There's Pocky in my Mini Bar!

That must mean that I'm in Vancouver. And still on EST time!

Here's a picture of the morning city from my balcony:

It's Like Being A Polygamist

But a secret one, very much completely not like the happenings on Big Love. More like the ones that you see on documentaries on A&E. But without the actual polygamy. So it's not actually like being a polygamist at all.

For the next few days, I will be running between two houses, mine own, and my parents, because crazy Zoloft needs a dog sitter, and as a big sister of sorts, it falls to me. Unfortunately, the sweet fur face is set in her ways, and would become a terror if forced to stay anywhere but at her own home. So the zooming about from house to house is nothing but inevitable.

I think I disappoint her, though, I have to tell you. For not being my doting parents, and merely raising an eyebrow when she's all LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT ME! I am counting down the hours until she pulls out the run into the middle of the room, pounce at nothing, check to see if I'm watching and then chase her tail ploy.

She's predictable like that.

I Am Yogurt's Bitch

I have a mess of things to do before I set off for a dog sitting stint at my parents' place. Amoungst them are making yogurt. Through the wonders of technology, I now sit at my kitchen table, a measuring cup full of hot milk perched beside me, thermometer immersed in its depths, waiting for it to cool the hell down.

I am yogurt's bitch. I would never make it in prison.

The Most Excellent Thing I've Looked at Today

I know, I've already posted another image from this shoot, but, DUDE! Tim & Andrae at Red Lobster? It's the stuff spinoffs are made of.

There's Nothing Wrong with Love

Years ago, a friend introduced me to a record that completely and utterly freaked my shit. Built to Spill's There's Nothing Wrong with Love hit my head and my heart in a way that few things have before or since. And the tragedy? They've never played a show in Toronto. Ever.

Which is one of the reasons that I'm so very excited to be heading down to New York in May. Along with an excellent conference to attend (check out Thursday's "experience" tours), and an awesome hotel to stay at, weather hopefully better then we had my last visit into the city, and incredible friends to catch up with (and hopefully tempt one or two to trek into the city from points nearby as well), dear, lovely Built to Spill is playing at the Irving Plaza as well.

Oh, my. Oh, my, indeed.

PS: Project Runway / Jay Excellence

First, Project Runway, Season Two. A picture stolen from another site, of my pretend mentor, Tim Gunn (Make it work! Carry on!) and ousted contestant Andrae, outside of...wait for it...RED LOBSTER.
















And second, Project Jay. We're actually getting episodes just a few weeks after they air in the US. Starting this Sunday on Life, at 8PM EST. Oh, man. I am ready to see the seedy underbelly of Heidi Klum. What? Okay then.

World Tour, 2006

I'm a lucky wee lass. Amoungst other things, I work for a company that thinks it's important for their employees to keep on learning and bringing new things back to the fold. And who puts up with my food-from-scratch-because-I-don't-have-cats-old-lady craziness, but that is beside the point.

What, a point? Right, I got one. 2006 travel starts next week! I'll be hitting the shores of Vancouver, spy cam in tow, to learn me a little more about Information Architecture. I build structures out of data! But, really, doesn't every one? I'm looking forward to a number of the Summit (Summit! DUDE! What happens when you get a large number of Information Architects together in a room? They pretend that their cog-in-the-works important enough to call that gathering a Summit!) session, but, not so secretly, really looking forward to catching up with the lovely Joolz over dinner, post-first day sessions.

NYC and San Francisco, I'm giving you fair warning. I am coming to visit in the next few months. I am hoping that we will be able to show each other a verra good time.

Winter is Like that High School Ex

That you dumped on his ass for his constant lying and moodiness. Lovely and fawning one day, cold and demeaning and horrid the next.

I wore a skirt today. A skirt. With bare legs. Because it was forecast to hit 17C today. Tomorrow? Windchill of -5C.

That's right. The winter? He's a controlling, deceitful bastard, he is.

