Seriously Frivolous

The Annual Tradition Continues

2011-05-16T20:21:00.001-07:00

Last summer, I came home from work one warm Friday evening. The apartment was really warm and Byron had the windows closed. He had a good reason. A really good reason.

Rat Tail was holding his annual yard sale.

The front yard was filled with old furniture, tacky paintings, and gaudy knick-knacks. Rat Tail presided over the yard of crap, and in the midst of it was Mange Personified. The two of them spent the whole weekend talking to passers-by, each other, yelling at the child, and just being general know-it-all-assholes. Even though it was sweltering out, the windows were shut in the vain attempt to keep their shitty noise out.

Rat Tail is one of those douches who has been everywhere and done everything. When we applied for this apartment, we said Byron was in school for computers. Rat Tail started an internet company. When we painted our place, Rat Tail told us he owned a painting company. When we moved in, Rat Tail told us he owned a moving company. He's one of those guys. His place is filled with crap. Literally. The hallways are littered with dull baubles, musty rugs, and dusty paintings. He told us he owned a trading company and has been all over the world. That tattered paper lantern? Straight from the streets of Beijing. Those swords? From Indonesia. Those masks? From Africa. Oh Rat Tail has seen it all and done it all.

At these annual yard sales, Rat Tail hauls out his old furniture, lays them on the grass and apparently makes a small fortune off them. He bragged last year that he made over $2000 one year. As if.

Last year, there was a very worn burgundy chaise on the lawn. Mange, in her splendour, sat spread eagle all weekend on the chaise, hollering such gems as "when she acts up, I just swat her ass," speaking, naturally of her five year-old daughter. In her jammie pants, camisole sans bra, greasy hair and bare feet, she spent three days sharing her world view.

We ran into Rat Tail this evening. He told us that the great annual yard sale is on this weekend. If we have anything we're getting rid of in the move, we're free to bring it down for the sale. As if.

How fitting. On our final weekend in this hell hole, we get to spend three days listening to Mensa sell their crap. I will try my best to take photos.

***UPDATE - The yard sale was cancelled for some unknown reason. We are deeply saddened by this, and disappointed that the chance to snap a pic of Mange is lost. She's like the Yeti.***

Swattingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Mamma's Little Baby

2011-04-17T15:30:00.000-07:00

It's a very sad day in the Thomas home today. This morning, Blanche, our little dog, passed away. She was getting sicker all week, and last night she couldn't breathe. Blanchie had congestive heart failure, so in the ultimate display of love, my parents let her go. She was surrounded by my brother and my parents and was cradled as she left us. Blanche's loss is leaving a big hole in our lives already.

She was a spunky little dog with a boat-load of attitude. I know when I go home, we will all sit around telling Boo Boo stories for hours. Like when she used to sleep on my bed. Her tiny chin would be on my ankle while I read. If I moved an inch, she would lift her head, narrow her big brown eyes and give an exasperated sigh, as if to say "must we?" If I moved too much, she would jump off the bed, run to the door and glare expectantly at me to get out of my room. I miss her attitude already.

Blanchie was a well-loved dog. From the moment we brought her home, she was the apple of our eyes. Especially my father's. They would go for walks and drives together. When my dad was quitting smoking, he ate jellybeans. So did Blanche. He would bite half a jellybean and give the other half to her. They were buddies. They cuddled in his chair, they napped together, they ate chips together, they were friends. I wish I was home to give my father a hug. He was the brave one who brought her to the vet this morning, and he was the one who showed his love the most by letting her go.

Blanchie was a gift and she brought a gift to our family. She came into our lives at a time when we were all getting older and starting to drift apart. Blanchie brought us together. Blanchie gave us joy and laughter and gave us all a new appreciation for other living beings. The hours of mirth she gave to us will never be forgotten and our hearts will always have her... with her fuzzy neck that smelled like honey, her little paws the size of quarters, the cowlicks on her head and neck, the stripe of reddish fur down her back that stood up when she saw other dogs (how dare they?), that stripe that went white in recent years, those rheumy eyes, and her little dog smile.

Thank you, Blanche, for twelve incredible years. Thank you for the cuddles and companionship, the licks, the stories and the walks. When I walk around the neighbourhood, sadly without your leash, I will always remember how you would stop, put your little paws on my leg and yip, as if thanking me for taking you out for a walk-walk.

Broken-Heartedly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Tales from Melrose Place

2011-04-13T09:21:00.001-07:00

By now, you know that I live in a shit heap. It’s cheap, it’s close to my work and Byron’s school and it’s in a hip part of town. Unfortunately, the building is 56 years old and still has most of the original fixtures...such as electrical. I am sincerely shocked that we haven’t burned to the ground yet.

The tenants in this building are, for the most part, equally shit-heapy. You know Mange, Rat Tail and The Slave. You know that Mange and Rat Tail bump uglies. Well, it turns out that The Slave has found companionship in the shit heap, too. A single mother who lives next door to me.

I met the mother a couple of months ago when there was a huge bang on the roof that shook our apartment. All the tenants on the top floor scampered out to the hall to find out what it was. The Slave was there, too, complaining that he might have to go on the roof to find out what it was. You know – his job. A woman was in the hall, holding a gurgling baby. I asked her if she was new here and she said she just moved in. She apologized for the baby and thought the bang was a neighbour banging on the wall to tell her to be quiet. I told her I didn’t know we had a new neighbour, let alone one with a baby. The child was cute enough, with this humongous shock of blonde hair in the front that sort of swooped up like a pompadour. I asked what the baby’s name was.

“Jesse James,” said the mother. But she said it like Jesse James was one name. My sister, for example, does not introduce her son as “George David”. It’s George. I imagined the child’s name to be something dumb like JesseJames Dillinger.

After all the other neighbours and The Slave left, JesseJames’ mom and I were left awkwardly in the hall. She took the opportunity to ramble to me about how JesseJames is 7 months old, and she went to the Salvation Army that day and got 25 diapers and she’s trying to stockpile diapers and diapers are expensive. I nervously agreed and tried to untangle myself from that conversation. I felt bad for her. Until the afternoon I went to get a friend at the front door. We also have no front buzzer so visitors have to call us on their cells. We’ve saved a bundle on delivery food.

I ran downstairs, only to find JesseJames and his mother on the stairwell. She held him on her hip and let out this massive sigh. I said hello and she said “laundry” and sighed again. JesseJames and his pompadour drooled. She stood in the way, so I said I have a friend waiting at the door. She sighed again, not moving. It was like she wanted sympathy from me for having to do laundry while carrying around her child. It took all my strength not to tell her it’s her own damn fault for taking a place on the top floor of a three-story walk-up with a baby and the laundry in the basement. So I just sternly told her to excuse me while I went to get my company and I snaked past her and JesseJames.

Byron was the one who found this gem out. JesseJames’ mom and The Slave are companions. He saw The Slave going into her place one afternoon, but Byron said it was obviously a social call. Blech. We hear The Slave next door in the hallway a lot. And we also hear JesseJames’ mom carousing downstairs in the hallway. JesseJames’ mom and Mange are buddies. Byron has heard JesseJames’ mom coo to the child “say hi to Auntie Tina.” It’s like Melrose Place, with neighbours sleeping with neighbours. Except without the beauty. And way more insane.

44 days. The Slave has started to show our place to potential tenants. A young girl came by on Saturday. The Slave was “upselling” the place by telling her that our place has a custom paint job (that Byron did!), original fixtures and tenants can put anything they want on the walls. Are you sold yet? The Slave also told her that management keeps up on maintenance around here and things. It took all my strength not to laugh. The unshovelled driveway and walkways? The filthy hallways? The ancient electrical? Rat Tail’s “buddies” who happen to know how to plumb? She asked me if it was warm in the winter. I said the windows will have about an inch of frost and you can’t see out them, but we had our snuggies. Byron told me to reign it in. I wanted to pull the child aside and tell her to run. Maybe she has a blog, too, and she can continue the Tales from the Tina File, or tell more stories of JesseJames’ mom. Before we leave, though, I have a few more tales of my own to tell.

Amanda Woodwardingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Tales from the Tina Files Part 3

2011-04-07T16:05:00.000-07:00

It was a momentous afternoon just now. Byron and I went down to the landlord, Rat Tail, to deliver our notice that we are leaving this godforsaken shitheap. His door was wide open, so I sent Byron to venture in the doorway to deliver the letter. I stayed behind and held my tongue, in case Rat Tail or the Slave tried to say something smart. Which they did.

I looked across the hall and saw that Mange had her door wide open, too. I heard yelling and hollering and "stir the pot". I looked behind me and saw inside Mange's place. The front entrance was packed with coats and shit on the floor. Not real shit, but unidentifiable crap. The bathroom was dark and filthy. And all the blinds were drawn, giving her place the cavernous look. Mange was making dinner with the door wide open. Like you would. She was hollering, the poor child was screeching and running. Who makes dinner with the door wide open? Mange Personified.

As we handed our notice, the Slave made some stupid comment to Byron about being clean-shaven. Then he was making some more stupid comments about spit-shining his head. Rat Tail came out from whatever dark corner of his place and ran his hands through his yellowing gray hair. He tried to be funny, saying he wishes he could do something with his hair. Blech.

Toodle-oo Mange and Rat Tail and the Slave. 50 more days until we can squeal out of here, never to look back. Unless we want to shock and appall people with our stories.

Suck it-ingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Gangsta's Paradise

2011-04-05T15:12:00.000-07:00

The sun was out at lunch, it was seven degrees warm and I took a walk to my bank on my lunch hour. I strolled the streets of downtown Edmonton, taking in the sights. Hoo boy, there were sights. I saw a douche in a suit with those pointy dressy elf shoes who was smoking a flavoured cigarillo. It smelled like cherries. Douche. I saw a lot of sleeveless shirts. I saw some sandals. I saw a lot of goose bumps. I also saw a girl who was wearing a skirt that barely covered her ass, bare legs and platform flip flops. The skirt was so short if she took a big stride I am pretty sure I would see her hoo-haw. Silly child, I thought to myself as I passed her and this guy she was with. He was pure, mother-f*cking gangsta. How do I know he was gangsta? The guy bobbed back and forth while talking, gesticulated a lot, and grabbed his crotch more than once. Oh. And he yelled at her: “Yo, shut the f*ck up, ho.” Very gangsta, indeed. Except this gangsta was very small. He might have been about 5'6 and maybe a buck twenty if he was naked. To me, if you’re going to be a gangsta, you need to be big and formidable. I want to look up at you in fear, not down at you as if you were a mosquito with cornrows. I want a big-ass thug – think the big black guy from Green Mile – and not some dwarf with a dirty mouth. After La Thug barked his orders to his ladyfriend, my mouth gaped open. Then I closed it quick and walked faster, sort of afraid what the wee gangsta might do if he saw my horror. Then I realized that he is so frigging puny, I could probably toss him into traffic with a toss of my hip. If a 35 year old government worker who writes speeches all day, loves her crock pot, her husband and a Wallander mystery book has a good chance at whooping your ass, then you, L'il Wayne, are no gangsta. S'up Ho-ingly Yours, xoxoSallyS

Walk Fit

2011-02-03T13:02:00.000-08:00

I came to work yesterday morning and on my desk was a CD entitled "Walk to Fit." Someone had (kindly?) left me a fitness CD. Anonymously. There was no note on it, although that might not have made it any better. It was a busy morning, so I didn't have much time to think of it. But when lunch came, and I stared at the CD over my dish of strawberries, I became irritated. I asked a colleague if she knew anything about this, and she was shocked someone would do that. My perplextion grew to anger.

A fitness CD... You see, I am big. Giving a big girl a fitness CD is the equivalent of giving a middle aged man brochures on erectile dysfunction, 'cause, you know, he's of that age and probably needs it.

I called my sister, my wise and fearless sister. Jane was furious. Jane hops when she's really mad, and I could tell she was hopping on the other end of the phone. She's also a teacher who is working on her Master's, so she has very strong feelings about discrimination and harassment and can articluate herself very well. She encouraged me to take this to HR, to complain, and to stand up for myself.

So I did.

I called HR, I told my managers, and I emailed my colleagues saying someone left me the CD and I would like to return it to its proper owners. No word yet on who left it. I was sad last night, and Byron hugged me and told me he loves me just as I am. And you know what? So do I.

I'm not sad anymore. Some fool might think he or she was helping me by giving me this lame CD, but they know nothing about me. My weight has no bearing on what I do at work or how I do my job. My weight is my business and my concern. Anyone who thinks they can anonymously (!) give me advice can drop dead.

I've always been large. I've been teased growing up, but I've never had the feeling that being this size has completely limited my life in what I can do. And I have always felt that if there were things in life that I could not have done because of my weight (be a waitress in college, for example), then those things weren't really that worth it.

Before all you fat-haters out there get on me, know this. Bugger off. My overall health is fine. I go to the gym and walk to and from work. I am done making excuses to the likes of you for what I am. Digusted? Look away.

I am not embarassed by this, nor am I that angry anymore. Their advice is unwarranted and will remain unheeded. I know who I am and what I am and I have enough people in my life who love me for that. To the anonymous donor, here's some advice: Get a life and mind your own frigging business.

Beautifully Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Tales from the Tina File... Chapter Two

2011-01-02T11:48:00.000-08:00

As the snow falls here in Edmonton, I think back on the summer. And with those thoughts come one of my earliest encounters with Mange Personified. Her fight with a crackwhore.

Shortly after we moved in, we realized that our new apartment had some faults. Such as Mange. And, after a few weeks, our neighbour across the hall. By and I left our house one morning, and the neighbour's door was open. In the hallway sat a scrawny girl putting on her boots, looking very strung out. We left and thought no more of it. We came back to get something, so I ran back to the building. The scrawny crackwhore was storming out of the building as I unlocked the door, and I could hear screeching from inside. It was Mange, screaming at the crackwhore.

Life is not worth living until Mange comes running down the stairs towards you in jammie pants (natch), a camisole with no bra. My life is now richer for this experience. Jealous? You should be.

Mange was screaming "f*ck you" to the crackwhore, who was screaming "no, f*ck YOU!" and that exchange of brilliance went on as the crackwhore ran down the alley. Rat Tail the Landlord and his roommate stood in the hall and they seemed proud of Mange.

We call the roommate "The Slave", since Rat Tail does nothing around here. The Slave shovels, mops the halls, handles all complaints and even walks Rat Tail's asthmatic chihuahua Arnie.

I went into our place to get something and The Slave showed up at the door. He said that Mange won't let anyone bad in this building (ha!) and will stand up to anyone doing anything illegal in this place (ha! ha!). The Slave said the crackwhore was a "friend" of the new neighbour, and was strung out on drugs. Did he not know that he was strung out most of the time, too? The smell of weed is pungent from their apartment. Now the new neighbour was being kicked out because he works in the oil patch, would not have been here a lot, and when he is here he brings crackwhores home.

Mange was just coming back to the building from chasing the crackwhore down the alley as I left. She was still raving and cursing as the door closed. Mange was Rat Tail and The Slave's hero. I, on the other hand, just witnessed a crackwhore fight.

Would anyone like to help us move?

Normally Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Review: Mike and Molly

2010-09-20T19:03:00.000-07:00

All summer I've been hearing about this great new show on CBS that is finally showing average bodies on tv. It's refreshing, they said. It's novel, they said. It's about time, they said, that network tv was portraying fat people as real people.

I beg to differ.

I watched the first episode and I am not amused. As a fat girl myself, I was put off by the whole thing. To me, it was a half hour of fat jokes stringed together with a weak plot. To me, it was a vehicle to use all those fat jokes writers stack up and can't use in other shows because there's no fat people on those shows.

Mike and Molly sucks. If the producers and CBS want to be soooo original and soooo inclusive of the average American body, perhaps they can have a fat character or two in a show who add something more than a punching bag for bad jokes. Perhaps they can build a show that has fat people in it just because. Perhaps they can have chubbier characters who are experiencing average situations and not taken from a fat person's point of view. Because, you know what? My point of view as a fat person is pretty much the same as everyone else's.

To you I say good day.
xoxoSallyS

Tales from the Tina File

2010-09-20T17:35:00.000-07:00

We live above a woman we named Mange Personified. She's trash. Pure. White. Trash. She's got a five year old girl named Raven. She wears jammie pants a lot. She used to date the landlord (hereby known as Rat Tail, since he sports one) who lives right across the hall from her. But they broke up. Since then, they like to fight in the hallway. I'm not certain, but it sounds like she stands in her doorway yelling and he stands in his doorway trying to diffuse her insanity. Mange is also a wealth of tales, some of which I'd like to share with you.

Such as last night...

