Fat Bottomed Girls, You Make The Rocking World Go Round

This post has been languishing as a draft for a few weeks. I was being a bit of a wiener about putting it up, so I'm scheduling it to post while I'm away (so I can't change my mind.)

Last year I had pneumonia and lost a bit of weight. Even though physically I felt like crap, it was the first time in a long time I felt happy with the way I looked. So of course it was completely logical for me to go out and buy my wedding dress. I bought my dress from a sample sale. Wedding dress samples are sewn for women who are 5'8" (which I just happen to be) so I ended up with a dress that fit me perfectly with no alterations needed (and for 60% off the regular price ... can someone please be as impressed with this as I am?)

Anyone who is more in touch with reality than I am knows that when you lose weight from being sick, you gain it back pretty quickly. Which I did. Then it was Christmas and I added even more weight. I cannot say no to baked goods. If there was a Baked Goods Anonymous I would be a member. A member that routinely slipped up and fell off the wagon, but a member nonetheless.

After Christmas I decided that I was going to take control. I know that I eat too much sugar. I know that I snack too much and make unhealthy snacking choices. I decided that rather than try a diet (which would be setting myself up for failure seeing as I have little to no willpower) I would come up with the Skinny Bitch Rules. For example:

Skinny Bitches eat salad with their dinner instead of garlic bread.

Skinny Bitches drink sparkling water with a twist of lime instead of pop.

Skinny Bitches do not drink midweek because that one glass of wine with dinner is just gratuitous calories.

Skinny Bitches walk the dog, every day.

Things were going well. The pair of jeans I bought at Christmas started to feel a bit large. My arm flap was less droopy. I started to feel good about myself.

But then the Crazy crept in and started twisting the Skinny Bitch Rules. All of a sudden, Skinny Bitches drink black coffee for breakfast and Skinny Bitches don't snack between meals. I saw Turtle last weekend and she told me that when she hugged me, I felt bony. I cannot describe how good that made me feel and how ashamed I am to admit it. I don't want being thin to feel like an accomplishment. I want to feel healthy and strong and, yes, thin. I've seen the term "fat skinny" floating around recently (but I don't know who coined it so I can't give credit where it's due.) This is what I am. I am not overweight but I am unhealthy. I doubt that I could run up a flight of stairs without being horrendously out of breath when I got to the top. I have no upper body strength. I have not lost weight healthily so my body is not balanced - I may feel bony up top but I am thick and jiggly on the bottom. Every day I become more and more pear-shaped.

The way I look shouldn't matter. I'm smart and funny and I make great cookies. I'm 5'8" - I will never be considered petite. I will never (healthily) weigh 100lbs. I need to get over it. I need to find balance. Somewhere between drinking black coffee for breakfast and eating pancakes with berries and cream for breakfast is my happy medium. My oatmeal with skim milk and cinnamon. My oatmeal is the place where I'm okay with being a different size on the bottom than I am on top. My oatmeal is the place where I'm happy with eating grilled vegetables instead of steak for dinner. I just need to figure out how to find my oatmeal.

'Cause Somebody Told Me Dreams Live In Mexico

Thanks to the post ahead function, I'm writing this on May 22nd and not publishing until May 26th (that is, if I don't mess it up.) If all goes as planned, by the time this is published I will be on a plane to Mexico. No worries though, I've been saving up my ranting, whining and general craziness for a few posts to be published while I'm away (I'm not cool enough for guest posters. Maybe 1 day. *sigh*) So stick around - I'll be home in a week and hopefully I'll have some cool stories / pictures to share.

"Meet Me In The Bathroom" That's What She Said

This is my bathroom before Bathroom Makeover 2008 took place:

When we moved in, Shawn "did" the bathroom. He hates bottles in the shower, so he put up the shelf beside the shower. I hated it. I hated how everything was out in plain sight (my bright red shampoo bottle is attractive, no?) I hated that the shelf got all mucky from shampoo leakage. I also hated the giant picture he put up just because it fit exactly in that space. And yes, that is a clear shower curtain. Well, shower curtain liner to be precise. One day, when I'm not crazy, we will have a real shower curtain. Until that day comes, we need a fully transparent shower curtain so that no-one can sneak up on me when I'm in the shower (I've never even seen Psycho so I have no idea where this came from.)

