Well You Know Some Days Are Aces And Some Days Are Faces Well Some Days Are 2's And 3's

Today is a 2. Well, maybe a 3. It is Friday and the sun is shining. Throw in a Canucks victory tonight and I might even bump today up to a 4.

Shawn and I had big plans to change our food habits (both in the eating and preparing department.) Big plans that were derailed by one night. One night following a bad day that resulted in both of us feeling cranky and unappreciated. The combination of cranky + unappreciated is a pernicious one, made especially deadly when both of us feel that way. We were both very shouty last night is what I'm saying.

My blog is not a place for me to write a list of Shawn's flaws (because clearly last night was all his fault) (*sarcasm*) but it is a place where I strive for honesty. I read some blogs that are all sunshine! rainbows! unicorns! happyhappyhappy! and I wonder how honest those bloggers are being. I mean, really? You never fight? Everything is always perfect? I'm not judging them I just feel ... inadequate. I'm judging myself, I guess. It's silly. Shawn and I are both fiery people. We fight. We also love each other. It's just hard to remember the love bit when in the midst of a heated discussion about whose turn it is to unload the damn dishwasher (ps: it was his turn. Who ended up unloading it? Me. Who dramatically sighed and huffed her way through the entire process? Also me. I'm not proud.)

Jennie wrote a post this week that really struck a nerve with me. This in particular really made me think: "Every day I want to be better. He may not do the dishes, but he deserves that much from me." Last night I did not try to be better. Last night I fought with gritted teeth and sharp words.

It's difficult, sometimes, to see the big picture. I get tangled up in the here and now and when the here and now is arduous (like it was last night) I tend to think that it will always be arduous. It takes effort to pull myself out of the mire so I don't. I sit and I stew and I prove myself right. It's ridiculous and laborious and if I could think of any more "ous" words I would write them here. Strenuous? Ludicrous? Hilarious? I think it's pretty safe to say that I don't really know where I'm going with this post at this point and I should just stop typing.

Happy Friday, peeps! I hope that your weekend is all happyhappyhappy! with lots of sunshine! rainbows! and unicorns!

PS: Go Canucks!

For I Think I Lost Direction When You Threw Me Out Of Bed

I jumped out of bed yesterday morning and shook Shawn awake in one fluid motion. "It's 8 o'clock-I'm late-I have to shower-can you please deal with the dogs" I shouted as I ran out of the bedroom. He mumbled something sleepily in reply but I didn't hear him; I was already in the bathroom. I was furiously rinsing suds out of my hair when Shawn poked his head around the shower curtain. "Baby," he said gently, "it's quarter to seven. You don't need to rush." I rarely remember my dreams so when I do I have a hard time differentiating between them and real life. I dreamt that I was an hour late so when I woke up, I woke up in a panic and didn't stop to think.

Yesterday was rough. My mom had surgery in the morning and my brother jumped out of a plane (in Hawaii!) in the afternoon. The two events had nothing to do with each other; it was just an unfortunate coincidence that they happened on the same day. It's not surprising that that I woke up the way that I did. It's also not surprising that I spent the day in a similar state of frenetic energy. It's days like yesterday that make me realize how deeply my life is affected by my anxiety. There were times yesterday when I wasn't functioning because I was too busy envisioning a freak gust of wind carrying my brother out to shark-infested waters or other macabre scenarios.

I'm happy to report that everyone is alive and well. My mom's surgery went well and she is expected to be released from the hospital tomorrow and my brother managed to skydive without being eaten by sharks.

And I woke up at the correct time today and hit the snooze button a few times for good measure.

And As Soon As You Have Rearranged The Mess In Your Head He Will Show Up Looking Sane Perfectly Sane If I Know Crazy

My anxiety is difficult for me to explain to most people. I get "what are you so worried about?" a lot. Also "you just need to relax" (stabby stab stab.) The thing is, I'm not worried. To be worried implies a thought process. When I walk into a room full of strangers, I am not worried that they won't like me or that I won't have anything to talk about or that I'll say the wrong things. I am not worried. I am not thinking, period. I am trying to remember to breathe because I feel light-headed and dizzy. I am trying to focus on putting one foot in front of the other because my knees feel like jelly. I am trying to unstick my tongue from the roof of my mouth. I am in survival mode, trying to quell the flight and embrace the fight (though I know that walking into a room full of people I don't know doesn't necessitate a "fight," my anxiety feels very primitive to me.) I don't let my anxiety stop me from walking into a room full of strangers, though. I walk into the room and I die a little on the inside as I talk too quickly and laugh too loudly and drink too much gin and smile too widely and sometimes I think that I'm pulling it off, I'm fooling people into thinking that I'm just a normal person having a normal night out.