We were watching tv when we heard yelling. Having heard yelling before, By and I took our positions at the top of the stairs. There, we are completely hidden from Mange and Rat Tail but can hear every trashy word.

Mange was yelling at Rat Tail for lying to her. She ranted at him for not keeping promises and breaking his word and not being truthful. In the middle of her raving, we heard Raven crying and then Mange screeching at her to go read her book. She's a great mother. I can only aspire to be like her.

We could hear Rat Tail talking softly to her, trying, we presume, to calm her down. Mange only got angrier. The eff bombs dropped, her voice got shriller, and then she laid the gem of the night, and the nugget to their fight...

"Why won't you make love to me sober?!?!"

From what we can gather, Rat Tail gets himself liquored up before going over to hit that. He actually used that phrase once to By and I when he broke the devastating news that he and Mange no longer date. He "hits that". Charmed, I'm sure.

Needless to say, Byron and I started laughing so we had to skitter back into our apartment before we got caught. Mange has a vicious temper and would have skinned us alive. From what we can gather, Rat Tail had plans to go to Mange's place for some amour, but got drunk instead. As Byron said, if he had to have sex with that beast, he'd need to be at least drunk, too.

Things got weird after that. We heard banging noises, like someone was being beaten. We think Mange took the boots to Rat Tail, but who knows. After the beating noises, the doors slammed shut and all went silent. I hope they went to their respective hovels, but I suspect Rat Tail went to fulfill his promise.

The phrase "making love" now has squicky connotations, thanks to Mange.

Chapter One-ingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

My Husband is a Brave Man

2010-09-11T08:26:00.000-07:00

We went to a comedy club last night. Those who know me know that I have a donkey bray of a laugh. If something tickles my fancy, I let the world know with my big, loud, hearty laugh. So Byron coming to a comedy club last night had the potential to be embarrassing for him.

I sat next to this young girl who fiddled with a gum wrapper all night. She would rub her fingers on it and smooth it out over and over again. She also had a weak laugh. Normally, she would have driven me crazy and I would have been distracted by her ticks. Not this time. I let out one of my donkey brays and she looked at me in horror.

We saw Debra DiGiovanni. She made jokes about big bras, skinny girls, roofies and her love of young boys. I laughed all night. The phrase "rape me where I land" will forever make me giggle.

It was a fun night. And Byron says he wasn't that embarrassed by me. In November, we're off to see David Sedaris. That should be a night of laughs. I cannot wait. I cannot say the same for Byron.

Uproariously Yours,
xoxoSallyS

The Midnight Horror

2010-08-21T16:03:00.000-07:00

Last night, By and I were fast asleep when the door buzzed at 2 a.m. Shocked and surprised, we opened the door to our young neighbour, Jazzy, who was crying hysterically. We pulled her into our apartment, thinking she's drunk and there's some silly tizzy next door. How wrong we were.

Jazzy was attacked in her apartment last night.

Jazzy is a little 18 year old girl from small town Alberta. She just moved to the city a couple months ago and from what we can hear at night, has been living it up.

Between sobs, she told me she was attacked and raped. I made her call 911. She and some friends were at a bar last night, and she met an older man. He paid for her friend to go home in a cab, and took Jazzy back to her place. He walked her up to her apartment, where he shoved her inside her apartment and attacked her. The rest of the story gets blurry, and it's none of my business.

She went out that night, she said, "to forget what happened two weeks ago". What happened two weeks ago is the scary part. Again, she went out with friends. She says she had two drinks and doesn't remember anything until the next morning when she woke up bloodied and in pain.

From her account, this little girl was raped twice in two weeks.

Jazzy shook me up last night and even today. What shakes me the most is that she was a victim twice in as many weeks. I think back on my youth and all the dumb things I did and thank god that I was never a victim.

No one's home at Jazzy's house this afternoon. I hope she's safe. We saw her come home this morning in a cab. I hope she's in a safe place, where she can heal. It's a tough lesson to learn, and poor Jazzy learned it the hardest way possible.

xoxoSallyS

Ole! Ole! Ole! Ole!

2010-06-11T17:21:00.000-07:00

I love the World Cup. I hardly ever watch sports, let alone get excited by them, but I love the World Cup. It's not the cute guys running up and down the field that makes me enjoy the matches. I have a completely un-sports related reason.

My Nanna.

In 1998, I graduated from Saint Mary's and my Nanna came over for it and stayed with us for quite a few weeks after. Nanna was a sharp woman. Her eyes may have been giving out, her hearing was not that good and her knobby knees gave her trouble. But Nanna knew what was going on. She never missed a beat. She could talk knowledgeably about any topic. Including the World Cup.

That year, we watched a lot of soccer with Nanna. She told us what teams to watch for, who was favoured to win a certain match, what player was a star. We couldn't figure out how she knew all this since she couldn't read the newspaper. But Nanna knew.

Her favourite tea that summer was Lapsang Souchong, a nasty tea that no one liked but her. When a match started, someone would make her a cup of nasty tea and she would sit in her favourite chair and start telling us who was the favourite and which team should win. She was always right.

So this year, when a match starts, I will think of Nanna. I wish I had her insight to the game. I wish she was beside me, telling me who plays for which team and who to look for.

That summer, she also watched a lot of Jerry Springer with us. The show was still new back then, so it was a novelty for everyone. Nanna was a very proper woman. No swearing, no belching, no tooting, no vulgarities. But Nanna loved Springer. Secretly, though. We would watch the show, she with her tea. When the commercials started, Nanna would throw back her head, tutting.

"Can you imagine, Janie!"

"These must be actors, Hilda!"

"They can't be serious, Sally!"

When the commercials ended, she would shush us all and become enraptured with Jerry again. She would laugh at the guests, grab my arm and say "Imagine that, Sally!"

I am imagining, Nanna. I am imagining you beside me, holding my arm, telling me you love me again. I can hear you laugh and sing and hug. I can smell your perfume and your Laspsang Souchong tea. I'm watching the World Cup with you, Nanna.

xoxoSallyS

Book Review - "The Bishop's Man"

2010-04-17T10:35:00.000-07:00

It was a frustrating read.

Before Christmas, I bought Linden MacIntyre’s book “The Bishop’s Man”. I just got around to reading it the other week, after all my reserved books from the library came and went. (Loved “Galore”, adored “The Birth House”, sent packing early “A Sea of Poppies”.) I cracked MacIntyre’s book, expecting an astonishing book and one that would leave me thinking for days.

Yeah, I thought about it. I thought it was frustrating to read this book. And not because of the subject – Catholic priests diddling children and the aftermath in small-town Nova Scotia. It was frustrating to read because the book had so many twisting plot lines and it was all left hanging for you until the final 10 pages. The whole time I was reading it, I hoped the next chapter would explain who the frig Father Alphonso is. Or why Father MacAskill doesn’t like his father. Or who the hell is Brendan Bell. All the while, I was left reading about Father MacAskill’s drinking problem.

When I finished the book last night, the final sentence read “Wondering what might be going on”. Indeed, Linden, indeed. I want my 30 bones back. This was a library-loaner, not a library-builder.

Bookishly Yours,

xoxoSallyS

Things a larger woman should not wear - Episode 1

2010-04-17T10:31:00.001-07:00

Capes.

Because you will look like this:

I saw a larger woman wear a cape yesterday. Although her hair was lovely and she had really nice shoes that I coveted, the cape took all that loveliness away.

You've been warned.

Fashion-platingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

At last

2010-03-18T15:04:00.001-07:00

I won finally. A coffee. It just took 16 coffees to win one.

Highly illogical.

Tim Bitchingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

I'm a sucker

2010-03-17T09:26:00.001-07:00

I am 0 for 15 in Roll Up the Rim to Win.

I am pissed.

Caffeinatedly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Byron's Top Ten

2010-02-24T20:34:00.000-08:00

Sure, every wife could go on about the wonderful man they married. But I have a blog, and I have proof that my husband is the best. To wit:

10. He lets me call him silly nicknames, such as Mr. Whiskers, and he doesn't get mad.
9. He eats whatever I make without complaining, even nasty chicken ratatouille. He even eats vegetables. A big bowl of spinach with some dressing on top? A snack for Mr. Whiskers.
8. Byron likes to vacuum. I hate to vacuum.
7. He's patient. I can ask him ten times if he likes dark chocolate and he patiently answers yes every single time.
6. He doesn't snore.
5. Byron has his temper under control. I have seen him yell once and that was at his uncle who totally deserved it. Now, if only he can teach me his zen ways...
4. He has a wickedly dry sense of humour. His giggles are worth sticking around for.
3. Byron loves me just as I am. Every inch of me. He doesn't ask for more or demand there be less.
2. Byron is a cuddler. His hugs are better than anything else in this world. His kisses are even better than that.
1. He came to see Jay-Z with me. He hates Jay-Z and rap music.

Can you beat that? Byron is a great husband, a good man and he'll be a great father someday.

I wonder if he likes dark chocolate?

Gushingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Commuters

2010-02-19T08:12:00.000-08:00

I should start a series on the weird things I see on my daily commute to work.

Such as....

This morning I saw a girl wearing a skirt, no tights and sandals. It was -7 outside. -7 is balmy for February in Edmonton. I think I've been living on borrowed time for not wearing a hat this week. But sandals? Don't be stupid! At least she wasn't bare on the bottom with a proper winter jacket on top - that's my personal fave. She was wearing a sweater. If you're going to dress inappropriately for the weather, then go whole hog and be inappropriate from head to toe.

Silly girls. I wanted to slap her and send her home.

Motheringly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Stupidity

2010-02-16T10:59:00.001-08:00

I watched a girl on the bus this morning apply eye make up. She lined her eyes and applied mascara to her lashes on a bumpy bus that made several stops. It was the stupidest thing I have ever watched on a bus. I was waiting for her to poke herself in the eye. I sort of wish she did, just to teach a lesson.

Then, she bopped her head and mouthed words along to songs on her iPod. She also crossed herself like a Catholic several times. Perhaps she was unhinged.

Her make up, by the way, was far too heavy. Not Ke$ha heavy, but too heavy for a Tuesday morning bus ride.

Etiquettely Yours,
xoxoSallyS

In Praise of HydraSense

2010-02-07T10:35:00.000-08:00

Byron and I had nasty colds last week. It was a sea of used kleenex and Fishermen's Friends in the house. At night, we'd get stoned on Nyquil and spend a fitful night trying to sleep.

The I saw an ad for HydraSense. And our world was changed. Well, mine was. Byron's not a convert yet.

It's salt water you jam into your nose and sinuses and it flushes out the gross stuff. I love it! It feels unnatural having water flushed into your nose, but once you blow and all the nastiness comes out, you feel so much better. And you can breathe again.

The taste and sensation of water up my nose reminds me of swimming in the ocean when I was a kid. Happy memories AND a clear nose? What's not to love about HydraSense?

Nasally Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Pony Hat

2010-02-02T19:12:00.000-08:00

I saw a man on the street today with a hat on. An ugly orange skull cap. What made the hat weird was the wee little hole in the back, near the nape of his neck. It made room for his ponytail, like the hole at the back of a ball cap but way tinier.

Now THAT is dedication to the man-ponytail.

Ain't nothin' gonna mess his pony up.

I kind of want one. But not in orange.

Covetingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Think things through out loud!

2010-02-01T20:51:00.000-08:00

A local radio station is having some douchey Valentine's Day pub crawl. It's with the morning hosts, Pepper and Dylan. The event is called ... wait for it... P&D's VD. *sigh* Did ANYONE at the station think this one out loud? Oh. They probably did and think it's hysterical. Silly moi.

It reminded me of a contest on the noon show at CBC years ago. It was held in the summer. Callers were asked to call in and name the song that was being hummed. That gem was called the "Summer Hummer". When I heard the name, I burst out laughing, and no one at the station knew why. The middle-aged producers were unaware of the true meaning of a hummer.

Think, people, think!

Dismayingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

To Spawn or Not To Spawn

2010-01-26T19:47:00.001-08:00

I have been married for more than a year now, and I guess people were giving us some time before we got down to business. No one mentioned babies before now. Well, except for my father-in-law at our reception. After several glasses of my famous Flirtini, he got tipsy, grabbed my arm and with watery eyes told me he wants to be a grampy. Who can say no to that?

We could.

Babies have been on our minds well before the wedding. We knew we wanted some, but weren’t sure when the right time is. And we’re still not. Is anyone? We have goals, such as buying a house and Byron finishing school to think of before we bring a baby on the scene. When is the right time!?!?!

Well, according to family and friends, 2010 is.

It started this fall when some former colleagues and friends found out we were house-hunting. In emails they would tell me to buy a house big enough to fill with “little Stuikes”. Then my aunt gave me a birthday card that wished me luck in “planning” the coming year. I joked with her and asked if she was telling me to have a baby. She giggled and said yes. My sister’s gotten in on the baby-urging, too. And just the other week, some co-workers asked me point blank if we were trying for a family.

Surprisingly, my mother has been silent on the subject. And she’s the one I figured would be most vocal! Everyone else, it seems, has an opinion on when we should have a child and when we should start trying. But my mother, who has an opinion on everything else is silent. Maybe George and Evelyn, and Dave and Nicole’s baby in May is keeping her busy?

For the record… it’s no one’s business. When we’re ready, we’ll tell people.

Does anyone else have people prying into their bedroom antics? Is anyone else getting conception questions? Is this, like a wedding registry, a passage of marriage?

Non-Conceivingly Yours,

xoxoSallyS

Snookin' for Love

2010-01-12T20:18:00.000-08:00

My new favourite show is Jersey Shore. It is pure trash, vile, and horrific on so many levels. But I cannot get enough of J-Woww (the extra W for emphasis), Snooki and “The Situation”. Of course, I can't get enough of The Situation. He's basically a Rambo, you know. He said so himself. They are all douchebags and heinous humans, but their exploits are more ridiculous than any sitcom could ever come out with. What they fight about, who they fight, and how they fight is fascinating. The show, by the way, is all about fighting - yelling, pulling, slapping, and a lot of expletives. These kids would sooner fight than eat – and it makes for a great guilty pleasure.

When I watch the show, my mouth is usually agape. I cannot believe people actually live like this! But then I think it’s probably just an act for the cameras. But then I see the Italian flag with an outline of the state of New Jersey on it, and I think that maybe people really do live like this. I feel like an anthropologist, observing a vile tribe of over-tanned and crass sub-humans.

The men are particularly disgusting, in my opinion. They talk about “creepin’”, which I think is the equivalent of “picking up”. They string girls along to come back to their hot tub. In the scenes of them creepin’ in the club, they look like letches and fools. And, sadly, guys I have seen in real life. So maybe the letchiness of these asses is universal in a certain breed of men. What makes them disgusting is the tanning, the preening, the hairdos, the fawning over themselves.

The girls are no better with the tans, hair extensions and fake nails. In one scene, a girl was whining at home after the bar and was taking out her hair while complaining. Long strips of plastic hair were laid out on a dresser like a discarded bracelet. To cheer themselves up, they get their nails done and tan. It’s all so superficial. And delicious to watch.

Snooki is by far my favourite. She’s so tiny and bizarre. She’s crude and trashy and completely unapologetic. Her bumpit hair is tragic. Her backflips in a mini-dress on a dancefloor is revolting. Her punch in the face from a guy is hysterical – only because of her reaction. Snooki balled up on a bathroom floor, screaming “Tell me I have all my teeth” is pure magic. Watching her milk a supposed sore jaw the next day was a delight. Then fighting with “the hippo” less than 24 hours after getting socked in the jaw is side-splitting.

If you are looking to see how low humans can go, without actually being in their putrid presence, catch this show. Warning: it will make your jaw ache. Not from a punch, but from hanging open in horror.

Ya Stumpy Bastid,
xoxoSallyS

A thing of beauty

2009-12-22T20:06:00.001-08:00

Is this a beautiful picture?

It makes me proud to see Janie holding her little girl. She's an amazing woman.

Look how good she looks here! When taken, she had just given birth five days earlier!

Oh Petite, I miss you!

xoxoSallyS

Happy Birthday, George!

2009-12-22T20:01:00.000-08:00

It's a day late. He turned 2 on the 21st. Where does the time go? It seems like yesterday he was this little bundle of joy turning people into bundles of nerves. He was so big and so sweet and so cuddly. He was soft and warm with the sweetest little head of reddish hair.

Now look at him!

He sings, he dances, he talks, he plays, he talks and talks and talks. He's smart and loving and fun. He also has good parents who are doing an amazing job of raising a ball of energy.