Is That A Stack of Tortillas on Your Counter, Or Are You Just Happy To See Me?

Both, really. This morning, I cobbled together a whole wheat flax meal recipe for tortillas. And like any good scientist, I documented the experiement.

After combining all of the ingredients, and finding myself with a slab o' dough, I divided it into 8 individual balls.















And then rolled them out into the shape and thickness of a tortilla:















Those suckers were then slid into a hot, dry griddle. Here's side one. When it starts to bubble, then it's flipped onto the other side:





























Resulting in a stack of eight lurvely tortillas!















I can now live off the store bought tortilla grid! What? Yeah, I don't know what I'm talking about either.

Rat Feathers

Indeed.

An Early Grave. And I Am Doing It To Myself.

Control freaks (read: me) are driven to frustrated distraction by things outside of their (read: my) control. And I swear to god, the time spent stewing in irritation over such matters? Is time that is just being shaved off of my allotment on this here planet.

And yet, and yet, I can't stop my hands from turning into claws when I walk through a shared space and see cupboards and drawers ajar for no reason. Or coffee dumped into a sink and not rinsed down the drain.

Hands! Into claws!

***

A bargazillion lifetimes ago, a brilliant band recorded and released one of the best rock and roll records ever. EVER. Did I say ever yet? Because, baby, I mean it.
























Tricky Woo's Sometimes I Cry made me sing along, and shake my ass, and sing along and shake my ass AT THE SAME TIME. The band then went through a couple of line-up changes and a streak of bloated psychedelia which confused me to no end and made me question whether or not the world was spinning on its correct axis.

This year, with 3/4th of the Sometimes I Cry line-up back on board, they're back to on-stage rock freakouts and I feel like the band that made me want to fuck shit up is back. And that the world is a-okay. And I feel very emphatic about it. Have you noticed?

Cravats! Facial hair! Getting up in the morning just to get down!

Oh, men of the Woo, I do love you. Welcome home.

International Velvet (But Secretly, Peanut Butter)

I sent out my first cross boarder peanut butter sample. And I am worried. Worried that it won't get to it's destination, even though homemade foodstuffs sent as gifts should be allowed to cross, unmolested. Worried that the package will be placed in a crazy-hot place, and will melt the chocolate chunks in the cinnamon chocolate flavoured one, and both it, and the simple cinnamon will destabalize and perhaps evaporate in transit. Worried...well, I just worry. Because it's what I do.

The Science of the Art

I've spent a selfish weekend (which, let's face it, is nothing new), focused on researching and designing and producing batches for the Peanut Butter project (taste testers, I really am making you eat this stuff for a reason!) and on the art. Since the PB project is still a glimmer in a plan's eye, and since I finally got off my ass and bought myself a new camera. It's not the original spy cam that I was coveting, but it is EVEN SMALLER. And speaks with an accent. And smokes clove cigarettes. And is therefore, more spy-like. Wait, what was I talking about?

Ahhh, right, the camera that I took pictures the start of the work that goes into making my, admittedly funny, and hopefully, fun, art.

Earlier on this year, I committed myself to exploring making the art, and seeing how far I could take it. And now that I can work a pair of scissors, I've started the first of a series of five spring-inspired works.

Oh, sparrow, you look so naked, sitting on that branch.















And so very cardboard, but at least you are popping off the canvas.

















The next stage will see a mess of colour added to your plumage and background, kind of like this:














And you will be naked and cardboard no more!

And We Have Yogurt

It's like freaking magic, man! I may have clapped my hands with glee when I woke up this morning to find the milk turned into yogurt. And it is delicious. Oh, yes, it is.

Documenting Kitchen Experiments

Peanut Butter - Finally! And new on the schedule, Yogurt.

So I seem to make peanut butter for myself every couple of weeks. These, below, are being sent out to one of my excellent volunteer taste testers. Simple cinnamon is on the left, cinnamon chocolate is on the right. To my previous guinea pigs, I dumped a bunch more chocolate in that there peanut butter.


