Happy Yesterday Was My Birthday And Today You Have A Lung Infection To Me

Chocolate on chocolate with chocolate whipped cream filling.  Makes the biaxin and cotridin easier to take.

Does This Banana Make Me Look Profound?

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on October 14, 2009.)

There have been two certain, absolute truths that I have learned as an adult:

1. There is no polite way for a lady to eat a banana. Or a Popsicle.
2. People will come and go from your life. Keep the dearest and beloved ones, divorce the spirit killers and time murderers, and always remember the lesson, even if it is “I will never do THAT again.”

The banana has officially joined ranks with the carrot and the cucumber to form the triple crown of sexualized produce. The Popsicle really needs no explanation. I know you and I know you have a vivid, phallic filled imagination. Please play safe and don’t forget to use your tongue… to catch the drips.

And now for an attempt at profundity…

I believe we are all on a path (you can call it fate or your destiny or your karma or your life plan, whatever flips your pancakes) and that every once in a while, people cross that path to teach you something about you and the world you live in. Some of those people stay in your life but I have learned that most will go and only a few are actually the sort of people you would want to keep around.

How do you know if a person is worth keeping around? Chew on this: You wake up in a hotel room in Las Vegas with a dead hooker lying beside you. You are completely unaware of how you got to Las Vegas and how this person ended up in bed, dead, with you. Who do you call? And off that list of people, who would come to your aid with garbage bags, shovels, a road map to nowhere, and absolutely no questions? That tiny list of people is the people in your life that are worth keeping around. I am lucky enough to have a couple of people like that in my life. And I have some garbage bags… just in case!

Spirit killers and time murderers have got go. This is not negotiable and who gives a rat’s ass what the return policy may be. When these types reveal who they really are to you, pay attention to what you are being told and shown. If they look like, behave like, and exist like a drug addicted emotional train wreck, chances are that is exactly what they are. If you feel like you are being lied to or that the story you are being told seems a bit “off”, summon the courage to ask the questions that are written on your heart… and don’t take bullshit for an answer. Pay attention to your intuition, it will never fail you. Learn the lesson that is being served up to you, and then divorce these fungi immediately. They will only suck the life, energy, goodness (and in my own experience, money) out of you and do everything they can to make you feel bad about yourself. They are like trash on Tuesdays… kick that shit to the curb. I know that there is a natural inclination to be nice and have compassion because that is what we were taught as kids. However, just because someone graciously serves up a plate of horse shit to you does not mean you are required to eat it. Any time any person makes you feel less than who you are, and especially when they do it to make themselves feel better, you gotta cut that shit out of your life like its cancer. Your worth should never suffer or be reduce by some loser’s egomaniac bullshit drama. Never.

Then there is the people who fall in between these two groups. The drifters. They drift in and out of your life or their stay in your world is short lived. Sometimes they are friends, sometimes they are lovers, sometimes they are just the person standing in front of you in line at the ATM machine. Cherish the time they spend with you and when they are gone, remember the lessons and joy they brought to your world. Try to understand that as much as you may want to have that person in your life forever, as much as you may want to spend the rest of your days loving that person, your path is unfolding as it should, everything happens for a reason, and you will have to let go. It sucks ass that they are no longer in your world but over the course of time you will come to discover that there is a blessing in having known them at all.

Sooooo, Kells and Sausage… you’ll always be in my soul. Your garbage bags are my garbage bags.

To The Zoo Crew, Ozzie, and Phil… you can respectfully suck a bag of dicks. May you all be forced to listen and watch Susan Boyle for eternity. Sober. And may you have to burn off every ounce of bad karma you ever generated as a mosquito.

To Captain Celery, Happy Belated Birthday and may the sun always shine on your lovely face.

I'm still here
But it hasn't been easy
I'm sure that you had your reasons
I'm scared for this emotion
For years I've been holding it down
And I
Love to forgive and forget
So I
Try to put all this behind us
Just
Know that my arms are wide open
The older I get, the more that I know.

