Things that make me happy

I've been in a funk.

Mostly a blogging funk, but when we had to cancel the family road-trip to the west coast (breaking my mom's heart) due to automobile kerfluckedness, THEN suffered a self-imposed home-exile due to abhorrence to dealing with lice or lice-related issues any more than we had to. We did some fun stuff on our holidays, but still, it was no road-trip, and couldn't even be considered a bait-and-switch.

Then there was BlogHer. I didn't go last year, it didn't even occur to me to go (it did occur to me to make fun of it). This year was the same, except it DID occur to me to go. I'd befriended some pretty cool people in February (I mean IRL, they were already befriended) and there were mutterings of several of them going. Plus it was in New York. NEW FREAKING YORK! I don't have a bucket list, but if I did, going to New York would be on it (Chicago? check). I would have loved to see them all again & party in New Yawk. Seeing the photos, and even the videos, made me so sad I was shocked at myself. There isn't necessarily "always next year", as the people I want to see won't necessarily be there.

I decided to battle the crappy feelings by taking Nenette's lead (sure it was a month ago. I told you: blogging funk. I PASSED UP A MEME for crying out loud!) & coming up with some of the simple things that make me happy. I used her criteria: none of the obvious – family, friends, socio-economic status...

The happy list (in progress):

1. Pasta, specifically spaghetti, with butter & salt
2. My Ecco shoes – I've always heard tell of the magic shoe that feels like pillows on your feet. These are them, for me.
3. My bed. I was nearly 40 before I threw a hissy fit and got – no, invested in a real bed. Not going into what we had before, because this is about what makes me happy!
4. Sushi. With my GFs; with Max; with the kids; when Max makes it; with my sister. All are completely different experiences and all make me happy.
5. My sister's expecting. In February. I'm so freaking excited, but it's just not What We Do to be all weepy & squealy (besides, she'd slap me). I'm glad Norah did that when she found out. It was like I was jumping and squealing vicariously through her. She is going to kick my ASS for putting it here. HA! If she ever read it!
6. Taking photographs (with film). Haven't done it (really done it) in a long, long time, but it did make me happy.
7. Minesweeper. Shut up.
8. Washing my face. After some 35 years of fighting with skin products, I was looking up some Major Home Exfoliation Ritual that I think I found through Bionic Beauty and at the end of it they said, "or just use a rough face cloth & hot water" (???) so that is all I do now and it feels sooooo good. Add a touch of light moisturizer, and it sure doesn't hurt the happiness scale that Max says "mmm you smell so good"
9. Elizabeth I
10. Lasagne
11. My parents' cottage lot. It has coexisting promises of a future of family gathering & relaxing solitude at the same time.
12. xkcd
13. Getting @ replies
14. When the clock reads 12:34
15. Seeing hot-air balloon in the sky (haven't seen any this year, wtf?)
16. Painting my toes. Well, ok, my toe-nails. Although with my skill-level, I should just stick to calling it "painting my toes". But whatever, it makes me happy.
17. Getting a pedicure. Thanks to Rougie, I'm going to go by myself on my birthday (unless I get a better offer???)
18. Working in the garden

Wow. Lots of simple stuff makes me happy. What makes YOU happy?

(OMG! I really want some buttery/salty pasta RFN!)

Chicago

Alternate title: The one where I do not get knifed in my sleep.

It's funny how things go.

Just over a year ago, and really new to blogging, I random Googled something for work (at work – I truly wish I could remember what it was. I imagine it's one of those things that ends up on your "what the HELL kind of people are out there" Google hit-list posts) and hit Chris's post about a dead betta fish. I sent myself the link home with the message "check this out later" (hey, I can recognize quality, even when it's disguised as dead fish). Several days (weeks?) later, I saw my email to myself & went browsing again. This time, a bizarre comment caught my eye; so of course, I followed it (duh). There, I met Marshall. I left some kind of obnoxious comment on HIS blog and the stupid fucker replied (his first mistake) (it took me several more visits and some poking around the rest of his site to figure out that he's a -- REAL -- LIVE -- AUTHOR --)(Who's the stupid fucker now? You ask) (Don't ask! MY story. Everyone ELSE is the stupid fucker in MY story) (Get your own blog.)