PS: Aren't their traveling togs adorable?

And on we go. My brother got me a yogurt maker for my birthday, and I couldn't be more excited. I started my first batch this afternoon and can't wait until tomorrow, when milk becomes lurvely yogurt.

Organic milk on the stove, heating up:


Bacterial starter in the form o' organic plain yogurt (Wondertwin powers, activate!)




Milk off the heat, cooling down to the point where the starter can be added:




Adding the starter (mixed with a bit of the heated milk) to the milk:





Filling up the containers:




Snuggling the containers in their warm and toasty home:





Plugged in, and with cover on, milk begins to turn into yogurt:





To be continued...

The Arms, They Seem Useless. Like a Tyrannosaurus Rex.

RIRE.

Jeff, my trainer, fairly murdered my biceps and back this morning. I have been walking around all day, arms cradled around each other, perhaps making dinosaur noises. Just because I can.

If anyone out there has ever had thoughts of challenging me to an arm wrestling match, let me tell you, today is the day.

Today, I had Cotton Balls Taped to my Inner Elbows

Warning: this is a follow-up injury blog post.

So why with the cotton balls? Because all the cool kids are doing it. Or because I decided to multitask while waiting for my clicky wrist examination appointment and pop into the lab next door to get blood drawn for my dermatologist, who wants to make sure that my liver doesn't turn to stone while I'm on the meds that he prescribed.

I haven't had blood drawn in a bargazillion years, and I must admit that I'm a wee bit fascinated with seeing vials filled with the stuff. Especially when my body decides to act up and make the lab tech work to get that crap into the vial.

Today I learned that the veins in the dominant side of your body are much more likely to give it up without complaint. The non-dominant? Not so much. "Tell me why!" they demand, "Convince me to fill up that vial, lady!"

And so, both inner elbows are now sporting lovely bruises. And, apparently, a small allergic skin reaction to the tape that held the cotton balls in place? That's right, freaking medical tape. I need to stop being surprised by these things, I really do.

In maraca-wrist news, my hand is not likely to fall off of my arm. And the clicking will likely subside when the swelling completely dies down. Likely - you know what that means. I'll let you know when my hand falls off. I'm thinking about replacing it with a chainsaw. Do you think that would be a good look for me?

Of Gimpy Fingers and Clicky Wrists

I am mine own worst enemy, as previous injury blog entries attest to. Sometimes I feel like I should wear a hazard symbol on my forehead, just to warn people that, quite possibly, if they stand too close, they may be sucked into my whirlwind of physical spaz.

So the wrist, she seems to be healing nicely. Until I start to make more and more use of it, doing things like rotating my hand. Because then? Then I feel a resistance. And a click. Oh, bother, that's just not right! The continued tenderness, I understand. The click? Not so much. And so then I do too much research on the possible cause of my timebomb wrist, and then I start to worry, and then I make an appointment to see my doctor tomorrow afternoon to make sure that my hand isn't about to fall off of my arm.

And then I look at my secretly broken finger, which healed up fine, but at a sad, silly angle, and I wonder if perhaps I'm starting to fall apart.

***

A couple of days ago, I found out that Chef Susur Lee is going to be taking part in a demo at Trish Magwood's Dish Cooking Studio in March. I considered attending, until I came across the price of a seat in the room. I reckon I would much prefer to spend $175 on eating a meal at his restaurant and purchasing a new shirt to wear at that meal.

Seriously, $175? That's freaking crazy-talk. But then, the studio's prices on cooking classes seems quite out of step with other places offering similar courses as well. See what happens when you have a show on Food TV? You get all crazy with the charges.

PS: My parents stopped by Anna Olson's Olson's Foods and Bakery last week, and were sorely dissappointed by both the selection and quality of the food offered up for sale. And the pricing? Also crazy.

