Welcome, and step inside my blog. I'm a 26-year-old Canadian lass with a penchant for fitness, writing, Tori Amos, Beck, REM, all things Simpsons, cats, bad soap operas, poetry, my honeybee Eric, food, coffee, wine, women's issues and that crazy little thing called the interweb. I believe in synchronicity. I work at a gym but have a pot belly (more on that later), and intend to make my living as a writer some sweet sunny day. I am sitting in my salvage chair (bequeathed by a previous tenant) in my room in a three-bedroom townhouse in quasi-suburbia, Gemma in a bundle on my lap. Clem, my other hairy little cat-child, is doubtless peeing on the carpet, as has been his tendency of late.

And today is oh so delicious, because I don't work today or tomorrow and the world, oh the world is my oyster. The View just came on - what a surprise, it's the Star "Bridezilla" Jones bridal update! Mr Mute Button fixes her hash. Bye-bye pie hole!

• 8 oz. cream cheese
• 1 heaping tbsp. mayonnaise
• 1 cup sour cream

Mix and spread in 8x8 pan. Top with a thin layer of salsa and the following:

• chopped green onions
• chopped green and/or red pepper
• chopped tomatoes
• shredded cheddar cheese

Chill and eat /w nachos. Some folks add baby shrimp but they are pink and curly and scare me!

The original name is the dull-as-dirt Nacho Dip. I've been using this recipe since high school and given the sour cream/mayo/cream cheese base, have always joyfully called it Cholesterol Dip.

yummyummyummy

A gym is very quiet on a Sunday. Women who would otherwise be sweatin' to the oldies are off doing other things - cleaning house, getting churched, day tripping, brunching on bacon and Eggs Benedict. How I envy them their bacon. Don't get me wrong - I love my job almost as much as I love bacon, but these early morning shifts can be a challenge. Up at 6, bus at 7, through the gym doors at 7:59.

We are a gym inspired by the Curves model, but proudly independent. We also deal in cubic zirconia. It's a long, odd story, but the result is a jewelry case in our front entry that's jam-packed with (mostly) tasteful costume jewelry. There are several blingy cocktail rings that could easily put someone's eye out, which might come in handy in the event of a stick-up.

On another note, Ottawa is quite a lovely city. I realized this afresh while traversing it by bus more serenely than usual - that is, without the start-and-stop traffic and sardine-like crush that's typical of weekday travel. It's a perfect day for running, and I did see several runners tearing up the bike paths. I used to run three or four times weekly as my main form of exercise, but since working at the gym and working out five days a week (might as well take advantage of the free membership!), more than one run a week feels like overkill. I miss it, though, especially the long fall runs, thick with leaves and the last gasp of summer. Next year I'll aim to do more, and throw in a few races. One of my life's greatest highs was a race announcer saying "Let's give these athletes a hand!" as the first race I ever ran wrapped up, and the sweet sweet self-satisfaction of knowing that I, former gym class laughingstock, AM AN ATHLETE.

I have strong sturdy legs, sculpted arms and pecs that make my less-than-ample bosom stand at attention. On the other hand, my belly always makes me look mildly pregnant and I have the posture of a swayback mare, which doesn't help. I have stretch marks and childbearing hips without the children to explain them. But I can run 10 kilometres with relative ease and work a stability ball like nobody's business. I am small but I am a powerhouse.

I

AM

AN

ATHLETE

A little shout-out to my friend Charlene, a.k.a. Cuppatea, who visits Mindsay for diversion when the office life weighs heavy. Charlene makes fantastic rocky road fudge, likes teen movies and, sadly, though born and bred a Newfie, lives in Toronto. Hang in there, my power-suited friend!

Torontonians may now hurl insults. ;)

Speaking of the East Coast versus the centre of the universe, here's an exchange I recently had with a co-worker:

Her, responding to something I had said: "Oh, you crazy Newfies."

Me: "Um, Marcia*, I'm from Nova Scotia."

Her: "Well, where do Newfies come from then?"

*Not her real name

I now live in Ottawa and confess to liking it immensely, but many born-and-raised Ontarians don't know much about the country beyond their own province.

On a relevant note, a couple funny quotes from my friend Davey, who moved to Toronto from small town Nova Scotia and has become thoroughly urbanized (and who also calls me Mummy, which is a long and irrelevant story):

"Oh Mummy, Ottawa's just so quaint."

Dreamily, craning his neck at a skyscraper: "Somewhere up there, Mummy, there's a cubicle for me."

I love you, Davey!

Tomorrow my sweet honey darling comes calling from America. It's been three long weeks of apartness, and the second I see him I will sit on him and smother him in kisses. In the year we've been together, Eric, having a car, has done most of the travelling required to keep our relationship cooking - leaving New Hampshire for a seven-hour drive after working all night at a grocery store, only to make the trek home less than two days later...on an almost weekly basis! For this and many other reasons, I think he is the finest kind of man.

