The weekend forecast...

...calls for sunny skies, a camping trip and hotdogs over an open flame. Yes, our annual "Hightail it to Algonquin" trip starts tomorrow! I love this trip...what's better than hitting the road, stopping for the best ice cream in the country along the way, getting lost in little towns and picking up our canoe for a paddle into the deepest darkest national park in Ontario? Nothing, that's what! After an hour of paddling, those hotdogs are the best tasting things in the world. Three days of naked lounging, naked swimming and naked weenie roasting...bliss. Best of all, you cannot hear or see another living soul for miles (thankfully, due to the naked stuff) so it will be just MF and I...talking, chilling, reading a book (which I haven't done in a shamefully long time), playing cards, making out and fending off bears. Love it.

It's times that these that I am so thankful to have found a soul so akin to mine. I couldn't imagine one person that came before that would be so complementary to my needs, my likes, my dislikes, that I would feel so safe in those deep dark woods with.

So in love and happy (and thankful) right now.

I am not the size of a house (or high), honest...

Realizing how much of my life (and my blog) is food-centric has given me a bit of a jolt. I always knew I loved food (to eat, not in a "special" kind of way) but to realize what a huge part it plays in my day-to-day wellbeing and mood is kind of disturbing.

I don't just think about food, I'm pretty sure I've reached the obsession phase. I think about what I am going to eat next all the time. When I've had breakfast I plan lunch, when I have lunch I think I could eat a snack later. On the drive home, the conversation is always focused on dinner. I worry when I go to someone's house that I won't be fed in close enough intervals. I am a girl on a mission...a stomach mission.

I think a lot of it stems to my low blood sugar (at least, that's what I'm calling it) because I get cranky and irritable if I don't eat regularly. But it's not just the timing, it's the quantity...I tend to overfill my plate and eat the whole thing. Bizarre.

And after all of this, I'm a size 5, trying to lose about 10 more pounds for the wedding. I admit I need some toning, but I'm not exactly Starr Jones here. I'm surprised that I'm not in a mu-mu right now.

I'm going to dinner with clients tonight (my first official "dinner with clients" ever...go me!) and I'm not thinking about dinner conversation...I'm thinking about choice of entree.

I need help!

What's up with 80's movies and hookers?

Number of movies I watched this weekend: 2
Number of movies I watched this weekend that directly or indirectly featured hookers: 2
Number of movies I watched this weekend from the 80's: 2
Number of movies I watched this weekend that directly or indirectly featured hookers starring Tom Hanks: 1
Number of movies (that I know of) that directly or indirectly feature hookers starring Tom Hanks: 4

Tom Hanks and Hookers. Never thought I'd see the day. Not so much the all-round family entertainer, eh Tom?

Ban Tom Hanks!

Thinking about eating something

I have half of my lunch sitting underneath my desk. It's staring at me, willing me to eat it. I'm not hungry, but I may be (as an ex so articulatley put it) "tasty". I don't want to eat, but I'd like to taste something, and it would do the job.

Lunch was purchased (and half consumed) at this little hole in the wall Chinese place around the corner. I believe it was called "A-B-C Chinese Food"...real knack for names those folk. I ordered the interestingly titled "Rainbow Meat and Shrimp Vermicelli", but only after asking what "Rainbow Meat" was (hoping it wasn't Leprechaun). Turns out Rainbow Meat is "red and green peppers, onions, and bean sprouts", which confused me slightly. In clarification, I asked if there was any meat in Rainbow Meat, to which I was informed "yes", Pork. Ah, alrighty then.

What I got was a very tasty (if a tiny bit bland) vermicelli mountain. Mt. Noodle. Chinese people were hiking it, it was so huge. I didn't know whether to eat it or conquer it for British posterity. Mr. Creosote would have looked at it and said "Gosh, that's really quite large".

I then proceeded to maw my way through it, and to my shame, I could have finished the whole thing. Only common decency (ok, and non-elasticated pants) prevented me. Dignity intact, I put down my chopsticks and took the remaining hillock back to work.

So now I'm tasty and I want to finish it (curse my "clear your plate" upbringing...no food can be left undigested). Nothing is stopping me except pride and perhaps heartburn. I do have a dress I'll need to fit into but DAMMIT I want Rainbow Meat! I'll let you know if I make it to 5.30 without caving.

