Asshole.

This afternoon Sherry, Andrew and I played hooky and went to a matinee of Serenity. Splendiferous goodness, and very Joss. There’s something Sherry said that would illustrate that well, but it would be a big spoiler, so I will leave it unquoted.

What was particularly entertaining to me was Andrew and Sherry. After the breakup, they had no truck with each other, as they’d say in the south. Sherry had a lot of anger, for reasons of her own and of friendship to me, and Andrew is the most non-confrontational man on the planet, and accepted that for quite a few people, he was now The Bad Guy. After a while and a carefully orchestrated meeting (heh, I am so wily), a single word was spoken to break the spell (well, it wasn’t quite that simple). And so today, when I returned from the washroom prior to the movie, for example, they were nattering away like little old ladies. Warmed the cockles of me ‘eart, it did. Everything was just like before: my presence was utterly unnecessary. šŸ™‚

Despite getting up at 5:30am, today has been very good. For many reasons.

Symbol of Canada.

I am a latecomer to the IKEA game. The first one I remember visiting was in Sydney, and I wasn’t impressed. I’ve been to the one in Burlington twice now. I am starting to get it, a bit. If I was young and getting my first apartment, it’d be awesome. As it is it’s fun for this and that, though not enough fun to develop an insane fetish like Marcela has (her house looks like a catalogue, seriously). I got a teapot (I have hated my teapot since I bought it), a paring knife, some picture frames, a shower curtain, and some shelving. I wanted the mini box/drawer storage thingies like at my chiropractor’s office, but I couldn’t find them, alas. At Fortino’s nearby I got a pizza screen, a wooden spoon, and some of their Costa Rican coffee. Ahh, consumerism.

As we were leaving IKEA and loading the car, Andrew started giggling like a little girl. He wouldn’t say why til I got back from returning the cart. Turns out he had heard part of one their promotional announcements, but missed the first part, and swore the last part was: “…or, create your own wall of beaver!” Needless to say, we were cracking up about that all the way home.

And then Dana forwarded me this. Hah!

beaver

Stupid technology.

My alarm woke me up this morning out of a really crappy dream. I was using my old cell phone, and the buttons didn’t work very well, and the screen visibility was really bad (though neither of these was a problem with the phone when I was using it). I was desperately trying to call my brother; he was on a suicide watch or something and I had to get a hold of him to make sure he was okay. But his phone number was Mike’s number (Imaginary Mike, not recent Mike). And on top of that, no matter how many times I tried to dial it, the numbers I punched in were always one off. So “574” came up “463”. And I was lucid enough to think okay, then try punching “685” so “574” will come up, but it never worked, and I could only enter “463”.

Sheesh. That sucked. I need to call my brother today, anyway. Perhaps I need to put a call in to Imaginary Mike, too. “Hey, it’s Melle. Haven’t talked to you in, what, six? eight months? Hey, just wondering – you’re not planning to kill yourself, are you?” Seems reasonable…

Not likely to be featured on Martha Stewart…

Me, stark naked, on my hands and knees, in my shower (which is not large). One bandanna over my hair, a second over my nose and mouth. The Domestic Bandito! Yellow rubber gloves. Glasses speckled with mildew cleaner, vinegar, and baking soda. Soaking wet, and liberally smeared with the aforementioned cleaning agents, plus assorted shower-resident crud. Alternating between wielding a scrub brush and a big yellow and green scouring sponge.

I am a sexy beast.

However: a) my shower is spotless – who wants to come shower with me?! and b) the “organic” experiment worked – I only used something harsh (basically ammonia mildew cleaner) on the really sentient spots before I started scrubbing, but vinegar and baking soda and elbow grease did a great job everywhere else, and I don’t feel like I’ve been poisoned like I have in the past after that little project.

My list is done!!!

And here is a picture of some of my Market fruit.

fruit basket

Assortment.

Topics about which WNET has had discussions:

  1. size of aerolae
  2. how to pronounce the name of a brand of incontinence pads
  3. loss of virginity
  4. real estate prices in Hamilton and Toronto
  5. whether more pro-choice people are men or women
  6. why our names are sending some of us straight to hell
  7. knitting patterns.

And that’s just a handful from the past little while. Heh.

Once again I have completed everything on my domestic To Do list, plus a few more, except for one: scrub shower. Don’t wanna. Must. Still don’t wanna. Do not have maid.

Hmph.

Les Autres.

