On Wednesday afternoon, I went for a haircut after work, incorrectly assuming that I had all the time in the world to pamper myself and wander around downtown. You see, it was Canada's 137th birthday on Thursday, and my work let us off on Friday as well, so I was looking at the beginning of a beautiful and much-deserved weekend with no set plans to worry about. When I arrived home, though, the Fiery One told me that we had twenty minutes to decide whether or not we were going to catch a ride to Cosmopolis for the long weekend and to pack up our belongings. I agreed, of course, and after some mad packing, we were on our way.
I suppose that I should mention, lest you worry, that we did not intend to leave Gordon, our lovely lab bunny descendant, to his own devices for four full days, no. We grabbed his entire large wire and plastic cage and slid it into the back seat of Father-in-Law's new car and wedged me in next to it in the remaining foot of space. Gordon seemed to have a distinct preference for right over left turns as was evidenced by his mad scrabbling each time we turned left. The back seat in the new car that Father-in-Law had proudly proclaimed to have only forty-two miles on it was swiftly dusted with a layer of cedar shavings and probably a few rabbit poops five minutes into a three-hour trip between Cityville and Cosmopolis.
And here we are. I am sitting in a blue room upstairs that has walls that angle half-way up to accommodate the roof, there is a black cat that occasionally chews on my left arm lolling on the desk at my elbow, and the sky out the window on my right is a deep tawny grey erupting in low thunder every few minutes (every time it thunders, the cat's pupils grow unreasonably large). It is quite a nice little set-up. I think I will refuse to go back on Sunday evening and just set up a nice little life for myself centering around this little office.
The Fiery One and I have already done our share of eating and drinking, but because of the nasty mood I was mouldering in last night when we were out with Batty and Starcat, I should probably have a do-over tonight or tomorrow. I spent most of the evening staring at other people in the pub and nearly completely ignoring the other people at the table, which is very unlike me. I managed to perk up and put on a nice face when a reporter from the local newspaper interviewed me, but immediately lapsed back into my previous sullen attitude. My mood confused me until today. Today, my breasts feel like they are made of rocks, rocks with nerves that feel like deep new bruises every time they bang together when I hug someone or go up and down the stairs. I never can tell when my period is going to come these days, so I follow the signs that point the way and then have an a-ha! moment when I finally figure out why I have felt like picking fights with perfectly nice people.
The rest of the weekend looks like it is going to be fabulous. We are going to have supper at my parents' house tonight followed by a brief shopping stint for me, and then our plans include, reading, hanging out on the deck, hanging out by the pool, hanging out in the pool, sipping coffee, taking photographs with my fabulous first SLR camera (the Rebel 2000), petting kitty cats, and hopefully maintaining enough brain activity to keep from drooling.
I totally forgot to mention something a little horrifying that came out last weekend when I was up here visiting during my grandmother's neck drama. It was Sunday morning, and my mother had invited her family over for breakfast before they went to sit with Grandma for the day. She was asking me questions about where to find certain things on the internet and how to search and whatnot, when she casually mentioned that she had come across my blog. I think she said something like “I came across your blog on the internet, but I just passed right by it. I didn't read it. I don't think I want to know what you write about.” What?!
Okay, I know, this is pretty cliché by now, the blogger fearing that his or her parents will find all their dirty secrets online. One thing that I have always maintained is that, yes, I would be horrified if my parents or aunts and uncles read this thing, but I make sure that whatever I write here are things that I could deal with them finding out. I still nearly choked on my blueberry pancakes when she dropped that little nugget of information, but I made a quick recovery. I kept my facial expression neutral and seamlessly steered the conversation to a sensational knitting site that I thought she would enjoy.
What really freaked me out about this incident is actually a few things:
Marlon Brandon has died at the age of 80
I offer you a brief view into the world of competitive eating. Ick.
Finally, the sex lives of older women are being acknowledged in entertainment, and not only as fodder for laughter.
Permanent makeup has always sounded incredibly vain to me, but now that I hear that a popular ink used in the process may cause permanent difigurement and speech difficulties, maybe it's just plain stupid.
Despite accusations that Michael Moore used false information in “Fahrenheit 9/11”, his facts check out.
Have the side effects of chronic binge drinking got you down? Now there's help.
Protests born out of frustration over China's refusal to allow Hong Kong citizens to elect their own leaders erupted on Thursday.