry dilemma that will never be solved. Buy new tights.

2) An Ipod playlist filled with Katy Perry, The Go Gos, Beyonce, and Pat Benatar will keep a child entertained in an oatmeal bath for a good forty five minutes. Will worry about explaining what “you PMS like a bitch” means later.

3) After several hours of playing Barbie Parties on the Glam Jet, aka “What Happens in the Cargo Bay Stays in the Cargo Bay” – I realized that my problems with Barbie have nothing do with feminist theory and more to do with the size of Barbie’s accessories in relation to the heating grates, vacuum cleaner hose and the cat’s intestinal tract.

4) It will take approximately 3 days, 18 hours, and 27 minutes to write a 300 word blog post.

5) The 87 episodes of Spongebob Squarepants that I previously thought was bordering on excessive? Totally not. Considering writing thank you notes to Nickelodeon and whoever invented the PVR.

6) Monopoly Junior is the friendly socialist version of Monopoly where you spend your money on pony rides and miniature golf, rather than using your resources to create a vast and powerful empire that will financially crush your neighbours and force them from their comfortable middle class homes into a tenement on Baltic Avenue.

7) Benadryl, no matter what the pharmacist says, will not make a captive six year old drowsy.

We are thinking about getting a dog.  We already have two cats, and thanks to two trips to the fish store in the same number of weeks, twelve fish. Oh, and a five year old who often spends her time meowing, chirping, and howling. Yet, now that we have a house, a dog seems like the logical progression. Or we are completely insane. You choose.

We have been searching the Petfinder website, looking for a dog that suits all of our requirements. This is a tricky proposition, since there are so many dogs in need of a family it makes you want to bring them all home. That would be a lot of dogs. Also, the dog has to be good with kids, and cats, and energetic, but not too energetic. And cute. Cuteness is important in something that will require you to carry poop around in plastic bags.

The conversations we’ve been having on IM tend to go something like this:

(Paul is Chopper Dave on IM – I don’t know why. Well, I can guess, but the less said about Sealab 2021 the better.)

Chopper Dave says: YES! Delta Wire-haired Pointing Griffon

Chopper Dave says: yes yes yes

Chopper Dave says: hunting pointer

Chryse says: it is ugly

Chopper Dave says: WHAT?

Chryse says: UGLY

Chopper Dave says: who cares?

Chryse says: it looks like a muppet

Chryse says: i care!

Chopper Dave says: it’s an awesome dog

Chryse says: is it snuggly?

Chryse says: it doesn’t look snuggly!

Chopper Dave says: so snuggly

Chryse says: i think you lie

Chopper Dave says: no cats for the griffon

Chryse says: i’m sorry

Chryse says: i would have an ugly dog if it would make you happy

Chryse says: what about this one?

Chopper Dave says: no St. Bernards

Chryse says: why not?

Chryse says: SO CUTE AND CUDDLY

Chopper Dave says: St. Benards are uuuugly and smelly and drooly

Chryse says: St Bernards are cute and cuddly and will rescue you from a sinking boat

Chryse says: …and drooly

Chopper Dave says: what would I need a dog that saves me from a boat?

Chryse says: just in case

Chryse says: what if you fall down a well?

Chopper Dave says: 116 pounds?

Chryse says: or need some Neo Citran?

Chryse says: it is 116 pounds of awesome!

Chopper Dave says: we should get that weimaraner

Chopper Dave says: totally

Chopper Dave says: seriously

Chopper Dave says: The Weimaraner is loyal and loving to his family, an incredible hunter, and a fearless guardian of his family and territory

Chryse says: i don’t know if we should get a dog of better moral character than us

Chryse says: it might make us look bad

Well Nothing Blew Up At Least

It has been one of those days. One where everything goes just a little bit wrong, so that whatever it is takes twice as long to accomplish, with three times the swearing. I slept in this morning, until ten am, which was pretty damn exciting – I haven’t slept that late since we moved in – until I realized it was garbage day and I hadn’t put it out. I spent the morning cleaning the porch and dithering about the yard. I then had the brilliant idea to try and attempt to install the clothesline we bought yesterday, which turned out to be one of those tasks that should have been simple, but totally wasn’t.