From "This Boy" by James Morrison (James Morrison, Tim Kellet)

Puffy Pancakes And Balsamic Strawberries

I love these two recipes mostly because they are so easy to make on a lazy weekend and so much yummy on a plate I can hardly stand it.  These recipes are kiddie sous chef friendly and great for a weekend brunch.

BALSAMIC STRAWBERRIES

Makes about five 1/3 cup portions.

Ingredients:

1 tsp. margarine

2 c. fresh strawberries, hulled and cut into bite sized pieces

1/4 c. granular Splenda

1 tbsp. balsamic vinegar

Method:
-melt margarine in a pot over medium heat

-add the strawberries, Splenda, and vinegar

-cook on medium heat until strawberries start turning dark in colour and a syrup starts to form

-reduce to low heat, stirring often

-serve warm over pancakes

Nutritional information (click to view full size):

Note: This recipe is also great over ice cream, waffles, and frozen yogurt.

PUFFY PANCAKES TOPPED WITH BALSAMIC STRAWBERRIES

Makes about 12 pancakes.

Ingredients:

1 1/2 c. all purpose flour

1/2 c. sugar

2 teaspoons baking powder

2 teaspoons baking soda

1 large egg

1 tbsp. vanilla

1 tbsp. canola oil

1 c. low fat milk (I've also used soy milk and lactose free milk)

3 tbsp. canola oil

Method:
-in a bowl, mix all the dry ingredients together

-in a separate bowl mix egg, vanilla, one tablespoon of oil and milk

-form a well in the dry ingredients and add wet ingredients

-stir until mixture is almost smooth (lumps and bumps are desired)

-add  three tablespoons canola oil to a pan and warm over medium heat

-using a soup spoon, carefully ladle pancake mixture into pan leaving a lot of space between the pancakes as the mixture will spread slightly
-cook until edges start to brown
-flip pancake and continue cooking on other side for about a minute or until pancake reaches desired doneness
-place finished pancake on plate and top with balsamic strawberries

Nutritional information (click to view full size):

Note: You can also finish this off with a dollop of whipped cream or spread mascarpone cheese on the pancake before topping with the balsamic strawberries.

The Weekly Whaaaaa

For those of you on a budget...

Don't Digg Too Deep For Pigs In A Glass

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on August 27, 2009.)

As I was putting together what should have been my Thursday blog (which I will post on another day), I was "Diggging" for inspiration. Digg.com is a great site to go to if you want to kill some time and learn some stuff. What did I learn tonight? Emeril Lagasse was right. Pork fat does in fact rule. So much so, its now making sexy with potatoes and becoming bacon flavoured vodka.

For really? Yes, for really really. You think I'm fucking with you, right? Wrong. I'm not creative enough to make this shit up.

If you are feeling extra special and creative, let me know how the swine flu shot works for you:

Even if this story is total bullshit, you know some frat house somewhere has already divided up the duties and is using the recipe at the end of the article to ferment the home brew right now. Nay you say? Impossible? You think I'm exaggerating? Hell no. I went to university and I know how it goes. Those intellectual wind tunnels will ferment anything if they think they will be able to get drunk off it in a couple weeks.

Now, I have idiopathic pancreatitis and this means I can't drink. Before my stone filled gall bladder was removed from my body (through my belly button... true story kids), it got together with my liver and my pancreas, had a conference call with my oddi, vetoed the kidneys, and, as a committee, decided I can no longer enjoy alcohol. Actually, I could probably enjoy it in a way that would be just about as close to an orgasm as a person can get without actually humping. I haven't had an NC-17 beverage for over five years and I could cut a bitch for a glass of wine. Only problem with that is this: if you are ordering me a drink, please order me an ambulance too as before mentioned organs will likely convene, collectively go on strike, and fail to process the (say it all whispery and evil for dramatic effect) demon poison, alcohol. And then I would get dead. Considering I've worked so hard to get to The Land of Remission, I don't think I will be trying this pig in a glass.

