plan b.

So, after the DCFC concert that wasn't, T and I headed home and decided to watch a movie. I picked Winter's Bone, since I'd been wanting to see it for a while and T's movie picks can't always be trusted (hee!)

It was a bit odd, and totally not a Hollywood release, but I quite liked it.

T: They totally left that open for a sequel.

Me: (Confused.) They did?

T: Yeah. You know... "Winter's Bone 2: Teardrop's Revenge".

biting the bullet

I have a tattoo on my left ankle that looks very similar to the picture above. For those not in the know, it's the symbol for "infinity" and the Asshat and I got matching tattoos when we got engaged to symbolize our love. Feel free to stop right here and take a moment to puke. I did!

I've been wanting to do something about my tattoo for a while. At first, I thought about changing it into something else - many suggested adding two eyes and making it into glasses. Um, no. I considered turning it into a butter- or dragonfly, but seeing as I already have one of those "beauties" on my back (Ah, the things we do at the spur of the moment when seventeen and drunk on New Years Eve), I didn't want to add to my insect collection.

I've also considered laser removal (I have a hard time writing the word "laser" without saying it like Dr. Evil in my head and picturing air quotes. Tee hee.) I've never looked into it any more than casually until last week. I'm not sure what lit the fire under my butt, but (Ha! I said "butt" twice!) it was like an epiphany and I just KNEW it was the right thing to do. So, I did a little research and it turns out that there are two places in town that offer this service. One seemed like more of an esthetics/spa- type place, so I opted for the medical/doctor-supervised option.

This decision is not about erasing my past. It's more about reclaiming what's mine (in this case, my ankle. Ha!) But seriously - it's about MY life. Mine. I've been doing this slowly, but surely, piece by piece, over the last five years and I think this is just about the last thing that's keeping me from full closure and peace of mind. And, to me, that's worth every penny and every ounce of pain.

There are also some practical reasons for doing this: the truth is that I'm not 18 anymore, and while I still really like the idea of tattoos (and fully intend to get another one some day), I've recently started a new job at a management level and the reality is that these adornments can often be looked at negatively by "old schoolers". (Incidently, this is also the reason I've put to bed my desire to get my nose pierced.) When it comes to personal body adornments, I want to have the option to conceal them when necessary and appropriate, and with this one, it's just not possible.

I know it'll probably hurt like hell and it's definitely going to cost me several times more than getting the tattoo in the first place, but it's worth it to me.

My consultation is tomorrow. I'll keep you posted with updates (and pics!) as I go through this process.

a way with words

Said to me after watching intently while I changed out of my work clothes and into my comfies:

B: We really need to get back into the gym.

like a house

About a month ago, my sister and I went to Syracuse, NY for some retail therapy/sisterly bonding time. As usual, the trip was successful (and the damage to my credit card significant.)

When I got home, I sat B down for a mini-fashion show to get his opinion on my finds.

The exchange went a little like this:

Me: So, what do you think about this top? (FYI, it was a semi-sheer flowy cotton blouse.)

B: I really like it. The A-frame shape totally suits you.

Me: A-frame? Really?

B: Yeah, you know - when the shape flows away from your body. It's very flattering on you.

Me: Um, I think you mean A-line. A-frame is the term to describe a type of house.

B: Oh... yeah... right.

Me: Uh-huh.

Methinks someone's been watching a little too much "What Not to Wear". Or not enough, apparently.

shakespeare would be proud

About ten years ago (WAY before it was cool, I might add), I bought a set of magnetic fridge poetry for my very first apartment. I remember ordering it online, back when online shopping was new and unchartered territory for most, and paying some ridiculous price (in USD no less) on top of the even more ridiculous shipping and handling fee. I had visions of the many parties I would throw and imagined my guests congregating in the kitchen trying to come up with the wittiest of verse while getting tipsy from the drink. In reality, in the few short months that I lived in that apartment, I'm not sure that I had many guests, let alone parties, but I digress... After I moved from Toronto back to Ottawa, practically everything I owned went into storage - and stayed there - for several years, including my little box of fridge poetry.

Whilst going through my junk in preparation for the move to my current place, I came across the box once again. I couldn't have asked for a better find: the fridge in the new place is a little antiquated and its appearance leaves a little to be desired (I think its colour was called "almond" back in the 80s when it was at the height of appliance fashion). Once again, I had visions of all the parties I would throw and imagined my guests congregating in the kitchen trying to come up with the wittiest of verse while getting tipsy from the drink. This time, however, my dreams were realised!