* * * * *

Part of the review process at the sleep disorder clinic was an appointment with a psychiatrist. Before I could be admitted to the program it needed to be confirmed that I sometimes feel sad and blue because I am tired because of the sleeping issues, and not that I suffer from depression which causes sleepiness and lethargy in some people. So I met with the psychiatrist and we talked about how I sleep and the problems I have and the triggers I have identified. At the end of our appointment, the psychiatrist told me that I would be accepted into the program (happy face!) She also told me that when I am finished with the sleep disorder program, perhaps I should consider treatment for my anxiety disorder which she feels is unrelated to my sleeping issues but is obviously having a negative effect on my quality of life. And then I cried a little because I hadn't spoken to the psychiatrist about my anxiety. Sure she's a medical professional trained to identify mental illness, but I couldn't help feeling exposed. I thought I was quirky and maybe a little high-strung but after spending only one hour with the psychiatrist she could see that I am crazy.

Crazy: a word I use to describe myself to diminish the impact it has when others use it against me; a word that now feels tainted and wrong coming out of my mouth.

* * * * *

I wanted to talk about TequilaCon and how fun it was and how fantastic it was to meet people I've long thought were rad, only to find out that they are ten times as rad in person as they are on the internet. I wanted to talk about how proud I am of myself for going to a pub, alone, to meet up with a group of people who aren't strangers but the majority of whom I've never met before. I wanted to tell you about the giggles and the mooosetashes and the poutine and instead I'm all angsty and wrapped up in my own head. I blame the rain.

And Somehow In All The Madness I Thought That I was Seeing Straight It Ain't Always Pretty But It Seemed There Was No Other Way

I am having a spectacularly rotten day today. I keep thinking that things can only improve; Monday keeps proving me wrong. So far I have cried in my doctor's office (because instead of the mean doctor I got the kind doctor and she was so lovely and nice to me and I was feeling so horrid that I cried), at the lab after my blood test (because the technician was a bit evil and I bled for five minutes after she mangled my vein), and three times in the bathroom at work (because I just want to be at home in bed.) I'm not usually a crier. I'm more of a get mad and rant and rave and swear til I'm blue in the face-er. Today I am a weepy, snuffly mess. It is ridiculous.

At some point it will get better. I know this. It's just ... right now I'm alternating between feeling sorry for myself and feeling angry at myself for being such a whiny mess. Fun times, right?

This is where you come in, peeps. Tell me about your own terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day to remind me that I've actually got it pretty good. Everyone who comments is entered to win these silly mustache cupcake toppers from my etsy shop.


Winner will be announced on Friday (and will likely be chosen by random.org because picking a winner makes me anxious.)

So I Hid My Soiled Hands Behind My Back Somewhere Along The line I Must've Gone Off Track With You

In the last few days I have been an inconsiderate ass both on and off the internet. It makes my heart ache to know that I have caused hurt feelings or bruised egos or frustration. Knowing that someone I care about is vexed because of me makes me want to shrivel up and hide in a dark hole. It doesn't matter that my intent was in no way malicious, I am still angry at myself for my thoughtless blunders. It's silly; I carry around the guilt and negativity long after I've apologized and been forgiven. It's neither healthy nor productive yet here I am, feeling sad and blue and worthless.

* * *

This morning Shawn was driving on the highway behind a garbage truck when a large piece of metal flew out of the back of the truck and hit our car. Shawn is okay (which is all that matters in this situation) but our car is not. Literally last night we had a discussion about how money is a bit tight this month due to vet bills and our upcoming property tax bill.

* * *

Today is not a good day but I can't help but smile when I watch this video. I don't know much about Chatroulette and I'm not interested in finding out more (I feel like there is probably a lot of naked man junk floating around) but it makes me happy that there are people like Merton out there making the world a funnier place.