With an hour-long bus trip to work, I've been thinking that an MP3 player might come in handy. My debts have a way of demanding to be paid, however, so I won't be buying one anytime soon. This realized, it finally occurred to me to resurrect my perfectly adequate walkman. That's right, baby, I never even made the upgrade to discman. I feel pretty old-school sitting on the bus in my 70s snowsuit jacket and Sony mega-bass special, breaking out the ol' mix tapes, but when was I ever one of the cool kids? 

Speaking of mix tapes, there's nothing quite like them. Mixed CDs don't have the same homemade flavour - the volume fluctuations, the crackles and distortions. There is art in choosing the songs and in finding their optimal order, or in letting it find you; there is skill in allowing for various song lengths so there's no long gap or cut-off track at the end of a side. 

Each tape is a touchstone in time, past you washing freely over now you, uncontrolled and bittersweet.

The first five tracks on today's rediscovered mix tape:

• Never on Your Life/Natalie Merchant
• Paper Bag/Fiona Apple
• Why Pt. 1/Collective Soul
• Dirty Dream Number Two/Belle and Sebastian
• It All Depends on You/Squirrel Nut Zippers

Another quiet day at the gym. I got all hepped up on coffee and Timbits (or "donut holes," for all you non-Canadians) and did a deliciously satisfying workout - treadmill, bike and Pilates ab sculpting. The experts say abs are pretty hard to flatten without some serious diet tweakage, no matter how much exercise one does - so perhaps I should bypass the Timbits. Especially since it seems I was gifted with a surplus - the pile o' bits looked pretty ample for the 20 I had ordered, so I counted the remainder after eating 10 or so...and there were 21 left. D'oh! I'm guessing they loaded me up with yesterday's leftovers, especially since the assortment wasn't overly assorted. Not a single cherry Timbit in the box. :(

Oh yes, my point - too many Timbits! Must...resist...sweet...glazey...goodness....

Have been perusing eBay for Christmas gifts. Found a few likely candidates, and some I'd like to give with love from me to me - like a genuine polyresin full-colour Ralph Wiggum light switch plate!

Eric arrived last night. Having him here is delicious - every time he visits I threaten to sit on him so he can't return to America-land. Unfortunately, I don't weigh enough to hold him down - but a few more Timbits will fix that wagon! 

Today was a bit of a clumsy day on a couple of counts. Firstly, I wore terribly impractical boots while running errands because -- I shamefully admit -- they were cuter than my other pair. The universe punished me accordingly; while everyone else was striding securely through the slush, my boots and socks were soaked and I was slipping all over the sidewalk. Secondly, I met up with sarsar and another friend for coffee at Starbucks, and promptly knocked said coffee all over the table. That was pleasant. But at least I got a second cup on the house...

Before hitting Starbucks, we stopped for lunch at Subway. Funny story about Subway. At a Subway several years ago, in an unfortunate Freudian slip, I requested hot peckers on my sandwich. Sometimes I wonder why I even try...

Have been torturing myself by browsing through profiles on Petfinder. My sister found this wee soul she's got her heart set on adopting:

Even with two lovely kitties of my own and no plans for any more, I can't help perusing all the little lonely faces needing homes. Volunteering at the local humane society a couple years back broke my heart, seeing all the little ones crammed into cages through no fault of their own. The worst was seeing the dogs, so full of trust and love and perfectly healthy, and knowing what they didn't -- that many would never find homes, and would be euthanized to free up limited shelter space.

Happy thoughts! Happy thoughts! Happy thoughts!

Speaking of our animal friends, today was my last day feeding Sigmund Freud (Siggy), Mindy and Daisy, cats belonging to acquaintances who were out of town for the week. They're funny little demons. Siggy is very round and contented, Daisy is smaller but of similar temperament and shape and Mindy is completely black and sleek and a bit of a bully. Yesterday I had the bright idea of running over to feed them rather than taking the bus. Getting there was fine -- a bit chilly, but I soon warmed up and found running on snow and ice surprisingly manageable. Going home, however, was another story...in the hour that I was with the cats, the temperature dropped about ten degrees and the snow started swirling. It was excruciating, and I think I got frostbite on my ear -- it's been red and hurty since. At least it hasn't gone white and numb and fallen off, so I guess it's not too serious. Only in Canada would people see sidewalks encrusted with half a foot of snow and think "Looks like a great day for running..." I was questioning my sanity when I encountered another running fool, which made me feel at least somewhat validated.

Finished up a short story that's been lingering on the back burner. I'm extremely pleased with it, but was annoyed when I found that the perfect short story competition -- held by the Toronto Star -- had closed just days before. Garrrrr...ah well, there are countless sparkling contest-fish in the literary sea.