Take count, please. George is the fifth birthday in December. Five. Five! March is apparently a good month for fertility in my family. Dave and Nicole bucked the trend and are expecting in May. So for now, we put away the cake and party hats for a few months.

Happy Birthday, Georgie!

xoxo Auntie Sally

Happy Birthday, Evelyn!

2009-12-15T13:58:00.000-08:00

My sister had a baby this morning. Evelyn Clare Salter.

(pronounced EVE-lyn)

I am so happy for Jane and Craig and I am dying to see how George reacts to her.

Waiting for pictures from my parents... hint hint hint.

My sister had a baby... what a peculiar and delightful phrase to say. Jane had a baby girl.

Congratulations!

xoxoAuntie Sally

I want one

2009-12-10T19:46:00.000-08:00

Recent months have been rather fruitless on this wee pink blog. I felt I didn’t have anything of worth to say that didn’t make be sound like a bragging douche or a whiney brat. So I kept my fingers still. November turned out to be a bit more productive, and sometimes I think I have something of worth to say.

But I want more.

I want to get nominated for a Canadian Blog award next year. I suppose that means I have to write more, and I need to have readers besides my family. I need to build a following. The funny thing is that I have gone to several social media courses since being in the GoA for the past six months. I have been told how to build a following and how to make blog postings sexy. But that is making blog postings about government stuff sexy. Not making me and my life and my musings sexy. They are already naturally sexy, don’t you know? No? Now you do. My life and my musings are sexy. (psych!)

Do I start a series about how progressively annoying our upstairs neighbours are? Do I blog about our house hunting experience? Do I blog about future attempts to become a mother? Now, there’s bringing the sexy!

I don’t want to do political things. Everyone has their opinion and I don’t think I’m invested enough to care to blog about Iggy or Eddy. Besides, I work in government, and when I am home, I could give a rip about politics. Religion? Hells to the no! I think organized religions are a farce and I don’t want to invite the kooks of the world to bombard me with their “truths”. (Starting right now. If you read that line and get all uppity, take it elsewhere, sister.) I’m not going on some weight loss journey because to me, that’s setting myself up for failure. I have no real hobbies except for cooking, reading and watching TV. Which may explain my need for a weight loss journey, but re-read the line two sentences earlier, please. Do I blog about the weirdos I see on the bus? Because I see a lot of them. A lot.

My head hurts from this existential crisis. So may I be so lazy to ask my seven readers… What do YOU want to read from me?

Satre-esque Yours,

xoxoSallyS

December 8th

2009-12-07T19:59:00.000-08:00

I was four, almost five, when my brother was born. I strangely remember chunks of that evening.

My sister and I were at my Granny and Papa's house but I don't remember for how long or when we got there. All I know is I was watching Little House on the Prairie when we got the call. Being four, three-days-short-of-turning-five, I was mad that my show was cut short by a trip to the Fredericton hospital.

I think we were in the waiting room with my grandparents for a while, then we found out that David James had made the scene. They brought my sister and I to the bassinet that held him. I remember very clearly looking at this perfect round head with scrunched eyes and down-like hair, "That looks like my father." And sure enough, he does, even to this day. A little taller and broader than David James I, but they look the same.

Then they brought us to see our mother, who had just had a c-section and was high as a kite. It was 1980, after all. She scared me as she loopily asked us to give her a kiss. I just wanted to go look at the tiny creature who looked like my father.

Dave was a cute baby, with the nastiest diapers ever but a strong sense of self. He was a strong little boy and a talented young man. Now, he's a husband and soon to be a father. I wonder if, when I see his baby, I will think "that baby looks like my brother"? I just hope his baby's diapers show mercy to him and Nicole.

Happy Birthday, Dave.

Reminiscingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Look! Over There!

2009-12-02T11:33:00.000-08:00

I am so over this Tiger Woods thing and I'm not even watching/reading!

Why do people care if a guy cheats on his wife with some skanks? Men do it all the time, and yes they are dicks for doing so, but it's his family's business and not ours. I'm not saying forgive Tiger, or any man who cheats, but we should let the affair lie with that man, his wife and thier family.

Why are the media and the public seeking a confession or an apology? He didn't step out on us. He should not have to atone for his sins in public. He should be begging his wife and family for forgiveness and make amends to them for not being a good and honest man. He should be apologizing to his wife for not respecting her, himself and their relationship the way it should be respected.

It's hard enough for a marriage and a family to heal after affairs. To be in the media glare would make that healing all the more harder.

Look away, folks. There's nothing to see here.

Look Awayingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Happy Birthday to my Little Titter

2009-12-01T18:04:00.000-08:00

Jane turns 32 today. Scissor kicks!

I like to brag about Jane to anyone who will listen. She’s a determined and willful woman, who takes on whatever she puts her mind to. She’s also indefatigable. Jane is a bundle of energy – always talking, walking, talking, cleaning, thinking, talking and moving. She’s also incredibly strong. Jane can take on a lot and come out the winner.

For example, this fall. She is pregnant (due on December 15^th), has George to care for, a husband to nurture, a house to tend to, AND she’s working on her Masters in Education. When I tell people this, they are impressed. Pregnancy, a toddler and a husband are enough. Add a Masters to the mix and you have Jane. She knows what she wants, knows how to get what she wants and just does it. No complaints, no pity parties, no hissies. And if there is a hissy, you know it’s warranted.

Craig is lucky to have her as a wife. George is very lucky to have her for a mother (she’s a great mom!). PBS 2.0 doesn’t know how lucky she/he is yet. I am blessed to have her as a sister. There was a time we were far apart, physically and spiritually. But not anymore.

Happy Birthday, Janie. I love you and am very proud of my little titter.

xoxoSallyS

Nurse Hillie

2009-11-26T19:10:00.000-08:00

My mother was a nurse. And a very good one at that. When we were kids, my mother would bandage and balm our cuts without so much as a squeal. We could puke everywhere and my mother would not wretch as she cleaned it up. Poop, pee, puss, bring it on – my mom never wavered. But when we’d be at a friend’s house and hurt ourselves, the mothers there would squawk and balk at the sight of a cut finger. Not my mom.

Jane and I call it “Nurse Hillie Mode”.

To this day, if we have any medical question or have something weird to show her, her voice changes, her demeanour changes and Nurse Hillie comes on the scene. Her voice gets more even and she talks just a little slower and a little deeper. Her brow knits a bit and she very efficient. Blood pouring out of a cut? She’ll calmly and firmly wipe it away and see how bad the cut is. Ingrown hair? She’ll firmly wipe the area and efficiently pluck that hair free. There’s a picture of my mom on her graduation day from nursing school – she must have 19 or 20. She’s wearing one of those old-fashioned nursing caps and the crisp white uniform. Whenever Nurse Hillie comes on the scene, I picture a swish of a nursing cape and Hillie in her nursing cap zooming in close on the malady.

So when I sent her this link yesterday, I expected Nurse Hillie to love it. NOTE: If you are at all squeamish, do not look. It is disgusting and is still haunting my thoughts and making me gag. That's why it's not embedded. If you're a masochist, you will click on the link.

Nurse Hillie loved it, natch. In her Nurse Hillie voice, all deep and clam, she tells me that it is not a zit but a blocked sweat gland and then tells me how they develop. She said the goo coming out is thick and …I cut her off, switching the topic to her favourite – George.

“So how is George,” I asked, trying to direct her away from the horror.

“Cute,” she said curtly, as if George was a nobody. “The stuff that comes out smells like sour milk.”

Oh Hillie. When she said that, I pictured the swish of the nursing cape as she ran off to the next medical dilemma. Her voice got animated and bubbly as she talked on an on about George. Nurse Hillie left the scene and Hillie was back in full force.

I miss her.

Medically Yours,

xoxoSallyS

In Defense of the Snuggie

2009-11-24T20:31:00.000-08:00

Mock not, my friends, when I say the Snuggie is one of the greatest inventions of our time. I was once a mocker, too. I laughed uproariously when the commercials aired. I declared that someone wearing a Snuggie looked and was ridiculous. A blanket with holes? Who could be so dumb? I am. Except that I am not dumb for owning and proudly wearing a Snuggie.

Byron’s and my quest for comfort drew us to the Snuggie. In early October, Edmonton had a freakish cold snap. We had just moved back there from the balmy shores of Victoria, where the average temperature in the winter is about 3 degrees. When this cold snap hit us, we chattered our teeth and wondered how we could possibly survive in Edmonton. Never mind that Byron grew up around here and I had been living there for years before we moved.

One Saturday, in the middle of the cold snap, we decided to brace ourselves for winter. I have rented since I left my parent’s house so whenever it was chilly, or I got a chill, I would crank the heat. In the two years we were in Victoria, By and I kept a very warm house. For the first time, he never had to pay for heat, so he also cranked the heat whenever he wanted. Here, we have to pay for our heat. We are very reluctant to turn the heat up. How could we remain comfortable and warm, while not bankrupting ourselves?

One word.

Snuggie.

We got provisions for a long winter that weekend. We got flannel sheets, a kettle, slippers… and Snuggies. They are tan. They go past our feet and the sleeves extend well past our fingertips. They have a high neck and are fuzzy. They are the best things ever. We care not if we look silly sitting on the couch, all Snugged up. The shame has disappeared when we walk around the house in our Snugs to get a book or a drink. It’s like a warm, body-length hug. The thermostat has not gone past 20, even though it’s frosty outside and there’s a nip in our house. We no longer care, for we have our Snuggies.

Seriously, if I could, I would give a Snuggie to all my family and friends just so we can share the joy of wearing, curling up under, and snuggling under the Snuggie.

Comfortably Yours,

xoxoSallyS

I'm kind of gross.

2009-11-21T16:47:00.001-08:00

It’s true. I am kind of gross. Strike that – full-on gross.

My office is on the 9^th floor and right across from my office is another office building. My desk faces the window so I can see all the workers at their desks toiling away or eating lunch or talking with people or looking out the window. Knowing they look out the window, and that they can probably see me in my office does not deter me from my gross ways.

I floss at my desk. If I have a bat in the cave, I will dig for that bad boy – with Kleenex, of course. But still, I pick my nose at my desk. I will re-adjust the girls. I will re-arrange my pants. I eat lunch and take advil and apply balms and salves. I act as if no one is watching, as long as my back is turned to the door.

I wonder if they see me and think “who is that narsty girl in the window”. Does anyone else do this? Or am I alone in my gross office ways?

Flossingly Yours,

xoxoSallyS

Toodle-ooo

2009-11-20T19:58:00.001-08:00

Oprah is leaving her show in 2011. And not a moment too soon, if you ask me. I loathe Oprah. She’s number one on my Celebrity Assassination List. Right before Nicolas Cage and Celine Dion.

I hate Oprah’s sense of self and how she thinks that what she thinks is what everyone else should think. That stupid “Oprah’s Favourite Things” show? Silly. Sure, she can spend $400 on a bath robe. The rest of us schlumps have to make do with our paltry $40 robes. When Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s book “Love in the Time of Cholera” was on her book list, that’s when I loaded my rifle. How dare she call him Gabby? Should we call her “Opie” or “Ra-Ra”? No, because she’d eat us alive, like she did recently with those corn dogs in Texas. And what is she doing eating corn dogs, anyway? Didn’t she not just 20 years haul a wagon’s worth of her fat onstage to celebrate her weight loss? And she unleashed Dr. Phil on the masses. For that alone she should burn in hell. Is Dr. Oz her fault, too? Come to think of it, isn't Opie responsible for the scourge that is Rachael Ray? Damn her!

I can’t go on about the many ways Oprah is a drain on our culture. Mostly because I refused to watch Oprah years ago. It was around the time she did “Beloved” and she screamed, with out-stretched arms, “I AM the beloved!!!”

So to Oprah I say this: Don’t let the door his you on the way out.

Talk Showingly Yours,

xoxoSallyS

Who's Coming?

2009-11-19T18:55:00.000-08:00

The Company’s Coming headquarters is just around the corner from my house. Imagine my glee a few weeks back when I saw a sign outside their building advertising their annual cookbook sale. I got up early last Saturday and went. The books were on sale for 50-80% off because of scratches and dents, but the ones I picked up looked fine. Besides, I would do enough damage on my own just using them.

The warehouse was packed with books, and Jean Pare herself perched in a corner, autographing books. There were older women, women my age, strollers and old men. You could tell we all shared a love of these cookbooks and strangers consulted strangers on the value of a certain cookbook over another. It was very civilized as we got into an impromptu line and snaked around the perimeter of the warehouse, poring over stacks of books. It was bliss. I even got Mrs. Pare to sign the book of cookie recipes for my mother.

I picked up a copy of the casserole cookbook for myself. My mother had this book when we were growing up and I mocked her relentlessly for it. Some of the recipes from that book are just downright gross. Carman’s Caper is just wrong on so many levels. Hillie loved it and it remained a staple in our meal rotation for years. I had forgotten about (blocked out?) that meal until I flipped through the book and was reminded of the bland, mushy mess of Carman’s Caper. Then I flipped through the book again, looking for one of the more heinous culinary creations – Fish Stick Casserole. Rice, layered with a can of tomatoes, fish sticks and cheese on top. I hated that meal, and loathed it more whenever my mother made it, she would load a forkful into her mouth, smirk and tell me it was wonderful. Thankfully, the editors of Company’s Coming realized that dish was disgusting and edited it out of my version.

I picked up six books in total for myself, and am looking forward to next year. I saw some women with lists of books they wanted to get, and dutifully checked them off as they picked them up. Good idea. Does anyone have a cookbook they want next year? My list is being crafted…

Sauteeingly Yours,

xoxoSallyS

Sugary Shake

2009-11-18T19:02:00.000-08:00

I am very excited. Very excited. I am doing Christmas baking this year. In the past, a few cookies and some chocolates would come out of my kitchen, but nothing much. This year, I am around family and we're not travelling, so I can bake non-stop. And I intend to do just that.

Bulk Barn is opening near my house. I am so excited and I realize that makes me a tool. But seriously, I am a whore for bulk sections. Byron can attest to that. Why would I buy my oatmeal in a bag when I can scoop my own out of a bin? Why pay for a can of cocoa when you can just refill the old one? I save pennies, people. PENNIES! The fact the Bulk Barn is opening near my house just before my Christmas baking bonanza begins makes me happier than George stories.

Well, maybe not that happy – my apologies Jane and, more importantly, George. No offense was intended.

So what am I making this year, you ask? I have been collecting recipes and ideas for weeks now. I have made list after list and revised said lists. It’s a mix of old and new recipes. Old as in coconut chocolates and whipped shortbread and ginger cookies. New as in mint chocolate wafers and mint chocolate bark. Obviously, I am a whore for the chocolate-mint combination, too.

The irony of all this hoopla on my part is that Byron lacks a sweet tooth. The man hates icing on cake. He finds sweet and sour meatballs far too sweet. He can turn away from a plate of cookies. How are we married?!?! All my teeth are sweet. So this baking bonanza I am embarking on is all for naught with him. He wants me to give it all away. I will. I have co-workers and family to give my wares to. But I have to taste everything first, you know.

Expandingly Yours,

xoxoSallyS

Digital Vomit

2009-11-15T11:24:00.000-08:00

I posted yesterday for the first time in months. My dad got on the phone this morning with me to say he was glad I posted something. I don't know what to write these days. Life is very good. I am happier than I have been in ages, and my gripes seem silly. But if I go on about happiness, I feel like I'm bragging. And I have no life-changing experiences going on to blog about.

But this did strike me as funny. This is a comment from my last post. Megan calls it digital vomit...

Hi friend, peace...
Your blog very interesting.
If you willing visit my blog, and read my article at ****
And... if you love books, read The Holy Qur'an please...

I like books - a lot. But to pick up the Holy Qur'an for shigs is not an option. I don't read holy books for fun. Ever. Peace, friend.

Hesitatingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Where am I?

2009-11-14T11:13:00.000-08:00

Edmonton is a very cosmopolitan city in many ways. Sometimes, it’s downright Hicksville. And it’s reverted to Hicksville this week now that the rodeo is in town.

At lunch, I went for a nice walk. Walking towards me, I saw a man in bright blue jeans, a big ol’ cowboy, carrying a lasso. I stared at him while we walked towards each other. There was the obligatory large belt buckle. There was a shearling vest. There was a plaid shirt. And there was a lasso. In downtown Edmonton. Among highrises and office towers. It was the most out-of-place item I could have come across at that time of day in that location. What was he roping? A lamp post? A mail box? A newspaper box? As we passed, I was still staring, so he gave me a nod of his hat and said hello. If he said “howdy”, I would have died laughing.

The rodeo also brings in a lot of oversized pick-up trucks. They are huge, loud and there are far too many fake scrotums hanging off the back ends.