Who's Getting Scared Now

I'm going to see my doctor today. The same doctor who I swore I would never see again.

My search for a new doctor has been completely unsuccessful. After whittling away at my list of deal breakers, I was left with just one: I will not travel for more than half an hour to see my doctor. I cannot find a doctor within half an hour's travel time from either my home or my office, so I'm left with my doctor who made me cry.

I'm trying to be positive. I haven't seen her in over a year. Maybe she won't remember our last appointment.

I'm putting this on the internet for accountability. I've spent the morning trying to come up with valid reasons why I should not go to this appointment. I need the internet to kick my ass if I don't go.

This Ordinary Mind Is Broken

Various events have left me feeling ... discombobulated. Just when I think I've fought my way back to centre, something happens to make me realize that things are still a bit off-kilter. Like when I searched for my lost wallet all day and then, after giving up hope of ever seeing it again, found it on a stack of old books on my bookshelf. Or like how I knocked a knife off the counter and then tried to catch it mid-air, slicing my thumb in three places in the process. My brain is working at half-speed, it seems. I blame it on the rain.

Bringing a massive smile to my face today is Ben and his tit-o-grams (don't blame Ben for the crassness, please. I couldn't resist.) Please, if you have a moment or two, read Ben's entry and help out if you can. I wish I lived in Halifax so I could eat one of Ben's boobies. Yeah. I went there.

When That Blue Heartache Starts Hurtin'

I remember family excursions to the Christmas tree farm. My siblings and I hunt for the perfect tree (we want height while my mom goes for fullness. She always wins.) My dad cuts the tree down with a hacksaw while we drink watery hot chocolate. My parents bind the tree to the roof of our station wagon - my mom flitting about with excessive amounts of yellow rope, my dad trying not to swear too much.

* * * * *

When I am eleven, my dad is living in Germany. My mom, attempting a return to normalcy, makes the trek out to the Christmas tree farm. I go with her, not out of love or respect for tradition but because she bribes me with a sundae from McDonalds. We manage to find a tree and cut it down and attach it to the roof of the car by ourselves - we are women, hear us roar. That night after we have screwed the tree into the stand and set it up in the family room and decorated it with years' worth of accumulated trinkets, the tree falls over onto the piano.

* * * * *

I remember Christmas dinner at my aunt's house. My mom's family is back east so we spend every holiday dinner at my dad's sister's house, avoiding her abusive husband and
dodging our maniacal cousin. We eat piles of ambrosia salad - the night's only redeeming quality and my first memory of emotional eating. When I am 20 my cousin dies and we start eating Christmas dinner at my parents' house, immediate family only.

* * * * *

It's a tired subject, but it seems that Christmas hits the stores earlier than the year before. Hallowe'en isn't over yet but Christmas paraphernalia already runs rampant and I can feel my Christmas Funk beginning. I don't know how to prevent it.

Now My Feet Won't Touch The Ground Now My Head Won't Stop

I do karate barefoot on mats that are covered in sweat daily and cleaned not so daily. The mats are sticky in places and smell bad, is what I'm saying. I try not to think about the mats when I'm standing on them.

I get home from karate and I go straight to the bathroom to clean my feet. First I douse them with rubbing alcohol. Then I have a shower and spend a few minutes scrubbing my feet with soap. Then I dry off and do another round of rubbing alcohol.

It's not the germs I worry about. It's not the sweat of strangers lingering on my feet that makes me clenchy. I've never had any sort of foot disease that has scared me senseless. It's just ... why not clean my feet? It takes five minutes. It seems logical to me to spend five minutes cleaning my feet to prevent any sort of foot mushrooms or toe plague or whatever it is I could contract from standing on scummy flooring. It doesn't seem abnormal to me.

But ... Shawn doesn't clean his feet after karate. He comes home and has a shower and cracks open a beer or checks his email or plays with the pups. He doesn't think about what could be growing on his feet. He doesn't worry that his toenails are going to fall out.

It makes me mistrust my brain. It makes me worry that maybe I'm reacting too strongly to other situations. Like the motorcycle.