This is our bathroom after the redo:

Please note the mismatched towels. We've got a set of matching towels on our wedding registry and I think that having matched towels will be the thing that makes us feel like real grown ups. Can't wait.

I wanted to paint the bathroom red but I really didn't want to commit to doing 4 coats (I didn't know about tinted primer! Gah!) So it's green. It's a bit more minty than I wanted but I'm still happy with it. Do you love the tulip picture? I got it from Angella's Etsy store. And the shampoo bottles? In the shower (wahoo!) and replaced by lovely vanilla-scented candles.

PS: This is my 100th post! Yay me!

All This Whinin' And Cryin' And Pitchin' A Fit

Right, so um, S = Shawn and I = sheepish. And hungover.

Thank you for being such lovely people and making me laugh.

Last night I was so caught up in the drama and today? Totally over it. Jayne is a weiner and I'm done trying to be her friend for Shawn's sake. I feel so zen.

I Am Milk I Am Red Hot Kitchen

It's S's job to take out the recycling. He does not love taking out the recycling so he procrastinates, meaning that we end up with a mountain of recyclables in our front entrance. Last night we went through the familiar routine of me trying to balance a can on top of Mount Recyclable, followed by said recyclables tumbling down into a big messy pile, followed by me losing my shit, followed by S taking the recycling out.

So I'm in the kitchen and I hear Stella making the weirdest noise. She was actually groaning with pleasure. I look over and she's on her back, rubbing herself all over the floor. She was so spastic I thought she was having a seizure. I run over (to do what, I'm not sure) and the smell hits me. There was an old milk carton in the recycling bag that leaked when S moved it. There was a trail of stinky, spoiled milk from one end of the kitchen to the other and Stella was rubbing herself in it. I grabbed the paper towel and the cleaner and set about cleaning up the mess, when I realize that my puppy is missing. I follow the stench to the bedroom where I find her curled up in our bed, lost in some sort of stinky, spoiled milk induced ecstasy. In the 30 seconds that Stella was in our bed, the stench managed to permeate our sheets. S taking the recycling out (a 5 minute job) resulted in me scrubbing the kitchen floor, washing every bit of linen on our bed (including the duvet cover, which is annoying because then you have to stuff the duvet back in and I Hate stuffing the duvet back in its cover) and bathing the monster.

This is his argument as to why he shouldn't have to do the recycling. Cheeky bastard.

Our condo still smells like spoiled milk and Stella can't stop smelling herself.

And I Could Send You Pretty Flowers Have Them Waitin' At Your Door

Last weekend was sunny and hot and I thought summer had arrived. Yesterday I woke up to a thunder storm. It rained all day. Work was stressful because I'm trying to finish a few things before leaving for Mexico. I fell asleep on the train. And then? I walked in the door to these:


They're not from S (though that boy should be buying me flowers after all the effort I put into Festival of S.) Barnie sent them. Since getting word from J that Barnie wasn't doing too well, I've been calling him every Sunday. We don't have long conversations; the connection is never great and Barnie's hearing is failing. It's nice to speak to him though, to know that he's okay. He spends a good portion of every conversation complaining about his aches and pains, the inadequacy of his homecare workers and the weather. It's like old times, back in the pub. Lately he has started to talk about dying. It's difficult to hear him say that he probably won't be alive by the time I make it back to England. I listen though; I don't shush him. I wouldn't want to be silenced if I were in his position. If I were dying, I wouldn't be able to talk about anything else. So I let him tell me that he's not afraid to die. I agree with him that he's had a good, long life. All the while, fervently - selfishly - hoping that he hangs on just a little bit longer.

The card read "Thank you for caring. Love Barnie." No-one should ever feel the need to thank another for caring about them. It made me sad for Barnie, who has family who live a short drive away and yet spends every day alone.

And then Stella swooped in and saved me from becoming too emo:

Stella, standing on her back legs.