The bright side of the rodeo in town is that we are allowed to wear jeans all week. It’s Rodeo Week, after all!

Howdy-dooingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Thank you, Sarah Palin!

2009-07-29T19:28:00.000-07:00

I went to a media relations training course yesterday. And Sarah Palin deserves a round of applause. Her gaffes, missteps and poor behaviour on camera were used in pretty much every example of what NOT to do.

So hats off to you, Sarah P.! If you didn't hold a press conference in front of turkeys being slaughtered, or get lost in your own ideas, well, gosh darnit, I might make the same mistakes next time I talk to them pesky media folks!

Maverickly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

I'm Baaaack

2009-07-02T21:15:00.000-07:00

Well, the move is over. Byron and I have moved back to Edmonton. I know, I didn't say much to anyone about it, for fears of jinxing. But here we are, in one piece, settling into our new place.

The move went swimmingly, until Tuesday afternoon when By got into an accident with his uncle's truck. He's fine, but the driver's door is worse for wear. And our phone was out for two days. Other than that, all is well.

I start work on Tuesday. The day we moved in here, I got the call that I got the job! Huzzah!

This move and transition has been smooth. Well, as smooth as a move can be. The loading of the truck went well, the drive over was good and we were ahead of schedule on things. There's been no major catastrophe with the new place (in suite laundry, a dishwasher, 2 bedrooms and a pantry?! I have arrived!). And the stress levels have been under control.

Byron knows that I hiss and snap when under stress, and I have tried very hard to keep the hissing to a minimum. Victory is mine! And then it hit me. The last few moves I made were under someone else's deadlines and needs. When I went to Victoria, I was given less than two weeks to end everything in Edmonton and haul ass over there. The move before that, I was in a desperate rush to get out of Yellowknife and took whatever I could get to get out. I did nothing but hiss and spit and snap during those moves. This time, it's totally different. Byron and I did this on our time table, on a schedule that suited us, and we didn't feel rushed into anything.

Go Team Stuike!

Since we've been back, things (like jobs) have fallen nicely into place. Heck - I even get my own office! Toodle-doo cubicle world!

God, I missed Edmonton.

Moving on uppingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Dear City of Edmonton

2009-06-01T08:27:00.000-07:00

Quit pussing out on your jobs.

I have gotten this notice a few times already:

"We regret to inform you that we have cancelled this job opportunity or selected another candidate whose qualifications more closely align with our requirements for this position."

Well, which is it? Has the job been cancelled or do you not like my qualifications? If the job was cancelled, then I suggest you get your shit together before posting a job, since this is the third time I've applied for a job that mysteriously gets cancelled. If you don't like my resume, then say so. Seriously, I've had worse said by better.

I realize this blog posting may eliminate all chances of me ever getting a job with the City of Edmonton, but at this point, who cares. Three of those bullshit notices leads me to believe that maybe a job with the City might be bullshit, too.

Fed-Uppingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Too far?

2009-05-23T21:47:00.000-07:00

I saw something bizarre in the liquor store this morning.

Mike's Hard Lemonade has their booze for breast cancer. There were cases with the pink ribbon on them, promoting breast cancer awareness. Huh? Isn't that like having Lay's Chips sponsor an anti-obesity campaign?

Stupid marketing.

And for clarification, we were in the liquor store this morning to get boxes for moving.

Marketingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

In defense of Science Fiction

2009-05-08T12:31:00.000-07:00

Many of you who know me know that I have little interest in the Science Fiction genre. Star Wars passed me by for 32 years. Star Trek has never been on my TV for more than a nanosecond and I click on by. Any book by Asimov or Adams had never held space on my book shelf. That is... until two years ago when I met Byron.

Byron loves Science Fiction. He loves Star Wars and reads Star Wars books voraciously and can talk for hours (it seems) about the characters and plots and developments. There is an Asimov book on my shelf now, because it's now our shelf, and Douglas Adams has a place in our home.

By and I have very different tastes when it comes to music, movies and books. I have (but am aiming for the past tense of have) a bad habit of brushing off and poo-pooing things I have never seen and declare that it is not worth my time. I caused my grief with this attitude when we were meshing our lives.

So we made a deal.

For every movie in his genre that we watch, he sees something I like. The result has been me liking Star Wars movies (the new ones, I don't care for the original ones. Luke Skywalker bothers me. He's a pussy.) and Byron liking The Sea Inside. We even did an experiement where I would read one of his favourite books, and he read one of mine. I like "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy". He hated David Adams Richards' "Nights Below Station Street".

But I digress.

In my limited experience with Science Fiction, I have come to admire the genre. The people who write Science Fiction are some of the most creative people out there. You have to be incredibly creative to think of universes, cultures, species that are beleiveable. You have to build a world that makes people suspend their disbelief for a moment and accept that this is reality. Which brings me to the Science Fiction fans. They are some of the most creative people, too. It's easy to read a book from a different historical era, or another country. It's a human experience that can be somewhat universal. But to read a book, or watch a movie and understand that while it's all fake, that world does exist for that moment is unique. And then to talk about the Horax like it's real is stunning to me.

So thanks to Byron for opening my mind to something new. Maybe I'll find a book of mine that you'll love one day, too. We're going to see Star Trek soon. Please, pick your jaws off the ground.

May the Force Be With You,
xoxoSallyS

What the...?

2009-04-18T09:15:00.001-07:00

I think I was ogled the other night.

We ordered pizza (I was a lazy wife that day), and I think I was ogled by the pizza guy. I am not bragging, I am just stunned by it. It was blatant and it made me feel squicky.

I thought I heard a faint knock, so I looked out the peep hole to see this dumb-looking kid in his early 20's staring up at the ceiling, mouth agape. I opened the door wearing my at-home attire - a grubby over-sized t-shirt, sweat pants and fluffy slippers. The kid had this moony grin on his face and creeped me out. As he pulled the pizza out of his bag, he was blatantly staring at my chest. At first, I thought he was trying to figure out the worn out lettering on the front of my shirt, but no. He was ogling. Blech. A few years ago, I would have been slightly flattered, but that night, I felt gross.

A couple years back, I ordered Chinese food one night. The delivery guy thought it was time to tell jokes while I paid him, so he told me this gem.

Q: Why did the walrus go to the tupperware party?
A: He wanted a tight seal.

The door was quickly shut on Shecky.

The moral of this tale? Quit ordering delivery and make your own damn food.

Peversely Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Whew?

2009-03-25T19:08:00.000-07:00

I always knew something was wrong with CBC when I was there. Not the programming, well at least not all the time, but management. They always seemed sketchy and greedy to me. And now my suspicions are proven true.

Management will sacrifice 800 jobs, but only 70 of their numbers. Those cuts affect those who work to put the CBC on air. Management, meanwhile, goes on a lot of courses and meetings at Niagara. They are thick in numbers and cowards for not taking a cut when needed.

I'll wait to see how it all shakes down at the Mother Corp and see who is getting fired, what stations are being downsized, what shows will go missing and who the casualties are. All the while watching management rake in obscene amounts of money, taking an obscene number of trips for useless training course. And I do mean useless, because after this hit, they won't have anyone left to manage.

Sign-offingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Inappropriate Talking

2009-03-23T20:51:00.000-07:00

Are you allowed to talk during aerobics?

I ask because I am in an aerobics class, and there are several people who use the class like the local coffee shop. Is that normal?

They do their routines, half-heartedly may I add, and talk loudly over the music and the instructor. Even scowls from others and the instructor do not deter them.

Does anyone else have this problem? Am I on glue thinking these people are rude and annoying? Advise, please.

Grapeviningly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Homesick

2009-03-21T09:28:00.000-07:00

These are the days when I wish we lived closer to family.

Byron's uncle is sick and is not long for this world. The plane ticket for the two of us to fly off this island is more than $1,000. Yowza! We could drive, but that is scary and long and we'd show up exhausted and delirious. We'd both like to go, but can only really afford for one of us. This is so frustrating!

As soon as I could, I left home. Sure, I came back a couple times but never stayed for long. Both my grandmothers died when I was away. I would have loved to go say goodbye to them both, but the cost was far too much. It was almost justified. You would think that a wee 1.5 hour trip would not break the bank, and now that it's proving that really is the case, it's harder than I thought.

I can't bear to think what it's going to be like when my parents pass. My dad has had cancer, my mom has MS. What if the cancer comes back? What if my mom takes a turn for the worse?

Longingly Yours,
xoxoSally

I can't stand dark roast coffee

2009-02-03T06:37:00.000-08:00

I have had the luck of working the 6am - 2pm shift for the past few days. I say luck because I miss this shift. I miss having the office to myself for a couple hours, and just when the stress and drama of the day is hitting its peak at 2 pm, I leave.

So this morning, being my last early shift, I thought I would treat myself to some Starbucks. Plus, even though I was in bed at 8 last night, the 4:45 am alarm was too much and I needed some help.

I went into the Starbucks I usually pass and it looked disheveled. I asked for a grande house blend, and the titmouse behind the counter says they don't have any - they just opened. Do I want dark roast. Blech! I think Starbucks' dark roast is like tar mixed with shit and I did not want to spend the day with gut-rot. I do believe I made a fussy face, refused and walked out stunned.

How the eff does a coffee shop open with nothing brewed?

I used to work at coffee shops, and sometimes I even opened the store. The first thing we did was brew the popular blends. House blend and dark roast. The flavours and the other brew could wait, but at least the house blend was ready to go.

That was just bad customer service this morning. Thankfully, on my regular shift, I can get my morning treat at a gazillion other coffee shops I pass. Victoria is bizarrely riddled with coffee shops.

Caffeinatedly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

My precious eyes

2009-01-23T15:29:00.000-08:00

Oh, George, George, George. How I once loved thee. I thought you were so cutting-edge and witty and just dee-lish to watch on The Hour.

And then you go and do this.

Playing hockey in skinny jeans? Really? So you realize how much I hate skinny jeans? Do you? Apparently not. And where's your helmet?

Now I have nothing but disdain for you. You look stupid. You look like you're skating in tights. And your legs look terribly stumpy. You are dead to me.

Foresakingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Holidaze

2009-01-02T17:56:00.000-08:00

I cannot believe it's Friday and my Christmas vacation ends on Monday. Boo! I don't want to go back! Sometimes, I consider eating some raw chicken, just to get a wicked case of salmonella so I can extend my stay on the couch.

I have spent the past week and a half indulging. Indulging in TV, in sleeping, in not wearing makeup, in a decadent lifestyle I normally deny myself. I have been wearing stretchy pants since Christmas eve and it's divine.

Thankfully, I have not gained weight. I haven't lost any, but with my sloth-like ways recently, I figured a few pounds would have slipped up on me. But no. Unlike Christmas at my parent's house, there isn't endless boxes of chocolates and bags of chips handy. There are no canisters of my mother's baking waiting for my grubby hand. I may have done jack-squat on my time off, but I did not spend that time eating. I know! No one is more shocked at that phrase than me.

What did I do on my time off? Abso-smurfly nothing. Perhaps going back to work will be a good thing after all. Maybe. Maybe that tray of chicken looks better.

Lazingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

It's official. I'm old.

2008-12-28T11:23:00.000-08:00

I have always been a lover of pop culture. I read the gossip blogs and watch ET Canada and TMZ. I know who is in what movie, even though I may never see that movie. I know who is with who, who is having babies, who has the hottest album or song. I love pop culture. I think I should have been an entertainment reporter like I wanted, before some snooty professor at my j-school said I needed to "pay my dues" in news. News wore me down and out of journalism.

But recently, I have realized I am old.

OMFG!

We saw Twilight last night. And OMG, if I was 16, I would have totally swooned over Edward and his swarthy stares. I would have yearned to be Bella. Instead, my eyes spent the majority of the movie rolled. Far too many sighs of confusion and declarations of "I don't know". Way too much teenaged-angst. I couldn't swoon if Edward himself had swept up on my neck.

And Byron, ever the realist, pointed out that vampires don't have blood. Ergo, they would be incapable of an erection. So what are they all hot and bothered for?

But it's not just Twilight. Where did the Jonas Brothers come from? What did we do wrong to have Disney foist Demi Lovato and Selena Gomez upon us? And where did they come from? All of a sudden last summer, I saw these underaged titmice on Perez in skimpy outfits and too much makeup.

I was watching MuchMusic's Hotties of 2008 the other day, and could not figure out why some people were hot. Byron and I were like two cooty old parents on the couch scoffing at people who were supposedly hot.

God, I feel so old. And confused. Confused by 15 year-old titmice. Someone - get me some metamucil.

Agedly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

To be 14 again

2008-12-21T20:05:00.000-08:00

Not only is it George's birthday, but it's been a month since I saw New Kids on the Block in Vancouver! And I realize I never told the tales and showed the pictures.

Way back in October, at work, I was surfing around and found tickets for NKOTB for $20. So I ran around the office and gathered up four other girls who loved them like I did. One girl drove, another one got us a steal of a hotel deal at Hotel Vancouver, and we were off.

Our dear colleague, Roddy, sent over a bottle of mandarin vodka that we polished off while doing hair and make up. We got giddier and giddier (read: tippier) as the evening wore on. Then we walked over to GM Place and I was all of a sudden 14 again.

Our seats were nosebleed seats, but they DID afford us this view of the stage:

And this:
And I turned into this:
Yes, those are binoculars... MY binoculars. And yes, that is beer being drunk through a straw. Like I said... we all turned into 14 year olds again.

I screamed until I was hoarse. I screamed so hard my head hurt and I went a bit dizzy. I jumped and danced and I am not ashamed to say that tears welled up a few times. I LOVED NKOTB when I was a kid. Loved them! It was probably unhealthy, but whatever. So this concert was a dream come true.

I was prepared for the cheese. I thought the tack-factor for this concert was going to be off the scale. But no. NKOTB are fine performers. No lip-synching. Their dancing was good for 40 year-olds. And they totally played up the audience. They sang a lot of old songs, some of which I forgot I knew. I was blown away. I fell in love all over again.

Thankfully, Joey's balls have dropped and he sounds like a man when he sings. Jordan still does his falsetto. Danny did some break-dancing and Donnie was a complete showboat. Jonathan was quiet and seemed shy still. Danny was once my favourite. I had a soft-spot for the underdog. But Donnie is my new favourite. He and Joey have aged the best.

Some of the most fun of the night happened in the beer lineups. Natch, it was pretty much all girls, and a lot of them dressed in their old NKOTB gear. I saw a satin jacket that I envied in 1989. But some girls dressed in neon and wore ponytails on the sides of their heads. NOT NKOTB gear, might I add. They were not at a Wham! concert. Despite that, I made friends with them...
(That's my friend, Tasha on the right)
It was so worth the 18 year wait. And I still know all the words after all this time.

Hangin' Tough-inly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Happy Birthday, George!

2008-12-21T10:33:00.000-08:00

My little nephew George is one today. Look at the joy he brought people. (Except for maybe Blanche.)

George has given our family a gift. We are seeing each other in new lights. My dad is no longer the grumpy man grumbling and cursing at the world. Now, he's a gushing and doting Grampy. My mom, always a good mother, is now an incredible Nanny who sings and plays with George all day. And who teaches him how to quack like a duck. My brother strums the guitar for a fascinated George, and George adores him and Nicole. His life makes Dave, Nicole, Byron and I desire our own little lives to bring in the world.

George gives us all joy watching him grow and learn. And it also brings us glee to see his personality grow into the stubborn minx that his mother was. And, according to tales from Craig's family, George has no choice but to be a stubborn little boy! But a little boy who loves to laugh!

And, apparently, dance. So George, Happy Birthday to you. Cut a birthday rug!

Proudly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

My attempt to look productive

2008-12-19T14:52:00.000-08:00

It's the Friday before Christmas. Half of my building are gone for the holidays. The other half are wandering the halls, dropping in on cubes and chatting. I am trying to look productive. We've "ramped down" for Christmas and there is nothing to do at work!

Sure, there are things at work to do. But I keep a pretty tidy desk already so the annual de-junk is not necessary. I even kept back some piddly projects, but blew my wad this morning in a spaz of activity.

Now, it's 2:55 p.m and I am going to go crazy.

Yesterday in our staff meeting I wondered aloud what management wants from us in the coming days when there is nothing going on. There are no demands from the Minister, there are no news releases, no events, no nothing! We were told to read the internet for education-related stories from other jurisdictions. Hmmm. Does Perez Hilton count?