Rented Wimbledon and loved it. Paul Bettany is yummy in an atypical, sun-bleached, long-lean-jeans-clad way. It helped me to remember that summer exists, and how it feels...

The only good thing about winter (and I'm frequently convinced there's only one) is leaving the blizzardly nasties behind and crossing the threshold of home. Walking home from the grocery store last night brought to mind a scene from Little House on the Prairie, when the snow swirled so thick that Pa had to tie a rope between the house and the barn so he could get there and back without stumbling off course and freezing to death. Oh for a rope of my own!

When I got home I showered the cold from my bones and revelled in my pajamas and favourite "comfort sweater." My friend Kristal uses "comfort sweater" as a derogatory term, stemming from the ever-present ratty brown cardigan I wore in university. That particular example is long gone, but I fiercely defend and cherish my current collection, some of which even have hoods. Mmm, hoods -- the ultimate in comfort sweater options.

The good thing about having a younger sister who likes to shop, wears my size and has similar taste is the phenomenon known as hand-me-ups. We've always had a backwards relationship anyway -- she beat me up as a child, beat me to the altar, etc., etc. As a result, many of my comfort sweaters and favourite pieces of clothing are perfectly functional hand-me-ups.

Have had 2 bizarre song-bits running through my head. The first is "fat bottomed girls, fat bottomed girls, fat bottomed girls" from the song of the same name by Queen (not a fan but Eric is). The second comes from a song titled "I Heard You Came From Brookline," a parody of "I Heard it Through the Grapevine." It's from a CD called Tom's Townie Tunes, a compilation of songs about towns around Boston; the parodies are written and performed by Tom Doyle and first appeared on WROR's Loren and Wally Show. Eric plays the CD in his car once in a while, and while I live far from New England and miss half the references, dang it, the humour just transcends all boundaries. But enough with the backstory. Here's the bit that's been running through my head:

"It really took me by surprise/ when I heard you were circumcised/ Oy, oy, I heard you came from Brookline."

Classic!

My trip to the grocery store allowed me to satisfy my chocolate ice cream craving with a banana split extraordinaire -- complete with maraschino cherries, whipped cream, walnuts and hot fudge. But what I've really been craving is chocolate ice cream in a cone -- and not a heretical pointy cone, I'll have you know, but a proper flat (not fat) bottomed cone. For the ice cream, just plain chocolate -- no messing with souped-up chocolate like Rocky Road or Heavenly Hash. Plain old flat-bottomed chocolate just tastes better somehow. Right now I'm drinking tea. Not such a big fan of tea, but I use it as a lower-caffeine substitute for coffee before the monthly visitor comes calling. No way can I totally eliminate caffeine and function, so I just cut back in the hopes of diminishing the pre-menstrual crazies. Wooba wooba wooba!

As mentioned in yesterday's post, today I'm meeting with a recruiter at a temp agency. Not so crazy about going back into the secretarial world, but I have to do something. I've been out of school for four years and do some freelance writing, but it sure ain't enough to pay the bills, at least for now...was working at a gym for over a year until the little friggers went bankrupt. Have been drifting along from job to job and it was the first I actually loved...but there be life. Anyway, with an English degree I ain't traditionally employable, or grammatically correct it would appear. So it looks like it's back to the only thing I've ever made decent money at -- secretarial bitchery.

The thought in general makes my heart sink -- I am so not a nine-to-five person -- but being a secretarial temp isn't so bad. I like working a few weeks, or a few days, in one place, then having a week off to do some living & writing before moving on to the next thing...or even working long-term at a part-time job that allows me time to create. I like the freedom to work when and how much I want and still make decent money, to turn down work if I want to go away for a long weekend. I like not staying long enough in any one place to get caught up in office politics.

Then there's what I hate. I hate the feeling of being trapped in an office for 40 hours a week, then coming home and trying to cram the things I really want to do into a tiny window, always rushing and stressing and scrambling. I hate working on the same schedule as everyone else and having to do my shopping, commuting and living when everyone else does, always pushing through the crowds to get things done. Taking the bus downtown at 8 a.m. always struck me as a horrible way to start my day, crammed on the bus with 50 other grumpy people who don't want to be there, sardined and jostled and downtrodden.

Yet, at least in the city I live in, it seems most everyone lives the 9-5 grind and doesn't complain, or at least I don't hear it. And most everyone assumes that I want and should embrace the same thing -- even the temp agencies assume my ultimate goal is a full-time, permament office job and try to steer me in that direction. Is there anything wrong with preferring professional transiency, so long as I can ultimately make ends meet? More importantly, can I make ends meet doing things my own way? Haven't had much success so far. Does anyone around here make a decent living outside the 9-5 grind? Of course I know that this area is not bereft of temps/part-timers by choice, or professional writers and artists and massage therapists and other entrepreneurial what-have-yous, but I certainly don't know of many who live their lives that way. Or -- is the briefcase set actually happy and fulfilled and it's me who's half-cocked?