It's a Band Crush Post

Band Name: Ninja High School
Release: Young Adults Against Suicide























The Reason Why: They give me the same feeling that The Go Team! does. That feeling? The need to shake my thankfully unbroken ass. Also, there's nothing like cheerlead-chanting "You're going home in a fucking ambulance!" at the top of your lungs while driving down the QEW in the dark, dark night.

So, Let Me Tell You A Story

Let me tell you a story about my yesterday evening. Let me tell you a story of an excellent meal and an excellent time.

Last night, my oldest friend, Brad, and I had dinner at Susur, which, I know, I have raved and raved and raved about in the past. And, you know what? I'm about to do it again.

Arriving at the restuarant, I was greeted by Lennon, the host. Personable and polite, to a fault, he sat me at a booth in a corner of the room, giving both privacy and an excellent voyaristic vantage point of the rest of the dining space. Because I? I am a voyeur who tends to hate being around people; I was so very much pleased by our table, I can't even begin to tell you. Our server, Robin, stopped by to introduce herself, and took my request for a bottle of sparkling mineral water. She wore a most excellent modern-prarie pintucked shirt, that I just had to compliment her on it.

Brad arrived a couple of minutes later with an unexpected birthday gift in hand. Oh, how I love recieving unexpected gifts, but that, really, is beside the point. Seeing Brad making his way to our table, Robin reappeared, menus in hand, and asked if we were celebrating any occasion in particular. Although I had no intention of bringing attention to the fact because I just hate to be that person, the gift sitting beside me was pretty hard to ignore, so I confessed that we were there to celebrate my birthday.

Brad and I had already decided to duplicate our tasting menu experience of last year (to the freaking day, people. To the DAY), and paired our meal with an Alsatian Pinot Noir. One of the most excellent things about Susur is that the kitchen produces dishes based on what looked good at the market that day, so you never know just what the hell you're going to be eating. And, more importantly, the kitchen takes their guests dietary needs into consideration in all that they do - talking with Lennon on our way out, he mentioned that the night before, the kitchen had the challenge of creating a 5 course tasting menu for a vegan celiac sufferer. Now that? That is amazing. Susur's tasting menus are, in a way, served backwards, starting with plates that are heavier on the palate and the plate, to ones that are lighter and smaller.

The next 2.5 hours were spent in a state of continual surprise and culinary delight. Being a massive geek, I brought my wee reporter notebook along for the ride, and forced Brad to bring along his spy camera. Of course, both were only remembered after our amouse bouche was served, savoured and whisked away, so the documenting is not exactly complete. The following, however, is a log of our excellent gastronomical adventure. A few of the photos are nothing but blur. Take this as overwhelming food excitement making the camera shake instead of lack of photography skill, okay? Because that's what I'm going to call it.

My amouse bouche was a set of three vegetable compotes and gelees. I do confess that I was too involved in tasting and talking (I do tend to talk and talk and talk) to take real note of what was placed before Brad, although it sure did look pretty.

Course One

Mine:

Roasted winter vegetables and lentils with chutney in a coconut yellow curry sauce

God, how I love curry. The root vegetables and asparagus were roasted to perfection, and the lentil cocunut curry that they were layered on was perfectly balanced, with the hit of spice being tempered by the coconut milk.

Brad:

Fillet of bison with crispy glazed sweetbreads and a spiced tamarind sauce

Course Two

Mine:

Hand rolled potato gnocchi with black trumpet mushrooms.

The gnocchi was tender and succulent and pan-seared with the black trumpet mushrooms. I detected a hint of citrus in the mushroom. I may have clapped my hands with delight, like a five year old.

Brad:

Seared fois gras and Ontario sturgeon topped with quail egg.

Okay, seriously, the quail egg? It made us coo. Like freaking quails. But look at how cute!

Course Three

Mine:

19 vegetable chinese salad with spicy apricot dressing.

This dish is actually a dish that Susur created for his second restuarant, Lee (which, by the way, is located in the building next door to Susur). And, as I've mentioned in the past, it's a dish that lives very high on my list of the Top Ten Favourite Things that I Have Ever Eaten. When the plate was placed in front of me, I really didn't think that I could have a better night. But really, the best was yet to come.