CBC Yellowknife knew how to do Christmas right. Well, the tech shop boys did. It would be happening today. The Friday before Christmas, the tech shop boys hosted a party in the afternoon. Around 12 pm, the doors would open, the appies would arrive and the drinks would pour. My first Christmas there, I heard about this magical party. All morning, I heard rumblings of excitement. I watched meat and cheese platters being carried to the tech shop. The big dj booth would be wheeled down the hall. At 12 bells, you could see the multi-coloured lights strobing on the walls of the hallway down to the tech shop. by four o'clock I was clinking plactic cups of Crown Royal with a producer I usally butted heads with. Magical.

And the party embodied all that was good with Christmas. Old enemies laughed together. You forgot for a moment that you think the tv reporter is a retarded diva. People you never spoke to were telling you jokes. That creepy weekend dj was your dance partner to some Stevie Wonder. Magical.

The tech shop boys party melted away an unproductive day before Christmas. I find myself this afternoon pining for Darryl et al and a tech shop party. Instead, I am praying my boss lets us go soon.

Festively Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Red Screen of Death

2008-12-12T09:58:00.000-08:00

There's a warning issued for Vancouver Island. A dire warning.

The Weather Network issued a warning to us all last night and this morning. We are to be aware of extreme weather conditions. You know what they are?

2-4 centimetres of snow

Temperature of -1

Byron and I watched that last night and hooted with laughter. But to native Victorians, this is no laughing matter. They are spooked. The mere thought of snow sends them all into a panic. -1?! People are shivering and shaking all over. It's hysterical to watch.

And when I scoff at them and laugh at the ridiculousness of the dire warnings, I get death glares. Really? They're freaked that in December, the weather gods would deign give them a skiff of snow and fart of cold air?

This place gets increasingly bizarre to me. For gods sake, I have worn sandals in the snow! (Although it was part of an outfit for a party and snow or no snow, I needed to be somewhat cute.) So batten down the hatches and stock up on canned goods. We're getting a snow storm followed by a cold snap. I predict mayhem. Scooters will be overturned on the sidewalks, flower blossoms will be wilted. Chaos will abound. We won't see a senior for days, except for the poor dearie whose scooter flipped in the "snow".

Freezingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Month Two

2008-11-19T14:24:00.000-08:00

Today, Byron and I have been married for two months. We have been a couple for 18 months. And it's been a kick-ass ride! I've never had so much fun, so much laughter, and love in my life. Even when we hit the bumps, it's still a worthwhile ride.

In the two months since we made it official, I have been asked A LOT how marriage feels. Or how is life now as a married woman. Or how my life has changed.

It hasn't. Was it supposed to? Life as a married woman feels pretty much the same as life as a woman in a deeply committed relationship. Marriage, however, feels awesome! I no longer have to refer to Byron as my fiance, then fielding further questions about wedding date, which then leads to incessant questions about venuedressfoodguests.

There is, however, this intense feeling of safety. As if from the minute he proposed to 4:59pm on September 19th, either one of us could have walked away relatively unscathed - except for a shattered heart. Now that we are officially married, we are fully intertwined in financial matters, or material things, or even future goals. I can't on a whim decide to work for Shell International in Kuala Lumpur. He can't wake up tomorrow and decide he needs to quit his job. It's comforting to know that my next life step will be taken in tandem with the one I love.

But other than that... life goes on. Am I supposed to feel different as a wife? I don't act differently. I am pretty much par for the course on the homefront. I acted like a 1950's housewife with a job before the wedding and I still do.

We both still get a thrill out of calling each other "husband" and "wife" I still giggle when he calls me "Wife". I love that name!

Committedly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Buttinskis

2008-11-10T11:17:00.000-08:00

My friend, Tasha has had this happen to her many times, but until today I thought she was nuts. I never believed that people would blatantly butt in line. I saw a woman butt in line behind me at Starbucks this morning. Thankfully, she butted behind me, otherwise I would have gotten all indignant-snotty on her. And it wasn't even a butt in front of two people, no. She butted in front of at least 12 people, in a line that snaked out the door!

And no one said a word.

I stood there waiting, and could see her taking her coat off at a table. Then, she appeared next to me, with a look on her face like she was in the right. I looked at her, looked at the people behind me, looked at her again. I thought maybe she was with the group behind me, but no. She inched up beside me, and I relished the idea for a brief moment of going all bitch-face on her ass and telling her where the line ended, which was NOT beside me.

Where do people get this sense of importance? And why don't people tell these buttinskis that they're rude assholes? I've done it before when someone butts in front of me. And I love the "qui? moi?" expressions on their faces like they had no clue I was behind them.

By the time my drinks were made, Bitchface Buttinski had slurped back her coffee and was gone again.

Ashtonishingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Blow this

2008-11-03T10:16:00.000-08:00

Victoria is a lovely city. There are trees and flowers everywhere and even at its most urban core, there are still green spaces.

But it seems like the city just doesn't like the greenery. Or, to be more precise, the falling greenery. I have never seen a city battle with leaves like this one before. On my walk to work every morning, I pass the same few people armed with leaf blowers sending last summer's foliage to the curb. And they do this every morning. Just last week, I saw one guy aiming his blower AT the tree. Perhaps he was trying to cut back his work load the next day and get rid of any dangling leaves. I find it bizarre.

One guy blows his leaves with a white hazmat suit on, goggles and a gas mask. Yet when pedestrians pass, he doesn't point the leaf blower away from us. Instead, he blasts us with leaf mess and dust. I hate him.

In other cities, about this time of year, the leaves are the least of the city's problems. Snow is just around the corner. Oh, how I loved seeing the red and brown leaves poking up out of crispy snow. They sort of provided traction on the snow. Maybe since Victoria is void of snow altogether, we aren't able to cover up the leaves. So instead, we waste diesel or electricity blowing the ever-so-offensive leaves to curb. Or lane of traffic. Anywhere that is not sidewalk or lawn.

This place is weird.

Fallingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Can't Escape!

2008-10-31T09:15:00.000-07:00

My workplace is filled mostly with former teachers, so today, there are costumes and face paint galore. Someone just came into our little corner of the floor and wondered what our costumes are. We said "casual Friday government workers". Methinks the witch was not amused.

I passed one woman this morning dressed as a bumble bee. She had black and yellow striped tights (where DO you get those?!), her nose was painted black and she wore a headband with yellow fuzzy balls that jingled. She also looked like on any other day she would be well-dressed and super professional. I passed another woman dressed as a ladybug. At work, I saw the swish of a robe going down the hall and tips of witches' caps above the cubicle walls.

Is there something wrong with me? Is it bad to think these people need to smarten up and leave the costumes for the kids, or at least a venue where booze is served. I think they look ridiculous.

Hmmm, maybe I am the witch.

Scaringly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Humiliation

2008-10-30T19:46:00.000-07:00

Let me share some tales of my childhood. I was a tall girl, awkward and geeky. I had the habit of giggling creepily and breathing hard around a guy I liked. Friends were few, but humiliations were plenty. Here's one of them...

When I was about 10, maybe 11, I went trick or treating with my younger sister and brother. Since I was taller than everyone else, I stood out and the fact I looked older than I was didn't help. When I was 14, someone thought I was 21. That someone was some skeevy guy in a Camaro by the playground, but I digress.

So this one year, the three of us were in the 'hood, begging for candy. We stopped at this one house and some crotchety old man answered. Looking back, he probably wasn't that old, but he was an asshole anyway. He scowled at the three of us, then started yelling at me that I was too big to be out and I should go home. I don't know if the big was referring to my height or weight, either way, I was humiliated. I stood there stunned with tears in my eyes. The old bat gave my sister and brother candy and refused to give me any.

That was the last time I did Halloween.

Since then, if ever I did anything Halloweeny, I wore all black like Hecubus and slapped on extra eyeliner. A couple years ago, I wore a belly dancing scarf over the black uniform and called it a night.

All was not lost that night when I was 10. My sister and brother both shared their candy with me.

Spookily Yours,
xoxoSallyS

No, you can't have it!

2008-10-18T11:34:00.000-07:00

Why?

Because it's not yours!

We were robbed the other night. Wednesday night, to be exact. It wasn't a giant robbery and we aren't out thousands, but we feel violated nonetheless.

Byron's tarp for his motorcycle was stolen. His bike is in our parking lot, under an eave, formerly under a tarp to protect it. But on Thursday morning, I noticed it was missing. I searched our lot, thinking the wind may have snapped it off, but no. Someone stole it. And he is mighty pissed about it.

The homeless are a problem here in Victoria. Amongst the BMWs, Jaguars and endless Starbucks shops, there are a lot of hobos and homeless. Some I have pity for, but many I do not. Just this week, the Supreme Court of BC made it legal for homeless in Victoria to tent in city parks. That's not going over so well. Proper thing! Those are public city parks that taxpayers pay for. We pay for city parks so we can walk in them, play in them, bring our dogs for walks and let our children play in them. They are not campgrounds. By having the homeless set up tent cities in our parks, it defeats the entire purpose of a public city park. It's no longer a public park but someone's home. Which begs the question, why are taxpaying citizens paying for something we can no longer use?

I am opening myself up here for some serious criticism over my lack of compassion for the homeless. I have some, for those who are mentally ill or addicted. There are programs out there to help them. I used to work at one of those agencies who did just that! But it's those who are homeless by choice, who think they are "sticking it to the man" but staying out of society, they are the ones who bug me. Because they are not staying out of society, they are expecting society to carry their asses. I work hard to pay for my own way and the way of my family. I should not have to pick up your tab, too, Hobo.

Which brings me back to why Byron and I are so pissed about the tarp. And yes, I realize it's just a tarp. But to us, it signifies a larger problem. It angers us that people will take whatever they want just because they see it. Someone saw the tarp, thought they could use that for the winter as shelter, and snitched it without thinking about the person who worked hard to own it. Can you imagine how we would feel if something significant like the actual bike or our car was stolen? Hell, we might start a riot and burn the city down!

Possessively Yours,
xoxoSallyS

The Pot

2008-10-03T13:04:00.001-07:00

I have a new obsession. It's my new crock pot. Slow cooker, if you will. We got it as a wedding gift, indirectly. We got lots of gift certificates, so with them, we bought a lovely new crock pot. I love it.

My fun thing to while away the time is looking for recipes. And I gotta say, there is a lot of nasty-ass recipes out there. 15-bean casserole? Really? Why? I found many, far too many recipes for tongue. Barf! My dad might be the only one to lick his chops at the thought of crock pot tongue.

So far, I've made a lovely little pot roast and ribs, both of which you could cut with a knife. You bazz some vegetables in and presto! A meal. I found a recipe for baked beans, which I will try on a weekend where we can fart our brains out and not offend co-workers. I can't wait to try some stews, maybe some soups. Although, I have found recipes for "Crok Pot Banana Bread" and I don't see the need for that. It's called a loaf pan. Use it.

My mother has lovingly reminded me that many newlyweds gain weight in the first year. I scoffed at the time, saying we've been living together for a year now. I think out nesting phase is over. But now that the crock pot is in the house, and a bread maker, too - watch out! Stew and fresh bread? Shut up! That's good times right there! Byron and I try to eat as healthy as we can without being food nazis. Hopefully we can make it though the first of many years of wedded bliss without becoming Gilbert Grape's mother. We shall see.

Having the crock pot reminds me of family and home. And my dad calling it a "Crap Pot" and giggling at his own joke.

Crockingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

New Chapters

2008-10-02T16:01:00.001-07:00

The wedding is over. We've been married for two weeks now. I love being married, and I have still not gotten the post-wedding blues. Trust me, I was prepared for them. The week after the wedding, I was off work and was sitting on my couch waiting for the blues to attack. But nope. In the clear.

So now we are planning the next chapter. And no. It is NOT babies. They'll come in a couple years. No, the next chapter will include Byron's schooling and our preparation for it. We have to save and enrol in school. We have to make sure the next step is a sure one. Or as sure as it can be. I'm also taking courses, paid for by my work. I figure I'll augment my two degrees with a PR Certificate. Why the hell not, if someone else will pay for it!

The ones who regularly read this blog were at my wedding, so posting pictures seems silly. But the title of this blog IS SillySallyT, so maybe I'll get to it someday.

Blissfully Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Introducing... Mrs. Stuike

2008-09-22T10:53:00.000-07:00

We're married!

And we've never been happier!

Stories to come... we're relaxing and enjoying our first day home in Victoria as man and wife.
But thank you to all our lovely friends and family who came from far and wide to share in the day. Your presence made the day more special and lovely. Thank you.

Weddingly Yours,
xoxoSallyS

Wrap it up

2008-09-13T11:34:00.000-07:00

Byron and I are flying to Edmonton tomorrow for the wedding, which is now 6 days away! I spent most of yesterday high-kicking and dancing at the thought of being Mrs. Stuike in a week. I cannot wait. It's getting to the point where I no longer care about the wedding plans. Everything is in place, the wheels are in motion, and things are ready to go. I just want the wedding part over and our marriage to begin. I am really excited for marriage!

That's not to say that I don't care about the wedding. I do. A lot. But if the tea lights are in silver cups instead of glass, I can't care anymore. If my strapless bra is nude and not white, why should I freak out? It's the teeny details that no one else will notice or care about that I am letting go of.

Once we get back and have a moment to breathe, I will post lots of wedding pictures.

Weddingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

PS - this is the LAST post where I sign off as Sallyt. How exciting!

Really!?!?

2008-09-08T12:33:00.000-07:00

It's 11 days until the wedding. 6 days until we fly to Edmonton. And we are both sick.

I blame the jail and all its filthy germs infecting Byron. (He's a guard at the jail, not incarcerated, by the way.) We are snot machines. We're hacking and gasping and just gross. These germs have six days to hit the skids.

I must scoot out now on my lunch break and get more kleenex. I hope my nose is not that sick-person red in my wedding photos!

Illingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

The End

2008-08-31T16:39:00.000-07:00

As I drove Byron to work this morning, I remarked that in two weeks from today, we'll be flying to Edmonton for our wedding. Then another thought happened.

In three weeks, we'll be flying back to Victoria and it will ALL be over.

All this planning and stress and worrying and plotting will be done. We'll be married. I'll be a wife.

I guess when the stress is overwhelming and the lists seem un-ending, I can keep in mind that in three weeks, I will be a wife, back in Victoria, settling into married life. The party will be over, gifts unwrapped, hugs dispensed and tears shed. Life can resume again.

Soon-to-be-spousingly Yours,
xoxoSallyy

To RSVP or Not to RSVP

2008-08-25T14:04:00.000-07:00

It is now 25 days until the wedding, and the deadline has come and gone for the RSVPs to be returned. Now comes the ever-awkward "are you coming" emails and phone calls. Blech! Thankfully, so far, the friends we've had that conversation with have been incredibly gracious (Spook) and we completely understand circumstances in life. We have even heard from friends who contacted us to say they can't make it (Candie) and they have also been gracious. We're just trying to figure out how much food the caterer needs to make and how much booze to buy. That's all.

We are dreading the call to one of his friends who we are certain have taken great offense to the adults-only request. Byron called his pal a while back and told them about the wedding and they were quite interested in where we were registered. The next day, the couple went out and bought things off the registry. We have not gotten their RSVP back. I am afraid they raced out, bought stuff, got the invite requesting their ass of a child not come, and are now persnickety at us. My passive-agressive tummy flips at the idea of calling them.

That same PA tummy was in knots today as I had to email an old friend to say that we are unable to make their wedding this Saturday. Logistics don't allow for our attendance, and I feel like a douche for bowing out 5 days before the wedding. AND doing so after we said yes on the RSVP. There is just no way we can make it over to Vancouver this weekend. I hope she doesn't hate me. Please don't hate me, Janet!

Reservedly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

One Month

2008-08-19T08:43:00.000-07:00

It's the final countdown. The wedding is one month from today!

I keep having strange dreams, ones that wake me up gagging. Not cool.

Also not cool is my best friend's bosses. They are being asshats and not giving her time off to come up to the wedding. Unless Candie wants to take unpaid leave, which is not cool anytime! Although my longest and dearest, my sweetest and closest friend in the world can't be at the wedding, she will be there in spirit. When I look at the white candles in front of me at the reception, I will see Candie's smile. When I smell the roses in my bouquet, I will feel her love. She may be in Texas, but she is forever in my heart.

I love you, Candie. Now and forever.

xoxoSallyt

(PS - I'll send you some lupins!)

Happy Anniversary, Salters!

2008-08-12T10:09:00.000-07:00

Today is Jane and Craig's second wedding anniversary. Happy Anniversary, you two - the cutest little couple, with the sweetest little boy!

Two years ago, when I zipped up your dress and swept eyeshadow on your sparkly eyes, who would have guessed that you would be the mother of a healthy and handsome baby boy. Or that you would be the strong and supportive wife you are. Who knew that you would have a cozy and warm home in Dartmouth, where you made stews and muffins? Who knew? Petite, I hardly knew thee.