Dennis Leary: Prophet

There was Strawberry Banana flavour coffee at the 7-11 today.

The 7-11.

It's the end of civilization as we know it.

And the moral of the story is...

Morals. God love 'em, but I have few. Mostly they centre around supporting other peoples rights and freedoms (gay marriage, abortion, freedom of religion, freedom of speech) so I keep very few for my own everyday behaviour. Or should that be that I lack shame, rather than morals? Yes, that sounds better...I am shameless.

Cutting right to the chase, I took lapdancing lessons this weekend. Good, wholesome, butt-slapping, leg splaying fun. My bridesmaid, L, introduced me to the class, but we had no idea what we were in for. Yes, I know lap-dancing usually involves a seated person, and yes, I know that you are meant to gyrate on top of them...I just didn't realize we'd have to practice on each other.

Sidenote: If you listen very carefully, you can hear male blog readers all over the country running off to get the hand cream.

Well, this experience has taught me, without a shadow of a doubt, what way my door swings. And it's not like one of those galley doors, but like a church door. Firm and unyielding to being pushed the other way. I swing one way only. Only having someone else's (clothed) breasts rubbed in the genital area can prove that beyond a shadow of a doubt.

So, after the splits, the head flips and the move I like to call "the Zeta Jones", I am fully equipped to tackle MF. Bring it on!

Indiana Jones and the Mystery of the Budweiser Bikini

I know much of the ways of men. I am living with one who gives me way too much insight at times (would it kill you to close the door while you pee?). However, there are some things that remain elusive to me. Such as why Budweiser bikini's are attractive to guys. I spent good, decent money on a push-me-up, keep-it-in bikini to make me look like a svelte and sleekly well-proportioned beach goddess, and he wonders why I didn't get a "sexy" bikini. Like a Budweiser bikini. I thought only biker chicks wore those.

Seriously, to placate him, I went to Bikini Village, where they keep them at the back away from all of the designer suits (as if those beautiful Shan suits will be corrupted by the white-trash tankinis) and tried one on. It barely covered my boobs, and less said for what was posing as a bikini bottom the better. I could have swallowed the entire suit without a glass of water to help it on it's way. And I'm no prude! I draw the line at beach thongs, but other than that, most anything goes. But I looked like a ring girl at a junior kickboxing competition, or the girlfriend of someone called "Snake".

So, after my "dance" class (more on that in the following post) I went next door to a lovely boutique called Lovecraft, just for a browse. I came across Budweiser bikinis in the sale section (at a SEX SHOP...the pheneomena must be more widespread than I initially thought!) So I tried one on, figured, what the hell and bought it for him. Not for me, I wouldn't be seen dead with it on out of the house, but I figured I'd spend the same on lingerie.

So, he's in for the shock of his life tonight, his own Bud Girl. I shall inform you of the reaction...let's just call it a social experiment.

Puncture my ear drums please

Someone in the office is whistling "Rudolph the Red-Nose Reindeer".

I think I shall kill him. Yes.

My dear cubby neighbour, though I love him to death, is playing Abba and Beatles music on panpipe.

Then are only so many times you can hear "Ob La Di, Ob La Da" Yucatan Penisula stylie before you go insane.

I think I shall kill him. Yes.

Stupidius dumbassi

Mummy Moo has a boyfriend that I shall call "Dumbass". They have been together on and off for about 4 years. I don't like the guy. I'll just stick to the facts, without elaboration, to show you why:

1. He's a bigot
2. He's a racist
3. He's a sexist
4. He is always, without exception, right
5. He thinks Canadians are stupid
6. He doesn't like Canada. He thinks we sue everybody for no reason and that it is too safe because we have warning signs like "Mind Your Step".
7. He sees no difference between Canada and America
8. He thinks that the French should accept his English currency and be grateful because England liberated them in the 1940's
9. He cheated on my mother
10. He smokes in our house, knowing it makes my brother sick
11. He is a City Counsellor in England, elected on an anti-immigration platform
12. He falls asleep on the couch when we have company over. And snores.
13. He told MF that Germans should all be killed for what they did (MF is half German)
14. He wanted me to level our Christmas tree with books
15. He can't spell my sisters name after 4 years of knowing her. And it's an extremely common English name.

So, that's just scratching the surface of it all...without getting petty, and without getting mad.