Maybe it's the contrast between where I live and where I was raised -- in the Canadian maritimes, where life tends to be slower-paced and the people more laid-back, where there are more musicians and fishermen (okay, maybe not more musicians) than office drones. Maybe I just ain't a city, even a small-city girl. At the same time, I wouldn't go back to live in my hometown for any amount o' cash.

What it all comes down to is that I just don't know how people can manage to work full-time and raise families and somehow have sanity and time left over for themselves. That life, to me, is a terrifying prospect -- good Lord, I can hardly keep up with my own life, let alone a hypothetical marriage/family life, when I'm working 9-5. I don't believe it's natural and am very much into the European work philosophy. The French, by law, have their work week restricted to 35 hours, and I don't know about anyone else, but my impression of the French is that they live full, leisurely, slightly drunk lives. The Swedish get minimum 5 weeks paid vacation per year and 16 months paid maternity/parental leave. In Canada, maternity leave is a year -- I was shocked to learn that in the US it's a mere three months, and unpaid. Seeing the benefits that new parents here & abroad enjoy, the US standard struck me as backwards and almost barbaric.

But here I go again, overthinking and worrying. I'm not currently trapped in a nine-to-five hell and I don't yet have the family I'm so concerned with managing. I've just always been a natural pessimist, terribly adept at worrying years into the future. I think of it as my talent for finding the black lining in the silver cloud -- even when things are going more or less well, I know there must be something to stew about and won't rest until I've found it and am appropriately ill at ease. Everyone who buys my ray-of-sunshine demeanor -- I've got you so fooled. ;)

But alas, hours have passed and I didn't intend to go on a work/life diatribe. Maybe it's the PMS.

• Clamato juice. What warped mind looks at a clam and thinks "let's juice it?"
  
• Fathers/fathers-in-law in delivery rooms (isn't there something just plain wrong about a grown woman showing her father the view between her legs? Even worse, her partner's father?)
  
• Businesspeople bringing rolling suitcases full of paperwork home from the office. What kind of life is that?

• Burt's Bees orange face wash
• Morning coffee
• Cat cuddles
• Cupcakes (bonus points for sprinkles)
• Runner's high

• Large-bulbed old fashioned Christmas lights still holding their own on a February night, bright gumdrops of light on a little round shrub
• The formica-patterned ceiling (gold starburst motif) of what must be the oldest bus in the City of Ottawa fleet

• What stinks more than a train bathroom? Not much.
• How can a restaurant, in good conscience, charge $12 for a skimpy martini? And who in their right mind would buy one? (Hey, I never said I was in my right mind. And apple martinis are the new something something.)

• A kitten hidden (not very well, I might add) in a man's coat
• A huge oil painting, of which the owners were very protective (if you can afford what I presume to be fine art, why are you taking it home on the bus?)
• A large case of beer
• Stolen stereo equipment (three or four kids rushed onto the bus with an armload each; a couple of panting cops caught up and promptly escorted them off)

• There's a legal battle raging somewhere in Ontario over whether a certain pitbull should be euthanized after attacking a small child. But there's another dimension to the story -- this was the dog's second attack, and it occurred because the owner didn't comply with a court order to muzzle the dog in public. Now he's back in court trying to keep the dog alive. Should that even be an option at this point?
  
• In one of the longest court cases in Canadian history, two Sikh fundamentalists were acquitted of first-degree murder in the 1985 bombing of Air India Flight 182, which left 329 people (mostly Indo-Canadians) dead. The accused's true guilt or innocence aside, the verdict was an enormous blow to the families who have been kept in the lurch for an unbelievable two decades and, from what I gather, fully expected a guilty verdict.
• Robert Blake acquitted -- again, I had the impression it was an open-and-shut case. Apparently the jury wasn't convinced. Up next: the Michael Jackson saga...
  

• Hot dog vendors emerge from hibernation
  
• Winter jackets are replaced by breezy trenches (that's my best attempt at Cosmo-speak)
• The first brave beer drinkers venture onto outdoor patios

• My cat's breath (smells like cat food)
• Lemon-scented Olde English furniture polish (yum -- almost licked the table)
• Orange-tangerine tea steeping in the sun
• The evil post-workout stench of my gym shoes
  
• The wall of weed (wafting through our vents, courtesy the downstairs tenant. At the rate our light bulbs are blowing I suspect he's siphoning our electricity to nurture a grow-op. Requisite Simpsons reference: "It smells like the art teacher's office!" )
  
• The slightly damp smell of Gemma-cat's head when I kissed it

• Buying a new cookbook. I'm not a big cook and rarely buy cookbooks, since I can find pretty much any recipe I need online. But this hardcover slow-cooker bible was on sale for $8, is jam-packed with Eric-friendly recipes (no small feat -- my love is a picky one) and has tons of helpful hints to boot. Buying it made me envision slow-cooking my way into the sunset for years to come, armed with my trusty bargain-shelf tome. It sounds terribly domestic, but springing for that cookbook just made me so darn happy.