The following is a sampling of the... er... "talent" of the people I surround myself with:

Very sweet.

Awww!


Le sigh.




And then there's the usual suspects:

Knowing who authored this little ditty, I have to admit that I'm a bit surprised...

J, you naughty girl! ;)

I will not reveal the "muse" for this poem, but shall remind

certain individuals of the saying, "Those in glass houses..."

this better get me a first class ticket to heaven

Two weeks ago, B was away for a few days whooping it up in Whistler with the boys while I was slaving away in Winterpeg on Very Important Business. Upon his return, we met up to exchange the usual "I missed yous" and "Wished you were theres" before de-briefing eachother on what we'd been up to.

Somehow, we got onto the topic of Lent (I think it had something to do with the fact that we missed the opportunity to have pancakes for dinner for Shrove Tuesday, which had been the week before.) Anyhow, and I was telling him that my friend K had decided to give up pop (a BIG DEAL for her) and that I'd decided to give up something, too. Like french fries and maybe even chocolate. B then tells me that he's been thinking about giving something up for Lent as well.

Our conversation went something like this:

B: Actually, I've been thinking a lot about that, too, and I've decided to give something up, but I'm not sure how you're going to feel about it.

Me: Really? (Smiling nervously and thinking that it'd better not be what I think it might be.)

B: Yeah, so, I've been thinking that we should give up sex for Lent. (Notice here that he said "we", when what it clearly meant was "I decided for the both of us without consulting you and I'm hoping that you won't realize this." I did, by the way.)

Me: (Still smiling, my face slowly flushing red while desperately trying to maintain a calm composure.)

B: I can see that you're not happy about this. Let me explain my reasoning...

It's here that B goes into a long and obviously well-thought out diatribe about how abstaining would actually strengthen our relationship and give us a chance to grow on all levels besides physically (which we already know we're good at - ha!), etc, etc. In his defence, it was a pretty convincing argument and I've been in enough dysfunctional relationships to be open to try things - even the highly unconventional - in order to ensure the success of our newly-blossoming one. So, I (gulp) agreed to try it, but ONLY if we did indeed actively work on the other stuff.

All I can say is that if I make it through Lent without dying from withrawal or being held in jail on molestation or indecent exposure charges, I will be surprised. And, at the very least, I think I should get this t-shirt:


The next day, I rather triumphantly reported to him that Lent excludes Sundays, so we didn't in fact have to go completely cold turkey. (And who are we to go against God?) B agreed that this was a fair concession (I think he was already starting to realize the ramifications of his bright idea).

Epilogue

Saturday, February 16th: So, we made it through the first week of Lent completely intact and neither of us the worse for wear (thank you, Jesus, for the miracle that is my Silver Bullet!) B came over for a relaxing night of dinner cooked by me, movies, and lounging, as B was still fighting a nasty cold and needed to keep things on the DL. Dinner was good and we had a really nice conversation while enjoying our meal. At this point, I was beginning to concede that perhaps this Lent thing may not be so bad after all and that just maybe the boy knew what he was talking about.

Before we settled in to to watch our movie, B suggested we take a walk over to Starbucks for some hot chocolate and fresh air. On our way out, B says:

B: So, I was thinking some more about the Lent thing ...

Me: Uh-huh. (Not again! He's really gotta stop this thinking thing - it's seriously cramping my style!)

B: (Smiling either sheepishly or devilishly - I couldn't tell which.) Well, you know how in the House of Commons they sometimes make declarations to adjourn early? Well, I was thinking that we could declare it officially Sunday at 10 pm tonight...

Me: (With the enthusiasm of an auctioneer) SOLD!

And so, henceforth Sundays during Lent shall begin at 10 pm Saturday.

And that, my friends, is how we compromise and still get what we want without being a bad Christian.

One thing, though. Remember when I said I was going to give up fries and chocolate for Lent? Well, that's off the table! A girl's gotta have SOME vices!

Sheesh.

makes for a tasty base layer

So, today B and I were e-mailing back and forth talking about our impending trips (mine to Winnipeg and his to Whistler). The following is more or less a transcript of our conversation, once again demonstrating my awesomeness:



B: So, A was there (Winnipeg) last week and it was so cold that he got frostbite on his face!