Personally, I've never really been a fan of pork. If you saw what pigs eat, you wouldn't be either. You can spare me the "I have a great recipe for it" nonsense too. Just shut it and save it because I don't care how you cook it or how you serve it. When you put a pig in a dress, it is still just a pig in a dress. The only fortunate part of having pancreatitis is that I can say "Sorry, no pork for me. My pancreas no longer produces the enzymes required to digest it" and it would totally be true. If worse came to worse, I could make the claim that I am trying to connect with my Jewish heritage and pork is not kosher. I could further claim that if I do consume pork, the kosher police will unleash Madonna who will restrain me with some red bracelet string and then proceed to beat me with her Zohar until I vomit. I don't know about you, but her man arms scare the shit out of me. I bet the pig would be shitting too. And eating it. Which is why I don't eat pork.

But I'm curious. So curious. The kind of curious that wants to road trip it to Seattle, buy a bottle of this sow juice, unleash it on frat boys and see what happens next. I'm so curious about this crap that I have actually pondered the advantages of serving it as a hang over remedy at greasy spoons or where ever said frat boys go to get their stomachs lined with grease before they go home and pass out (I know you know what I'm talking about... there is nothing like greasy fried eggs, toast, and hash browns after drinking all night).

Alas, I have to work tomorrow (and I have plans for the weekend) but if this bacon vodka is still on the market come spring break, I'm chasing me some Seattle frat boys to Mexico with a bottle of this in my cougar kit. Screw tequila, I got bacon boys!

Peas!

First Clippings

The first clipping of herbs is the most exciting time of the gardening season for me.  First up this year is tarragon and Italian parsley...

What does a girl do when things are this fabulous?

She makes the most perfect gourmet scrambled eggs ever!

Makes one serving.

For this recipe, you will need to use a non-stick frying pan and a rubber or silicon spatula.

Ingredients:

cooking spray (I prefer Pam's extra virgin olive oil spray)

2 eggs

1/4 c fresh parsley, chopped

2 tsp. fresh tarragon, chopped

salt and pepper to taste

Method:

-chop herbs and set aside near the stove

-turn stove on to medium heat, spray the pan with cooking spray and put on stove

-all the the pan to heat up but do not let it start smoking

-in a bowl, whisk eggs

-slowly pour eggs into preheated pan

-swirl eggs to coat the bottom of the pan

-turn off the stove, yes turn it off because you will be using the residual heat from the element to complete the cooking process

-sprinkle herbs over eggs as well as salt and pepper

-using the spatula, scramble the eggs taking care to gently work the herbs into the eggs until they reach desired doneness

Note: you can also add a teaspoon of sour cream and a teaspoon of salsa to give the eggs a Tex Mex flavour

Nutritional information, which does not include the sour cream or salsa (click to view full size):

Thank You Berry Much

I have a Saskatoon berry bush taking over growing in my back yard.  The berries are almost ready to pick and I can't wait...

In the meantime, I will continue to negotiate my way through what can only be described as a Costco sized Ziploc freezer bag full of frozen berries because I do like berries with my oats.  Oats without berries is, well, just naked oats a la blah.

OATS WITH BERRIES AND CREAM

Makes one serving.

Ingredients:

1/2 c. uncooked oats (I prefer Quaker)

1 tsp. Splenda brown sugar

1/4 berries of your choice

2 tsp. cream or milk

Method:

-prepare the oats as per manufacturer's directions

-when oats are done, add brown sugar to mix and spoon into bowl

-top with berries and cream

Nutritional information (click to view full size):

The Weekly Whaaaaa

Be patient.  The good stuff comes about 30 seconds in.

See more funny videos and funny pictures at CollegeHumor.

I Shaved My Legs For This

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on September 20, 2009.)

