You Want Me To Twist It Twist It For You A Little Bit Twisted

It was either this or I talk about strep throat again:

This is my lovely friend making a complete an utter arse of herself to complete her secret mission.



As you can see, she is a million laughs.

Okay If I Wasn't An Actor I'd Be A Secret Agent

You won't find someone with a bigger heart - or a bigger laugh - than my friend Goldie Cook. She adopted me as her token Canadian when I was a lonely barmaid in a tiny village in England. She provided many laughs, a couch to sleep on, a shoulder to cry on, and one truly horrendous hangover (which included broken bones!) after the gongshow that was my going away party. Goldie will do anything for anyone and rarely asks for anything in return. Which is why when she does ask, I will do anything for her.

So.

Goldie Cook is on a secret mission. You can help her win 20,000 pounds by:

friending her on Facebook

joining her Facebook group

following her on Twitter

watching her YouTube videos

Do any of these things and you will earn my undying love and affection. Promise.

Momma, Keep On Praying, Cause I Aint Changing, I'm Complicated

I am both melty and unmelty today.

I'll start with the melty so I can end on a positive note:

I stubbed my toe really hard last night. Hard enough that it hurts to wear shoes today. I'm not even wearing difficult shoes - I'm wearing sneakers. Hopefully it feels better soon so I can wear my gorgeous wedding shoes and not sneakers with my wedding dress.

Yesterday was the pub's event coordinator's last day. I have yet to hear from the woman who is replacing her. This does not reassure me.

I booked massages for me and Shawn on Sunday afternoon. Getting the appointment was frustrating and stressful (which irks me because I'm booking the massage so I'll feel less stressed, right?) I just got a call from the spa confirming my appointment for an eyebrow wax tomorrow morning. Ridiculous. Also? The woman who called didn't believe that it wasn't my eyebrow waxing appointment (I guess she thought I was trying to cancel the appointment despite their 24-hour cancellation rule) so she was pretty bitchy. I'm debating canceling the massage appointment now because so far I've dealt with two of their employees and both have pissed me off. I have a gift certificate though so that complicates my righteous indignation.

I am feeling both melty and unmelty about:

Joining Twitter. The possibilities for wasting time are blowing my mind. Come follow me! My name is Hillarywith2Ls.

I am going to experience my very first bloggy-life/real-life crossover on Monday. Angella is doing the photography for the wedding and I'm kind of scared to meet her. (If you're reading this Angella, sorry for being such a nerd.) There's a good chance that I'm taking some wedding jitters/fears/stress and projecting it onto the whole meeting a Real Life Blogging Rockstar. I don't know. My 3 major fears for the wedding are:
1: I will trip while walking down the aisle (brick patio + high heels + clumsy (and possibly tipsy) Hillary = potential disaster)
2: I will flub the speaking part
3: I will offend / annoy / disappoint Angella
I do realize that I'm bring crazy but at this point I don't care.

I am unmelty because:

First thing this morning I got a phone call from friends in Scotland, wishing me good luck this weekend. Definitely a nice way to start the day.

My friends from England put together a lovely video for me and Shawn that makes me cry and laugh simultaneously every time I watch it. They wanted it played at the wedding but there have been some formatting issues so they posted it on facebook. It's a good thing too - if I'd been surprised with it at the wedding I would have sobbed my wedding makeup off. If my head stops melting long enough to figure out how, I will put it up here.

In two hours I get to go home and then I don't have to work again until August 11th.

I have lined up 2 guest posters for next week, when I will be off doing fabulous married things. They are both hilarious and awesome so it blows my mind that they're willing to post here.

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.

'Cause I've Been First And Last And Look At How The Time Goes Past

Barnie & Tara in the pub

When I lived in England, I worked as a barmaid in a pub. I lived in small village and there were some days that I'd have no lunch customers. The only patron would be Barnie - an old man who lived up the hill behind the pub. Barnie would come in with Tara, his greyhound, and sit up at the counter. He was a fan of the ale, but on the rare occasion he didn't like any of the 3 we had on tap he would ask for Guinness. If we had pork scratchings he'd buy a pack and split it with Tara. If we didn't, he would ask for crisps and eat them himself (Tara didn't love crisps the way she loved those pork scratchings.) (PS: pork scratchings = grossest snack food EVER.)

Barnie would tell me stories about the Second World War. He was stationed in Venice and fell in love with a Venetian woman. When he was sent back to England he had to leave her behind because she had elderly parents that she had to care for. He ended up marring a British woman but still pined after his "Venetian girlfriend."

Barnie was lonely, his wife having passed away years before I met him. Tara was his only company when he wasn't down in the pub. I started going to his house on Sundays to clean, but every week I'd end up with a cup of tea in my hand instead of a vacuum. He'd talk about his kids and grandkids (who lived close enough to visit but rarely did), his sweet wife (who died suddenly from a brain aneurysm - something he never got over) and life in general. Barnie had an opinion on anything and everything and wasn't afraid to share it. Tact isn't something he concerned himself with.

I went back to England last May. Barnie had just put Tara down after the vet discovered the reason she wasn't jumping and playing like she used to; she had cancer in her bones and was in excruciating pain. Barnie looked haggard. He'd always looked old but this time he looked defeated. The last time I saw Barnie he told me to hurry back because he didn't think he'd last much longer.

In December, Barnie had a fall and ended up in the hospital for a month. His heart was bad, his legs weren't working properly, his body was slowly deteriorating. Yet he soldiered on. In January he was out of the hospital and back home. A friend who used to live in the same village visited Barnie last week and reported back to me that Barnie's had another fall. J is trying to convince Barnie to go into a care facility but Barnie is resisting. He wants to stay in his home. J asked me to call Barnie this weekend and convince him that going into a care facility is the best option. I think that if I pressed him, he would listen. I feel conflicted though. On one hand, I really believe that Barnie should be in a place where he can be monitored. On the other hand, if it's his wish to stay in his home, who am I to tell him otherwise? He doesn't have much time left. Shouldn't he spend it where and how he wants to? The whole situation makes me sad. I wish that Barnie's family was taking a more active stance in his care. I wish that Barnie had someone nearby who could check up on him more frequently. I wish that I didn't have to try to change his mind. I really wish that it wasn't going to be another year before I can make it back to England.