Shawn took a professional motorcycle safety course that provided ten hours of classroom training and twenty hours of road training. He bought a jacket with armour in it, gloves, boots, and a full helmet with a face shield. He bought a motorcycle with an engine that matches his skill level. And yet ... I worry. I worry about things that I can't articulate because writing them down makes them more real.

At the same time, I'm concerned that my anxiety is an overreaction. Like the karate feet. I'm worried about my worry. Feel free to sympathize with Shawn; the internal drama has made me a very unpleasant person to live with lately. Which is frustrating because I don't want to be mad about this. I don't want to be the shrewish wife who doesn't let her husband have any fun. But I kind of don't want him to have any fun if his idea of fun could result in him getting smushed.

Lift The Bad Weight Off Your Mullet And Let The Thoughts Fall Off Your Tongue

I am between stylists right now, which is probably a bad time for me to decide to do something drastic to my hair. I'm not a huge fan of rationality or logic though, so Saturday morning I went to the mall and got my hair cut. I know, right? The mall. I haven't had a mall haircut since ... I don't even know. Which is snobby. I mean, whose to say that you can't get a fabulous haircut at the mall? Maybe I would discover a hidden gem who gives amazing haircuts and only charges $30. Or maybe I would end up paying $50 for a mullet.

This is my hair before the mulletization.

And this is my mullet.

Not too mullety, right? However, it took about half an hour of intense styling with three different styling tools and many hair products to get it to look like this. Mullet camouflage is time consuming.

I asked for very little layering because my hair is fine and goes a bit wonky with layers. My "mall gem" interpreted this to mean that I wanted many layers. Many short layers. Many mullety layers. And I don't even know what to say about the bangs.

Let's just say I will be wearing a ponytail until the mullet grows out.

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.

I Woke Up In A Strange Place Music So Loud That I Spilled All My Beer

Gastown has never been a place we considered moving to. It's too far from my friends in the West End and Shawn's friends in Yaletown. It's right on the edge of where downtown becomes very seedy and not particularly safe.

Shawn spent the weekend in a studio in Gastown and came home raving about the heritage buildings and cobblestone streets. His enthusiasm is infectious and my dreams of gardens and space for the puppies have turned to dreams of brick walls and converted lofts and exposed beams. Yes, in two days my dreams have changed.

Lisa commented on Monday's post, calling my volte-face "caprice." I like that. It sounds so much better than "fickle" or "flighty" or "fucking impossible to please, Hillary, make up your damn mind already."

Ahem.

There is a quote by Horace that resonates with me. "Romae rus optas, absentem rusticus urbem tollis ad astra levis" loosely translated as: In Rome you long for the country, in the country you laud the distant city to the stars.

I grew up in the suburbs and couldn't wait to move to the city. I lived in the city and craved the countryside. I lived in England and ached for Vancouver. I live in BC and I long for England. It's frustrating for those who have to put up with me, yes, but it is even more frustrating to be the one who feels this way. It's not about wanting more or never being satisfied. It's about wanting to feel settled. Wanting to feel like I am home.

Which is a bit silly, right? I know that a perfect location does not equal a perfect home or a settled home or settled mind. But there is still a small part of me that hopes it does.

Put On Your Dancing Shoes You Sexy Little Swine

Hey remember that time I was all whiny and annoying about having to go on a fabulous trip to Mexico?

Our trip has been cancelled and I am officially the biggest arsehole for complaining about it in the first place.

We were due to leave in eleven days. The bride and groom found out eleven days before their wedding that it has been cancelled for reasons beyond their control. I guess I should just be glad that they don't read my blog.

I'll just go hang my head in shame now.

Arrogant To Flaunt It Since We Fell In Love With A Bad Idea

I had just gotten over the aches and pains and gastrointestinal distress of last week's stomach flu when I felt a cold coming on. The aches and pains are back, paired with an unbearably sore throat and punishing cough. Not to be confused with my allergies, which are causing sinus pressure like you wouldn't believe and the itchiest of itchy eyes. I realize that this is all sounding very waaah poor fucking me and my stupid achy body but you know what? I am feeling very waaah poor fucking me and my stupid achy body. So, uh, sorry?