I am so proud of you, Jane, for becoming the woman you are. You are smart and warm and loving and I am proud to call you my Baby Titter.

Scissor Kicks!

Sisterly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Differing Side of the Flame

2008-08-11T11:34:00.000-07:00

My best friend Candie and I had a debate last night. It was one of those debates that ended with her asking how we are friends?! It's was about the Olympics.

Candie loves the Olympics and loves watching them. I hate the Olympics and thinks it's a colossal waste of time. Candie sees it as patriotism and the human spirit on display. She lives in Texas, and misses Canada so to her, a chance to get a glimpse of the Canadian flag on TV or even to hear the anthem means a lot to her.

But let's be real - the chances of her hearing the Canadian anthem at the Olympics is slim to nil. Don't you have to win a medal to have your national anthem played?

I think the Olympics are a waste of time and money. The money the federal government pumps into the Olympics is poorly spent. Sure, you can come back at me with the argument that funding for sports in Canada is low. But whatever amount spent is, to me, too much. Take that money and spend it on health care, or child care, or caring for the elderly or vulnerable.

I resent that my tax money is being spent on someone's dream to throw a ball of metal the farthest in the world or paddle a boat a few hundred metres the fastest. If your dream is to be the best gymnast in the world, then go get it, babycakes. But do not expect me to have to fund that dream. My dream is to live near the ocean and write novels. I do not expect the government to pay for that, even though there are grants. I do not believe in demanding the government to help you achieve your dream, whether it's the fastest biathlete or best selling author. The government should make sure there are hospital beds when you need one, or there is a pension available to you. The government should be working to provide the basic necessities of life to its citizens instead of allowing someone to be the best butterfly swimmer in the world.

So when I read that $40 BILLION dollars was spent on the Beijing Olympics, I gag. Imagine what that $40 billion could pay for in this world. Vaccines, food, shelter, education, relief from natural disasters, literacy... the list is endless. That money could be spent making this world a better place, instead of finding out who the best beach volleyball team is in the world. Because, really, who cares.

Patriotically Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Road Bump

2008-08-10T20:27:00.000-07:00

I hit a road bump today on the road to marriage. The pastor at the church we booked bailed on us. Well, it's not much bailing, as not being available.

We booked the church - a lovely stone country church with stained-glass windows - way back at Thanksgiving. The pastor at the church died just before we got there, and the teary-eyed church ladies assured us they would have a new pastor by the time our wedding rolled around. So last week, I called the church lady and asked about the pastor. She said they have a new one, Pastor George Something-something (he's Japanese) and he's on vacation but he will call me as soon as he gets back.

He's back. And he called me today. When I asked him, very politely, if he would perform the ceremony, he said he was away. And he left it at that. While I stroked out on the other end. I tried to stay calm as he explained that he doesn't work all the time and his time off is September 19th. My left side went numb. I told him the invites have gone out and we have put a deposit down and plans have been made. He suggested we meet on Sunday the 14th or "better yet" Saturday the 20th. I snapped. Those two futile days he offered as plan B sucked and I could feel the shrillness build in my voice when I asked him to find an option for us. He said he'd make a call. He might know someone.

Thank god, he does. His name is Reverend Al McNeil, and he's a retired pastor in the area. Useless George gave me his number and I fought the urge to tell Useless to bite me.

The piece de resistance is that before Useless gave me Revered McNeil's number, he grilled me on if I had any church connections in Lamont. WHAT?!? I don't think I as polite as I should have been when I said no, Byron's side doesn't go to church and any connections I may have had are way back in Nova Scotia so NO, George, I do not have church connections here. I wanted to add for good measure to shut it and give me Al's number.

Al is delightful. He sounds like an old man who is full of business. He is available, he wants to meet with us the week before, and he sounds reliable. I like him. Now I am braced for more bumps to come in the next forty days. 40 days! Aiiiieee!

Bracingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Summertime and the living is... shitty

2008-08-07T09:29:00.000-07:00

It's been a delightful summer. It's been warm, but not blistering; sunny with a few days of rain. My tomatoes are coming in lovely, and I even have some peppers. The wedding plans are falling into place and all is well.

Except for seagulls.

I blogged about them a couple weeks ago when I was shat upon on my way to work. But my battle with the gulls has gone further. I want to kill them. I'm talking about bread soaked with bleach, slingshots to the face, stomping on their eggs killing. I have had it with these frigging seagulls!

Our apartment is on a hill, and next door are condos. Because of said hill, our apartment windows are directly across from the roof of the condos, where there are seagull nests. I am convinced there are more than one. All day long, we are forced to listen to the caws, the squawks and screeches of seagulls. It can be very loud in our apartment, so loud that I can't hear Byron talking to me. At night, it's warm so we have our bedroom window open. But it is always closed around 5 am when we are woken up with another day of squawks.

This morning, I stopped at our car in the back parking lot to get some shoes, and the noise of the gulls was deafening. I feared another splat of shit, and I saw hoards of them circling.

The other day, when Byron was sleeping all day for his night shift, I pitied him sleeping in a stuffy apartment while the gulls hollered outside. I called Animal Control to see who I can talk to to get the nests off the roof across the alley from our bedroom window. The man on the line started laughing at me. It's apparently breeding season and it's against the law to disturb nests. He said, and I quote: "you're outta luck." Dammit! How much longer does this go on!?!?

Not only is it a battle at home, but on the streets. My office is on the top floor so we see gulls circling and hear them screaming all day. The entrance to our building is white with shit. The streets look candy-coated with bird poop. Every car has a splatter of shit. It's heinous.

I don't remember this last summer. Of course, last summer, Byron and I just moved in together and got engaged so my mind was pre-occupied and gulls were the last thing I thought about. I have never been so anxious for the end of summer.

If you happen to see a pile of dead birds next to a bleach-smelling bag of bread, don't look at me. That's all I'm saying.

Annoyingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Worst Workout EVER

2008-08-01T14:29:00.000-07:00

I signed up for an exercise class through work called "Abs and Butts". It was inexpensive, and I thought it might be a harmless way to get an extra work out. I went to the first class last week, and it was fine. I had never been to an exercise class before, and it was alright. Me and the only other chubby girl in class hid in the back of the gazebo it was held in. I kept up with everyone else and sweaty like a hen hauling wood. I felt rejuvenated and strong after the class. I was also sore as hell for three days after.

Today was class #2. Well, for me 1.5. When I got there with my co-worker/friend Kirsten, they had started stretching on the lawn. We have had rain here for two days, so the lawn was soggy. The instructor said the gymnasium was being renovated and said the lawn would be great. Now, the lawn is in front of a building filled with colleagues, whose offices look down on the lawn. At one point, we were all on our backs, with our feet facing the building. The instructor had us fling our legs in the air and spread our legs as wide as possible. I was supremely uncomfortable.

My yoga mat is black, and it was sunny at lunch time, so my mat turned into a griddle. I could feel my arms getting sunburnt and I was sweating more than necessary. I scooted into the shade, which was on a hill! And because it was the shade, the ground was even soggier! I tried to do one exercise and started rolling down the hill. I got into a snit to end all snits and stormed out of the class. I did not pay that money to sit on wet ground and roll down a hill. I couldn't do any of the exercises properly. I came back to the office and emailed off a snotgram saying this was unacceptable.

Now, my yoga mat has bird shit on the bottom and is drying out in my cubicle. My cube, by the way, smells of worms.

I don't mind breaking a sweat, if it's for a good reason. Next week has to be better. Or I might snap my instructor in two.

Jane Fonda-ingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Poopy Day

2008-07-24T08:54:00.000-07:00

It's been a poopy day so far, and it's not even 9 am.

When I opened my blinds this morning, I saw that our dining room window has streaks of seagull poop on it. On both panes. Huge amounts of dried-on poop. There is my weekend right there. Scraping shit off my window. We used to have a patio of poop until I got some plants and filled it with that. Now, the seagull that used to perch on the patio ledge, stare me down and poop has left. Apparently, he's left shit down the side of my building and onto my window.

My window at work also has bird shit on it. A big ol' streak of white with some brown mixed in for ambiance. I am not sure maintenance is coming around to wash it off.

But my biggest fear here in Victoria has come true. I got shat on.

I GOT POOPED ON!!!

I was walking to work this morning, standing on a corner waiting for a light, when I felt and saw the poop fall on me. Thankfully, it was a just a smidge in my hair and a little bit on my shirt. I took to wretching and ran into a coffee shop. I washed it out and off and cursed mightily. It all came out, since it was wet and white and not a whole lot. But enough to make me gag. When I got to work and told people my ordeal, they all told me that's good luck. Hooey! I think that's just what Victorians say to keep shat-upon tourists quiet. After an early morning wretch (that is not pregnancy related!) I better have some good luck coming down the pipe!

Fecally Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Harley's

2008-07-22T06:50:00.001-07:00

I was standing at the bus stop yesterday and a song came on the mp3 that whisked me back in time. I all of a sudden got nostalgic for Yellowknife again, but I've also been feeling the warm fuzzies towards the place in recent days since finishing "Late Nights On Air". All weekend, I was battling the conflicted feelings of wanting to go back and relive Yellowknife, but with a husband-to-be this time, and remembering how trapped I felt there.

"99 Problems" by Jay-Z changed that.

A few years back, while living in Yellowknife, I got a call one evening from a guy I was sort-of-kind-of seeing. He was nice enough and thought the world of me, but he was dumb as bricks and we had very little in common. I chalk it up to the fact that in Yellowknife, you carouse with people you would never carouse with anywhere else on earth. Anyway, shortly after we met, he went back out to camp where he was a cook. He was to be away for six weeks. A few days before he was supposed to come back, he called to say he decided to stay in 3 weeks more. I was furious so I went for a Walk of Rage (tm). (Sidenote: a Walk of Rage is when something bothers me so much, I have to go for a massively long walk, think things through and walk off all the rage in me. Trust me, it's therapeutic.) So on this Walk of Rage, I was wearing scummy jeans and white polo shirt, sneakers and pas de makeup. I was walking/storming up the main drag in Yellowknife, when I ran into NJ, a woman I worked with, and her husband. It was right in front of Harley's, the local peeler bar. NJ and her husband insisted I come with them to the strip club for a drink and in my agitated state, I agreed.

I never went to strip clubs, unless you count that one time for a stagette. Or when I did a radio documentary on amateur male stripper night. I never went to a strip club on a regular night when female strippers were earning their living. Harley's was a popular place in Yellowknife, and it was nothing for people to stop in for a drink on a night out. I also heard that they had rotating shifts of strippers come to town, but I could be wrong.

NJ and her husband were regulars at Harley's. I did not know this. This provided us with front row seats at the strip club. That month's rotation of strippers knew NJ and Husband by name, and they all came by for a visit. NJ, being very polite, introduced me to them all. I found it unnerving to have a stripper coo my name whilst petting my hand. The "show" hadn't started yet on stage, but it was well underway at our table. I looked away at one point to wave hello to someone I once worked with, and when I turned around, I was face to coochie with a stripper doing the crab walk across the table towards NJ with a shot of Sourpuss between her breasts. I was horrified to see NJ lick boobs and then do the shot. The stripper had a friend with a tray of Sourpuss shots for the rest of us to do. NJ's husband gladly complied, but I turned 10 shades of red and refused to do a shot of anything from the cleavage of a stripper. I do believe they goaded me and called me a prude. I felt odd and old and out of place.

Finally, the show started, which meant the crab-crawling strippers left our table and did their thing. I was shocked at their agility and athleticism. In awe, almost. How, I wondered, can they wear those lucite platform shoes and not slip? How do they not have blisters? I also wondered what their mothers thought and if their fathers were proud. And then I wondered how they practiced? How did they learn these moves? How long did they practice to fllick themselves upside down on a pole?

One girl came out and started dacning to "99 Problems" by Jay-Z. It is a great song and I love it. It's strutting music. It's music to feel tough to. I never pictured it to be a stripper song. With a lyric like "A nigga like myself had to strong arm a hoe This is not a hoe in the sense of havin a pussy..." you never think, this is a GREAT song to strip to. Yet here she was, flicking and squatting and thrusting around the stage. It was one of the most surreal moments of my life.

Now, three years and several lifetimes later, I hear that song and think of NJ's wide eyes and lascivious stare at the woman whose breasts she just drank booze from. Like I said, you do things in Yellowknife you never would anywhere else in the world.

Prudishly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Identity Crisis

2008-07-21T12:44:00.001-07:00

I think I may be in the beginning stages of an identity crisis. I don't know what this blog is about.

I have been reading some other blogs, namely Megan's, and the Coconut Diaries, these guys, Glen, some girl in Rankin Inlet, Mack the Hack, Janet, among others. Each seems to have some coherent theme. They'll be waxing politcal, or telling fascinating tales, or listing ridiculous things, or talking about important things like law school, or adjusting to a new life, or planning an alternative wedding, or idolizing David Hasselhoff.

What do I do here? I prattle on about the wedding. Who cares? What am I going to write about on September 20th? I ramble about how amazing I think Byron is. Snooze - to anyone else but me. I make silly observations about silly phrases, and bitch about hippies. It all feels very... shallow. Am I supposed to come down with these thunderous observations that stop people in their tracks? God, I hope not. Am I supposed to regale you with tales of debauchery and failed attempts at being human? Because I fear they may become old quick.

Am I too shallow for this blog?

Agonizingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

The end of an era

2008-07-21T07:49:00.000-07:00

I got a promotion at work a few weeks back. The "junior" got dropped off my title and I am now a "public affairs officer". It came with a nice raise, and a change of hours. A new junior has been hired and I am training her now. Which means I am off the 6 am shift soon. I should be high-kicking through the streets, but not so much.

I love getting into work and having complete silence. I find I get a lot of work done when there's no one around. More than that, I lovelovelove leaving at 2pm. Love it. The bus isn't as crowded when I take it to go to Curves, I have time left in my day for appointments or important and private phone calls to make at home. I love the quiet walk to work in the morning when the streets are empty and I can jaywalk everywhere. There's even a Starbucks open at that time of day so I can get my weekly treat on Friday morning. It's heaven.

What I will not miss is the 5am wake up. I won't miss feeling guilty about being awake at 10pm. I get to eat a decent breakfast at home. If I wake up sick, I no longer have to drag myself in, then spend the next 8 hours wondering if I am, in fact, sick enough to go home early. Now, I can just call in sick. It's been just over a year of this 6am shift, and while it feels like mine, I am not going to have a tough time leaving it.

Back to the land of the living!

Resurrectingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

A manana

2008-07-16T07:53:00.000-07:00

I procrastinate. If there is a project at work due, I will pick at it but leave the bulk for the day it's due, saying that I work best under pressure. If there is ironing to be done, I think tomorrow is a better day to do it because it won't be as hot out tomorrow. In my pre-Byron days, if a bill was to be paid, I would wait until after the weekend, relishing my flush account for a couple more days. I can justify a lot of things.

I go to Curves. And I try to go three times a week minimum. Every Sunday night, when I pack my gym bag, I tell myself I will fo Monday, Wednesday, Friday AND Saturday this week. I feel so powerful walking to work with my backpack of gym pants and sports bra. Then the day starts and so do my excuses. I will start to feel groggy arounf 11 am, and then the excuses really begin. I think I should go home right after work and make a nice dinner for Byron, or do something wedding-related, or tackle that ironing. Really, I am going home for a siesta. The guilt sets in, so I am more determined for Tuesday. I revise my plan for Curves on Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday and Saturday.

Tuesday has always been my most tired day since being on this 6am shift. By noon on Tuesday, I am the walking dead. And my excuses for not going to Curves are blatant. How could I possibly work out in this state? It'd be cruel. So I go home, wash the day from my face and take a siesta.

By the time Wednesday rolls around, I am embarassed to not have gone at all this week, and I tell myself my humiliation should send me home. So I go, and I take a siesta.

Thursday is good tv night, and since I am in the west, I can get the eastern feeds earlier, thus watching The Office at 5pm instead of 8pm, allowing me to go to bed early. I go home.

It's Friday, the week has melted away and I have yet to break a sweat, so why start now. My gym bag has been sitting under my desk all week. Next week, I say, next week.

On Saturday, either Byron has the day off and I want to spend the day with him, or he's working and I take that time to clean adn get the house in order. Next week, next week.

I need to remember how good I feel after a workout. I need to keep that feeling of energy in my mind when the lure of a siesta gets too loud.