And I also paid an arm and a leg. Which I am pretty sure is exactly what Ashley The Trainer plans on removing from my body should I slack off on the training plan she is developing for me. Now, Ashley is a lovely girl, but Ashley doesn’t have a horrendous ohmyfeckinggawd amount of weight to lose. Its bad. Very bad. The "how the hell did it get to be like that" bad.

Bit of a back story. Last Monday there was a family barbeque at my place while my grandfather and his wife, the step granmonster, were in town. At the end of the night, after a rather scathing yet philosophical discussion on the girth of some family members (as well as their various states of mental psychosis and need for medication), my cousin Mike, his girlfriend Annie and I decided enough was enough and it was time to hit the gym. No more excuses, just be in it to win it. We joined the gym on Wednesday and after today, I’m fairly certain I’ve joined a cult.

Dateline Wednesday:

First, there was Nathan. Oh nicely done gym that rhymes with furled wealth tub… send the kid that looks like Michael Buble (I certainly would), blushes easily, laughs at all my jokes, and has dimples to obligate me to this workout business while separating me from my hard earned cash. Smoother than the Scientologists…

Then there was Andy with his adaptation phase, his hyper phase and the other phase (which is currently being remembered as the triage phase), and his “really hardcore energy” that made me pray to the gawd of all gym rats that this pint-sized torpedo didn’t end up a] having an aneurysm at my feet and b] didn’t end up as my trainer. Think of Tommy Girl jumping on the Mighty Opes’ sofa but in a blue vest, black t-shirt, with a binder full of sales pitches in his hands… or one of those jay-dub door knocking types with the “good word”, hopped up on heroin… Ya, it was like that.

Finally, I was handed over to Ashley The Trainer who also happens to be Nathan’s girlfriend. Do you see how this is all coming full circle? It was all getting a bit incestuous for me and I was fairly certain that now that they had my money and a new “home” for me, the plans for my “really hardcore” indoctrination were about to be rolled out. Lucky me, they had mercy. There wouldn’t be any purple robes or signs brought in telling me about the benefits of silence and aliens. No. I could wait until Friday for that... and my first session with Ashley The Trainer. Great, a whole day and a half to marinate in my fate. Totally sucked a bag of dicks. And it was the perfect excuse to go to Capital Pizza for the French onion soup and vegetarian lasagna. We all agreed, it was like the Last Supper, but with membership fees and fitter disciples.

Dateline Thursday:

OMFG what have I got myself into? And how good is this left over lasagna???? I’m fucked, I just know it.

Dateline Friday:

Now, I’ve been asked to do some crazy things in my life and I have actually complied on most occasions because I am a bit whackjob crazy and cos, hey, that’s how I roll, yo. But how would you respond if a complete stranger, dressed in spandex pants asked you to take off your right shoe, your right sock, and lay down on the table? You would probably tell the weirdo to eff off and book it in the other direction. Me, not so much. Not only did I stay and follow orders, I told Ashley The Trainer I was ripping her line off and at some point would be using it to my advantage. She weighed me, measured me, laughed at my jokes and then gave me the bad news in pounds. I knew it was going to be ugly but Fuuuuuuuck. It’s another person. Kinda. It’s a child for sure. Daaaaaamn! It was getting late, I was depressed as fuck, and we parted ways for the night with a promise that I would be back on Sunday.

Dateline Saturday:

Got crazy? Oh I do. Not only was I not obligated to be at the gym, I wanted to go. Couldn’t wait to get there. For serious. For really really serious. Treadmill? 25 minutes. Bike? 25 minutes. Knees? Cleverly disguised as jello. Me? Batshit crazy for this stuff. Couldn’t wait to go back on Sunday and I don’t mean that facetiously either. I was trashed but felt good. This is how they get you, isn’t it… they lull you into a false sense of security, let you know the worst is over and that the rest is gonna be great? Oh and that guaranteed weight loss thing they swing in front of you like the golden carrot, can’t forget that. I’m telling you, it’s not a gym, it’s a temple for the toned. I swear. And I’m up in this mutha.