Dana has embarked on a new project. She has begun transcribing the journals her mother kept, beginning when she was six, until, presumably, when she died when Dana was 18. Dana was supposed to get them when she got married. As it worked out she got them six years early. Dana’s relationship with her mother was… rough. Her mother had Great Expectations and Dana was an only child. Even at the beginning of the journals, there were undercurrents, that, knowing something of their history, made me uncomfortable. To paraphrase Dana’s husband, “Oh, that’s not going to end well…”

I don’t know what she’s hoping to find in this exercise. Answers? Peace? Reconciliation? Vindication? Her mother died before Dana was an adult and before they really had a chance to try and hash things out. She’s still angry. Really angry. It is the only area of her life that is visibly “off”. (Meaning she’s worked through some serious shit, but when she talks about this she doesn’t sound like Dana.) I am not sure it’s a good idea. Of course, it’s also none of my business, and I freely admit I don’t “get” it, and never can. My parents are awesome. And alive. And who’s to say, it may be exactly what she needs. Or maybe she’ll just keep raking her nails over the wound. On the days when I believe in God I get the pattern of things and understand why my Mom ends up trying to adopt my friends and Chad’s. šŸ™‚

In any case, it has made me think. Pondering how people grow up, and what they become, and what they, in turn, make of their children. People who would be wonderful parents and aren’t. People who should never have had kids. People who make honest mistakes. Theory. With all this child-rearing theory floating around, do these people even have any time to raise their kids? I mean, hell, it’s easy enough to screw up pets.

Which leads nice into the next set of Big Thoughts. I work at the Humane Society, so animal mortality is a fairly regularly present musing. Then Sherry’s friends’ pets start dropping like flies. And Sherry’s always mildly obsessed about JeanLuc’s health (for ongoing reasons). And then I read that Abbie the Cat post. I don’t think or worry too much on the status of the pets here. Sure, Baloo is a bulldog, and they’re among the most short-lived of breeds and prone to all manner of health problems. And sure, Crumb was technically a “senior cat” when we got him (and we don’t know exactly how old he is). I guess in the back of my head I accept that they’re not mine. And chances are that I won’t be here anymore when they die (Crumb especially). And really, I’ve lived through the death of more pets than most people. Hell, I’ve helped kill pets, which is something more people, fortunately, don’t have to do. But it leaves me wondering, as a result, of what use I am to others who lose pets. I mean, I know the process. I know what happens when animals are euthanized. Does it actually help knowing that they’re not in pain? I honestly don’t remember if knowing helped me when we took Buffy and Thumper in. It’s also been a long time since any of the animals in question were mine. Hell, have I ever had a pet that absolutely was? And until Buffy, none of our pets died of natural causes anyway. JeanLuc will die. Baloo and Crumb will die. Barney and Gordie will die. With luck, not for many years. What I will do then, how I will help, I have no idea. In the mean time, though, I do keep a mental inventory of all the black kittens at the HS.

Food.

And that is what a meal should be. Everything real and local and bought at the Farmers Market. Steaks grilled to juicy perfection; corn on the cob buttery and salty and almost too sweet with its plump kernels;potatoes baked long enough to make the skins crispy, and generously anointed with sour cream; a bottle of red wine. (Yes, for the purposes of this meal corn was the veggie.) There was ice cream, too, but no room for it. So ready to sleep now. Fortunately, Tom Robbins will keep me up a little longer. By the way, stairs go up.

Of course, when you’re tired and relaxed and blissful, it is not the time for Dana to send you this:
http://abbie.blogspot.com/2005/09/today-is-sad-day-i-am-vffeeling-very.html, because then you will cry while the cat tries to trick you into feeding him again, and you will have to blog with salt drops drying on your glasses. (Sherry: don’t read it.)

A feast for the senses.

Sherry and I went to the Market this morning. She even brought coffee. Could there be anything more perfect than being out on a crisp autumn morning, wandering rows of produce, displays piled high with all textures, colours, and flavours, basil and bbq on the air.

I have eaten my cinnamon bun and am now eating red Niagara grapes and drinking cider. It’s early cider, the taste thinner and greener than I like, but that’s to be expected; it’s early in the season. Mid-October, that’s cider season. When all the varieties of apples are ripe and the blend of the juice is rich and sweet and you don’t want to swallow any of it, just hold it in your mouth and think of leaves turning colour.

Alas, we did not find the Buffy action figures. We knew it was a crapshoot. Oh well, there’s always eBay.

And now I must needs sprint to the grocery store and try to get in and out before the places becomes lousy with suburbanites and their petulant spawn…

“Know how I know you’re gay?”

Might I just say that, as amusing as The 40 Year Old Virgin is, for a woman who pretty much exclusively dates geeks, at times it hits waaaaaay too close to home. Particularly when you go to see it with a friend who recognizes all the crap in “Andy’s” apartment… šŸ™‚