I dragged myself into work this morning because I was unsure if my deathly-ill coworker would make it in or not. My boss came in shortly after I did and he was in a mood so I tried to steer clear of him. My deathly-ill coworker followed soon after that, still deathly ill, and she was also in a mood. Fun times. I found out later that both moods were caused by my deathly-ill coworker trying to (legitimately) call in sick and being told that it didn't matter how sick she was, she was working today.  Work was tense, today. More tense than it usually is.

So today was rough, to say the least. Exacerbated by the fact that Shawn and I are a bit touchy right now (I know my monthiversary post is a little late this month but honestly, if I tried to write it right now it would look a little like this:

Dear Shawn,

Happy 8 Monthiversary! 

I kind of want to stab you in the ear right now.

Love Hillary)

So yes, Monday sucked. I was sick, I was tired, I was feeling a little blue, so what did I do? I got a fucking hair cut. 

I have gone to the same stylist for years now. Since I started seeing him he's moved and I've moved and it's now a 45 minute drive (each way!) to get my hair done. Which means that I normally skip the in-between hair cuts and just get it done when I get my highlights done. Which, since becoming all frugal and shite, hasn't been since before the wedding. Yes, I've got 9-month old roots happening people and it is sex-ay. Every time I see this guy, Turtle tells me to be strong. Don't buckle. Don't get the most fucking expensive thing done to my hair and every time I go, I call her afterwards and cry because I drove a long fucking way and it took forever and he managed to talk me into the full head of highlights again (every time I go, he comments on how "mousy" my natural colour is) and I spent 200 fucking dollars. And it looks baaaad. So today I went to a shop nearby. A shop where you can't even make an appointment, you just go in and whoever is available cuts your hair. There is no complimentary coffee and no soothing soundtrack but what it lacks in ambiance it makes up for in frugality. I tipped 25% and my total was still only $20. Twenty dollars!

Anyway, not only did I decide that a haircut in my fragile state was a Great! Idea!, I also decided that today - TODAY - was the day for bangs. I have not had bangs since I was ten years old and I accidentally got my friend's round brush stuck in the front portion of my hair and had to cut it off. And that doesn't really count because it wasn't real bangs, just a large chunk of really short hair that stood straight up. Good lord, I just realized that I had a fucking mullet. Hmm. I'm going to have to try to find pictures of this. 

Right. So Bad Idea #1 was going to get a haircut when I was already pissed off and weepy. Bad Idea #2 was requesting bangs. Bad Idea #3 was eating two ice cream sandwiches for dinner but I'm not sorry about that one. Fuck. I'm going to go cuddle my puppies now. They don't care how stupid my hair looks. 

So Let Me Carry On This You Sit Back And Vomit

Oh stomach, why must
you be so volatile? The
vomit needs to stop.

As for my achy
joints and feverish brow: you
are not welcome here.

Though I have to say,
the appearance of my hip
bones is a bonus.

Fools In Their Madness All Around Know That The Light Don't Sleep

To say that I do not cope well with stress is not entirely accurate as it implies that I cope to a certain degree.

This week has been a mishmash of various stresses (lessons learned this week: occasionally a key employee will get sick at an extremely inopportune time hence, backup plans should be in place as trial and error is not the best method when it comes to learning how to do a company's year end financials; Wolfgang is a lying bastard and should not be trusted when he acts all housebroken and obedient (fluids to hit my sheets this week: vomit x 1 and pee x 2); eating ice cream for dinner will not make you feel better, especially if eaten while watching skinny bitches on America's Next Top Model.)

Throw in a nightly wakeup call from Wolfgang (hereafter referred to as Whiny Asshole) a week of rainy weather and you get a very shouty Hillary. (You get an especially shouty Hillary if you let Whiny Asshole play on the bed, even though you were left explicit instructions to not let him play on the bed due to his inability to keep his bodily fluids to himself, as evidenced by the giant puddle of pee found on the bed last night.)

Calling this week "rough" is a gross understatement.

However. In an hour I will leave the office. In two hours I will be at home, barbecuing burgers (rain be damned!) and watching the hockey game with friends. And in roughly 8 hours? I will be asleep in my (hopefully!) pee-free bed. This week kicked my ass but it's Friday now, which means gin-yes, stress-no.