So, what does Mummy Moo want to do? Have him invited to the wedding, of course! Now, in case you didn't see point 4 through 7, I don't know why he'd want to come in the first place. If you saw all of the other points, you'd probably see why I don't want him there (with particular attention given to point 13, which would go down an absolute treat with MF's GERMAN family). And it's not even a question of "IF" he'll raise the issue...it's "WHEN". I vote for during the ceremony, with me walking down the aisle to a fist fight.

True story: MF and I were talking about passports and Dumbass interjects that he doesn't see why we have to have passports. I said that it's to prove what citizenship we held. Dumbass went on to explain that he was coming into the UK from Europe and had misplaced his passport. When the (Pakistani) passport control officer asked him to prove that he was British (meaning a drivers licence or such) Dumbass gave him a rollicking for daring to question HIM that he was British, when the officer himself CLEARLY wasn't British, he was from darkie country. The officer then proceeded to say "Sir, you are being so entirely rude, you must be British". And Dumbass tells this story with PRIDE! The NERVE!!

MF is furious that he never spoke up then (mostly because we probably would have been thrown out of Mum's house for insubordination...she won't have anyone criticising Dumbass, no matter how obvious the criticism), and he doesn't want him within 2000 miles of our wedding.

So I had the difficult job of telling Mum that he wasn't welcome. Yes, this is a huge faux pas, and yes, we SHOULD invite him, but I can't. I won't. I won't put the day in jeopardy for one monkey. Other people have said "Oh, he can't be that bad". Trust me, he is.

Just imagine, if you will. My step mother won't be sitting in the first aisle (she will be sitting in the second), only my Mother, Father and my two Brothers (Mum's escorts) will be in the front row. Dumbass, if he weasled his way in against my wishes, would be asked to sit in the second row. But he wouldn't. He'd refuse. He'd make a scene, saying he wants to sit in the front row (a position not even my step-mother will have). And he'd make us, in the middle of the ceremony if necessarary, just to get his way. Again, not IF, but WHEN.

I won't have spent a week with my mother without him hanging on like some ignorant barnacle for 5 years. Please dear God, is it too much to ask that he doesn't come for the week of my wedding? By that point, I won't have seen her for a year and two months (alone or not) and goddamn it, I want to visit with her, not have her absent and distracted as she cares for this 60 year old toddler! He would demand to come to the Bachelorette ("What am I going to do by myself?") , he'd want Mum to stay with him the night before the wedding and then try and be around for the getting ready stuff...hell, he'd probably convince my Mum to let him walk me down the aisle!

Anyhoo, I told her no. She's upset. I wonder how much of it is just appearing "dateless" at the event, or genuine care for the guy. Right or wrong though, I'll stand my ground.

A quick note to Jennifer Connolly

Dear Jennifer,

Just want to say, love your work. You were a real role model for me in Labyrinth...I wanted to grow up to be just like you. I know you disappeared for a while, and was thrilled when you found it back onto the screen and back into our hearts as the drug addict that uses a double dick on some random girl. Priceless.

I'm just as riveted to your most recent project, entitled "Dark Water". I found that it gave me a unique insight and perspective on the fundamentals of apartment block plumbing. The way the pipes rusted out...wow. The drama. In fact, the look on your face when the drywalling was being completed, ooh, gave me chills. How do you bring that type of emotion to the screen? I know I was fully prepped that this was indeed a horror film, but tell me...in that pivotal laundry room scene, how difficult was it to react in absolute fear to a visual effect created, I believe, for my other favourite horror film "The Frighteners"? I mean, the way you just freaked out when the water went brown...again...it must have been hard to keep up that tension, since we had already seen the same reaction about twenty times before that point.

You have given me a new found respect for leaks and buckets, and your performance has definitely made me want to pee in the near future.

Looking forward to seeing you in something equally good in the coming months,

B

Reality bites...hard

Anyone who is following this blog saw what a crisis of conscience I had when I was contacted by an ex-boyfriend. In the end, I responded and informed MF that it had happened. Honesty is the best policy. But honesty swings both ways. The ex had told me that he still had feelings and rued the day he gave me up. A very nice, if somewhat pleading, email. I wrote that I appreciated him being honest with me, but that I was perfectly happy as I was. I was of course sad that we didn't work out, but I am moving on with my life.