Stella, jumping roughly 3 times her own height. Seriously. I would not believe it if I didn't have photographic proof. I don't know what she has against flowers but they turn her into an even crazier monster than she usually is.

We Don't Want To Sleep Tonight

I just got home from work, 30 minutes later than usual. I fell asleep on the train and woke up 10 minutes past my usual stop. With a string of drool hanging from my lip.

That is the kind of day it's been.

See My Dealer For Contest Rules

The Over-Thinker is having a contest. Pretend I'm saying something witty here and not just shamelessly linking to it to earn another entry.

And You Can Soak Your Bread In Gravy

I told S that I was taking him out for dinner on Friday. Usually he's up for heading downtown but on Friday he felt lazy and wanted to order in. I ended up plying him with beer to make him want to go out, which meant that we were 45 minutes late to S's party and drunk by the time we got there. We are classy people. Being late meant that everyone was there, though, so it made for a good surprise. I thought that S had caught on but he says that he had no idea. Dinner was really nice - we went to a really cool brew pub that has excellent food (filet mignon for S, chicken satay skewers for me.) After dinner, we went back to a friend's condo for more drinky-drinks. Judging from this picture, we were in quite a state.

I think we were pulling our best Zoolander poses, but it's possible that we were just trying to look serious. Or sober. Clearly we failed.

The details get a bit fuzzy from this point on, but after a few hours at the condo we headed out to a bar. Nothing spectacular happened at the bar. After a bit, we left and headed to Fritz. Fritz is the best fast-food poutine place in Vancouver. If you live in Vancouver and you don't agree with me, I will fight you.

Just look at that cheesy, gravy yumminess.

Poutine = best ending to a night out.

The rest of the weekend was devoted to recovering from the nasty hangovers we woke up with Saturday morning. I managed to ignore my computer all weekend, which was nice. Not so nice, was opening up my Google Reader this morning and seeing how behind I am in my blog reading.

And My Gastrointestinal Festival's Best Of All

Festival of S: In Pictures

Stella unimpressed with her party garb

the fixin's

the finished product

Stella bonding with Uncle Westy

the boys eagerly anticipating FIRE (I'm not kidding - there was a fight over who got to light the sparklers)

30 seconds before the fire alarm went off

Deep Six Come To Bare

The lovely Angella (who also has two l's!) from Dutch Blitz tagged me with a “six random things” meme.

1. I am not a cat person. When I was a kid, we had an old cat named Smudgie who used to spend all day sleeping on top of the deep-freeze in our garage. One day (I was about 5 years old and it should be noted that Smudgie was probably about 12 years old so she can't really be blamed for her reaction. Also? I have no memory of whether Smudgie was a girl cat or a boy cat. Strange.) Turtle told me that Smudgie really liked it when people blew in her ear. So I walked up to poor, sleeping Smudgie and blew as hard as I could in her ear. And then experienced the scariest 2 seconds of my life as Smudgie bolted straight up into the air while silmutaneously swiping my head with her claws. So while I can appreciate the cuteness of kitties in pictures, in person I do not love them.

2. I am always tired. I have got sleep issues so I rarely feel well-rested. You know how sometimes you wake up after having a bad sleep and you feel all out of sorts? That's how I feel after a good night's sleep. I feel weird and different and it always takes a few minutes to realize that I feel weird because I'm not mind-numbingly tired. I talk in my sleep, often, and sometimes I sleepwalk. S used to be amused by it but now it's just annoying because it disturbs his sleep. Sometimes, if I'm really stressed, I have seizures in my sleep. S really loves that.

3. I wouldn't say that I'm a big fan of musicals but I have seen my fair share. Cabaret is, by far, the best musical ever written. I have seen it live 4 times. I've seen the movie countless times. I own the Original and New Broadway Cast Recording sountracks. I can sing every single song (in my horrible singing voice) and quote a lot of the dialogue. Go on, test me.

4. I was in a music video. My friend was the director so he put me in it. It involved a lot of standing around looking solemn, which somehow translated into me standing around looking constipated.