First, the instructions were somewhat lacking. In fact, there weren’t any instructions, just a small crude drawing that didn’t include any trace of one mystery piece of hardware that came with the kit. So I spent much of my morning trying to divine the intentions of all the random bits found in the box. Once I  had deciphered the top secret clothesline installation formula, I went searching for a drill bit for our new cordless drill. (Thanks, Kyle! Kyle always saves the day.) I didn’t find the necessary drill bit, but I did discover an awful lot of stuff the old owners left in our basement. We certainly won’t be lacking for nails or giant ten inch bolts any time soon. In fact, I found so many random containers of nails and screws and bolts fit for Frankenstein that we are pretty much set if the apocalypse should come and wipe out Home Depot with it.

I had gotten a used bike recently (which is lime green and orange and is totally awesome and I love it, but I digress) and I decided to take it out to the mall so I could get the drill bit and also one of those fabric softener dispensing ball thingies, The Downy Ball, or whatever? Do they still make these things? I have never used fabric softener before, but with the clothesline I thought I would start. Since the whole idea of me even figuring out when the rinse cycle is, let alone making it in time to add fabric softener is laughable, I thought I would buy one. I couldn’t find one anywhere, though. Are they gone now? Did I miss the boat when everyone bought one in 1995 and I didn’t because I always use dryer sheets and now they don’t make them anymore because everyone (except me) already owns one? I think I totally lost my train of thought there, I am so worked up about this fabric softener issue.

Where was I? Oh yes. I took my new  bike out and wandered off to the store. I hadn’t ridden my bike before, and although I had looked at it fairly closely,  I obviously didn’t look quite closely enough. On the way back home, there was an alarming sound, and the back fender fell off. Then I ran over it. Apparently a couple of bolts were missing. I had to walk the poor thing home, the bright orange fender all scratched and dented. If I looked fairly eccentric riding around town on an orange and lime green bicycle while wearing red gnome shoes, I looked downright daft walking the damn thing home. I finally made it back, drilled the bits that needed drilling, and trimmed some tree branches that were going to be in the way of the line. I hooked up the pulleys and measured out the line. Then I went searching for wire cutters to cut the clothesline to size. I never found them. The clothesline is currently sitting in the yard, half strung up and trailing on the ground.

I went inside and put the laundry in the dryer. Then I ate some pie. Pie makes everything better.

The drill was really fun, though.

Keeping it Real

What happens when you spend the entire day packing the contents of your apartment:

there is a panini press in there too...

oh vinyl, how i don't miss you

These would go with the boxes marked “I don’t remember buying this” and  “the turntable I haven’t used since I needed indie cred in university”.

The Chiffon Won

So this past weekend we went to an out of town wedding. Little Miss T. was having a two day sleepover with Grandma and Grandpa and cheerfully shoved us out the door waved us off. The weather was wonderful and the happy couple were excited for their big day.

Mr. Man was in the wedding party and had related wedding duties to attend to, so another guest graciously agreed to drive us from the hotel to the church for the ceremony. I had bought a fantastic dress. This dress was great – it had a flirty little skirt with a chiffon underskirt, the bust was an architectural marvel that gave me the illusion of having cleavage, and best of all it matched my pink vintage pocketbook and my super cute high heeled sandals.

I was ready. Makeup done, hair done, and I had wrestled my way into my suck-everything-in undergarments. The only thing I needed was a hand in getting the zipper all the way up, as I could only reach halfway up my back. So Kyle knocks on the door, and I ask him to do up my zipper.

