True Patriot Love

Happy Birthday, Canada!

To celebrate, I dyed my hair red in your honour.

(The red hair may be more of a hairdye mishap than a patriotic statement but I'm admitting nothing.)

This Isn't How I Am I Have Become Comfortably Numb

So remember that time I filleted my finger? What I failed to mention was that I fixed my finger myself. As in, once the crying and hyperventilating stopped, I washed it with water, slapped on some antibiotic ointment, and wrapped it in a bandage. I had a few reasons for my DIY finger fix - it was a Sunday so the only place to get medical attention was the emergency room (and the emergency room is a stabby place to be); I was home alone so I would have to take a cab (I hate taking cabs); I wasn't wearing any clothes (before I started chopping the potatoes I was painting the bedroom and I don't own any grungy painting clothes so I paint naked. What?) Plus, I have a visceral fear of needles. Like, I tear up when I see a needle. I don't even want to see a picture of a needle. The word needle makes my stomach clenchy.

Yesterday marked the tenth day since my fingertipectomy and my wound was still bleeding. Not a lot, mind you, just a constant ooze to remind me to never sharpen my knives again (and to prevent me from having to wash any dishes - whee!) So I spent my lunch break in a walk-in clinic where I was treated to the music of Star Wars in the waiting room (so random) and a stern lecture from the doctor about wounds and bacteria and going to the emergency room even though emergency rooms are full of bacteria and shouty people and needles. (*shudder*)

It wasn't a horrible visit. My tetanus vaccination is up to date - thanks Stella! - so there were no needles involved. The doctor just made sure I wasn't oozing any pus and then stuck on a bandage that acts as an artificial stitch (note to self: if you cut yourself again, don't go to the doctor until the 6-hour window of being able to get traditional stitches has passed - artificial stitches are needle-free!)

I still cuss when I accidentally use my finger (left index finger, if you're wondering) but now that it's actually healing, the pain isn't so bad. Which means that I will probably have to start washing dishes again soon. *sigh*

Next Time You Point A Finger I'll Point You To The Mirror

May has been an effing asshole of a month (sorry - I saw MacGruber on Friday and am now referring to everything as an effing asshole of something. This will never get old.)

It started with my mom's surgery, then we were all a little blindsided by my mom not doing so well after surgery (she's totally fine now), then I had my 2-night sleep study which was much more difficult than I anticipated (I get my results next week!), then it was Shawn's birthday (which doesn't count as a bad thing, it was just slightly stressful due to non-bloggable events), then Shawn went away for 4 days and left me alone with the monster puppies, then work kind of kicked my ass and left me reeling, and then I cut part of my fingertip off.

I'm ready for May to be over, is what I'm saying.

So. My finger. I didn't cut the fingertip off, it was more the meaty part - the fingerprint part - and I didn't slice the whole thing off, it was attached by a flap of skin, but it was disturbing and gruesome and I'm blaming in on Turtle because she is the one who taught me how to sharpen my knives.

Shawn was unreachable in the studio all day so I did what any mature, self-respecting 28-year old would do; I called my mom. I called my mom and I cried and I hyperventilated and I threw up a little and then I taped my finger back together, ate a popsicle, and went to bed.

So yes, I am ready for June.

Turn Away While I Celebrate Will You Tolerate While I Waste The Day Away?

It wasn't a responsible decision, to go to a pub to watch the Canucks game on a Wednesday night, but it was a fun decision. The atmosphere was muted at the start but the back-and-forth momentum changes in the game soon had the entire pub whipped up into a hockey frenzy (upon reflection, I'll admit that the alcohol may have played a small role.) When the Canucks scored late in the 3rd and finally took the lead, the pub erupted in a cacophony of hoots and whistles that lasted until after the final horn.

I love hockey. I am a true fan - I root for my team when they're losing and I happily welcome back the bandwagon-jumpers when the team is winning. Tuesday's disallowed goal was ridiculous and I'll admit to unleashing a string of profanity when the call was made. That one call didn't lose the game for the Canucks, though, and the bitching and moaning that occurred afterward did nothing but make us look like poor losers. Last night's game was more than a chance for the Canucks to tie the series at two games apiece; it was a chance for the fans (whether long-term or short-term, steadfast or fickle, zealous or laid-back) to stop focusing on bad calls and conspiracy theories and just fucking celebrate. And celebrate we did. We stumbled home exchanging high-fives with random strangers, attempting to eat dirty pizza on the train, and laughing at the gems that came out of Shawn's mouth (my personal favourite: "Swedish power activate! I'm going to Ikea tomorrow.") (I guess that's only funny if you know that our top line consists of three Swedes. And that Shawn hates Ikea more than, well, anything.)

This morning I woke up with an inexplicably sore foot, a bruise on my wrist, a hangover that rivals my worst hangover ever, and a brother-in-law asleep on our couch. So no, it was not a responsible decision by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a decision I don't regret. Not even a little.

Now will someone please make me a baked potato and some tea? I'm pretty sure that a baked potato and tea are the only things that will keep me from dying this morning.

Idiot Wind Blowing Through The Buttons Of Our Coats

Living in Vancouver means that from October until April my wardrobe is dictated by the rain. Wearing a dress on a rainy day and then sitting at my desk with wet tights/nylons is one of my least favourite feelings. Yesterday, after a cursory glance out the window to ensure the absence of rain, I put on a dress and left for work.

It's important to note that my dress was a bit floaty. It's a summery, cotton dress that I autumn-ized by wearing with a long-sleeved tee and wool tights.

I got outside and immediately noticed that it was a bit breezy. So. Floaty dress + wind. Bad plan, right? I thought about changing but I was already running late and changing meant waiting for the elevator, going through the "you're home! I love you! let's play!" shenanigans with the puppies, changing (I was wearing tights people - it would not be a quick change,) going through the "don't leeeeeave meeeeee" shenanigans with Wolfgang, and then waiting for the elevator again. I couldn't afford the time.

Everything was fine until I left the office at lunch. I didn't take my purse; I grabbed my wallet and my phone and ran across the street to grab some food. As I made my way back to the office, the wind started to blow again. I had my wallet, my phone, and a bagel in one hand and a giant cup of tea in the other. And was wearing a floaty dress.

And that is how I ended up showing my bum to a street full of people. I was wearing tights (grace in small things ... or not so small things in my case) but still, a bum squished into tights is still a bum.

Dear Hillary,
When it comes to being a few minutes late for work or showing your ample behind to a street full of strangers, you can always afford the time.
Love,
Exposed and Ashamed

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.