So now, what to do about my impending marriage. Should I tell him? He could hear from mutual friends, would that be rude to come from a third party? I decided, a month after the fact, to tell him in a jovial "hey, how's it going?" type of email, because he was my friend, we were close, and I wouldn't want his feelings hurt.

Turns out he had already been told. He wasn't sad, he was just ok. He appreciated hearing it from me, despite the fact that I wasn't the first to tell him.

Now, MF is in the same boat with his ex-wife. To tell or not to tell. He is in the same situation...a mutual friend could tell her, so to inform her would be the decent, if unnecessary, thing to do.

It's strange, making that closure, ending a chapter with finality. We are moving on.

In Defense of Customer Service

Having been largely raised in England I am used to a standard of customer service that hovers around the "piss poor" mark. Case in point...it did not surprise me in the least that a cab driver, called to pick us up at our home, got lost on the way and cussed US out (under his breath) that we led him on a wild goose chase. Or the hotel manager that cussed us out (under his breath) and gave us general hell because we were trying to open the main door to the hotel, which they had locked (despite us asking if the hotel would be locked at night).

Sidenote: This is an English thing, and I am always sure to ask. They assured us that no, the hotel wouldn't be locked. But it was. We thought that the door was just stuck, as they had told us it would be unlocked. Then the cussing began.

We also got cussed out (under his breath) by the pizza delivery guy who got lost on the way and delivered us a stone cold pizza for the equivilent of $50 (damn that exchange rate).

By the way, the cussing basically goes like this. "Bloody woman, doesn't know how to bloody get to her own bloody house, bloody, bloody, rumble, grumble". I always want to say "I can hear you, you know. I'm standing right here".

Another sidenote: Brits are infamous for stooping to gender stereotypes at the drop of a hat. You are not merely "stupid", you become "a stupid woman". Lovely.

Basically, English customer service revolves around one basic principle...you'll get whatever we choose to give you, and you'll like it. No refunds. No money off. No recourse. You'll get it, and you'll like it. This also applies to fast food ("These fries are cold!". "So?") and any form of reservation you place ("But I reserved these hotel rooms months ago!". "So?").

So, it pleases me greatly to come to Canada, and for that matter, most places in the States, where the customer is always right. It is a priviledge that I try not to take advantage of, but it is always a good fall back. If my pizza arrives in over 40 minutes and / or if the temperature of the pizza bag is below 60 degrees, my pizza is free. Not half off. No "so?". Free. If my heel falls off my shoe, it is replaced. Free. No questions asked. Jewellery stores ask "Can we clean your rings for free?", Kernels hands out free popcorn samples, and I get a free pickle with my deli sandwich because they felt like it.

This is all leading up to a point, I swear.

MF went to The Keg on Tuesday for lunch with a friend (the Keg is a steak restaurant...a little upscale but not stuffy). They don't go often at all, and this was a treat. They ordered steaks medium rare but MF's came chicago-d (charred) and medium well. They called over the waitress and asked about the steak. No questions asked, she put a new steak on. She asked how the friends steak was, to which he said it was ok, a little over what he would have liked, but he was fine. She insisted on replacing his steak also. Then the manager came over, had a nice chat with them, apologized, and insisted their steaks would be there within two minutes. They were. When the "bill" came, it just said "Your meals are on us today". That's service. Almost over-the-top service, but great service.

Having heard this story, I began craving steak, so we headed out to The Keg last night (it was pay day, whee!). I ordered a rare steak and crab legs, MF ordered the large steak medium rare. Both came well done. Ooops. Normally, I'd just eat it (and not enjoy it) because I hate making a fuss, but the waitress noticed straight away that the steaks were overcooked. She insisted on replacing them. The manager came over, had a nice chat with us, apologized (profusely), and insisted our steaks would be there within two minutes, and would I like a heap of extra crab too? I did, and they were. When the bill came, the wine we drank (a $30 bottle) was free.

So, this whole post is just one long ad for The Keg basically. I love their food and they take care of their customers. That's service.

PAIN! The Musical

Don't know exactly where my head is at over these past few weeks, but for whatever reason, I fell down the stairs on Sunday. I haven't fallen down the stairs since I was about 5, and that was only because I was wearing semi-lethal non-grippy tube socks. Needless to say, I hurt myself. Not badly, just enough to be concerned and apply bandaids in conspicuous areas.