I did have a good, and psychological excuse, though. There is a coach at Curves who is a socially retarded douchebag. She's whiney and weird and talks about crap all day. She bugs me. One day, she was asking me about the wedding and I said my dress had arrived. She said to me, and I quote,

"Are you even trying to lose weight or are you happy just like that?"

I was stunned. I could not believe someone in a facility like Curves would say that to me! I sputtered out something along the likes of "I am happy with who I am and I have a man who loves me just as I am." I couldn't resist that last bit, since she's single and has been sort of snots to me about her being alone and I'm not. She really hurt my feelings, and for a while, I was going to Curves only once or twice a week, hoping not to see her.

Then it hit me - I am paying $42 a month to go to Curves, why am I not going?! So I screwed up the courage and reported her to the manager. Turns out ol' sourpuss has resigned and is leaving soon. The manager said she was too focussed on weight loss and not encouraging members.

My goal when I joined Curves was not to drop oodles of weight for the wedding, but tone up and firm up so my arms are fleshy flags jiggling down the aisle. I am proud to report muscle tone in the arms now. I didn't want to be this scrawny thing on my wedding day, just to ballon up again post-September 19th and have my kids ask me in 10 years who that woman is in the picture with dad. I am me. I am big. My thighs are big, my bum is jiggly. I have a tummy (his name is El Pauncho Grando). But I am also healthy, flexible, and happy.

I'm going to Curves tomorrow. (I have errands to run after work today!)

Sweatingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Disclaimer

2008-07-13T16:30:00.001-07:00

I feel the need to clarify.

In my previous post, where I was vehemently against children at my wedding (and I still am!), I was in no way talking about my friends. I was not referring to a certain Sydney or Michael or Ashley. I was dissing Byron's friends! He knows a couple whose kid should have been named Damien.

I wanted to make that clarification before feelings were hurt.

Disclaiming Yours,
xoxoSallyt

No Kids Allowed

2008-07-09T09:20:00.001-07:00

My friend Janet, who is getting married a few weeks before I am, posted this article on her blog. In it, she posts an article from the UK about the growing popularity of kid-free weddings. She's taken the stance that it's not nice to not invite kids. I disagree.

Our invitations were mailed yesterday. On the response card, you will notice at the bottom our respectful request to have a child-free wedding. We have our reasons, which are completely valid to us. And since this is our event, we feel we get to invite who we want. And we don't want kids.

Except for a major exception - my nephew who will be 9 months old by then. Since Jane and Craig are flying to Edmonton and know no one for child care, George has to be there. But again, he'll be 9 months old and when he gets noisy, I know Craig has the decency to remove him. I cannot say the same for other guests and their kiddly winks.

A couple who is invited has a child that is Satan's incarnate. He screams and throws tantrums and his parents think it's cute. We went out for dinner with them and the brat screeched during the whole meal, and his parents ignored our winces and comments about his noise. The only that seemed to pacify him was pouring the entire salt shaker on the table. It was lazy parenting. And I know if that kid was to come to our wedding, he would without a doubt starting wailing and screaming. I also know his parents would not have the decency to remove the child.

But here is my PC explanation. We're getting married at 5 pm. That's dinner time for most people. While adults can roll with it, kids cannot. And dinner won't be rolling around until at least 7 pm. Even though snacks will be provided at the hall, I doubt kids will like that. Since the wedding is taking place later in the day, parents will probably have to leave early with the kids, thus missing the festivities. So why not leave the kids with grandma and have some fun?

That's my opinion and it's my wedding. If you don't like it, you're likely not invited.

Invitingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Hackey Sack

2008-07-04T06:58:00.000-07:00

Everyday, I walk past the bus station on my way to work. In mid-winter, it's a gloomy place, and deserted. But not these days. Everyday when I pass the bus station, I have to maneouvre through a gaggle of hippies. And you know I hate hippies.

The hippies are waiting for the jitney to the West Coast Trail, which is a jalopy that looks uncomfortable and smelly. The hippies have their bags strewn over the sidewalk. There is sacks of granola passed around, and water from aluminum cans consumed. And they are all over the sidewalk, and look at you all moony-faced when you try to pass. It smells of wood smoke, patchouli and stale underarms. I can only imagine what the bus trip is like. Walking through that cloud of hippie-ness makes me cranky.

But this morning, I saw four hippies playing hackey sack in the parking lot. At 6 am. And from what I could tell (since I think hackey sack is stupid), one of the guys sucked and ruined the game for everyone else. Whenever I see a game going on, I have to seriously fight the urge to go over there, take the sack and toss it in a thornbush.

Then in front of the bus station, about 10 hippies were gathered in the middle of the sidewalk. When I had to pass, one hippie girl did that shuffle-to-make-it-look-like-I-moved move. The passive agressive in me hoped my purse would clock her in the back by "accident". All the while, I wanted to scream "MOVE, bitch, get out the way".

Is it people in the way who haven't got the sense god gave a goose to get out of the way that makes me mad, or hippies. Or perhaps it's a dangerous combination.

Hippie-Hatingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Obessed with my obsession

2008-06-27T07:40:00.000-07:00

It is now in the double digits until the wedding. The dreams have started, the dress has been fitted, the invites are deisgned, the venues booked, and things seem to be under control.

Except for my obsession with all things wedding.

I have yet to buy a wedding magazine, and doubt I will. Pages and pages of over-priced doo-dads is not how I was to blow $10. Besides, I don't need their precious tips and hints. I got things under control.

No, my obsession comes with Slice and their bridal shows. "Rich Bride, Poor Bride" is a favourite. I love watching these couple battle over how much to spend on what. And at the end of the show, the couple rattles off what they spent on what. My jaw aches at the end of that segment from dropping so hard. Last night, I saw a couple spend $25,000 on the venue! $25,000! Insane! We've got ours for a song. "Wedding SOS" makes me feel smug. This smarmy British woman swoops in to save the wedding of a lazy couple. I see how little is organized for their wedding, consult my detailed list with all the things ticked off, and I grin with glee that I'm on track.

I look at several wedding-related websites, reading for tips on how to trim spending and etiquette. Etiqueete is a big one for me. I want the event to be funfunfun, but polite, thank you very much. I gasped with horror when Byron suggested we put on our invites where we are registering (Home Outfitters, BTW). It was quite the dilemma for me when we decided not to have children at our wedding. The ceremony is at 5pm, and we won't be eating until after 7pm. The kids will just be cranky and tired and who wants that? Not me. Who would that alienate? How do we tell people that ther kiddly-winks are not invited? What would people say?

I think it might be thinking like this that leads to dreams like the one the other night when I dreamed that I forgot to mail invitations and we had to call people to come to the wedding. We have a DJ hired, so I hope that eliminates all dreams of not having music. My dress is being fitted as I type, so I should not dream of wearing a see-through dress with no bra (that was an actual dream and I scared me. You should be scared, too).

The wedding is 77 days away and I am starting to feel wedding-fatigue. I will not, however, whine here or anywhere else that "I am already doing too much for my own wedding", which a bride-to-be actually said to me not too long ago. How stupid was that? I'm doing all of it myself and am having fun. But, like a bottle of Malibu, there is such a thing as too much fun.

Obsessively Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Take Your Pick

2008-06-09T21:19:00.001-07:00

In Victoria, bicyclists abound. It's part of that whole eco-friendly-green-hippie esthetic going on here. Bah. Fine, fine, pedal for all your worth in traffic, take up all the bike lanes you can, Super Cycler. But take your frigging pick.

You can have the road or you can have the sidewalk. No. I take that back. You CANNOT have the sidewalk because it's called a sideWALK not a sideBIKE. You can choose between the road or the bike lane. Make your choice and stick with it. Otherwise, I will not be held responsible for my actions.

I can come at this from two sides: the driver and the pedestrian.

The Driver
I loathe seeing bicyclists taking up half a lane of traffic, slowing dozens of cars behind me and they're not even pedalling hard. If you pedalled like your life depended on it, I might nod sympathetically. Or when they blatantly disobey the road rules. Sure, I would love the run a red so I can turn left. Or bomb through that empty intersection at 3pm. It would make my life easier, but much more dangerous. So why do I see the fools on bikes breaking those rules? And then I hear them moan that they are vehicles, too and deserve the road just as much as anyone else. Then USE it like everyone else, douchebag.

The Pedestrian
Again with the sideWALK not sideBIKE argument. Victoria has accomodated you with bike lanes everywhere. Use them. Don't get all huffy puffy with the people using the sideWALK when they don't part like the red sea for your bike. You're in the wrong. Some sideWALKS are busy with pedestrians, old people in scooters and baby carriages. Weaving in and out of all that is impossible. Get your lazy ass on that bike and get in the bike lane where you're supposed to be.

Don't even get me going on the asshats who whiz down the crowded road, then hop on the sideWALK when there's less traffic there. That's double-dipping, road style.

Disclosure: I do not bike. I don't own one nor do I want to. The last time I was on a bike (sober) was when I was 12 and as I merrily went by, someone yelled "Hey! Where's the seat?!?!" Mortified, I jumped off, walked my bike home, never to ride again. That is, until I was 28 and coming home from a bar drunkety-drunk-drunk. I saw an unlocked bike outside the court house in Yellowknife, hopped on and pedalled like I was 10 again. The joyride ended when I hit a fence. But both times, I was NEVER on the sidewalk.

Rules Enforcingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Don't. Just Don't

2008-06-09T07:26:00.000-07:00

I loathe the phrase "You go, girl!". I hate it. It is a stupid phrase often muttered by middle aged hags who are trying really hard to be cool. Stop it right now. You look and sound ridiculous.

Whenever I hear that phrase, I immediately think of some divorcee or middle aged single woman in 1986 trying to establish her feminist street cred by boosting the morale of fellow females. In my mind, these women are wearing shades of peach and turquoise together, a power suit with giant shoulder pads, and glasses the size of dinner plates. You go, girl, indeed.

I was reading a blog this morning from a major newspaper, and in the comments section, some regular commentator wrote that phrase. The blog was about ... I have no idea. I forgot the point of the blog after I read that heinous phrase in the comments. That's how she started her comment.. "You go, girl!!!!!". And yes, there were copious amounts of exclamation points. Blech.

I am annoyed by many things, especially tacky phrases and the tacky people who use them. My fantasy today is to find a way to ban the use of ridiculous and overused phrases.

"Oh no you di-ihn't"ingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

We're a good team

2008-06-05T07:17:00.000-07:00

It was dark brown, made from chip-board, big, heavy and infinitely ugly. The Behemoth was a leftover from the guy who lived in our apartment before we did. It sat in a corner of our living room, and with all the cubby holes and compartments, it was a hoarder's dream. To Byron and I, it was a heinous mess.

It's gone.

Byron's belongings are arriving today from Alberta. He has bookcases and a desk his dad made, a big tv, an exercise bike, a motor bike, and everything he wanted to bring to this new life is on its way. But with The Behemoth in the way, we couldn't fit all of Byron's things in. It had to go.

We procrastinated and pretended we forgot about it for long enough. For weeks, we'd say that we would take it to the garbage this week, or this evening, or this weekend. After dinner last night, we realized that we had put it off for long enough, and it was last night or never. So we took the top part of The Behemoth off (yes, it had two, equally heavy parts), and dragged it down the hallto the elevator. Since it was about seven feet long, it didn't fit inside, so we tried to haul it down the stairs. But we got stuck. So we dragged it back to our apartment and dismantled it there. With hand-held screwdrivers, not even electric drills, we took apart the chip-board Behemoth. Then we dragged The Behemoth out to the dumpster, piece by piece.

As I watched Byron crouched down, concentrating on the screws, I realized something. We make a good team. I have no patience with shit like this. I want it out, I want it done, and I want it done now. I was grunting and groaning and whining. He was patient and diligent. After a few screws came out on my side, I would take the boots to The Behemoth and kick it apart, literally. He was more meticulous. But we did it. We got The Behemoth out of our living room, making so much more room for his computer desk and 50" flat screen tv. I can't wait for Byron to be completely moved in.

We make a good team, that Byron and I. Whew!

Screwingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Once a fan...

2008-05-30T07:32:00.000-07:00

WHAT HAVE I JUST DONE?!?!?

I just called into a radio station to try and win tickets to New Kids on the Block. What has become of me?!?!

When I was about 13-15, I was a huge NKOTB fan. My walls were covered in posters, I had the dolls, the tapes, the videos, the books. I knew volumes of facts about them, and considered myself to be a premium fan. It's kind of embarassing now, but in my defense, I also thought poufy bangs and pink glittery lips looked really good.

So imagine my glee when I heard they were reuniting. I saw their performance on the Today show in early May. I clapped and squealed at my desk at work while I watched it on YouTube. And then they announced they were coming to GM Place in Vancouver. Shut UP!!! Again, like George Michael, I don't think I can justify a few hundred bucks on one night in Vancouver. C'est la vie. When did I grow up?

Yesterday, a friend at work told me that a radio station has been giving away tickets all week. All you have to do is complete the lyrics. I rarely listen to this station, but I tuned in this morning and suffered through an hour + of crappy music. Yes, I realize the irony that I would suffer through crappy music to win tickets to see crappy music live.

Some airhead won the tickets. MY tickets. She said she was just a kid when NKOTB were popular but her older cousin liked them. I know there is no way she could complete the lyrics to "Cover Girl". I can. I know she googled them. I was robbed. She's not going because she's a fan, but going for the kooky irony of it all.

As the phone rang, I was instantly reminded of myself at 14 and how exited I would get at the mere thought of NKOTB. Back then, my hands would shake and my heart woud thump as I watched their videos on TV. Same thing here as I hoped the radio station would pick up my call. I wanted to squeal like I was 14 all over again.

Thankfully, my bangs are no longer poufy and I think pink glitter lip gloss is gross. But I will always dance to "Step by Step" and croon along with "Cover Girl".

Fanatically Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Who's that stranger on my couch?

2008-05-28T07:28:00.000-07:00

He looks familiar. He smells familiar. I have vague recollections of sweet kisses and warm hugs. Wait, is it? Could it be? Is it really Byron?

In the past week we've had to make do with tiny snippets of one another. I was away, he was working, I was working, and now he's going away for the weekend. I miss him.

I think we may have been spoiled. When we first moved in together, he had a surgery and was laid up for weeks. So every day when I came home, he was there. We could spend the afternoon together, have dinner together, relax and enjoy each other's company. Even when he started this new job, and he was in training, we got to spend every evening and weekend together. It's been a tougher slog since the shifts began. There is the ever-loathed 2-10pm shift, of which he works way too many. When I get home, he's gone; when he gets home, I am in bed. And our weekends are rarely our own. But them's the breaks, right?

At work, I signed up for emergency communications. If there is a forest fire, flood, or disaster in BC, I may be called to fly to far-flung parts of the province to be a "public information officer" at a moment's notice. Two weeks ago, the organizer came to our office to give us the heads-up that warm temperatures might cause flooding so be prepared. I went home that night and laughed with Byron that I'll be called out on day one of his days off. Oh the sweet revenge! Last Thursday was day one of his days off and I was called to go to Prince George for a flood. I was gone for 2 and a half days. And when I came home, Byron was just starting four 12-hour shifts. I know I'm going to marry some guy named Byron, I just haven't seen much of him lately.

He has the next two days off, then he's going to Alberta to help his Dad move into a seniors apartment. When I was in Prince George, Byron would call and tell me he was bored and lonely. I cringed at the time, knowing I'll be doing the same this coming weekend. But I have plans.

I want to sleep all I can on Saturday. I want to find a farmer's market. I have to do my weekly cleaning. I want to rent a movie I would love and Byron would hate (he refuses to see Juno). I want to go to Curves. I want to read "A Thousand Spendid Suns" on our newly furnished patio. I will miss Byron and our talks and laughs and kisses. I crave his company and love being in his presence. To re-frame this lonely spell, I keep thinking this... when we get to spend some time together it'll be the sweetest and most fun ever!

See? I polish turds for a living.

Polishingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Freedom? Faith? Monkey?

2008-05-22T07:19:00.000-07:00

On July 4th, in Vancouver, George Michael is in concert. AIIIIEEEE! I want to go.

I was falling in love with Byron when he told me that he, too, loved George Michael. At that moment, I knew we were together forever. This week's task for the wedding is listing all the songs we want played at the reception. It was Byron who said we needed lots of George Michael played. I love that man! Both Byron and George.

So last night, when I saw the George Michael medley on American Idol, and then George himself sing, I nearly wet my pants. And it got me thinking... why don't Byron and I go see GM in Vancouver?

Why don't we?

Because it would cost too much, especially when it's just a couple months before the wedding we're paying for. Tickets are pricey, at $75 each. Hotels are ridiculously overpriced. The gas and the ferry... it all adds up to an expensive night out.