Disaster strikes. The zipper gets stuck. Fine, just pull it down and try again. Now it is really stuck – it won’t go up and it won’t go down. Kyle applies some superhuman strength to the task and the zipper promptly breaks off into his hands. So now I am stuck in the dress, half zipped. I send him down to the front desk to ask for safety pins or maybe a paperclip – something, anything that can be used to jimmy the zipper. He comes running back with a handful of safety pins and paperclips and… a shower cap. The person at the front desk had handed him the small box saying it was a sewing kit. Not so much, really. Although in a pinch I suppose wearing the shower cap would distract everyone from the fact that my dress was hanging open in the back.

Nine minutes until the ceremony is due to start and we are both sweating and swearing trying to get this zipper to just move, damn it. Admitting defeat, he uses a safety pin to fasten the top of the dress and I throw a cardigan over the whole mess. We arrive just in time and watch our lovely friends get married, me with a safety pin digging into my back against the wooden church pew.

The reception is being held at the same hotel as we are staying, so I return to my room to struggle with the dress some more. It’s not budging. That zipper is stuck. Forever maybe. I can’t get it to move at all, not up or down. At this point I admit defeat and decide to wear the dress I wore to the rehearsal dinner the night before. This is when I realize the true extent of my problems – because the zipper is stuck halfway I can’t get the dress off. I am trapped in a floral print party dress, now down around my waist and twisted around so the zipper is in the front. I will have to wear the dress forever. I liked the dress a lot but I didn’t expect to be buried in it.

I take a deep breath, grab a pair of scissors, and cut the zipper out of the dress. (I may have then crumpled it in a ball, dropped it on the floor and kicked it across the room, but no one would blame me, right?) Exhausted and sweating from my ordeal I take a shower and put on the other dress.

The rest of the night went well without any new dress incidents, although I did discover that when dancing to the wedding classic “YMCA” in a strapless dress, the less endowed of us must content ourselves with lowercase letters.

An Open Letter

Dear People Who Pack The Products Shipped To My Store:

I understand that your job is probably one of the dullest on the planet, and appreciate the effort you put into making sure my product arrives at the store in good condition. I really do. I don’t mind that you often pack ten boxes worth of product into twenty boxes I will pay shipping for. I don’t mind the mountains of bubble wrap and cardboard I now find myself surrounded with. I don’t even question your insistence on wrapping boxes – boxes filled with sturdy items wrapped individually in bubble wrap – in even more bubble wrap and then placing those bubbled boxes into even larger boxes. I merely chuckled when I found you had opened fifty two pre-packaged boxes of wine markers and individually wrapped each tiny wine charm in it’s own individual layer of bubble wrap. Once I have removed all three hundred and twelve charms from their tiny plastic sarcophogus’  I might not be as good humoured,  but even so, I will try.

So after all of that careful packing, and wrapping, and taping (Oh, the tape! Packing tape has never met such dedication as yours!) I am left with a couple of questions.

Why, oh why, dear friend, after all of that – did you see fit to throw ceramic planters, with nary a trace of bubble wrap, three to a box? At least, I think they were three to a box, right now I am faced with six thousand shards of what I imagine were once ceramic planters.

Also, if you could explain how after using a hundred miles of bubble wrap to protect wrought iron and plastic and paper(!) napkins, the decision was made to toss thirty six unwrapped, unboxed, glass bottles filled with scented oil into a large box with one haphazard sheet of bubble wrap tossed into the top?  So many bottles smashed that it soaked the bottom of the box and my floor. You can smell my store down the hall and around the corner. Or maybe just me, since although I have washed my hands three times, I still smell like a department store perfume counter. Was there any reason for this box full of smashy, smelly goodness? Was my box standing in the way of your coffee break? Did you run out of bubble wrap after such heroic efforts to swaddle the rest of my order? Or maybe you had merely had enough, and gently laid down your tape gun and walked out the door. An explanation of the logic would be wonderful, if you please.

Sincerely,

Your Devoted Retailer

PS: Any idea where the packing slip is?

Life Tip #329

When dropping off a resume at a potential place of employment there are certain things you should never, ever do. Ever.