Dateline Sunday:

Don’t ask me what I did, don’t ask me what machines I used because it went by fast and I seriously can’t remember. I walked to the gym and was a bit early so I started on the treadmill. After that, Ashley The Trainer chased me around. And around. And made me do push-ups. Which I suck ass at, along with lunges and squats which I suck harder at. I know she’s trying to kill me, I called her on it too. Her response was a smile and “Fifteen more please”. Sickness, I tell you, sickness. You want to know the sickest part of all? The real kick in the crotch? I thanked Ashley The Trainer for it. Thanked. Her.

Out of the last five days, I have been in that building four times. Four. Christ on a crutch, my conversion has begun and I plan to be there tomorrow too.

So there you have it. At the end of the day, I did shave my legs for this. But being a woman of a particular age, it will likely be Friday before I have to shave again.

Which is EXACTLY when my next ass-kicking from Ashley The Trainer is scheduled.

Pollo Chilindron Or The Thing About Having Webbed Feet

The weather has been rainy and meh lately.

My back yard now has water feature cleverly disguised as a rain collection barrel.

Should you feel the need for a rice paddy, the entrance to my deck is currently accepting applications.  The side walk and lawn were conveniently located between the deck and back door.  Now currently submerged, they are looking to diversify and monetize.

It has been so rainy and meh that I'm thinking about having a grey officially removed from the colour palate but Mother Nature has me on ignore and I don't know who to complain to.  My feet are webbing and its making footwear choices increasingly difficult.  This morning I suggested to co-workers that we get all Noah about this shit and start building an ark.  That became the joke of the day at the office.  And while I don't necessarily believe in You Know Who That Allegedly Reigns The Heavens And Has A Personal Valet Named St. Peter anymore, that confederacy of simpletons I work with should give my brilliant idea some thought.

Just in case You Know Who is trying to send us a message.

I need sun.  I miss that fiery ball in the sky.

I need heat.

And not the kind of heat that douchetard men give off.  You know, those ones you had a brief "thing" with (not a hook-up, not a fling, more of a connection of sorts... super intense but without the chicka chicka bow wow), who completely forgot you but then suddenly remember you (you see the light bulb go off over their head, even if it is only 25 watts) and decide you should be flattered by their invitation to sleep in the second bed in their two bed hotel room.  Ya, not that heat.  And what the hell happened to the coffee date?  Did it go extinct and only my spam filter got the email?  I mean, really, was I supposed to be flattered by "You should stay in my hotel room with me.  I have a spare bed and you'll be closer to work in the morning"???? 

Yes, for really.  I'm not creative enough to make that shit up.  Absolutely not that kind of heat.

I need heat.  The Spanish just won the World Cup in soccer.  That's hot.  Ohhhhhlllllaaaaaa Iker. 

The Spanish are passionate, spicy people. Robust. Full of life.  Hot.

Once upon a time when I used to work in long term care with a group of loco ladies, they would bring Pollo Chilindron to work when the weather was shite.  Pollo Chilindron seemed like a perfect recipe to try since I had chicken and tomatoes, and peppers that were an hour away from being compost. However, the recipe I had was less than perfect. I did not realize this until I was in the final simmering stage. It was boring and not at all Spanish. The chicken had no fire, no passion. It was like Salma Hayak, but without the heaving, voluptuous breasts and her ability to climb humans when there are snakes nearby. It was like Charo sans “cuchi cuchi”. It was Enrique Iglesias without the, well, everything.


Everything added after the two hour mark is all me, but with much respect to the loco ladies and Enrique.  Mmmmm I do likes me some Enrique!


POLLO CHILINDRON

Makes seven one cup portions.

Ingredients:

Usually this recipe is made with chicken legs, thighs, and drumsticks but I was too lazy to walk to the store on a tight schedule and had chicken breasts available at home.