5. I have 2 sisters and a brother. Growing up, I was convinced that I was adopted. They all got along really well and I felt like the outsider. My adoption theory was seriously flawed though, as my siblings and I look ridiculously similar. We all have light brown hair and blue eyes and are tall. There are slight differences - Westy is more blonde than brunette, Bow got my Dad's nose while the rest of us were blessed with my Mom's nose, Turtle's hair is a bit darker than the rest of us - but there's no mistaking that we're related (which isn't a bad thing now but caused me immeasurable angst when I was a teenager.)

6. I love peanut butter & pickle sandwiches. There's something about the sweet peanut butter (it can't be healthy, natural peanut butter, it's got to be the sugary sweet stuff) and the tangy pickles (garlic pickles, to be specific) that pleases me to no end.

Right, so now I need to pick 6 people to play. Don't worry, I won't call you an asscock this time if you don't play along: Tiny E, Bing, Trish or Cory, July Bug, Alice and Thomas.

Every Day Is Your Birthday You're Such A Treat

Last year I took S zip-trekking for his birthday. I told him we were going to Whistler to go snowshoeing and S, being the champion that he is, managed to look excited (bless him.)

Whistler

The little blue dot is me

S ziptrekking his ass off

Sexy ziptrekking attire

Today he turns 30 so I wanted to give him something tangible. Something with meaning that he will have forever. I decided on a Trevor Linden Canucks jersey. Trevor Linden is S's heterosexual man love. Or, to quote S, Trevor Linden is his "boy, blue!" Yes, I do know that S is a nerd and yes, I do still love him. Linden is rumored to be retiring this year so it makes it even more special.

For tonight's Festival of S, we're having some friends over for burgers and beer and pecan pie (pecan pie is one of the requirements of Festival of S.) I'm hoping that tonight's gathering will prevent S from finding out about the Big Birthday Extravaganza planned for tomorrow night.

Happy Birthday S, you sure are hot (for an old guy.) Love you!

We watched American Gladiators last night for FOS (don't judge us - we record it and then skip through all the stupid shite, seriously it takes about 20 minutes to watch an hour long episode.) So the female contenders are fighting the female gladiators on the pyramid and S turns to me and says, "maybe they'll kiss." Cue the digusted look from me. He continues with, "well, it is Festival of S." Yes baby, it is Festival of S so maybe the planets will align and the female contenders and female gladiators will realize that they're lovers, not fighters, and you will be treated with a little girl-on-girl action for your birthday. If only life was really like that.

All Roads Lead Toward The Same Blocked Intersection

My sister Turtle is the smartest person I know. Not only is she smart, she's incredibly motivated and dedicated to her education. Today she is in Ottawa, defending her thesis. She's been working on her Master's Degree for 3 years and it all comes down to today. I am so proud of her. Turtle, if you're reading this, stop slacking off and start preparing for your presentation. Ha, I kid. Good luck today, lady. You rock. Call me when you're finished. I promise I won't screen your call like I did last night (I thought it was Mom & Dad calling.)

In other Turtle-related happenings, I have finally decided that I like The Mountain Goats. Turtle kept telling me to pick up their album but I resisted. I tend to give her no credit when it comes to music choices due to her love for The Weakerthans. I know I might get kicked out of Canada for admitting this, but I do not love The Weakerthans. I've never been able to get into them. Anyway, I picked up The Mountain Goats' album 'Heretic Pride' and it's pretty good. I have no idea how to describe it. Folk-rock? The lyrics are clever and sweet and make me want to listen closely so I don't miss something. The only negative thing I have to say about it is that I haven't been able to listen to the whole cd straight through. It's an album best enjoyed on random, interspersed with songs of other genres (in my opinion.)

S was really down this morning because it's his last day of being 29. He told me I have to "be extra nice to him today." I'm hoping that by "be extra nice" he means "go to Kristy's house to eat mac&cheese, drink vodka cocktails and watch the finale of America's Next Top Model."