Me: Well, I don't plan on spending any time outdoors unless I'm going from the hotel to a waiting taxi and back. Maybe I should invest in a baklava (sp?) just in case.


B: If you mean a balaclava then I'd say that's a good idea. I'm not sure if baklava would be as effective a protection against the cold, being a Greek confection and all... it'd be pretty messy and sticky, I imagine.

Me: Er... Um, yeah. That's what I meant. I knew the difference between the two, I just didn't feel like looking it up.


(At least I'm cute, right?)

tastes like burning

Today, I learned first hand the dangers of ironing in the nude.

When doing such an activity, say, while in a hurry because you're already late due to your alarm that didn't go off (or, rather, it did, but you couldn't hear it because your cell phone was set to silent mode), it's best to stand a safe distance away from the ironing board. For, if you lean against said board while concentrating intently on the task at hand, your nakedness may come into contact with the iron and you, too, could sport an angry red line across your lower abdomen, just above your "lady garden".

So, unless you're into human branding or prone to freak ironing accidents as I seem to be (ask me about the time I burnt my scalp with a clothing iron), please avoid this painful and painfully embarrassing outcome by wearing clothing whilst ironing, or at least seriously consider, as I am, taking all your clothing to the drycleaners for pressing forevermore.

Let's leave such things to the professionals, shall we?

all in the family

I was bored one day at work, so I decided to fart around on Google and look up names of people I know to see what comes up. The resulting... er... results were pretty much "meh". Apparently, I don't know anyone who leads an excitingly clandestine existence. Then, I decided that googling images of people I know might render more interesting discoveries. Jackpot! So, I decided to put together a "family album" according to Google...



I'd like to introduce to you my "family":

My Dad - Kevin

My dad, Kevin, started his career "balling" for Winona State University (that's in Minnesota, for those of you not up on your American universities). After that, he moved to coaching at Catlin Gabel, where he spent the next four years and currently officiates basketball games for Universal Whistles LLC. In his eight years as a referee, my dad has officiated an impressive 4500+ games. And true to Universal Whistles LLC's motto, my dad is more than just an official, he's a craftsman!

My Mum

My mum, Lynn, is a champion lawn bowler and a member of Bowls Canada Boulingrin. Not only was she on the Canadian national team from 2002-04, she has also been nominated "Senior Athlete of the Year" (twice!) and has enjoyed many first place standings throughout her 13 year career. She taught me everything I know about bowling but, sadly, I did not inherit hers, nor my dad's athletic prowess.

My Sister

I couldn't find much bio information about my sister aside from the fact that she's the CFO of Flying Dog Ales - a Denver, Colorado-based brewery. Explains a lot. I guess I should count myself pretty lucky that I have a lifetime supply of free beer, though.

(Truth be told, most of the "Kelly M*s" that came up in my Google search were male, and as much as my sister and I might've had some gender confusion back in the day when we had ridiculously short hair and my mother dressed us like boys, we've recovered sufficiently and I thought it too cruel to go back there for fear my sis might relapse.)

My Brother

Though my whole family seems to have had their share of fame and fortune, it's my brother who really has made a name for himself - on the Great White Way, of all places. According to his bio on BroadwayWorld.com, Michael came to New York City in May of 1990, after finishing his BFA in Theater from Carnegie Mellon University (that's in Pittsburgh, kids). His Broadway credits include Rent, The Who's Tommy, Miss Saigon, Hair and The High Rollers Social Pleasure Club. He was a featured vocalist on "The Rosie O'Donnell Show" and he also founded the Broadway Gospel Choir in 1994, then founded the Broadway Inspirational Voices in 1999. (And here we thought my brother's infernal singing, dancing and general noisemaking was just ADD!)

And finally, a little about me:

Me

The bio on my website (!) describes me as a California native who attended San Diego State University majoring in Literature and a graduate of Orange Coast College Culinary School. (Love of food and literature- totally bang on so far.) I've worked as a pastry chef in some of the finest restaurants in Orange County, and have traveled extensively discovering fascinating places to eat, drink and sleep. (Well, I DO make a pretty mean lemon meringue pie from scratch. I also like to travel and while I'm travelling I eat, drink and sleep - sometimes in interesting places - like the time I slept wrapped around the bidet in my hotel bathroom... the toilet was taken.) Apparently, I've also written restaurant and hotel reviews for Lemonade Magazine, and I now give private cooking lessons to the chopping-challenged while continuing my search for the best the travel and restaurant industries have to offer. (I'll post my rates for private cooking lessons at a later date. Few people realise the talent and finesse required to pull off the perfect Mr. Noodle!) You can catch my talk show, "Girl About Town" on World Talk Radio, Mondays at 2 pm.