• Pouring a large glass of wine and sipping it throughout the day. Otherwise routine pursuits become infused with a pleasant rose-coloured glow.
  

• Making good choices. The other day I had a bitch of a McDonald's craving. All I could think about was my favourite McD's pairing, a chocolate milkshake and McChicken sandwich. With gritted teeth, however, I managed to ride it out in favour of -- get this -- organic, vegetarian lasagna at the organic bakery/restaurant close to work. I love food, especially the junky sort, and cravings often interfere with my quest for a healthier lifestyle. So I have to say that I was seriously impressed with myself for seeking out and eating a spinach-based dish. I use the italics for emphasis because I still can't quite believe it.

• On a related note, slimming down. Once a month I have my weight/proportions/body fat percentage/BMI measured at work (a women's gym). This month I was down 2.5 pounds and several inches/body-fat percentage points. I'm not overweight by any means, but since I'm studying to become a personal trainer, I think it's pretty important to push my own body to its fullest potential. Got my sights set on 110, baby...

• Catching up with friends. I've missed sarsar terribly since she moved away from the city almost a month ago, but we managed a nice long phone chat over the weekend. Glad to hear you're settling back into the hometown life, sarsar!

• Long weekends. We're currently enjoying such an occasion here in Canada, thanks to Queen Victoria's birthday -- living under the thumb of the monarchy has its benefits. ;)

• On a related note, daytime TV. Since I usually work afternoons, I haven't caught The Bold and the Beautiful in weeks. Nothing comes between me and my trashy soap today, baby!
  

• A new source for celebrity voyeurism. Eeternal thanks to my friend Darin for introducing me to Pink is the New Blog!

• My new digital camera: instant art. I liked the way the light was hitting my glass o' heart tonic:

• Well-fitting jeans. Just finished sewing a button onto a pair snowbawl gave me. Wearing them for the first time and they fit like a dream. A bit loose, even, which has the added benefit of making me feeling even svelter.

• On a related note, re-discovering old clothes. I have a box in my closet overflowing with clothes that need buttons replaced or other miscellaneous repair. Many have been sitting there for months. I fixed four or five pieces this weekend and it had been so long since I had worn the items in question, it was like getting a whole new wardrobe.

• A sweet-smelling house. Lately, when I'm home, I've taken to simmering a pot of yummy-smelling goodness on the stove. Some water, a little lemon juice, a handful of apple slices, a few cinnamon sticks, some pumpkin pie spice and voila! Heat on low and savour the olfactory delight.

• Finding the perfect gift for someone

• Window seats. Mine is just the right size for one person and a laptop/glass of wine/phone/book:

• Plug-and-play TV games. Eric and I share joint custody of this ingenious, addictive invention:

• Blogging: my voice, my vice, my crack.
  

• hair dyeing
  
• leisurely blogging
  
• watching The Bold and the Beautiful and a veritable smorgasbord of daytime TV for the first time in weeks
• savouring a glass of red wine on the balcony
  
• enjoying a hard-core fat-burning, heart-thumping, shin-splinting, leg-sculpting, sweat-drenching rollerblade or run
• cleaning up my pigsty of a room
  
• playing plug-and-play TV arcade games
• whipping up a yummy taco supper to share with Eric upon his arrival from New Hampshire this evening
• if we're lucky, front porch fireworks -- last year's suburban light show was perfectly placed for our viewing pleasure
  
• cuddle time!
• and horrors, I almost forgot -- no day would be complete without savouring the latest installment of Pink is the New Blog!

• perfectionistic
• dislikes change
• highly observant
• "{ISTJs} are acutely aware of their senses, and want to be in surroundings which fit their need for structure, order, and beauty"
• "Under stress, ISTJs may fall into 'catastrophe mode', where they see nothing but all of the possibilities of what could go wrong. They will berate themselves for things which they should have done differently, or duties which they failed to perform. They will lose their ability to see things calmly and reasonably, and will depress themselves with their visions of doom." (Incidentally, I laughed on seeing Winnie the Pooh's Eeyore cited as a famous ISTJ -- I am so Eeyore)
• "ISTJs almost always maintain an interest in solo/group outdoor activities" (that's me -- not a professional outdoorswoman by any stretch, but caged-animal-crazed and craving a run when stuck indoors on sunny days)
• "ISTJs have tremendous respect for facts. They hold a tremendous store of facts within themselves" (don't know that I respect facts so much, but I do have an abundance of trivial knowledge)