Fine Place For A Day Full Of Breakdowns Takes More Than A Meltdown To Show Us How

I'm not sure if I need to point this out, but stress management? Is not one of my strengths.

The past two weeks have been stressful to say the least. Shawn's job (which we thought was secure) started to get a bit dodgy. Last Friday, after a week and a half of uncertainty, Shawn lost his job. Partly because of the economy and partly because of his shady boss but whatever the reason, the outcome remains the same - Shawn is officially unemployed.

The plan has always been that he would one day start his own business. We thought that maybe this was an opportunity (a sign? a kick in the pants?) to start the ball rolling. We threw around a few ideas - moving to Kelowna to start the business in a city with less competition, selling our condo and moving back into downtown Vancouver to be right in the thick of things - but in the end we decided to stay put. Shawn is an audio video designer; he designs elaborate entertainment systems and sells the equipment required to complete them. He deals in luxury goods. Luxury is the devil right now. People can't get far enough away from luxury. So plans for Shawn's business have been put on hold and his job search has begun.

Shawn's unemployment + me being absolutely convinced that I was pregnant = a Very Stressful Time for us. Fortunately, my womb is blissfully empty (Tia, I am choosing to ignore you and your "false negative" warning) and Shawn has a job interview lined up for tomorrow. He's lucky that he has a lot of contacts in the industry and managed to finagle a job interview for a position that he knows is unfilled. If offered this job, he will be taking a 20% pay decrease from his last position, which sucks but isn't the end of the world.

Which brings me to yesterday and my meltdown.

Yesterday I had a job interview.

And that is pretty much all I can say about that. I wish I could say more because my brain is bursting, but I can't. I'm kind of peeing my pants right now, but in a good way. The bad stress has turned to good stress all of a sudden and I think I can return to my regularly scheduled program of lentils and vegetables for lunch instead of licorice and cookies.

Shawn and I went to our favourite restaurant last night and ate burgers and poutine (sober poutine is almost as good as drunken poutine - who knew?) and talked about everything that's happening right now. We don't have a game plan but we have a few ideas. It feels good to know that we're in this thing together, that even if I stay at my soul-sucking job, at the end of each day I get to come home to an amazing man and two insane yet adorable puppies and we'll make it work somehow. I feel so lucky and optimistic that this is all going to work out. That's not to say that there won't be more crying or head-melting, I mean I am who I am and let's face it - I may not have stress management skills but when it comes to overreacting and dramatizing even the smallest situation? I'm your gal. Stay tuned for more crazy ...

Distracted By Irrelevance The Stress And The Tension

Big things are happening right now. Big, stressful things that I can't really talk about right now.

Oh, and before anyone asks, no I am not pregnant. Just because I am a newlywed doesn't mean that I'm gagging to procreate. (Except that, um, last week I thought I might be pregnant. And that was contributing to the Big! Stressful! things. But it's okay, Saturday morning I peed on a stick and three horrible minutes later, Shawn and I high-fived enthusiastically and repeatedly when only one line showed up instead of two.)

So, right. Big stressful (non-pregnancy related) things are happening.

I knew that I was stressed (the headaches and stomachaches and the completely bizarre cryings jags tipped me off. What constitutes a completely bizarre crying jag? Crying because your puppy has toenails. The toenails didn't scratch me, or Stella, or anything else. It wasn't because I had to cut the toenails (though that does suck.) The crying was due to the fact that Wolfgang is a skinny puppy. No matter what we do, he stays skinny. We increased his food intake. We put him on a high-protein food. We feed him treats like nobody's business. And yet, he is rail-thin. But his toenails! They don't stop growing! His toenails grow freakishly fast. And this is what the crying was about - I feel like all the effort we put into making Wolfgang gain weight is directly related to how fast his toenails grow. Like the extra protein in the high-protein puppy food is making him grow monster claws instead of a round puppy belly. And so, the crying.)

Anyway.

I didn't realize how stressed I was until just now. I went out to grab lunch and ended up in the drugstore. I was on my cell with Shawn so I wasn't really paying attention to what I was buying - I just went up the food aisle and threw a few things in my basket, paid, and left. I just got back to the office and opened my bag to see what I bought. I give you, my lunch:

1 bag pretzels
1 package of licorice
1 package of those yummy cream cookies with the red jelly centre
1 bag roasted, salted almonds
1 Skor bar
1 Coke

Yes, I'll take my stress with a side of diabetes and high blood pressure, please.