So, I show up for softball on Monday with bruises everywhere (my butt looks like a five day old banana...not that the team got to see that) and of course everyone looks at MF like he's some sort of abuser. I look like the victim of some sort of very selective shark attack...knobbly areas like knuckles, knees and elbows are the only areas scraped. Then I proceed to pull my ham strings while running. Great.

Today I am in great pain. Ham strings feel like tight elastic bands. Oh, and since I've been using Crest Whitestrips to get ready for the engagement party, my teeth are zingy and extremely sensitive...so much so that I can't chew. Loving it.

Cereal

I have a love/hate relationship with cereal. Right now, I'm at the hate stage. Not because it's done anything wrong, no no no. Cereal can do no wrong. It's because I'm trying out the South Beach diet and carbs are decidedly out.

*Sidenote: When I say I am "trying" the South Beach diet, that means that I'm eating a Michelina's Carb Free Meal for lunch and cheating on the rest.

I used to love choosing my cereal in the grocery aisle, especially when we were visiting Canada from England over our summers. England had stupid cereal, healthy cereal. Like Weetabix. Cereal is meant to be fun and have a toy. There was nothing fun about Weetabix, that cereal was all business. We'd have to heap sugar on top of it and pound it into a soupy paste before it could be consumed. Oh, and since we had our milk delivered in the mornings, by 10am the milk on our cereal would be lukewarm from sitting on the doorstep for a couple of hours. Lukewarm soupy paste peppered with undissolved sugar. Lovely. Oh, and if it happened to be winter, the foil milk bottle seal would have been pecked through by birds trying to get to the cream that would rise to the top. Avian flu with your Weetabix? Bring it on. But then at least the milk was cold.

No, I loved choosing my Canadian cereal. Lucky Charms were my favourite. What's not to love? Crunchy sugary things and multicoloured marshmallowy goodness? Don't mind if I do. For a while we went a little hog wild with the different kinds, stuffing ourselves in the morning so that we could get a box of something new at the store that day. Whatever wasn't boring and / or had bran in it was fair game. The grammatically challenged Capt'in Crunch. Boo Berry AND Count Chocula mixed together in a G-rated horror of contrasting taste. Throw in some Franken-berry for a truly frightening taste sensation. Cocoa, Fruity AND Dino Pebbles...Mmmmm. And Sugar Smacks with the frog on the box. Scary that frogs can sell cereal, but hey, it worked. Other times, when we were coming off a sugar high, we could settle for Trix or Froot Loops (what is it with cereal names and grammar issues?)

The toys were great too. Even at 13 or so, I was collecting Star Trek: The Next Generation trading cards from inside Cheerios. My favourite was Deana Troy, who I wanted to be when I grew up (hey, a kid can dream).

Now, our collection includes Kashi, cereal of champions. This fiber-licious concoctions is low in fat, low in sugar and high in soy protein. Mmmmm. Also in our rotation is Special K Red Berries, which is hard to eat if you don't soak the berries in milk first...otherwise it's like eating little sour sponges. Of course, we do keep a box of Lucky Charms on hand, in case of a severe 80's moment (such as seeing the "New New Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles" on tv on a Saturday morning). We also just invested in a box of Scooby Doo cereal, with marshmallow ghosts, mystery machines and doggie bones. Good to know that something nowadays will still give you early onset diabetes.

Sex, Lies and Vera Wang

Sex:

Had a fight with MF last night about something utterly ridiculous and ended up sleeping on the couch (after falling down the stairs...yes it's official, I am a clumsy dumbass). Anyway, I had the most ridiculous dream about running away from MF and finding my ex, who was, of course, still completely in love with me, and we ended up getting married. I had butterflies, the whole thing over this guy who, during the 3 years we were together, gave me no such thing. I find it all so odd, but I woke up with this sense of longing, a sense of "rescue me" from this whole thing. I wonder if I'll ever see him again, not for anything untoward, just wondering if our paths will cross at one point.

Lies:

I am upset at my father. After all he has (or most appropriately, has not) done for me, I was pleasantly surprised when he told me he was going to fund our wedding. We hired a ccordinator, looked at lovely venues, planned a lovely wedding. We even gave him a budget with a "We pay / You pay" column which he said "sounded low". So we looked for places that were in that budget, knowing that he would want us to have a nice, high quality place.

He changed his mind.