So I tormented Marshall for a few months and I'm sure he was regretting his personal policy acknowledging every idiot with an internet connection who comments on his (fabulously quirky, clever & funny – just like his books) blog. Then (I can only assume) he sent his daughter after me. And for some (awesome) reason we hit it off. On twitter. (I still torment Marshall, but not very often, because he posts even less frequently than I do. I KNOW!! We're thinking of taking away his card).

In the mean time, I can't remember how I stumbled across AndreAnna. She just kind of seeped into my (albeit online) life. Because we were separated at birth. And 12 years. Some conversation or another migrated toward visitation jokes. She said "absolutely you come here and drink on my patio" and then "No. I mean it." And I knew she did. I had learned even by then, you don't question her.

So, long story short, and several "we should DO this" convos later, the three of us decided IT WAS ON. We picked a neutral zone – one that I could fly to directly, and a place that I've always wanted to go – Chicago. Cass and Sara said "HELLZ-YEAH, I'm in!" And it was done.

And then the Chicago contingent joined in. And Holy-Dinah! Suddenly the Whole World of Blogging had faces and names, and kids, and spouses, and exes, and parents, and lives. (Well, MY blogging world does. The rest of you are still robots. Very well-spoken, raw, snarky, hilarious bots, but still).

Given the course of actions over the previous year, it made perfect sense to me to hop on a plane & go. More importantly, it sat well with Jiminy Cricket Max. Had he given me one furrowed brow, I might not have given it a second thought (the cookies probably didn't hurt the case for there being a rational human being at the other end of the line. Yes, I use the term "rational" loosely.)(Cookies also came from Rougie – which helped the cause too – but I didn't blog about it, because, remember? I suck at this)

But try explaining that to the "outside" world. "You're going WHERE? And WHY?"

What most (including myself initially – and as I'm trying to rationalize this to others and myself) don't really get is that this (blogging/twitter) realm, can be not unlike friendships IRL. Some people you glance at; nod respectfully at; are aware of each other's work; despise, but can't turn away from; (despise and CAN turn away from); and, yes, grow with.

So, blah blah blah. I went to Chicago, drank an s-load, tried an Irish Car Bomb (wasn't exactly converted), climbed ascended "Big John". Met & hung with some really cool folks. HERE are my photos.

I had plenty I wanted to say about the fabulous time I had, but [something something busy/lazy asshat excuse] and all these ladies did a better job of it than I could anyway. Please go read, view the photos (the best & loveliest are by Cass) leave them obnoxious comments. Say hi for me & tell them I miss them:

Belle Plaine Living
Cass. Just Curious.
Annabelle Speaks
Chez Rougie
Lilsaej
McMama's Musings
Back To Me
Pseudostoops
AndreAnna

P.S. the "Alternate Title"? A nod to actual reactions I got when telling folks "I'm going to Chicago to meet up with people I've met on the Internet". I fully deny presenting the facts to them in a way which may or may not have elicited such a reaction. No YOU'RE inflammatory.

Well Red (not a typo)

So apparently this blog thing, like a pet (or so I would suspect) requires attention and feeding. Kids too, so all the books tell you. Or so other parents tell me the books say. Because, you know, the reading.

So I've been receiving nasty, passive-aggressive reminders from Blogging and Family Services [BFS - haw!] that it's time to attend to this dying pet before it gets taken away from me. And then I grow old alone -on the Internet - with no one to love me - on the Internet - and I have to rely on humans for contact. As an engineer, you can see the problem I'd have, so I'll be good!

So the outreach program outreached to me via my blogging mama Nenette. When Nenette tells me to jump, I say "how hi?" And she says "don't you mean 'how high?'" And I say "yes mistress" And so on. I think I might be digressing a little. Mostly, she knows I am a sucker for a meme.