• "The ISTJ has little use for theory or abstract thinking and enjoys being in positions of authority"
• natural leaders
• "ISTJs seem to fit extremely well into the Management and Executive layer of the corporate business world" (!?)
• Able to tolerate conflict situations without emotional upheaval (in fact, I'm exactly the opposite)
• Ideal careers for the ISTJ: business executives, administrators and managers, accountants and financial officers, police and detectives, judges, lawyers, medical doctors, dentists, computer programmers, systems analysts, computer specialists, military leaders (Who are they talking about again? I'm sure my computer programmer friends are laughing at the mere idea of me as a systems analyst)
  

Returned last night from a couple of days in Toronto. Gigglydragon, Feisty, waves and I made the trek to TO for our friend Davey's wedding. This is what I wrote in my notebook on the train trip down:

"Sitting on a train with gigglydragon. We're en route to Toronto and she's currently seeing imaginary yellow birds. Overslept and had to cab my way to the train station. Thanks to my foresight in setting up the coffeemaker last night, at least I was able to manage coffee and a cereal bar on the run.

"We're over two hours into our four-and-a-half-hour trip and I've almost exhausted every entertainment possibility, from the word search in the on-board magazine to watching videos on my digital camera to sorting out the tangle of essentials in my hastily packed bag. Desperate times call for desperate measures -- I think we may have to resort to Hangman. Oh, God -- giggly's just launched into I Spy."

To help pass the time, I decided to interview giggly, who, incidentally, was travelling by train for the very first time. Here's the result:

Aubree: If you were a fast-food meal, what would you be, and why?

Gigglydragon: I would be a Wendy's grilled chicken sandwich with a caesar salad and iced tea, no ice. Why? Because I wouldn't want to cause anyone a heart attack. I would want to be the best fast-food meal I could be. Oh, and for the burger the bun is optional.

Aubree: What are your impressions of your train travel de-flowering?

Giggly: I am enjoying all the stopped cars. I am feeling I should wave. And there's so much more space than [on] a cramped, junky old plane.

Aubree: What would you be doing if you were at work right now?

Giggly: I wouldn't be at work right now, but even if I was, I couldn't tell you what I was doing because it's classified. Except blogging. I would probably be blogging.

Aubree: If you ever got a tattoo, what would it be and where would you get it?

Giggly: It would be of myself, gigglydragon, and it would be on my left butt cheek.

Aubree: Was it difficult growing up with a name like gigglydragon? Did the other children laugh at you?

Giggly: Well, I have three heads. What do you think?

Aubree: One last question. If you took up a new hobby, assuming money and time are no object, what would it be?

Giggly: I would take up the hobby of travelling the world. But only to English-speaking places that have foods I recognize and understand.

Aubree: By train?

Giggly: Well, I'd have to travel by airplane because, you know, trains don't really go across water. Otherwise I couldn't get off this continent.

Thanks for humouring me, giggly!

What made this weekend's wedding especially unique was the absence of a bride -- it was the first same-sex wedding I've ever attended. Davey and I have been friends since our band days back in high school and he's been involved with a terrific man named Chris for the last two years. Their wedding was a wonderful affair that left no doubt in the minds of those present that Davey and Chris have found their perfect partners in each other.

The wedding location was the Banting House Inn, a Victorian bed and breakfast in downtown Toronto; the ceremony itself was held in the Inn's beautiful gardens. Here's a photo of the handsome grooms -- Chris on the left, Davey on the right -- walking up to the officiant as the ceremony began:

Before training back to Ottawa last night, giggly and I did some shopping with happyinpink. Highlights included grape slush bubble tea (love it!) and finally experiencing the retail legend that is H&M (cheap and Swedish -- the clothing-store equivalent of Ikea). Couldn't justify buying anything but coveted extensively.

With that, our adventures in Toronto drew to a close -- giggly and I hopped a train-station-bound subway and were on our way. No train-ride interview this time -- passed the hours with sleep and an issue of Us Weekly. Two notes on trains -- they're cold and the bathrooms reek. Would it kill them to buy a Glade Plug-In?

Back in Hometown for Christmas and it's looking like a green one -- almost 10 p.m. Christmas Eve and it's positively balmy here in southwest Nova Scotia. Balmy in comparison to Ottawa, anyway -- earlier this aft I went running with only a t-shirt and capri pants separating me from the elements. In December! It reminds me of visiting Missouri in November and enjoying temperatures not seen in Ottawa since September. 

I think I could be on to something here. Here's a little on-the-house sloganeering for you tourism types --"Nova Scotia: Canada's Missouri."

Now that's what I call marketing!