He now wants to only pay half. Which would have been fine if he had told us that upfront. No, he told us "just send me the bill". I would have NEVER hired a coordinator if I was paying half, nor would we have gone to look at the really nice venues. Now we have to decide what to cut, since we have already booked the coordinator and the venue, those things can't be changed. While I appreciate his generosity, I wish he was upfront. Now I just feel sick.

Vera Wang:

Went to Vera Wang this weekend, because I will never ever be able to go, in good conscience, to try on dresses again. I put one on. It was, of course, fabulous. However, part of me says "Do you really love it, or do you love it because it's a Vera Wang?".

I put the dress back on the hanger and never looked back!

Donkey Kontroversy

I like video games. Mucho. I have, well, how would an intervention term it...an "issue", with video games. That's why I'm not allowed to play video games. They ruin my life.

I can recall almost every single game I used to play. The love affair started with Pong, which one of the rich kids in my primary school used to bring to the "Last Day of School" party and we'd sit and fight over the controller. And this was 1985, Pong was past it even then. Uncool kids played Pong. Everyone else was playing Pac Man and Space Invaders but not me...I was addicted to those tiny "spank me" paddles.

We weren't well off enough to have a system at home, so I used to love going to the local swimming pool because they had those wicked table top games that you could just plunk the money into. Gorgeous stuff. I used to love going over to my friend K's house...I mean, loved the girl, but loved her Commodore 64 more. We'd play endless games, including one set at the seaside and involving a donkey. I have no idea what that one was called but man was it ever cool. The rewinding of the tapes and loading of the games didn't bother me, we'd just grab a snack and listen to the whir. Loved that Chuckie Egg!

Blessed was the day when I came home from my school computer class and told my Mum that school was selling off old BBC Micro's, and god love her, she said we could have one for 100 pounds. I had been learning how to "program" games onto it (I put "program" in quotes because it was really nothing of the sort. That was the programing where you go from line 10, to 20, to 30 etc) and I had learnt how to make mulitcoloured triangles flash on and off the screen. Totally addicted. The Micro had a green screen and had multiple Easter Eggs programmed in...you could get a poem by Roger Gough to appear randomly. I remember a couple of the lines "You hand me an olive branch" and "You cry crocodile tears". This was the coolest thing I had ever experienced. My favourite game was one called Elite, which to this day I still have no idea how to play. Your character was a starship trader, and all I did was go round and round in circles until I accidently got into a dogfight and was killed. Awesome.

We upgraded to an Archimedes shortly afterwards, which was the shiznat. The supreme of cool. However, we couldn't do anything with it, so I spent countless hours designing filing systems for files which did not yet exist. I believe I was about 13. I learnt how to use the draw program and would design houses.

The real bomb dropped when we got a Nintendo. I almost wept. We got a game where all you did was beat the crap out of each other (waaaay before Streetfighter or Mortal Kombat...ah, just get me started on THOSE!), I think it was called, appropriately, "Punch Out". Literally, the screen didn't move, you just kept on thwacking each other. Completely "da-bomb". We saved up enough to get Mario and then my world just exploded into video game heaven. Games that followed included E-Type (wicked in the extreme) and one with a motorcyle. We had entered a true golden age with the NES, the SNES and the gameboy, (one word for Bart vs. Camp Krusty...awesome), and I fell in love with Duck Hunt, Micro Machines, Bubble Bobble, Streetfighter, Mario Kart, Double Dragon, Hunt for Red October (uber-awesome), The Addams Family, Cal Ripkin's Baseball, Duck Tales, and Castlevania. I get confused as to what system supported what game, but it was pure wicked in cassette form.

I remember getting a personal computer from my Dad for University, a Compaq that was anything but. It was one of those all-in-one monstrosities, way before Mac made it look cool. The thing was a block of a computer and I loved it. I remember being asked if I wanted it to come with something called a "CD-ROM" drive. I said what the heck...I mean, I had never seen a CD-ROM before, but they assured me it was the next big thing and I believed them. More and more games came onto the PC market, moving from disk to CD. My favourite game of all time was Sam and Max, followed by the Day of the Tentacle and all of the Monkey Island series. I even had Sim City, which was just terrific. I also picked up games called the 13th Hour and the 7th Sense or something...horror puzzle games that would scare the beejesus out of me if I played alone in the dark. Fun times.