This one has something to do with taking pictures of red shit. Well, not red shit, but shit that is red [hey, that's not better]. It would be helpful now if someone would shake me and say "you know you can edit this, right?", but I'm in kind of a stream of consciousness kind of mood. I'm so sorry. You can go if you want.

So here's all my red crap. I saw this meme and thought "Yeah!!! I LOVE red" and then looked around and saw that most of my home and wardrobe is black, white & brown (and variations)(well, of brown, since black and white are pretty well defined)

BUT it's those splashes of red that make me love that colour. [YES THAT'S A WORD!! Shut up Blogger, you let me have a google.ca home page, but you don't really mean it.]

So I gathered several of my favourite [THAT is a word too!!!] red things and assembled them on my bed. Please don't read anything in to that. It's just the tidiest surface in my home for taking pictures of stuff. I think it was supposed to be 7 red things. Turns out I'm either not good with counting, or not good with rules. Or lazy. Whatever.

Of course, every single one of these items has a story...

(1) Red bed sheet. When we moved into our house in 2001, I decided that Norah's room should have a simple theme of Primary Colours [I swear, Google spell check I'm going to fucking snap on you]. Well, just try and find primary coloured bedsheets. I did. This looks pristine, because it's never actually been used. I've only ever used the fitted sheet and a duvet with a cover, since that results in a bed actually being made every so often (I mean, by me).

(2) This is one of my very (very) few pieces of jewelery. I bought it from a former boss's daughter who brought back a bunch of jewelery from New Zealand (or Australia? I forget because I probably wasn't listening, I was drooling and groaning: "oooooo... preeeeeetty")

(3) M.A.C Viva Glam VI. At least I think it's VI. The two digits (they're roman numerals, so YES they're digits!) wear off, and I can not ever remember whether it's IV or VI. BUT as scary as those ladies at the M.A.C counter look, they know their shit! I walk in and say "I need a Viva Glam IV" and they kind of stare at my face and say (this has happened more than once) "are you sure it wasn't Viva Glam VI?" Like they know IV just wouldn't work for me. I DON'T EVEN KNOW THAT!!! So, yeah. you had me at Viva Glam whatever. It's the only colour I wear. If I'm going bolder, I do it with the lip pencil.

(4) This is possibly THE best -- game -- ever. I picked up Apples to Apples Junior because a friend/coworker recommended it, and was she ever right. With this game, a group of ALL AGES can have a seriously great time. The only real requirement is reading.

My family sets up nights to come over and play Apples to Apples with the kids (and we're allowed too). This game was so popular that one Birth/mas I picked the adult version for my sister. And no, it's not p0rn. It's just more mature themes. I want to just keep going about this, but maybe I should do a separate post. If anyone wants to provide ME with the grown-up version of the game, I could do a review? hmm? hmm? Wait. I already said it was awesome. I suck at this whole Internet marketing crap.

(5) This is one of my favourite shirts (blouses?) Way back when Jacob was only in Toronto & Vancouver, my then high-school-aged sisters were all "Waaaw! Jacob is AAALL that AND a bag of chips" and I was all "what the hell is Jacob?" (with it, I have always not really been).

So every trip that anyone ever took to TO, Vancouver or Montreal, was required to stop for souvenirs. So my dad did one time and dropped off mine & my sister's when she was living with me. It was this and a kind of plainish t-shirt (still very nice). He dropped off separate bags with instructions on which was which. When we opened them, we both (I'm sure) silently thought they had been mixed up because mine was WAY cooler and hipper than hers. But I just shrugged and quickly said "awesome!! I LOVE it!" And then she proceeded to borrow it any time she could! (Which was a fine trade). It's still in great shape and I even wore it last Saturday on my date with Max (whole other story: kids were pissed that we waste time on such frivolities)

So anyways, fast forward to Jacob opening locally and now it's pretty much the only place I can get clothes that fit me (they sell suits as separates, and go down to size OH LOOK SOMETHING SHINY!!)