1) Make a spelling error in the sentence describing yourself as detail oriented.

1) Criticize the decor.

2) Criticize the customers. Particularily their taste in regards to things they plan on exchanging money for in order gain the priviledge of taking said item home. Since that money would – in theory at least, if anyone were crazy enough to hire you -  be paying your salary.

3) Use the word Satan.  In any context.

Thank you, and goodnight.

Bread Spam

I recently received some Amish Friendship Bread starter from a friend of mine. If you have never heard of this stuff, it is like a food version of a chain letter. Essentially, you get a bit of starter in a ziploc bag, mush it around for a few days, and then make bread with it, saving some of the starter to then pass along to three of your friends. Of course, every time you make the bread, you end up with more starter to pass along, so your definition of “friend” might have to become more vague, like maybe your dentist, or that scary neighbour two doors down. The easy thing would be to not accept the bread starter in the first place, but the experienced friendship bread pusher knows how to get you hooked. They offer you just the tiniest slice of the most delicious bread – bread that tastes like cake baked in heaven by little adorable angels- and then tell you if you want more, you will have to make it yourself so you’d better take this bag of goo or else. Since I now have four bags of goo sitting on my counter, so I can attest to the effectiveness of this method.

I didn’t bother reading the directions  on how to make the actual bread until I was about to start, when I discovered that the recipe calls for a box of pudding mix. Which seems odd, really. Do the Amish, with their disdain of modern technology such as zippers, really have boxes of instant pudding mix on their shelves? I soldiered on, and discovered a box of lemon pie filling in my cupboard, and used it to make lemon poppyseed cake. It is delicious. I am in danger of eating an entire lemon poppyseed cake all by myself, it is so good.

So, I must declare myself a convert. I will pass on the bags of goo far and wide, to all my closest and dearest friends! I will not question the pudding mix! The Amish Friendship Bread knows all! Now I just wonder if my hairdresser would find it strange if I brought her some bread starter today? Maybe if I bring her a slice of cake…

So I Knit a Hat

This hat.

Using absolutely gorgeous, soft, now discontinued, stupidly expensive yarn. I knit it, stuck it on my head, and Mr. Man promptly burst out into uncontrollable laughter. Someone on Ravelry mentioned that they had knit this particular hat in pink, and it made them look like Strawberry Shortcake – maybe I should have stored that little pearl of wisdom away somewhere.

Like in my brain.

My yarn is not pink, but rather a lovely blend of brown, purple, and dark pink (it makes sense in person, I swear) so instead of Strawberry Shortcake, I look like – in the words of one friend who witnessed the idiocy that was this headgear – a demented white girl rastafarian. Oddly enough, the look I was aiming for wasn’t Strawberry Shortcake’s little friend, Organic Hemp Brownie, so I unraveled it.

No, there are no pictures.

What amazes me is the power of the human brain to overlook the obvious. The pattern is for a giant, cabled beret, made of giant yarn. Odds are, it’s going to be big. The comments of others who have made it all discuss how oversized it is, and how it makes them look like an extra from Strawberry Shortcake on Ice. The picture on the cover of the magazine itself, is that of a really, really big ass hat. I have a small head. I look overwhelmingly bad in a big hat, I always have. I know this fact to be true. I know this, I looked at the pictures, I saw a giant hat.

And I knit it anyway.

Random Quotes From a Monday Night…

~ “If you start dating 23 year olds, won't it be confusing trying to decide if you should offer them a post-coital cigarette or cookies and milk?”

~ “That will be me, that girl over there. Drinking a pint alone and so earnestly writing in her journal. But I will wear much cuter shoes.”

~ “These girls, they are so into money it is frightening. Does the Visa machine come out before or after sex? Or is it built in?”

~ “They have perfectly highlighted hair and are always tanned. What will they look like in twenty years? Albino raisins?”
 
~ “I can handle a certain amount of superficiality. Especially if it comes in a cute package.”