4 chicken breasts (about 300 - 400 g)
2 - 3 tbsp. olive oil
1 onion, diced
2 red pepper, diced
1 green pepper, diced
8 kalamata olives, pitted and diced
2 slices prosciutto, diced
3 cloves garlic, minced
2/3 c. white wine
1 tbsp. fresh tarragon
1 - 28 oz can stewed tomatoes
1 tsp. chili powder
1 tsp. cumin
4 bay whole leaves
salt and pepper, to season
1 can tomato paste
1 baguette

Method:
-season the chicken with salt and pepper
-heat the oil in a large pot (preferably a dutch oven) over medium heat
-add the pieces carefully and cook until both sides are browned
-remove the chicken from the pot and set aside
-add the onions and peppers to the pot
-lightly salt the vegetables to draw the moisture out of the vegetables and to prevent them from scorching
-saute the vegetables until the peppers are wilted and the onions are translucent
-add the ham, garlic, and olives and saute for another 2 minutes
-pour in the wine and simmer to reduce the liquid by at least half
-while the mixture is reducing, cut the chicken into bit sized pieces
-stir in the tomatoes and tarragon
-return the chicken pieces to the pot, reduce heat to low and simmer covered for 2 hours, stirring occasionally (about every 15 minutes)
-add water if the mixture becomes too dry
 
 

 
 
-after two hours add the chili powder, cumin, salt, and pepper
-gently stir in 4 bay leaves
-simmer for another 30 minutes and then add tomato paste
-simmer for an additional 30 minutes to 1 hour
-remove bay leaves serve with crusty bread (can also be served over rice or pasta)

Nutritional information (click to view full size):

Inspired by a recipe found on whats4eats.com and those loco latinas I used to work with.

Why I Will Never Be A Trend Setter

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on August 08, 2009.)

Black Milk ‘Gold Cages’ leggings for designer James Lillis. Discuss.


(Picture borrowed for your viewing pleasure from trendhunter.com)

Beware Of Garbage Trucks

Many people are like garbage trucks. They run around full of garbage, full of frustration, full of anger, and full of disappointment. As their garbage piles up, they look for a place to dump it. And if you let them, they’ll dump it on you.

So when someone wants to dump on you, don’t take it personally. Just smile, wave, wish them well, and move on. Believe me. You’ll be happier.

-- David J. Pollay, The Law Of The Garbage Truck

Look What I Made

So last year's garden taught me that I'm not at all able to grow tomatoes or green peppers.  Marigolds , bleeding hearts, lavender, and pansies seem to be my thing.  I couldn't find any pansies worth planting this year so I just went with the marigolds and a whole other list of things.

If you don't like plants, go on and get on with the rest of your day.  I may have gone a bit OTT with the pics.  You have kids, I have plants.  I have to suffer albums of pictures both online and in scrapbooks that are full of children who are allegedly teething (but all I see is a screaming snotting baby with swollen gums) or playing with their do-do so deal.

The class of 2010...

Nicotina

Maria Landy Fuscia

White Begonia

Salvia (noooo not THAT kind of salvia so don't be raiding my garden)

Mocca Scarlet Begonia

White Scopia Gulliver Bacopa

Yellow Marigolds

Italian Parsley

Lavender

Silver Thyme

Tarragon

Rocky Mountain Light Pink Geranium

Impatiens

Rocky Mountain Violet Geranium

And still more Impatiens.

The returning Class of 2009...

Sarah Bernhardt Peony

Bleeding Hearts

And Columbine.

I Have OCD. Kinda.

(Originally posted on my old blog "The Domestication of a Punk Rock Foodie" on August 08, 2009.)