(6) These are my notebooks.

The spiral one is where I write crap down that I have to get out of my head and I can't get on to our computers (yes, plural. I suspect it will get worse before it gets better). Also scratch lists, sketches of other posts that don't have form yet. Also, the beginnings of Rougie's requested nerd graph. It hasn't been forgotten. That's just how I roll. I'm not proud of it.

The *nice* notebook is the one that we are using to organize our lives. We started with family meetings (idea courtesy of Nicole, the Planning Queen) and putting our notes in a formal book. We've been lax with that for a while (though we have to revisit it, because it was a great thing to do), but we have been having regular planning meetings to map out projects or tasks that would otherwise just get done "later". We list a small number of accomplishable tasks like sorting through that pile of crap on the table behind me that's NOT staring me in the back of the head saying "What the fuck? A blog post? Are you serious?" I figure when piles of crap are talking to you, the best thing to do is pretend they aren't. Or start swinging at them with an ax. But I don't happen to have an ax (note to self: get ax).

(7) This is the suitcase; that carries the clothes; that Harmzie will bring; when she goes to Chicago; and meet up with her bloggie friends; and try an Irish Car Bomb for the first time (it's a drink, people... I think.)

If we decide that we have to bring the ball-gowns, the Victoria's Secret wings or the oversized inflatable Grey Goose bottle, I also have the next size up in the same colour.

(7a) (Late entry) Was inspired by Rougie's similar photo essay. Also by the fact that I'm pretty sure it's the same colour and brand. I KNOW!! It's like we were separated at birth. And 7 years.

This is my fave toe colour. Every time Margo & I go for a pedi, I think "I'm doing something different, and then I go with OPI's "Edinburgundy". Or "Vodka & Caviar". (Margo, incidentally, usually goes with "I'm Not Really a Waitress". I could totally be a waitress. Except for all the personabilty things. And the servitude. And the requirement to not say things like "get your own fucking water!")

There it is. Now the instructions tell me to tag a bazillion (yes, some duplication. But I really want to see your red pics)

AndreAnna @ Diary of a Modern Matriarch

McMama @ McMama's Musings

Nicole the Planning Queen

Marymac @ Pajamas & Coffee

Juli @ Wellington Road

Cass. Just Curious

Samantha @ Back to Me

Go, minions...

[sorry about the formatting. It did one thing with one batch of pictures and another with the other. The codes are like a mile long and I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT ANY OF THEM DO. So yeah. Totally zonked. Zonked means tired]

Open letter to Stone Fox about Twitter...

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Or anyone else who hasn't been sucked in by the twmadness, which is how you have to twrite anything to do with twitter, like "tweeple", and "twitterverse" or "I have to twour myself a twup of twoffee and twlace it with a twoverdose of twerioine or maybe just twjam my twpen in my tweye to make it stwop" (and I'm actually kind of surprised that spellcheck still doesn't recognize any of those words).
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Dear Stone Fox [and any and everyone else, as above],

Run. Run screaming if you have to.

But if you're still intrigued you CAN check it out without being "in" (www.twitter.com/harmzie or use the handle of anyone else you'd like to stalk observe). I don't know why the hell you would be. I can't explain why I'm there. Even less why Max (@nickrollout - ask him why he picked that name. I think you'll be dry-heaving pleasantly surprised!) is, since like I said, he can "monitor" my "activities" from afar. I'm just glad he told me he was. Not like I was doing anything crazy or un-marriage-like. But still. It's nice to know you're being watched. For me, Twitter usually kind of feels like no one's watching. Which if you don't feel crazy for being there in the first place, can kind of make you feel crazy.

There's lots of crazy on the internex, isn't there?

Do you think it's re-focusing crazy from elsewhere in the world or just making more crzzzay?

By the way, if it isn't obvious, I love Twitter and would love you to join us ... join us ... join us ...