A few interesting sights, sounds and tastes I've encountered in these last few Hometown days:

- Santa on a motorbike

- A pickup truck with "My other ride is your girlfriend!" emblazoned on the tailgate

- Coyotes answering each other in the night

- Ostrich pie (dead serious - tastes like ground beef)

And the word of the day is....

Jaunty!

Turning a festive scarf into a belt earlier today, I fashioned the ends into a bow that immediately struck me as "jaunty." What a fun little word!

Jaunty bow!

On my birthday I painted a teapot. Today I picked it up, fresh from the ceramics-shop kiln:

Jaunty t-pot!

Sitting on the floor in my room amidst a jumble of cats and knicknacks, listening to the Dixie Chicks' new album and taking a break from packing for a visit to the honey. And speaking of the Chicks...

We (that would be me and cricker81) got kick-arse tickets to their Ottawa show!

I'm a relatively new recruit to Chicks fandom, having never really listened to them until this past year -- not a fan of country music and having heard they subscribed to the genre, I mentally lumped them in with Shania and Reba and settled deeper into my precious alterna-rock rut (not knocking it -- it's a damn fine rut). But after finally giving a listen to a carefully crafted Chicktacular mix a friend had given me at least two years before, I realized they so weren't Diamond Rio in a dress. I was hooked, lined and sinkered, sucked in by that sparkling mandolin, those firestarting lyrics, those pure, aching country-pop pipes. And that's not even taking into account my huge girl-crush on Natalie Maines:

Nobody sings hurtin' like Ms. Maines, and I just find her plain delicious. As Homer Simpson once said, in a context that totally escapes me:

"I'm not gay, but I can learn."

It's pretty sad that in the four months between posting about buying my ticket and actually seeing the Dixie Chicks in concert here in Ottawa last night, I've only posted once. I was thinking earlier today about procrastination and a saying I've always found particularly horrid: "The road to hell is paved with good intentions." That's supposed to inspire a person to action?

But back to the concert -- which, in a hyphenated word, was mind-blowing. I think I quite possibly died and went to countrypop heaven. Witnesses may even claim I cried a little, though I maintain I just got twitchy with excitement and sloshed Smirnoff Ice in my eye. If it's possible, my crush on Natalie Maines has become more deeply entrenched...those hurtin' pipes just slice right through me, not to mention that she's just so freakin' cute. And who but the Dixie Chicks can make the banjo sexy? Still get spine-tingles thinking back to last night...can't wait to check out the Chicks' new documentary.

Oh, and I should put in a plug for their opening act, the Damwells..."trippy" is the word that keeps coming to mind when I try to put a verbal finger on their sound. Whatever the flavour, it made for pleasing pre-Chicks ear candy.

Much change has been afoot for yours truly these last several months. Those I know only through Mindsay haven't been scooped on the biggest development...that being my imminent absorption by America through marriage! Barring intervention by the immigration gods, Eric and I will be married in New Hampshire on June 9th/07. It's a simultaneously thrilling and daunting prospect...what's a diehard Canadian to do in the land of Bush, Imperial measurements, indisputably incorrect non-British spellings and the Krispy Kreme hamburger?  It will be a fascinating journey to be sure, and I don't think I've quite grasped how major a change it will be.

Clocks go back tonight...huzzah for more weekend!

Happy Halloween! This day always brings to mind memories of cheap plastic costumes printed with the likenesses of popular 80s TV characters, complete with matching, flimsy masks secured by rubber bands -- I can still recall exactly how they smelled. Since my mother isn't the craftiest woman I always went to school on Halloween in one of the abovementioned mass-produced sack costumes, envying the kids in the elaborate hand-stitched wonders who always won "best costume."

Sadly, I have to work this evening so I won't be plying the neighbourhood children with sugary treats. I will, however, keep things festive by tending the gym in my trusty bumblebee ensemble. I'm also trying to think of some sort of healthy substitute for candy to have on hand for members as a Halloween treat.

This Halloween, may you not receive a single taffy kiss -- which, as my crazy roommate noted after a glass of wine or two, are "nothing but chew."

I heard a really neat story on the radio the other day about some Winnipeg football fans who call themselves "Section S Catering" due to the fact that, well, they sit in Section S at the local stadium and bring vast amounts of food to share with everyone around them. Why? Just because they have fun doing it. Apparently their chili, spaghetti and hot dogs go over especially well. Can you imagine if the stranger sitting in front of you turned around and handed you a bowl of goulash? What a great little icebreaker!

What better way to spend an evening than laptopping by the glow of the Christmas tree lights while watching trashy celebrity news, eating jujubes, kittycat cuddling and warming one's feet by the fire? It's that kind of nasty rain-soaked night that leaves your bones cold long after you've come inside. I woke up with a headache that Tylenol hasn't quite slain -- though it's taken the edge off, I can still feel the pain lurking on the sidelines, plotting its return. It occurred to me that it's probably the lingering effects of the wine I drank last night -- which is pretty sad, since I only had a couple small glasses.