Brad:

Sesame tuna and scorpion fish sashimi

Course Four

Mine:

Braised salsify and morel mushrooms with asparagus, served over two foams of carrot and dill

I had never tasted salsify before, and really, had no idea what it actually was. I asked Robin about it, and she said that it was some sort of root vegetable. All that I know is that when I placed it on my tongue, it seemed to start to melt, releasing all kinds of excellence onto my taste buds.

Brad:

Lobster

Okay, so the salsify distracted me to no end with it's seduction of deliciousness. So much so that I forgot to write down exactly how the kitchen had prepared Brad's lobster. Whoops?

Course Five

Following the removal of plates and utensils of our fourth course, Robin returned to our table, and placed a plate and utensils in front of Brad, and utensils only in front of me. A few seconds later, a two-tier desert tray was placed between us, with four two-bite delights on the top tier, and six on the bottom. Cakes and mousses and sorbets and pastries and crepes, and, holy crap. I was ready to dive into the sampling, but realized that without a plate of mine own, such a thing could make for messy eating. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I spyed what seemed to be a flickering candle, perched on a plate being brought towards my table. And was that "Happy Birthday", written in chocolate, splashed across it's shiney white surface? Why, yes, it was! Robin made my day, she did. Here I am, showing off my plate:

But, back to the desserts: I can't even begin to tell the the number of heavens we experenced as we shared and devoured every damn thing on that tray. Take a look!

I swear, I don't know how he did it, but the pastry chef at Susur made me love desserts made with things that I hate. White chocolate mousse rolled in coconut? Hate white chocolate. Hate coconut. Fucking LOVED this. And, most surprisingly, I delighted in a ravioli shaped desert that consistend of paper thin slices of pineapple with a raspberry preserve centre. I can't stand pineapple! I wanted plate after plate after plate of this insanely tart and sweet delight. But the cup of molten chocolate cake? It really sent me over the edge. I believe the phrase "Jesus Fuck" might have been uttered as I sunk low, boneless, deep into the cushy padding of my booth seat.

The Ending

A perfect meal it was, so much so that I asked Robin to pass along our thanks to the kitchen. And the perfect meal was made into a perfect experience as we were getting ready to leave. While Lennon was retreaving our coats, he, randomly, asked us if we were interested in taking a wee tour of the kitchen.

The. Kitchen. Let's face it, it's one thing to see Susur emerging from the kitchen to survey the room throughout your meal, it's another thing completely to actually see where the wonder in your belly actually came from.

Walking into the Susur kitchen was a revelation, and I swear, I could barely keep still from the delight. The kitchen was long and skinny and packed with Chef and his staff. Lennon talked us through each station, and the kitchen crew were lovely and welcoming, though they must've been cursing Lennon for bringing random kids into their domain. We were then shown through to the private dining room, and talked with Lennon some more. And then back through the kitchen with a quick wave to the staff, and then on out the door where Brad and I just had to recap and talk through everything that we just experienced.

I am more then a little in love with last night. And I am about to send the restuarant, and especially Robin and Lennon, a thank you for making it such a excellent, hot damn awesome time.

Notice to Torontonians: Brian at Rotate has cultivated an excellent beard. I complimented it, and I think you need to do so, too.

I am Madly Self Centered

Madly. Self centered. Because for the next few days, I have a feeling that all I will want to talk about is my birthday. And how awesome my birthday will be. And is. And was.

I may have started celebrating the occasion last weekend with the Dando show, if that gives you any indication of the way I like to celebrate things. The longer you can cash in on an occasion for the fun, the better, I reckon. I think I managed to convince people to celebrate my MLIS graduation a good six months after it actually occured.

Plans for the days ahead:
. Take the day off tomorrow
. Head into the city to dine at Susur
. Take of the day of my actual birthday
. Recieve visits and gifts

And milk it for all it's worth.