Besides the love of George Michael, here's another reason I love Byron. He makes me think twice before spending. I have always had a problem with spending. I will buy something, think later. I will see $100 in my account, my last $100, and spend every last cent with glee. Since getting together with Byron, he's made me stop doing that and gets me thinking long term about money. Thank god!

So the old Sally would buy the tickets, book the hotel and not think twice about it. The new Sally thinks there are more pressing issues to address, namely how to pay for our wedding. The $500 we could easily spend on that one night can pay for our entire service at the church. Or it could pay for our accomodations the week of the wedding. Or it could pay for one of us to fly to Edmonton for the wedding. It could almost pay for the hall rental.

Sure, I could dance to "Too Funky" live. But really, I'd rather have a beautiful church in which to marry Byron, or a big hall to dance in with him. To a George Michael song, natch.

Decidingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Disturbing

2008-05-15T07:24:00.000-07:00

When I was in high school, there were sluts, but they seemed to be behind-doors sluts. None of my friends were skanks, so there was never any discussion of who blew who on Friday night. I don't think I was even sure what a blowjob was until I was 16! I fear times have changed.

There have been articles in recent years about the increased promiscuity of teenaged girls these days. These poor little girls are performing fellatio on boys for acceptance and to be cool. Sadly, those girls are just seen as living blow-up dolls by the blown boys. Sad.

I was privy to a not-so private conversation on the bus yesterday. The bus goes by a high school, and there were a bunch of kids in the back, not far from me. There was talk of a party coming up this long weekend. A few girls were talking about playing "Spin the Jam Jar" this weekend. Someone in the group must have been as clueless as me, and I wish I never heard the description.

"Spin the Jam Jar" is a bastardized version of "Spin the Bottle". Inside the jam jar are little slips of paper with various sexual acts on them. You spin the jam jar, pick out a piece of paper and proceed to perform that act on whomever the jam jar is pointing to. Blech. I wanted to know what sexual acts are in the jar, but it was my stop. Besides, I was grossed out.

When I hear things like that, it makes me think twice about children. How do you protect your children from turning into that? How do you make sure your baby girl doesn't grow up blowing with abandon? How do you make sure your baby boy respects women and himself? It scares me to think our babies are growing up in that kind of world.

Despairingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Just marry me already

2008-05-14T07:07:00.001-07:00

My wedding dress arrived yesterday. Byron called me at work to tell me a package had arrived and after work, I skipped Curves and skipped home.

My dress was a bit of a task. I went to a couple places here in Victoria, tried on a few, and found one that seemed nice, but not stellar. And since I am large, trying on dresses was futile. They carry the samples in small sizes so the best I could do was close my eyes and imagine. Then I could order one, hope for the best, and hope the $1000 dress was worth it. I think that process is bullshit.

So I went online, which is a scary idea for someone like me who is still wary of online shopping. I found this boutique on EBay, of all places, and found a dress that I loved. I did a survey of friends and family about this dress and they all agreed it was nice. There were, though, some raised eyebrows about ordering a wedding dress online. It was only $250, so I did it. I ordered it, knowing that I can return it if the dress turns out all wrong.

It's all right! I am not going to go into detail, or even post a picture since Byron reads this blog. It's pretty, girly without being precious, and is too big! That is a good thing! I'll get it tailored to fit me perfectly without being too tight. I do not want to look like an un-cooked bratwurst at my wedding.

As I raced home yesterday, I got sadder and sadder as I got closer to my door. I am all alone here in Victoria. My best friend is in Texas. My mother and sister are in Dartmouth. My sister-in-law is in Alberta. I have no one to tell me the dress is all wrong even if I think it's all right. I have no one to even take a picture of me in the dress so I can show Candie, Jane or Hillie! It was really sad. I have to get input on my dress from strangers at a dress shop, when I go for alterations.

Most times, I am glad the wedding is being planned away from family and friends. We can do things our way. For instance, we are doing a seating arrangement and that will be set in stone before we go there so no outside parties can meddle and move places a day before the wedding.

I had a wonderfully long talk with my mother last night about the dress and the wedding in general. I told her all the plans we have. She gave her input on music, and her ideas on our ideas. It was good to get some help, even though it's at arm's length. I guess the beauty of planning the wedding so far from loved ones is that this wedding will be OURS. All the influences, touches and flavours of the day will be ours.

Like they say at my work, it's all about re-framing. It seems like a sucky sitch to be away from loved ones right now, but I just need to re-frame it and see a disadvantage in a different light.

My last manager at my last job always said I was unorganized. She was always nagging at me, which made me shut down on her. Well, I made a list to beat all lists last week. Every little thing for the wedding, from buying plane tickets to buying underwear was assigned a week. It's colour-coded, detailed and highly organized. I want to take a picture and tell her to feast on my organizational skills. But right about now, I am ready for the wedding to come. I am sick of planning already. Just marry me already!

Clothingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

It's a nightmare

2008-04-29T07:10:00.000-07:00

I was warned about this. But I just laughed it off. Surely this would not happend to me. I was prepared and ready and very organized, so why would I have nightmares about my wedding? Pfft.

They have begun in earnest.

I had one a week or so ago about the music. Byron and I walked into an empty hall that was beautifully decorated. We were dressed in our wedding gear, and there was no music. Before people came in, we were runing around trying to find CD's worthy of playing. We ended up with a dance mix compilation from 1992, and not our first dance song.

I had two last night. TWO. In the first dream, it was the wedding day and I still didn't have my dress. My mother came in with a dress she found at Sears, but it wasn't so much a dress as a white, beaded skort suit. When my dress came, the front was all lace and see-through. I had to wear a granny bra under my dress for all to see. And it was high necked. And ugly and ill-fitting. I woke up gasping. My dress was ordered about 2 weeks ago.

The second dream wasn't much better. Again, it was the day of the wedding and Byron and I didn't have our rings. I called him and told him to pick some up on his way to the church, like he was picking up some bread on his way home. In my dream, he balked about a ring and said it wasn't that important. I yelled at him that it was and we had a screaming match on the phone. I wonder if I yelled out in real life? Also in real life, Byron has no qualms about a ring and has said he wants to wear one.

Am I in for four more months of this? No wonder brides are exhausted on the wedding day. They don't get a decent night's sleep for months leading up to the event! Dammit!

Tiredly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Tales from the Frat House

2008-04-25T07:10:00.000-07:00

Who knew Byron and I lived in one? We sure as hell didn't. Until some dear, young tool informed us this morning.

It was 5:15 am, and I was getting dressed while Byron slept. The buzzer for the front door went off. I scurried into the hall, scared, and Byron bolted out of bed. I answered to hear the distinctive slur of a drunkard saying something along the lines of "Darren, dude" and then mumble. I told him he had the wrong place and hung up. It rattled me, since I was due to leave the house in about 15 minutes.

The buzzer went off again, and the same guy said he lost his keys. I said to go away and hung up again. Just as I was about to ask Byron to drive me to work, we heard knocking on the door next to us. We scampered to the hall, peered out our peep-hole and saw this drunk young guy knocking non-stop on the door.

Byron has very little tolerance for things like this, or inconveniences in our apartment building. He has no problem going to our landlord to tell him what's wrong. I can't bring myself to do it. I have lived in some serious shit holes over the years, and when there is a problem, be it a drunk neighbour or a dripping faucet, I try to fix it myself. So just as I was about to shoo the drunk kid away, Byron got on the phone to our landlord. He got the answer phone so he left a message.

We looked out our peep-hole again and saw the drunk guy laid out in front of our neigbour's door, knocking every now and then. Since he was passed out, I felt better about leaving. When we opened our door, we started to laugh. He was a mess! So we took a photo. And as I left, he never stirred. His white belt failed his jeans, and his turquoise underpant-clad bum hung out.

Byron said a few minutes later, he heard the buzzer next door ring, and saw the guy had left the floor. He figures he's passed out on the couch in front hallway.

We've had a tough time with the neighbours in that apartment. The people there before were gothy pot-heads. The hall always reeked of weed, and the constant thump of techno beat through the walls. They left a few weeks back, and I had never been so happy. Our landlord assured us the next tenent was a nice young guy who was going to college for welding. We heard "young" and "college" and knew immediately this would be trouble. Sure enough, the music was loud, and he and his buddies would be partying hard on a Monday night on the patio. Byron heard the landlord's wife reaming out what he assumes to be the kid's mom about the parties and the noise. I am sure once the landlord hears about this, it's a new neighbour for us.

I hope I never hear a drunk slur "duuuude" to me again at 5:15 am.

Fraternizingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

Rolling for Nothing

2008-04-17T07:20:00.001-07:00

So another season of Roll Up the Rim is over. It was a slim season, with only one win. ONE. Inconceivable.

I did some math. Please remember I failed grade 11 math, so don't take these stats to the bank. Byron and I go to Tim's about twice a week, and we get a large coffee each. This contest lasts about 8 weeks, so that's about 32 coffees. Add in the ill-conceived road trip to Edmonton and back, and the week when Byron worked nights and I brought him coffee every afternoon, the number of coffees (foolishly) purchased by us is around 45. That's an average of 5.625 coffees a week. I won 2.2% of the time. Poor stats, Tim's. I feel violated.

I won once. In a scuzzy Esso/Tim's in Kamloops, I bought my usual large and won a coffee. That's it. That's ridiculous.

At first, I thought the number of winning cups was low in the Victoria area just because this is NOT a Tim's town. There's only 14 in the whole city. In Dartmouth, there are 14 in a 5 kilometre radius of my parent's home. In Victoria, people like their Starbucks. They prefer to pay $4.21 for a venti coffee and blueberry soy muffin. At Tim's, Byron and I order 2 large coffees and two bagels with cream cheese for the same price. But I suppose at Starbucks, you pay for the "ambiance". Or you just like to be ripped off. Trust me, if there was a Tim's on my way to work, my Friday Starbucks treat would be a thing of the past.

Turns out, I am not the only one who feels monumentally tipped off by Tim's this year. I guess if I lived in Quebec, I might have won more than a coffee.

No matter how much we squawk about les Quebecois getting all the goodies, or how much of a rip this Roll Up the Rim hooey is, or our calls for a more fair contest, it'll all be for naught. Tim's knows they have Canadians by the short and curlies. We are gaga for it and, like an abusive partner, keep coming back for more. Once the RUTR season starts next year, you know we'll all be making extra long trips to the nearest Tim's for our chance at a cookie. Which, may I say, is THE chinziest prize of all time. A cookie? Why bother.

Rollingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

They're kidding, right? Right?

2008-04-15T07:33:00.001-07:00

I read this a couple weeks ago, and the news shocked me then. I am dumbfounded.

WHY is Lauren Conrad, of The Hills fame, writing a blog for the NHL playoffs. Yes, you read right... National Hockey League. Hockey. Lauren Conrad. There is no connection whatsoever. It's like asking 50 Cent to discuss Shakespeare. It just cannot be done.

On her first and only entry so far, she says she sometimes goes to an LA Kings game, but since they're out, she's cheering on Anaheim. The backlash from readers of this blog has not been kind.

I can roll with change, so when the NHL scrapped the Smythe et al divisions for Western Conference, etc, I didn't even notice. Apparently after the strike, there were some rule changes. Whatever. As long as the NHL keeps going, who am I to complain. But when a time-tested organization like the NHL tries to hit a younger and more diverse demographic by using hokey tactics like this makes my blood boil. The NHL, instead of looking hipper and more girl-friendly, comes off looking pathetic and sad. Like the dancing 48 year old divorcee at a rave. You just want to wrap your coat around them and send them home.

If the NHL wanted to get on the blog bandwagon, reach a younger, more diverse audience, they could have found a real celebrity hockey fan, who has cred with the guys and who the girls love, too. Maybe Hayden Christensen*. Or perhaps Adam Brody*. Not some fashionista who can hardly string a sentance together.

Like, you know,
xoxoSallyt

* These are my uneducated guesses. These guys are young, cute, and one is from Canada, he has to like hockey, right? Who would you have wanted to write an NHL blog? Discuss...

Peter Piper Picked a Peck

2008-04-14T07:25:00.000-07:00

Byron and I are growing our own peppers. We eat a lot of them... in salads, sauces, casseroles, you name it, and we fling some peppers in it. So a month or so ago, we were in Rona, saw some seeds and on a whim, decided to grow peppers. We planted the seeds, and our excitement grew with each sprout. We have 16 little pepper plants.

The plants are now taller than the pot they're in, so we thought it's time to plant them in bigger pots and reap the rewards. Yesterday, we got out the dirt, laid out the newspaper on the dining room table, and re-planted our peppers. It's been sunny and kind of warm here in Victoria, so we put the peppers outside. And we grinned with pride.

Later that evening we went for a walk, and when we came back, our peppers, our babies, looked like boiled spinach. They had fallen over, and wilted on us! So we brought them back in and hoped they'd recover. Which they did, a bit, this morning. They are upright and kind of perky again. Some of the smaller ones, I fear, didn't make it, but they were the runts.

I should also add that Byron and I have never planted a mini patio garden before. Neither one of us know anything about germination, temperature, or how to grow vegetables. We're doing this on a wing and a prayer. Hopefully, after the first brush with death, our pepper plants can come back to life and yield lots of fruit.

If there is progress, or even a sprout, I will post a picture. In the meantime, we would appreciate any pepper-growing tips.

Farmingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

DONE!

2008-04-11T07:06:00.000-07:00

I am thoroughly digusted with American Idol and refuse to watch ever again. I don't give a flying fig who wins this year, or ever again. That clap-trap of a show should be shut down. I am done.

When that wee snippet Ryan Seacrest announced that Michael Johns was voted off, I snapped. Something inside me died. Well, it was just the fan of American Idol in me that died. Byron took the brunt of my rantings and ravings last night. Carly blows and has gotten worse and seems unable to handle the competition as it gets stiffer. Syesha looks like a frog and annoys the snot out of me. I can't stand David Archuleta. He looks like some moony freak week after week and he is the lyrical equivalent of John Tesh. Blech. I was rooting for Michael Johns. Anyone who cites Neil Finn as a musical influence is okay by me. His version of "Across the Universe" was wonderful. He deserved to stay. Not that frigging Kristy Lee Cook. I can't even discuss her this morning without spatting bile.

My blood pressure is rising at the thought of this. Simon is dead to me. American Idol is dead to me. Be gone!

Disgustedly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

A trooper?

2008-04-03T07:16:00.000-07:00

You decide... am I a trooper or just plain dumb.

I had FIVE fillings done yesterday. FIVE! I went to the dentist to get sealants on my wisdom teeth. I was told it would take abot an hour. No. Two and a half hours later I emerge with my mouth looking like I had a stroke. Turns out once the dentist scooped the decay from the surface, she found more gunk on the inside of the tooth. What was once to be a simple proceedure turned into jaw-aching hell.

So I sat, and I cringed and gagged as I smelled what I assume to be burnt tooth. It took four shots of whatever they inject to make you numb. The dentist sincerely asked me if I wanted to be numbed. I told her I was no hero and take the feeling away.

Afterwards, I slurred my words and drooled and my lips twisted in weird ways. I was also thirsty as all get out but could not drink. Byron got a kick out of it. So I talked and talked and talked. My thinking was that the more I moved my mouth, my jaw, my lips, the sooner the freezing would wear off. It worked.

But now today, my jaw aches and I can't open my mouth too far. I think it's from having my jaw open so wide for so long.

Flossingly Yours,
xoxoSallyt

What about the best?

2008-03-27T07:32:00.000-07:00

There's a little mini-revolution going on. And while I have ignored it, chuckled at it, maybe even sniggered at the cleverness of it all... it is now starting to wear thin.

Why is Kristy Lee Cook still on American Idol?!

This voting for the worst nonsense is ridiculous. Sure, it's a lark to see the weakest performer be whisked from the edge of elimination. But when the sucky ones are "safe" and some other strong singers, like Jason Castro are in the bottom three, you've gone too far. Watching that quasi-cross eyed, tacky, future Penthouse centrefold giggle and skip over to the safe side last night nearly drove me over the edge.

STOP voting for Kristy Lee Cook! Stop it! I will take your phone/text privileges away! Seriously, America, can you look me in the eye and tell me, without snickering, that you think a bimbo named Kristy Lee can be an idol? Except in circle jerks. How can you vote for someone whose favourite quote is: "Rope it, ride it, wrestle it, cowgirl it." That just screams yeasty slut!

You have all proven your point. American Idol is a joke. Now spend those votes on contestants who are good. Better yet... how about spending your votes on the election in November?

It's official... Americans don't know how to vote.

Electorally Yours,
xoxoSallyt