Tee hee!

at least i'm cute

This morning, while on my way to work, I was stopped at a light. While waiting for the light to change, I looked down and noticed a stray hair on my pants. Now, I don't think I'm unlike pretty much every other female in the world when it comes to finding stray hairs. I believe there to be a general consensus that hairs that are found anywhere other than attached to the head must be apprehended and disposed of immediately. In my situation (sitting in my car), the acceptable mode of disposal means out the window (or moonroof, as I've been known to use when convenient).

So, as I've done a million times before, I plucked the errant hair off my pants and powered down my window. Then I closed the window. On my hand. My hand that was still sticking out of the window. Panicked, I immediately pressed the button to put the window back down. Nothing. However, the window on the passenger side promptly went down. Finding the correct button, I pressed it again, albeit in the wrong direction, and the window increased its chokehold on my trapped wrist. The pain! Finally (third time's a charm!), I pressed the RIGHT button in the RIGHT direction and my hand was loosed. Free at last!

Mortified beyond words and sure that all the drivers in my immediate area had thoroughly enjoyed my little free (read: FREAK) show, I sped away from the light and drove as fast as I could to the safety of my office.

In case you're wondering, I'm OK. Just suffering from a little case of bruised ego. And wrist.

mmmm... brains!

I'm tired. So very tired. The kind of tired where you feel like you might just throw up, if it weren't for the fact that the very act you're contemplating is just too damned exhausting.

Of course, everyone experiences bouts of crappy sleep from time to time, but for me it's becoming a chronic issue. And I don't like it. Not. One. Bit.

See, for the past four years, I have struggled on and off (but mostly on) with insomnia. And it's not just one night of sleeplessness: it's several nights of little to no sleep at all. And if, by some miracle, I do sleep through the night, I almost always wake up feeling like I never actually rested while I was asleep. Like perhaps I was doing calculus while running a marathon in my dreams. That'd be pretty damn tiring for me, as I can barely add as it is and I've never made it past 5K without practically having to be defibrillated.

And while I do suspect that bad bed karma* might have something to do with my inability to get a good night's rest, I'm really not sure of the cause of this affliction.

I've tried over the counter and prescription sleep aids in the past, but I always woke up with a fuzziness in my brain that persisted throughout the day. And if I've got a choice, I prefer my fuzz all natural, thankyouverymuch.

For someone like myself who needs a lot of sleep, insomnia can be very depressing and sometimes debilitating. However, I have noticed that the quality of my sleep greatly increases the farther I travel away from home. What does this mean? Do I need to move? Maybe I should put in a grant proposal and conduct a long-term study. I could travel all over the world in search of the best sleep ever. Barring that, a sugar daddy would do in a pinch.

Hopefully, the cause of my sleeplessness is situational and thus temporary and that I'm soon able to get back into relatively healthy sleep habits. Until then, I guess I'll just have to muddle along, catching my zzz's wherever I can. But if I do start walking around aimlessly while dragging my leg, or if you notice that while in conversation with me I'm staring intently at the top of your head with an eerily vacant look on my face, you might want to consider slowly backing away, turning, running like hell and locking yourself up somewhere safe.

Just in case.

(*For those not in the know, I purchased my bed with the proceeds from the wedding gifts from my failed marriage that I returned to the store four years after the fact. This has lead me to believe that my sleep troubles stem from the not-so-wholesome way that I came to own my bed, as well as residual bad karma from He Who Shall Not Be Named.)

today

Today is not just any other day. Today is a very special day. Today is Friday. Friday, April 27th. And in honour of this very special day, I thought it was imperative that I blog about it and give it the tribute it so rightly deserves.

Today is Jazz Hands Day.

Happy Jazz Hands Day, everybody!

Don't forget to jazz up someone's day today. Sometimes, jazz hands make all the difference.

sigh

I just realized that I'm wearing my underwear inside out.