But Whether Or Not My Message You Got Was Too Much Or Alot To Reply

My cellphone is broken. No, my voicemail is broken. This is making me very sad. At some point Friday night (I'm thinking -no, hoping - it was after a few triple gins and not before because then at least I have an excuse) I tried to check my voicemail. The club was really loud, though, and I was a bit, erm, tipsy so I was unsuccessful. It turns out that my seemingly random button-pushing was, in fact, some sort of magic code that turned my voicemail from a user-friendly (well, Hillary-friendly) English-speaking entity into a frustrating, Cantonese-speaking DEVIL. Saturday morning, when I checked my voicemail, I had the biggest WTF moment I've had in a while. I think the hangover exacerbated the level of wtf-ness. It's really disconcerting to call a number that you are familiar with and have a completely different outcome than what you're used to. It would be like calling your parents' number and having a complete stranger answer the phone. It throws you off. Anyway, I can still check my voicemail because I know the pattern. Call my voicemail, enter my password, press 1 to listen to messages, 4 to repeat, 7 to delete, 9 to save. Fine. But I don't know the pattern for changing my personal options. I don't know how to switch my voicemail back to English. I know that I can take my phone back to the store where I got it and get someone to help me. I just feel like such a dumbass. I can't be the only person this has ever happened to, right?

Yesterday's Festival of S activity was a yummy meal of bbq chicken, tomato salad and garlic bread. This pushed back our painting schedule but we still managed to finish. Our bathroom is now Distant Mountain. The paint chip is a greyish green but our bathroom is looking a bit minty right now. I'm hoping it dries darker. I really wanted to paint the bathroom red but I was dissuaded by the fact that red paint required 4 coats. I can't commit to 4 coats of paint. I couldn't deal with my bathroom being out of commission for an entire week. It's only been 2 days of applying makeup in the kitchen and I'm already going a bit batty.

This Boy's So Spectacular Not A Boy But A Wealthy Bachelor

I went to a dear friend's bachelorette party on Friday night. The details are a bit fuzzy (due to the fact that triples were the price of doubles so I drank triple gin & tonics all night. It makes financial sense people. Don't judge me.) I do remember K getting pulled up on stage at the comedy club and doing a hilarious dating-game sketch. I remember the waiter dropping garlic bread down the back of my shirt (shirt = ruined, Hillary = Very. Unhappy.) We rented a school bus for the evening because we had too many people for a limo. I think the highlight of my evening was when we were all drunkenly singing "The Wheels on the Bus Go Round and Round" and fighting over the lyrics. The low point of my evening would be when I decided to take the train home instead of taking a cab. The train part was fine, it was the getting from the train to my house part that was a bit dodgy. My neighbourhood is sketchy during the day. At night? It's scary. My Mom gave me a rape-alarm for Christmas so I was clutching that as I teetered home on my stilettos. It wasn't until the next morning (when I found the rape-alarm in my bed) that I realized that I hadn't taken the battery protector out of it so if I had actually needed the rape-alarm, it would have been useless. I made it home safely though, and managed to get myself to bed by 3. Stella woke me up at 6 (6! In the morning!) so I wrestled her into her crate and went back to sleep. S stumbled in at 8, having spent the night downtown after going to a friend's birthday party. Stella was whining so he let her out of the crate and then crashed. I had just about managed to fall back asleep when Stella decided to vomit. Under our bed. After a spirited round of "you clean it" "no, you clean it" we both fell asleep. Vomit untouched. This is why we don't have kids.

The rest of Saturday was a write-off. I have never seen S so hungover. He's convinced it's because he's getting old (his 30th birthday is on Thursday.) I'm convinced it's because he drank $80 in alcohol. Regardless, Saturday was spent lying on the couch or lying in bed moaning about how crappy we felt.

On Sunday we went out for lunch with S's mom and brother. My Mom is in Ontario right now, visiting her family, so Mother's Day is postponed until she gets back.

Yesterday kicked off the Festival of S. (Birthdays are a big deal in our house. Significant birthdays are a week-long affair.) Yesterday's F.O.S. activity was a trip to see Ironman. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the film. I didn't love it but I also didn't hate it. I'd heard that there was more movie after the credits so we sat through 5 minutes of credits (can someone tell me what the "additional second second assistant director" does? anyone?) for a 20 second clip. I didn't understand what all the fuss was about but according to S it's the Coolest Thing Ever. So, if you go see Ironman and you care about comic-book movies, stay until after the credits.