On Wednesday nights my roommate and I have our "date night," which consists of having dinner and watching America's Next Top Model. We take turns cooking and buying wine with the rules that we have to try a new recipe every week and must give the non-cook the opportunity to veto the choice in case it's something they really hate (so far not a problem, since neither of us have met many foods we don't like). cricker81 outdid herself last night with Pork Tenderloin With Onion-Balsamic Sauce and light scalloped potatoes. Yum!

Working a split shift tomorrow with YMCA volunteering in between -- which means 14 hours divvied up between 3 gyms. Huzzah! With all that gym-time on my hands I better damn well get a good workout in -- I tried this afternoon, but my aching head and general wine-related weakness made it a write-off. Between a half-hearted half hour on the elliptical, a few lazy crunches and the feeling that one more push-up might result in total organ failure, I've had better days on the fitness front. C'est la vie!

Sept 5^th

Even when I am depressed, or maybe especially when I am depressed, I can eat my weight in breakfast. I had the Spacetown Breakfast at the Derry Diner, and the waitress applauded me for finishing everything, right down to the enormous waffle that she said is most people’s undoing. I grinned shyly, acknowledging her praise, and felt actual pride. I am 30 going on 6.

Between being unable to find any decent clothes due to the move and the apathy with which I awoke, I am dressed like a tragic soccer mom. My hair is scraggled back in an elastic. These are the most attractive years of my life, and this is all I have to offer.

This morning I woke up afraid. My dehydration headache was a reminder of last night’s cryfest. I told Eric that he shouldn’t have to babysit me, but he worked from home to keep me company because I was afraid to be alone and sad. Usually, I am just afraid to be alone in a house with crappy locks. Today, I didn’t really care if anyone broke in.

I don’t think Eric got much work done. We went to Home Depot for screws, and I picked out some tulip bulbs that caught my eye, while simultaneously telling myself that I would never be organized enough to get them planted.

At suppertime I almost cried when I couldn’t find cayenne pepper and a baking pan for hot wings. I ended up using a turkey roaster placed in an oven full of ashes I didn’t have the strength of body or mind to remove following the self-cleaning we had done earlier in the day. The oven wouldn’t work. We had takeout. I ordered some cabinet knobs online that made me happy until the happiness was drowned by the knowledge that I’d never get the house together and didn’t deserve nice things anyway.

Today I took my first walk around the neighborhood (it started as a run, but quickly degraded). I tried to focus on foliage and houses but mostly thought about all the things in life I can’t keep up with. I showered and shaved my legs and armpits with a razor too dull to cut butter.

I am sad because I am invisible.

I am convinced that life is a constant series of disappointments.

I am sad because I feel like the friends I had have forgotten me.

I am sad because I am scared of everything.

I am sad because the entryway smells like pee.

I am sad because I cannot seem to get past sad.

I am sad because everything is an obstacle, and I cannot see it any other way.

I am sad because I once thought I would run with the poets. Now, I run with the bottle of all-purpose cleaner and still manage to live in a dump of my own creation.

I cannot call myself a writer, because writers write, and I do not. I clean and stew.

I am bitter because people with full-time jobs manage to keep shiny, clean-scrubbed houses, and I clean obsessively with nothing to show for it.

I feel guilty because I have no 9-5 job to go to, yet still can’t find time to do anything and completely throw away the opportunity I’m given.

I am angry that there is not enough time for anything, let alone slowing down and enjoying it.

I am convinced that others see me as nothing more than a housewife sponging off of Eric, and fear that this is true.

I walk with the constant pain of so much wasted potential, and the conviction that life and time have passed me by.

I am crushed by the knowledge that nothing ever changes.

I am drowning in the past, and see nothing of pleasure or success in the future.

I am isolated, with no one reaching in and no me reaching out, falling in on myself. I know that I need to spend more time out in the world, but every fiber fears and resists.

I am angry that I try so hard and have been doing it all wrong, all along. I have learned nothing.

I want but fear children, both for the demands they will impose on my already beyond-control life and the things I will impose on them.

I am sad that I cannot get in a car and drive without being paralyzed by the conviction of an intrinsic lack of skill and fear of hurting someone else or myself.

I am sad because my way always seems to be the wrong way.

I am angry for staying quiet while others put me down, then turning around and giving myself the same treatment.

I did not like Sylvia Plath's journals, particularly her description of the pleasures of picking her nose, but one thing stayed with me -- her description of how she couldn't find the strength or motivation to wash her hair, paralyzed by the prospect of having to do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, wondering what's the point of ever doing it at all.