UPDATE:
-------------
twitter.com/nickrollout
twitter.com/fox_stone

All in one week. My work here is done (see you next week, SciFi Dad).

Raggedy Ann

So, I check out of rehab, all refreshed, ready to start anew, and I run across an old friend: "Hey! I love your blog! But I haven't heard much from you recently! What's up?"

"Uh... blog?" I look into it. Apparently that was some bender.

Inappropriate, insensitive comments about rehab and blog-writing benders aside, I've been busy. Not insanely busy, but a combination of just too busy to stay up that extra mrffmrff minutes to pull something out of my ass craft anything worth sharing, crossed with extreme mild dissatisfaction with several previous posts, plus intimidation at others' brilliance. That's my story and I'm sticking to it [I think I just discovered my new tagline].

Country Girl to the rescue! When Miss Rougeneck beckons, you listen*.

I've been instructed as follows:

• Open your first photo folder.


• Scroll down to the 10th photo**.


• Post that photo and story on your blog.


• Tag five others (or more) friends to do the same.

*Also, this is just as good a place to jump back in with my mindless drivel as anywhere.

When I was a child I had a Raggedy Ann doll, made for me by my Dad's aunt. I don't remember many of my childhood toys, but I remember this one because of a bizarre incident indicative of another time.

When I was four, my family (extended, I think there were five or six adults plus me) had travelled to Guatemala (drove, in a van, through the US and Mexico). I think for several weeks. We stayed at an A-frame cottage of sorts. This cottage was a short walk (I'll guess about five to ten minutes?) on a single path to a beach with spectacular sunsets. Nearly every night that we stayed there, some combination of people would walk out to the beach for the view. One particular night, I (remember, four) had decided NOT to join the beach contingent and stayed with folks at the cottage. Then I changed my mind and headed out for the beach. By myself(here's where the whole "different time" thing comes in, I'll assume).

While touring around Guatemala, I had noticed (or had pointed out to me) that the women often carried their babies on backs in a sling. So I had fashioned (or had fashioned for me) a little sling in which to carry my Raggedy Ann, and set out to the beach with my baby. On the way, a small group of kids saw me (little white blond girl - I was blond then, for real, too - all alone on her way to the beach. Stands out I guess) and started making fun of my contraption, to the point of picking at it such that my baby came out of it. I remember making it to the beach and being very upset about the whole situation. I think the adults tried to console me by telling me they were just jealous of my awesome get-up. I was four, but not stupid. I was far more sure they were offended that I was mocking their culture. True. That's what I thought.

That incident was probably the only reason I remembered that I had a Raggedy Ann doll (or that there was a beach within walking distance of the cabin), but fast forward to the birth of my first child and I decided that my new baby daughter should have a hand-made Raggedy Ann doll. Since the aunt in question had long since passed on, I decided to do it myself.

I diligently went out and shopped (new baby in my fancy new baby-bucket-seat and stroller) for the right pattern, and *exactly* perfect material for clothing and body parts. I cut it out and began by carefully embroidering the eyes, nose and mouth, as well as the "I LOVE YOU" on the heart. It was pain-staking, especially when she stayed bald for a good six months, as *every* *single* *hair* had to be stitched and tied. But finally, I was done. And I presented it to small Miss Norah. And she loved it.

The pattern said its size right on it. But 36" just sounds like a number until you put it up to a small child and realize that 36" is actually three feet tall.

No matter. She loved it. She liked to wrestle with it. It turned out to be not so much the cuddly, cart-your-baby-around type baby, more of a giant-ass, big sister with freaky eyes. And nose. And mouth. And eyebrows (under your eyes? seriously?)

I hesitated to post this one [I could have lied and posted the one of me finishing my first half marathon while four weeks pregnant, but there, I just told the story], as it has our ratty old couches in it, but it reminded me of that story too.