I still haven't figured out what to do for today's Festival of S. I might take the easy route and just make him a (quick) nice dinner. We're supposed to be painting the bathroom tonight, so I guess I could be a jerk and tell him that his F.O.S. activity is painting.

You're 'Bout As Reliable As Paper Shoes In Bad Weathers

Stella in her favourite place to be - nose-first in a stinky old shoe

Busted!

Shoe? What shoe?

So ashamed

Using the Jedi Mind Trick "you will let me chew the shoe"

Obedience school - worth every penny.

My Milkshake Brings All The Boys To The Yard

When I was a kid, whenever I had to have a needle my mother would take me out for a milkshake. Not a fastfood milkshake either; she took me to a restaurant that served milkshakes in a glass milkshake glass with the metal malt cup on the side. Milkshakes were a big deal in my house. My mother was very strict about what we ate. We were allowed 1 "special treat" a week - every Friday my older sister and I would sit down to watch Steve Urkel and split a (small) bag of (plain) potato chips and a "pop" (I say "pop" because it was never real pop, it was Koala Springs or some other sparkling juice.) Bribing us with sugar was a surefire way for my mother to get us to do something we didn't want to do.

I use this technique on myself now. I still have a fear of needles. Let me rephrase that, I still have a fear of medical needles. Pierce me, tattoo me, whatever - I'm fine. Inject me with something? Take my blood? I don't think so. I had to have blood taken this morning. I won't go into all the gory details but I will say that there was some hyperventilating and full-body shaking involved (but no tears - no tears! This is progress, my friends.) Clearly I deserve a special treat for making it through such a harrowing ordeal and I know exactly what said treat will be: Jamie Oliver's new cookbook.

I bought Jamie at Home last week for a friend's birthday. I haven't had a chance to give it to him yet, so all week it's been sitting in my kitchen begging for me to crack its spine and flip through its pages. I really wanted to buy it for myself but was having trouble justifying spending $30 on a cookbook when there's a plethora of free recipes on the internet. Five vials of blood has justified it for me. So thank you random thyroid issue for making the blood removal necessary and thank you Mom for teaching me justifying skills.

She's An Inspiration For My Graduation

Stella graduated from puppy school this week. Now she is edumacated. Words cannot express how proud I am. Also? Words cannot express the depth of my dread for the next round of puppy school.

Sport A Tigers Cap Like My Man Tom Selleck

My boss is meeting with Tom Selleck in the boardroom right now. He says his name is Steve, but I'm fairly certain he's lying to conceal his true identity. The alternative, of course, is that he's just some lucky bastard blessed with enviable good looks (and charm, oh the charm.) I'll try to get a picture with my cellphone camera but I make no promises.

Update: False alarm. Not the real Tom Selleck. Just this guy (scroll down - first column, fourth down.)

She Left A Note That Said, "I'm Sorry, I Had A Bad Day Again"

I had a plan to post every day in May, to see if I could do it. I've posted once so far; clearly, I cannot do it. Maybe I'll do it in June.

My weekend was terrible. I spent last week frantically trying to study for the exam I had to write on Saturday. By Friday I was feeling pretty crappy but I made myself go to work anyway (does anyone else feel a bit dodgy calling in sick on a Friday? I always feel like my boss is going to think I'm scamming a 3-day weekend.) So I force myself to get up, get dressed, get on the train, all while feeling like I've been run over by a truck. I get to work, vomit, and within 15 minutes of being at work I'm taking a $42 cab ride home (not that I'm complaining - I, erm, put it on my company credit card.) Friday was a write-off. The only thing I managed to do was head to the travel agent with S to book our trip to Mexico. Which was sold out. More on that later.