I have a Big! Stressful! potentially life-changing meeting in one hour and if I eat this lunch, I will die. I'm thinking I should eat the almonds for the protein and drink the Coke for its sweet, glorious caffeine and leave the rest. There's a pot of yogurt in the fridge that I can steal (and replace tomorrow - I know my office etiquette) and I think that will tide me over until I grab some real food. The problem is that when I'm stressed, I crave sugary foods (clearly.) The candy is calling my name. I can't resist!

Baby All I Want For Christmas Is You

It seems I've taken an unintentional blogging break and I have to say, I've enjoyed it. It's been a week now, of very minimal computer contact, and I'm getting a bit antsy. So here I am, trying to write a Christmas recap. Instead of writing about my family drama (this year's controversial topics: sesame seeds and adoption. Seriously) or Shawn's family drama (his dad was in town for Christmas Day which resulted in a bizarre competition between him and Shawn's mom for face time with the boys) I will instead leave you with Christmas-themed photos of my adorable pups. That way this recap will be more cuteness and less tears. I will say, though, that the performances by both my family and Shawn's family have further cemented my resolve to spend next Christmas abroad. Turtle, I so know you're with me on this one. 

So. The cuteness:

Wolfgang in my mom's reindeer planter

Bow gave my mom a giant teacup / planter for Christmas. How could we not put Wolfgang in it?

Stella with her Christmas present from Shawn's mom

A few things to note for the following sequence: 

- the santa hat was attached to Wolfgang by an elastic around his head.

- Stella didn't want to wear the santa hat, she wanted to eat the santa hat.

- as evil as Stella looks, she really does love Wolfgang. I think.

In The Arms Of An Angel

My Monday funk started to dissipate mid-morning when I bought snowboots. Cute snowboots that were 50% off (boots that, as it turns out, make my feet want to die but whatever, 50% off!) 

After the snowboots, a client came by the office and dropped off a box of chocolates for me. Not office-chocolates, Hillary-chocolates that I brought home and hid in my bedside table so I not only get to keep them from my coworkers, I get to keep them from Shawn too. Don't judge me; they're not just any chocolates. They're my favourite chocolates. 

Soon after the chocolates, I got a call from Shawn. He was headed downtown with his dad and brother to watch the hockey game and they decided to leave early so they could meet me for dinner. I ate french onion soup (mmm...onions and cheese!) and cheesy garlic bread (mmm...garlic and cheese!) and I would be a sad person indeed if my bad mood lasted through all that. 

On the skytrain home, I had an overhead view of the roads. During the day, the plows were out in full force and the road conditions looked fair enough to drive on. So I got in my car and headed out to the photo store to pick up the rest of my parents' Christmas present. The roads were so good that I decided to head to my parents' house for a quick visit, as they live five minutes from the photo store. I didn't take into account the fact that the photo store is on a main (plowed) road and my parents' house is not. I got stuck. I rocked my car back and forth. I got out of my car and tried to kick snow away from my tyres, to no avail. I was a block away from my parents' house so I called them, hoping my dad would walk down and help me out of my pickle. No such luck - there was no answer at their house. I got back in my car and was starting to panic when a man tapped on my window. He was not a nice looking man. He looked a bit rough around the edges and I was all alone and it was dark but I was stuck and didn't know what to do. So I rolled down my window and the man, the nicest man on earth, told me he'd help me get unstuck. And he did. It took fifteen minutes for him to push me free but he didn't complain or give up. He got me rolling down the hill and I barely managed to yell my thanks out the open window. I have no way of tracking down this man, I have no idea where he lives or what his name is, but I would just like to acknowledge that this man saved my bum tonight. And in the spirit of paying things forward, I would like to offer a package of my favourite chocolate (not the box I received today, obviously - that sucker is half empty) to one of my lucky readers. Leave me a comment telling me either your scariest car moment or your nicest good Samaritan experience (you can be on the giving or receiving end) and I'll use random.org to choose a winner. Contest closes a week from today. Or when I feel like picking a winner.