So, that's where it all began. On a whim one day, I decided to order an N64 off ebay, you know, relive the glory days and such for kicks. Big mistake. For the entire last summer and most of the fall, I was hooked to the thing like an IV...could...not...stop...playing. Eventually I hid it in a cupboard for my own good and went cold turkey, tried to go outside and refuel on the vitamin D I'd been missing out on.

Which brings us to this Saturday. Browsing the Blockbuster, they were selling off some old N64 games. And there it was...Donkey Kong. I had to have it. MF loved the game too, so off we went. $10 poorer, but oh so rich in other ways. And then I ruined the weekend. There it was, gorgeous and sunny at 28 degrees and I was inside playing a stupid game. Could...not...stop. MF blamed me for ruining the weekend and we had a huge fight...why oh why did I have to have that sweet gameplay? Why do I always cave?? Don't they know it ruins lives??!!

So the game, freshly bought, still with the price tag on it, is now hidden in the cupboard. Not to resurface until a rainy day (literally). That 64 bit machine is such a cruel mistress, and I remain her slave.

I have found THE DRESS!

I went to Ritche last night with L and spent a frustrating 40 minutes throwing on and off dresses. I eventually turned to the sales person and said "Are we running out of options?". I almost tried on everything in the store. Finally, and in desperation, she gave me a book of every single dress that have in the store and asked if there was anything I liked. I pointed to two dresses and she brought them in. The second she unzipped one of them, both L and I went "oooohhhh!" like two little girls seeing a tutu for the first time. It was perfect. And here it is...



Of course, it doesn't look like that on me...but after 7 months of the South Beach diet, who knows!

I don't know what to write...

...so I figured I'd just fire up a post and see what came out. The news tickers have quieted down now, and the weather report has returned to the BBC's homepage. I guess that symbolizes that everything is ok now, the weather is now front page material. I haven't cried yet, mostly because I would feel ridiculous doing so. My friends and family are accounted for, everyone in their houses and shortly, in their beds. Probably cuddling a little closer though. I have every reason and yet no right to cry. Crying should be reserved for those who lost or are hurt tonight. For me to cry, well, that would just feel selfish, people who truly have a right to shed a tear should do so. Not me.

I'm left with just a feeling of empty. An upturned jug. I saw my contents spill all around me and said to myself "Ah, so that's what I'm made of". Sitting here at work like a flipped turtle, soft underbelly exposed, not being able to wiggle my way back to upright because I almost don't know which way is up anymore. Why do people do this to other people? People shouldn't hurt other people. It goes against everything I need to be true, but it's not true, and I feel lost.

I'm not naive, I just wanted better for the world, wanted better for my friends and family who were trying to find each other this morning. I imagined it, this chain of hands from one to another to another, making ever decreasing circles until everyone was accounted for. Then we just stood there, holding friends, linked by email, expressing sorrow. I want better for all of us.

People shouldn't hurt people. No grace of God, anyones God, allows that. Show me a religion that preaches murder. There is none. We must not let narrow mindedness interfere with what we hold true. We must not retaliate. We must steel ourselves. We may not throw sticks. We may not call names.

I made my circles, tried to find which way is up, dusted down my skirts and got on with my day. I have reports due. Everyone has reports due. Life goes on after the dust comes off. We heal. We write reports.

I can't promise you I won't cry. They want to make me cry but I'll try my hardest not to. I just wanted better, for me. For us.

Aw, crap...

I read the news today, oh boy.

Nothing much to say right now really. I feel the simmering anger, but I think I just want to be sad for a while. Just for a few moments.

I hope that it was quick, that not too many people are suffering, and that those who are find peace or health soon. My thoughts are with all those in the UK, and especially my friends who I now have to track down one by one...ok, beginning to move into anger phase, so I'll be back later when I'm ready to go there.

My worst fear realized...

...and no, it doesn't involve oompa-loompas. Instead, it involves me having to go through the most bone-melting, gut-wrenching, bile-inducing process I can imagine.

Making a decision.

I hate making decisions. I'm a professional fence sitter. I'd rather say "I don't know" than speak my mind. Why, you may ask? I don't know.

The most dreaded conversations I've had usually involve what I want to have to eat. "What do you want to do for dinner? MF asks..."I don't know", I reply, because sushi, linguine with clams and white wine sauce or filet of beef with warm hollandaise usually isn't an option.