Saturday I wrote my exam. My plan was to not eat anything in the morning (the logic being that if I didn't eat anything, there would be nothing to throw up.) This was a bad plan. Not eating before an exam means that your hand shakes while you're writing it. Not writing the exam on Saturday wasn't an option because it would entail me getting a doctor's note, writing a letter to the university explaining why I couldn't write the exam, re-applying to write the exam and then worrying about it until the next exam period (in a month.) I wanted it to be over and done with so I wrote the exam. It wasn't too bad. I certainly didn't ace it but I'm not worried about failing it either. I'm so happy to be finished the course.

After the exam I went home and died. Only for an hour though because I had to get ready for S's show. The show went well (but I missed the first 3 songs because I couldn't find parking.) It wasn't great because I felt like shit and didn't really get a chance to talk to any of our friends who had come out, but S had a really good time and got a lot of positive feedback from the crowd.

I spent Sunday being lazy. I'm reading "Special Topics in Calamity Physics" right now and I'm really enjoying it. It's one of those books that you don't want to read too quickly because you don't want to it to be done.

Sunday was also spent having lots of bickery little fights with S. We're both stressed out right now and it's making us a bit prickly with each other. It's juvenile, I admit it, but the fight we're having is about Mexico. We've been planning to go away for months. S is turning 30 so I told him that he could pick where we're going. He couldn't decide between an Alaskan cruise or an all-inclusive Mexican holiday. About 6 weeks ago, I told him he had to make up his damn mind because we weren't going to have any options to choose from because everything would be booked. Still he hemmed and hawed. Two weeks ago, he asked me to get a quote on the Alaskan cruise, which I was happy to do because I work in front of a computer all day and he doesn't. I got the quote and had the cruise on a 24-hour hold. I told S he had a day to decide. He couldn't make up his damn mind until the day following the 24-hour hold. Of course the cruise was sold out. So we were left with Mexico. We went to the travel agent and got information on different resorts. There was a particular resort that we both liked but S still couldn't commit. We went home to think about it. On Friday we went to book the trip because S had finally decided that yes, this resort was perfect. Unfortunately, by this time the resort was booked up. All weekend we fought about the holiday debacle. It's resolved now - we changed our holiday time to the following week and were able to book in the resort we wanted. This means we're leaving in 3 weeks. I am beyond giddy at the thought of being on the beach in 3 weeks.

After posting about the skin product samples, I had a couple questions about my skin type. (If you're wondering if it's worth it for you to fill out the survey to get the samples, it should be noted that the samples I got were "for all skin types.") I've got really sensitive skin. Washing my face with plain water makes it splotchy and red. I use the Clinique 3-step regimen but it took a looong time to be able to use the "clairfying lotion" (toner) without my face feeling like it was peeling off. My skin is combination skin, but not the normal oily/dry combination. It's a dry/drier combination. My forehead, nose and chin are dry. My cheeks are drier. The toner is an essential part of the cleaning process because it removes all the flakes that would otherwise be clogging my pores and turning into zits (just thought I'd clarify why I made myself build up a resistance to the stuff that made my skin feel like it was peeling off. In case anyone was wondering.) Using a new product, like the kiwi scrub, is a bit of a gamble for me. I've had some pretty crappy reactions in the past (bright red, itchy, swelly reactions) but this doesn't prevent me from fulfilling my love of trying new beauty products.

I think that's all the randomness I can summon up for the moment, so I'll leave you with a picture of my puppy being a ragdoll:

Sweet Kiwi

My new favourite thing: Mario Badescu Kiwi Face Scrub

The look and smell of this face scrub make me want to eat it, even though I know that logically it will not taste very good. There's even little kiwi seeds in there (though I'm not convinced that they're real kiwi seeds. Aren't kiwi seeds more the size/shape of poppy seeds? These look like black sesame seeds. I'm calling bullshit on this one.) Even though it's called a scrub, it's not too abrasive. It was actually really soothing; it felt a bit cool when applied and was very creamy (in a non-greasy way.) The only downside to this scrub is that the faux kiwi seeds are a bit tough to rinse off and when you're drying off after your shower, and you find one on your leg, you might think you've got fleas. This is easily remedied by washing your face in the sink, not in the shower. Or by not being crazy.