I own it. If you really know me, it’s not news. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m not OCD’ing it in a way that has me lying on my living room on my belly at 1:00 am with a comb straightening the fringe on an area rug before I go to bed so I can sleep at night without being haunted by naughty naughty untidy rug fringe. And I’ll never be able to work for Martha Stewart but I HAVE to allow OCD to have space in my life, if for no other reason than to be neat and tidy or I get a little ratty around the edges. And distracted. Have I introduced you to my little unmedicated (it’s a word now, deal) friend ADD?

So in defense of OCD, I offer you this:

1] The OCD keeps the ADD in check, much like the older sibling who smacks the younger sibling up the back of the head and says “Calm the fuck down, shut the fuck up, and get your shit together.” Being an older sibling, I’ve never actually done this. I imagine that OCD would have more compassion for ADD than I did for my sister. Have I ever told you the story about shaking the shit out of my sister and threatening to throw her and an Electrolux canister vacuum down fourteen stairs, to be met with cold and unyielding concrete? Definitely not my finest hour. I was thirteen and she was an annoying punk ass nine year old doing the “I’m telling on you” thing. If she had just done my chores for me like I told her to, I wouldn’t have had to threaten her, now would I? Right. See how we went off course there? ADD in full effect. I suggest you brace yourself now. There are going to be some "commercial breaks."

2] I’m organized. I know where my shit is. YOU may think its neurotic to keep my shoes in the original shoe boxes they came home in but OCD and I know where to find every pair of shoes I own, every time. And the sandals that came home on those fecking weak little plastic hangers that are the inbred cousins to those useless fecking little plastic item count hangers you get when using a dressing room? The sandals are currently residing in a see-through, plastic bag with a zipper that came home with my yum yum yummy 400-thread count sheets which are now pink instead of cream (more on that another time). Recipes? On cards in recipe boxes (tried and tested) or in a poly envelope (waiting to be taken for a test drive). CD’s? All 583 are catalogued. In alphabetical order. By artist. Then by track. Come on, BRING IT!

3] OCD likes to live in a clean place and so do I. Dusting takes thirty minutes, tops. I don’t have clutter to dust and firk about with. Chotchkies do not reside at my house. Oh those fuckers don’t get through the front door. They don’t even get a free ride out of the value mart/dollar store/garage sale/spewing vortex of rubbish and over to my place. I don’t collect “knick knacks” (read that as worthless dust collecting shit that takes up space and sucks the qi (pronounced “chee”, meaning life force or spiritual energy) out of the room). And I swear to the gawd that it is Henry Rollings, if you ever EVER call even one of my twenty-four Buddhas "knick knacks" I will kick you in the crotch, strangle you with my mala beads, and gladly burn off the bad karma!

If, by some birthday or gift giving miracle, that shite ends up in my house, OCD introduces it to the recycle bin... completely by-passing the Goodwill bin, straight in the blue bag it goes! Allow OCD and I to make it easy for you now. If you are stuck for a gift idea, buy me a candle. A plain, white candle. I will be grateful, I swear. Just keep the junky shit away from me and OCD. It makes us twitchy.

4] My place is neat and tidy. You can sit anywhere you like and you can take your shoes and socks off and not leave with black, crusty feet. And while I would like to say you can eat off the floor, I remind you that ants and spiders poo wherever they want. Occasionally they show up for the party but I’m not sure what kind of company they keep, or where they’ve been or what they’ve been up to so we’ll be all growed up and use the table, okay?

See, it’s not bad to be neurotic... I mean have OCD.

Now, if you will excuse me, it’s getting late and I have to make my lunch and lay my clothes out for tomorrow.

PS: I'm so OCD, after I first posted this, I had to edit it because the "h" in "Have" was not capitalized. Beat that friend!

Have fun, be good, no killing.

The Weekly Whaaaaa

I'm in the middle of a early mid life crisis a red head now.

Oh turn off the flash silly girl...

Almost there...

And voila...

I know.  I know.

Happy Canada Day!

Old but gold... I Am Canadian



From Halifax....



And in case you forgot, you can go here (CTV won't allow embedding): http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mTCjAYKLQes&feature=channel