All we have left from this photo are the china cabinet, the Raggedy Ann doll (now! with more shredded eyes!), the black & white blanket and of course, the baby (now nine, so I guess we don't even have that any more [sigh])

My Tagees:

Stone Fox - pretty sure we were separated at birth, though mom must have had a pretty rough nine years of continued gestation. Unless we were both lied to. Which clearly we were if we were separated at birth. So it's totally possible. I'll take the high road and say I'm younger than my birth certificate says, ignoring the fact that it makes me a brilliant over-achieving child who would have had to have been in grade 3 at age uh... 18 months or something. We had nasty lying parents. It was a conspiracy I tells you.

Um... so where was I... oh yeah. Tagees!

Kyla Roma - because she rites real good-like about things and stuffs. I'd love to hear her craft a story about a random photo.

Juli Ryan - for that international flavour.

Planning Queen - Everybody needs a Planning Queen in their corner. Also international.

Wyliekat - bringing it back home. Wylie is the sane version of me.

Off minions! Report back with thine brilliance.

**seriously? Just pick a photo & tell a story. Like I'm going to audit your hard-drive or photo-server.

Why America is Great

Because they invented the Muppets; dumbed down YouTube enough for me to embed this and also, keep the world safe from weirdos. Among other reasons.

Happy America Day to my southern friends!

Cookies From Heaven - a Photo Essay

"There's going to be a surprise arriving Monday" I said on Friday.

"What? What is it?"

"I can't tell you. It's a surprise"

I was entirely non-committal about what the surprise was. Not even an animal/vegetable/mineral hint.

They were climbing the walls all weekend. They pretended they weren't. But every few hours or so, one of them would bring it up, in hopes of catching me off guard and getting more info. But I held my ground.

Even last night: "So, is it in the morning, or when we're at school?"

"When you're at school. It will probably be here when you get home, but you can't touch until *I* get home"

"Oh. So what is it?"

"I can't tell you. It's a surprise"

So when I got home, I was just through the door and I swear, it was less than 30 seconds before I snapped this picture. I barely had the chance to see that there WAS a box before they descended upon it like vultures. Keep in mind they still don't know what's INSIDE it!


They were ready with scissors.


Here, Pepper holds up what she figures is the next best thing to bubble wrap. When she bursts it with a satisfied grin, I yelled "NO!!! That's New Jersey air!" She was unfazed, but Max swooped in and took a deep breath, so as not to waste it.

This was completely lost on her, but I thought it was funny.
Inside was a care package sent by AndreAnna.

She made me cookies, and X-Press delivered them.

I KNOW!!!

Isn't that the pinnacle of everything that is good and just about the world?

It's a tough cookie-critiquing crowd. And these ladies know their way around a cookie. But after careful contemplation they produced a review best captured on -erm- film?

[Aside: Also? Those t-shirts they're wearing? Schwag in exchange for using our children as slave labour to clean up the school yard. Some line about "helping the earth"]


How can you not love someone who puts this look on The Boy's face? Seriously.










"Mother's Little Helper" (Not that these cookies needed any help. But a glass of wine just helps. Period.)

Now, I'd love to offer some more intelligent review of AndreAnna's cookies, but this isn't a food blog and in reality, we were too busy cramming our faces to provide anything better than "mwff. vees aw awfom." But that was a pretty consistent sentiment.
I was lucky to have the camera handy too:

Catch it quick...

...before they're all gone...
...and you're forced to scramble for crumbs.


[They're not entirely gone, as I saw Norah whisk her final allocation away to a Ziploc bag to pop into her lunch bag for tomorrow. I'd love to hear what she tells her classmates about the Mystical Well-Travelled Cookie]

For the rest of the evening, I caught little random little thoughts popping out:

"Those cookies were awesome"

"It was so nice of your friend to send us cookies"

Thanks again for the lovely treat AndreAnna!

Update: Grrr... I've been trying to remember to include an engaging question, because in those places where I've seen them, I love reading the comments almost as much as the post. But I forget Every. Single. Time.

So: What surprises do you like to get?