I am Good at Making Decisions

See, I've got me a bathroom renovation planned for sometime in the near future. The vessel sink and toilet? In my possession. The vanity shape, size, colour, wood and top? Settled on. The wall colour? Ditto. The new shower system? Take a guess.

Since today was a corporate holiday - my company's corporate head office is based in Alberta, and those crazy kids are celebrating something called "Family Day" (don't ask me. They're stampeding fools that I will never claim to understand) - I took my day off to head on in to a tile store. Vanity wood and top sample in hand, I grabbed a few sample boards (and a clerk to help me pull things that jived with what I had in mind), and headed on home to see what they looked like in the oh-so unnatural light in my bathroom.

One of the worst things about my bathroom is the fact that it's located smack dab in the middle of my second floor, along the shared wall with the unit next to mine, and, as such, is absolutely windowless. Everything looks so different when placed in that room (which leads me to wonder why I do my make-up in there, but I digress), so I'm glad I took home a couple of sample boards, because the inital tile I was leaning towards turned out to be a smidge too dark for the effect that I was looking for. But the other? Freaking-assed-perfect.

Now, all I need is to get the bathroom guy that my gym/bathroom&kitchendesigner friend recommended to nail down his availability, and the buying? The buying will begin.

I Have Puppy Fever

Puppy owners, beware. I can't be held responsible if I run off with your furry faced children. You have been warned.

Rabbits in my Mailbox. And I am Not a Murderer. At Least, Not Yet.

The Kozyndan rabbit prints have arrived. They are currently sitting on my dining room table, waiting for framing, and also, possibly, in hope that they'll multiply. Like rabbits do.

So, it turns out that I'm not to be branded a murderer. Both taste testers (guinea pigs!) are alive and well. And I now breathe a sigh of relief. The fact that both forgot to take the PB home with them last night made my day, mainly due to the fact that both, BOTH, brought in bread to try it out today. There's nothing that outweighs the horror of having someone try something that you made and are unsure of right in front of you then seeing them whip out a slice of toast and/or bread out of their respective purse and/or computer bag. Though I suspect that both have a tendency to carry around slices of bread with them at all times, anyway.

I think the verdict was a positive one. I may make a minor tweak to the cinnamon v. chocolate battle going on inside the peanut butter, and then figure out where to go from there. Oh, man.

Confidential to Kate: I want you to try it too, lady!

For Washing, NOT EATING. Also, Random, for Your Reading Pleasure

That's what I had to keep repeating to myself in the shower this morning. My Philosophy Mint Chocolate Chip 3-in-1 arrived today, and it is one of the most delicious things I have ever smelled. In my shower. Excepting me, of course, because dammit, I always make sure that I smell good enough to eat. Or, at least, good enough to make people not say, "Dude, you smell bad".

***

I have come to a point in my life where I demand one thing: Music must make me shake my ass. And I don't just mean music made for dancing, I mean all of it. If this ass doesn't shake, indie rock fools, you're just not good enough for me.

***

I sent home a peanut butter experiement with a co-worker and my boss today. Chocolate Cinnammon, made with bits of Dagoba's Conacado dark chocolate bar. I hope they don't die from eating it. I don't think I would like to be branded a murderer.

***

If I was to ever go shopping with one television personality, it would be Tim Gunn from Project Runway. I would like him to take me to all of the excellent boutiques and fill my wardrobe full of clothes that look like they were made for me, dammit. I would, for spaz-sakes, try to buy a pair of the ugliest shoes in the world, just to try to make him say, "Don't defend the shoe!". Because I am an ass.

***

End.

Why, Dorian Grey, What's Your Secret?

Being Evan Dando, apparently. The man, I swear, just does not age. And neither, apparently, does the Hamilton indie rock scene.

"I think I know that guy. But I know I don't. He just looks familiar"
"That's because the indie rock scene here never changes. Backpack + Weezer glasses = and scene".

So let's see how those predictions played out:

. