You Paint My Fingers And You Paint My Toes

I feel I should clarify something before I continue with my story. I didn't paint my parents' living room because I'm a good person. I painted it out of spite. I painted it because I thought it would make my mom would feel like an asshole for leaving me at the airport when I am such a good daughter (a daughter who paints her living room!) There were no good thoughts while doing this good deed. There was a lot of bitter words and swearing. I don't want to misrepresent myself.

Right. So on with the story.

The first coat of paint looked horrible not because of the colour we chose - the colour choice was great - but because the bloody turquoise was showing through. It was to be expected; we didn't expect a light, buttery yellow to cover up the atrocity that was the turquoise walls.

turquoise!

My parents were due to pick up their dog from the kennel at 5pm on Saturday, meaning we had until 6pm Saturday to get the second coat on the walls. No problem, right?

Except that my parents came home a day early. Which meant that instead of walking into a house with a newly painted living room, my mom walked into this:

A giant fucking mess. The kitchen looked like this too. The den was packed with coffee tables and stacks of books. The reading room was overflowing with picture frames and plants. (Two things: 1 - yes, my parents have a "reading room" and yes, it makes my head melt a little. 2 - my parents have had those brown, corduroy couches for as long as I've been alive. They will probably never get rid of those couches.)

Remember the part where I said that my dad knew we were doing this? He didn't call ahead to warn us that they were headed home. Turtle and I took Friday off because we wanted a break from painting. Had we known my parents were coming home a day early, we would have powered on to try to finish as much as possible. We would have at least cleaned up the garbage and mess we left lying around the house.

So Saturday morning I head out to my parents' house with Turtle and her boyfriend to do the second coat of paint. Turtle had spoken to my mom earlier in the day and learned that my mom didn't like the colour we chose, so we knew we were walking into an awkward situation. We were completely unprepared for how spectacularly horrific it ended up being, though. My mom was as angry as I've ever seen her. I can't get into detail here because I don't want to record it; I don't want my angry reaction to come back and haunt my future self. I will say that it was frustrating to be locked in the bathroom, crying the ugly cry to the point where I had a nosebleed and the hiccups. It was my teenage years all over again.

My mom left and we decided to go ahead and do the second coat. We felt like doing the second coat would finish the room and we could put the furniture back in and make the room functional again. So that's what we did.

The room looks good. The second coat completely covered the turquoise and now the room is a beautiful, creamy yellow. We put everything back into the room and tidied the mess we had made. As we were finishing, my mom came home all sunny and happy and offered to make sandwiches for everyone. Pretending that everything is okay is what my family does. I am really not okay, though. I can't believe how far and how quickly the situation escalated.

I can understand my mom not liking the surprise. In hindsight, I can see how it could be construed as us being presumptuous to paint her living room. I can accept her not liking the colour we chose. I can't accept her reaction, though. She was hurtful and rude and just ... mean. She was mean to us and said horrible things and I don't know how to react. She sent half-assed apology emails to me and Turtle today but it was kind of a back-handed apology. Very "I'm sorry that you're upset" as opposed to "I'm sorry that I upset you."

So. A bit of family drama, just in time for months of family celebrations (September = Turtle's and Bow's birthdays, October = my birthday, November = my mom's birthday, December = Christmas, January = my Gram's birthday, February = my dad's and Westy's birthdays. That's a whole lot of awkward family dinners to suffer through, if this isn't resolved.)

Paint A Portrait Of My Mystery

Twelve years ago my family moved into the house my parents currently live in. Every room, from the pink kitchen to the bright blue bedrooms, needed to be painted. The living room was one of my mother's most hated rooms. It was painted a greenish/blueish colour, somewhere between a turquoise and a teal. It was as though the previous owner was trying to match the walls of the living room to the colour of his early 90's sedan.

Even though the colour of the living room was so hated, the difficulty of the painting (it has a high vaulted ceiling) combined with the difficulty in choosing a colour (my mother is the most indecisive person on the planet) meant that the room never got the makeover it needed. Which was sad because all of the family gatherings / birthdays / Christmas celebrations, etc take place in the living room, meaning all of our family photos have a teal background.

Turtle and I decided that as a surprise for my parents, we would paint the living room. We agonized over the colour choice (finally deciding on yellow after deliberating on every conceivable colour from the perspective of my mother, which by the way, was a ridiculous process. Sample conversation - Hillary: what about green? Turtle: Mom thinks green is a bad luck colour. Hillary: what the what?) So we made our colour choice and made our painting schedule based on us getting home from the Okanagan on Monday night and my parents staying until Saturday night.

And then my mom left me at the airport and I had all kinds of stabby feelings toward her.

Turtle talked me into continuing with our plan by saying that it would feel good to be the bigger person, yada yada yada. The real reason was that she had spoken to my dad about our secret plan and she didn't want me to look like a petulant bastard (even though I totally am a petulant bastard.) I mention this not to point out that Turtle is a liar who lies (I kid, I kid - Turtle is pretty much the only family member I like right now) but to mention that my dad knew we would be painting. Keep that in mind.

So all week, while I was seething at my mother, I was also painting her stupid living room. Did I mention that Shawn's dad is in town and I could have been spending time with him, going out for nice dinners and going on a road trip to Whistler? Did I mention that work has been particularly horrific for the last two weeks because I start a new position tomorrow (eep!) with a lot more responsibility and I need to actually know stuff? Painting my mother's living room is the last thing I wanted to do, is what I'm saying. But I did it. Turtle and her boyfriend and I spent hours on Wednesday and Thursday after work and managed to get the first coat finished.

It looked horrible.

... to be continued when I am feeling less ranty ...

And I Can Throw A Volkswagon A Whole Half Block

I went to a car show last weekend with Shawn because being married to Shawn sometimes means doing stupid shit that I don't care about. It's okay though, because this week Shawn is going to learn that being married to me sometimes means going to see The Time Traveller's Wife.

Anyway. The car show. The main reason I went was that Shawn's band played a few sets. I love watching Shawn rock out. I'm a bit of a groupie, I won't lie.


The dogs did not behave at the car show. Wolfgang barked at every single dog we encountered and Stella tried to roll in every stinky thing she could find.

Bringing the dogs was worth it though, if only because I managed to get what is possibly my favourite photo of Wolfgang ever:

He's cruisin' in his V-dub, yo.

The Lazy Sunbathers The Sun Burns Through To The Planet's Core And It Isn't Enough They Want More

You guys ... you guys! I bring on the crazy and you all bring out the lovely and here I am, a little verklempt. Thanks for talking me off yet another bloggy ledge. Same time, same place, next month?

I'm having a motherfucker of a day so I am unable to faff about for Friday Faff but let me point you in the direction of awesomeness:

Amanda wants to know: What's your bacon number? (mine is 4)

Lemon Gloria introduces baby Jordan.

Georgia makes me crave bread.

Right. In five hours I will be arriving in my favourite place in BC for three glorious days of sunshine, excessive Pimm's consumption, and hopefully a few bocce tournaments. I am beyond excited. I haven't peed from excitement yet but clearly that is a possibility.

Have a great weekend, lovelies!

I Know We Are, We Are The Lucky Ones, Dear

I took the puppies to my parents' house last weekend to let them run around the backyard.

The pups started chowing down on this plant. They could not get enough of it. It was hilarious.

Hilarious ... until we got home and the pups started vomiting. A lot.

A frantic phone call to my dad to find out the name of the plant and a frenzied google search later, I found this website.

I searched for the plant name (iris) and read that the worst symptom the pups could have was vomiting and/or diarrhoea. Considering that some plants can cause seizures or coma or kidney failure or death (eep!) it was like winning the fucking lottery.

I feel so stupid. I watched my pups eating the plant and didn't stop them. The situation was completely avoidable but because of my stupidity, my pups suffered through an afternoon of gastrointestinal distress.

The pups recovered 100% by the next morning but my anxiety level remains high. I can't watch my pups all the time or control every single thing that goes in their mouth, but I have learnt my lesson. If we ever manage to get out of our condo and into a house, I will be tearing up every plant on our property and replacing it with puppy-friendly foliage.

And I Wanna Think About All The Little Things That Piss You Off About Me

Dudes, I apologize in advance for this post. I feel it needs some sort of warning. Like, if you do not like pee, or do not like hearing about how people pee, you should probably not read this. Just trust me on this.

I am having quite the fucking day today. A day that resulted in me wanting to punch things. A day that started with the puppies waking me up a full hour before my alarm went off and ended with me eating a giant piece of key lime pie and crying. That's right; I am finished with today. Tuesday is officially over. Fuck the hours nine to midnight. I am done.

After my wake up call, I got to go to the doctor. Except that I still don't have a doctor so I've been going to a walk-in clinic. Which means that when a doctor there tells me to come back in a week for a follow up appointment, I'm unable to actually schedule one. I have to "walk in" and wait and there is nothing I hate more than waiting to see a doctor first thing in the morning before I have had my coffee. Don't they know I have important things to do first thing in the morning? All those blogs in my Reader aren't going to read themselves! So I wait to see the doctor and am told that I have the asthma. There's not a lot to say about it. It sucks but at the same time I'm happy that I now know what's going on with my wonky breathing.

The rest of my day consisted of many petty annoyances and some not so petty annoyances (read: family shite that is going to make me punch someone in the ear) that built layer upon layer of resentment until the highlight of my day, the grand finale, the pièce de fucking résistance, if you will: I ... there's no easy way to say this ... I peed on myself. At work. Two hours before I needed to interview two swanky-sounding women.

How did I pee on myself at work? It's a funny story, really. I'm sure that one day I will laugh at it. That day won't be today, obviously. Anyway, there are some fucked up acoustics in the women's bathroom in my office. It's a combination of a really old building, a completely floor-to-ceiling tiled bathroom, and a toilet with a bizarrely wide gap between the seat and where the water starts. When you pee in this bathroom, the noise is amplified throughout the office. It causes me stress. For a long time, I would try to not pee. ALL DAY. My kidneys hated me. Then I figured out a way to lessen the pee noise. It involves leaning back on the seat to try to pee on the front of the bowl, instead of directly into the water. And yes, I just described - vividly - how I pee. Sorry but as I mentioned, it has been a fucking DAY today. Also, it's important to throw a little bit of toilet paper in the bowl before you go, to create a pee buffer. Today I forgot the pee buffer, so mid-stream, I threw some toilet paper in the bowl. Except that it hit the pee-stream and pee splashed out all over my feet and pants.

Did I mention that I had to be the grown-up in a job interview after that?

I mopped up the best I could. The damage wasn't as bad as I originally thought; my pants were a bit damp at the back but they are black so it wasn't too noticeable. I was paranoid that I smelled like pee, though, so I sent out an SOS.

Turtle, my brilliant sister Turtle, suggested that I be extra-stern in my interview and look at the interviewees suspiciously, like maybe they smell like pee. This is why I love her.

Just Beat It Beat It Beat It Beat It No One Wants To Be Defeated - Take 8

I bought beets at last week's farmers' market. They were smaller and fresher than the beets I buy in the grocery store. They were so fresh, they still had the greens attached. I asked the farmers' market lady to remove the greens for me because they were too big to fit in my bag and it's not like I was going to eat them anyway. And then my mom's head melted. The farmers' market lady did not remove my beet greens. The beet greens went home with my mom. Apparently beet greens are very healthy for you and if you can buy them locally, they are fresh and tender and delicious. However. I did not make a resolution to eat beet greens once a month.

Look, Mom! No greens!

I boiled my beets and then sliced them and tossed them with olive oil, balsamic vinegar, and feta cheese and then threw them on top of a green salad. It pains me to say this but I ... well, I liked these beets. A lot. I'm going to say it was the addition of cheese that made these beets palatable but I have a horrible suspicion that I might be starting to like beets.

It's The Eye Of The Tiger It's The Thrill Of The Fight Risin' Up To The Challenge Of Our Rival

In response to The Discovery Channel's Shark Week, Maxie and Jenn have declared this Tiger Week.

There are many reasons why I prefer tigers to sharks (#1: tigers don't give me nightmares) but as I'm feeling rather sporty today (hockey pre-season starts in one month!) I thought I'd keep this sports-related.

Tigers -vs - Sharks: Sports Edition

When thinking of sports, what pops into your head when someone mentions tigers? Tiger Woods, described on Wikipedia as ranked "among the most successful golfers of all time." It's Wikipedia, people. Wikipedia does not lie.

And when someone mentions sharks? The San Jose Sharks, a hockey team that has never won the Stanley Cup (for non-hockey fans, winning the Stanley Cup is like winning the Super Bowl or ... whatever it is when you win the baseball.)

Let's recap:

Tiger Woods? Champion.

San Jose Sharks? Not champions. At all.

Tiger > Sharks

That is all.

You Can't Play On Broken Strings You Can't Feel Anything That Your Heart Don't Want To Feel

In Shawn's defence, I need to clarify a few things about yesterday's post.

Firstly, Shawn cleaned the pot. He was always going to clean the pot. The thought of not cleaning the pot did not cross his mind. However. I am a crazy lady. Cleaning the pot with soap was not enough. That pot needed to be scrubbed with baking soda, not because it was still dirty after being cleaned with soap but because it felt dirty. In my head. My crazy head.

Which brings me to my second point. If Shawn had boiled his bass strings in vinegar in one of my good pots when I was not home? I would not have known. The vinegar smell dissipated quickly and the pot was shiny and finger oil/grease/dirt-free by the time I emerged from my den of hatred (aka the bedroom.) This is what we call a Life Lesson, kids. If you're going to do something shady, do it when there are no witnesses. As my dad says, "It's better to ask for forgiveness than for permission."

Moving on. A few of you asked questions about the strings which I will try to answer, using my vast knowledge of musical instruments (or, um, Shawn's vast knowledge.)

The strings on Shawn's guitar are thin (and inexpensive.) Guitar strings generally break before they get gunky enough to require cleaning.

These are the strings on Shawn's 6-string bass:

The strings are thicker and cost about seven times what the guitar strings cost.

Also (warning: this gets a bit technical and I'm not going to lie, I have no idea what I'm talking about) bass strings are rounded up. This means that they consist of a core with metal wound around it in a tight spiral. This creates a lot of space for finger oil and grease and dirt to accumulate. This makes the strings sound dull. Boiling the strings in vinegar removes all the nastiness and results in a fresher sound.

And a very unhappy wife.

All Fiery Irish Clip And Curl All Brine And Piss And Vinegar

Shawn is boiling the strings for his bass guitars in vinegar.

In one of my good pots.

We have one pot that Shawn brought into the relationship that we have held onto for times like this. Is he using this crappy pot to boil his strings for his bass guitars? In vinegar? No. He is not.

I am trying very hard not to stab him right now. And throw up. I am trying very hard not to throw up (boiled vinegar smells disgusting, yo.)

Apparently boiling the strings in vinegar is the only way to efficiently clean them. Clean them of what? Finger oil and grease and dirt. All of which is now residing in my good pot. And yes, I know I can clean the pot. I know. But how many times will I have to clean the pot before I feel like I have sufficiently scrubbed away the finger oil and grease and dirt? I am unable to say.

I'll Kill Him With Karate That I Learned In Japan

The heat has officially left Vancouver and today is a gloomy, rainy Monday. That - and the limited sleep I got this weekend - has left me in a Friday Faff kind of mood.

* * * * *

Thank you for all your kind comments on my anniversary post. We had a great first anniversary. To kick things off, Shawn's Mom made us a fabulous barbecue dinner. On our actual anniversary, we had dinner at the Irish Pub where we got married and then went to the beach and ate cupcakes from the bakery where we got our wedding cupcakes. The next night, my mom and dad made us dinner. It was a bit odd - we were not expecting our families to participate in the anniversary celebrations - but very nice.

* * * * *

Shawn wants to shave Wolfgang's mohawk. I hid the clippers. It's a battle of wills.

* * * * *

I have decided not to part ways with my t-shirt collection. To celebrate, I wore this shirt to work on Friday:

* * * * *

I spent three hours at a farmers' market with my mom yesterday. Three hours is far too long to spend at a farmers' market, especially when you keep finding treats that you have to have. I came home with: ten pounds of blueberries, a giant bag of bell peppers, organic dog treats, paw balm for Wolfgang's cracked paws, a huge loaf of organic seed bread, a bottle of dried garlic, locally grown beets, and an awesome birthday present for Turtle that I can't reveal because she reads this blog. I could have spent hundreds of dollars. I am officially grounded from farmers' markets.

* * * * *

So. The reason I didn't get much sleep this weekend. I started taking karate (is it bad that I can't help but say it "kara-tay" like Ross?) My first class was Saturday morning and I spent the rest of the weekend in agony. My muscles HATE ME right now. I woke up at 4am on Sunday, writhing in pain from ROLLING OVER. I have the opportunity to go three times a week but I think I'm going to start off with once a week. At least until I stop wanting to die after each class.

Sing Me Spanish Techno

Shawn and I were out shopping on the weekend when he got a call and we had to go straight to the hospital. It's not my story to tell but I will say that everyone involved is okay and for once it wasn't me who needed the medical attention.

So. We go straight to the hospital.

It wasn't a hospital I'd been to (or heard of) before. We got a bit lost on the way there because the hospital is in the midst of a residential area and we didn't trust our navigation system as it took us along the winding, suburban streets.

We arrived and found Shawn's brother and the three of us entered the emergency room. It was a bit odd; the room was small-ish and very quiet. There were a lot of old people there, IV-pole in tow, and youngsters with sports injuries. We were the only people there in the mid-20's - mid-30's age range and we attracted a fair bit of attention. It wasn't until later that I realized why. Shawn was wearing a t-shirt with skulls and other skull-type things on it. His brother was wearing his motorcycle leathers. As for me, I was wearing this shirt:

(you can buy it here)

We were quite the motley crew, is what I'm saying.

It could have been worse. I could have been wearing my "MEAT IS MURDER. Tasty, tasty murder." shirt.

Sigh.

I guess the moral of this story is that I should throw out my t-shirt collection and start dressing like a grownup. The thought that I've reached that point in my life makes me die a little on the inside.

Held My Heart Deep In Hair Time To Shave Shave It Off

Last week, Great Vancouver experienced record-breaking heat. BC generally has a mild climate. Last week? NOT SO MILD. Vancouver recorded its hottest day in city history on Wednesday ... and then broke that record on Thursday.

In BC, the average home does not have an air-conditioner. We have two fans, which helped a lot, but our condo was still like a sauna. Every day we would shut the windows and blinds, direct a fan onto each of the puppies' crates, and leave them a bowl of water; and every day we would come home to two miserable puppies.

So I shaved Wolfgang.

He wouldn't let me do his legs much, and he was pretty pissed whenever I tried to get near his head, so he's looking a bit disproportionate.

Bobblehead!

The mohawk he's rocking is pretty fucking sweet, though.

I Never Thought I Could Love Anyone But Myself Now I Know I Can't Love Anyone But You

Dear Shawn,

One year ago, we did a little of this:

and a lot of this:

and a bit of this:

and, erm, just a little bit of this:

We laughed,

we cried,

we danced,

and at the end of the day we were married.

This past year has been a ride; we've had our ups and downs but I wouldn't change a thing. I love that you match my stubbornness and intensity; you don't let me stomp all over you and though it may not always seem like it, I do appreciate that you try to keep me steady. And I appreciate that you still love me when you fail to keep me steady.

You rock, dude. I hope our second year of marriage is as much fun as our first year.

Love, Hillary

She Told Me She'd Love Me Like Fireworks And That's The Way I Like It

Two years ago today, Shawn and I decided to walk down to the beach to watch the Celebration of Light (annual 4-day fireworks show in Vancouver.) Our old apartment was near the beach, so after work we grabbed a blanket and headed down.

We stopped on the way at Fatburger to eat dinner and I remember waiting forever for a table. When we left the restaurant the street was completely clogged. Cars aren't allowed into the West End on firework nights; it was just hoards of people all heading to the same destination.

We decided to screw the beach and watch the fireworks from our apartment. The view wasn't as clear as it would be from the beach, but we could put up with a few highrises in the way if it meant not having to deal with the gongshow on the beach.

We stopped at True Confections to pick up dessert. I got the lemon cheesecake. Shawn had something chocolatey. Because I always get the lemon cheesecake and Shawn always gets something chocolatey.

When we got home we sat in bed and watched the fireworks outside our window and ate our yummy desserts and Shawn asked me to marry him.

I don't remember all the sweet things he said but I do remember being so verklempt by the situation that I only managed to choke out "I guess so" as my answer. Yes, I said I GUESS SO when Shawn asked me to marry him. I will never live that down.

And then we took this horrible-quality picture that I love because I was so happy and (I'm assuming) Shawn was so happy and we have this horrible-quality picture to remind us of it. The end.