However, I DO have an opinion, but I can't give it. I know what my options are...if I want to cook, then the choices are quite expansive. If I don't want to cook, my choices are hamburger helper, pork chops (yes, just the chops), spaghetti bolognaise, or Shake and Bake. Vegetables do not feature in the meal plans. So I say "I don't know" to avoid making him feel bad that he won't be able to provide those things I DO want.

Anyhoo, I digress. I have to make a decision on the venue for our wedding. It will either be out-of-town upscale golf club or stunningly posh downtown hotel. Both are freaky expensive...both are wonderful in their own very unique way. The golf club will show the snow, is very accomodating, and seems to fit our style. The hotel is jaw droppingly stunning, and something I would never in a trillion years be able to afford if my Dad wasn't helping. But something about it is too ostentatious, too grand for us. Not that we don't deserve grand, we do, but it just screams "GRAND!".

So, that's decision number 1. Decision number 2 lies in the dress. Believe it or not, I'm going to Vera Wang on Saturday (me...in Vera Wang...seriously, I must be dreaming) and by mid-next week I'll need to choose a dress. Wouldn't be so bad if they didn't look so damn good on me. The assistant was in shock, saying that most people can't find one dress that looks good (and thus have an easy time of choosing when they find one that does). I am blessed and cursed with a perfect "bridal body"...almost designed to wear a big poofy meringue. It will be a frickin' chore trying to narrow down the choices...something I HATE to do at the best of time.

Just read what I had written above...oh poor me, having to choose a posh venue and a Vera Wang dress, wah wah wah. Ok, I'll shut up now.

We are living in a traditional world, and I am a traditional girl...

I have been called some things in my time ("Dime-a-dance whore" was my particular favourite...ah, she was just jealous) but I have never, ever been called *gasp* traditional.

It's a buzzword used in the wedding industry to imply in a very thinly gauzed way that you are boring. Is it my fault that I like an off-white, ballgown like dress ("Oh, so traditional" sighed the attendent), or white roses ("the most traditional of flowers"), or a nice meal ("beef tenderloin...the traditional wedding fare")? I feel as if my perfect wedding could have been planned by monkeys watching a couple of episodes of "The Wedding Story" on TLC...blindfolded.

Am I that predictable? Am I boring?

So what if I don't want to wear scarlet and carry a potted plant? So what if my cat doesn't act as ringbearer (seriously considered for 30 seconds...the "traditional" side of me must have thought I was getting too quirky and raised my rational thought levels to normal again). No, I don't want to get married in a nightclub and no, I don't want my attendents to wear go-go boots. Am I weird in my normalness?

That being said, there are some "traditional" elements that we will NOT be having, such as:

• NO showers (Brides orders...hey, I'm allowed to be bossy over some things right? I just don't like being fussed over is all, I don't need extra gifts, it just not a British thing, so many reasons not to)
• NO bouquet or (bletch) garter toss
• NO stupid games instead of clinking glasses
• NO "stripper DJ"...you know, the kind that sounds like he's going to break into "Welcome to the staaaagggge, Angiiiieeeeee" at any given opportunity.
• NO money box, money dance, money shower, or money anything. Sooo grabby.
• NO Jack and Jill as wedding fundraiser. Nothing like hitting your good friends up for cash.

Just good, honest, elegant, "traditional" fun. Oh, but I am going commando...stick that in your traditional craw, Ms. Bridal Store Attendent, and smoke it!

The Single Most Surreal Moment of My Life: 7.15pm June 30th 2005

When I tried on a wedding dress for the first time in my life. Shocking. I'm a bride!

I tried one on first because I thought it was "the one" from a photo I had found...and it really does look lovely. But after a few more dresses, I think I have found a different one that really looks fantastic. But if you've only tried on 10 or so dresses, how can you be sure that there isn't an even nicer one out there? I guess I'll keep looking and if none of them feels right, I'll go back to the first one.

I tried another one on and the salesperson asked if I wanted a crinoline, so I said "sure". It gives the skirt fullness (read: Disney Princess fullness). But I thought it looked funny and asked if I could take a quick walk in it to see if I looked like a rollerblading nun, or a Dalek. The salesperson took me out into the hallway, and I started walking down it. Then I stopped dead. There was a full length mirror at the end and I was watching myself walk up this "aisle". I almost passed out cold. Very surreal.

It's all becoming very, very real now.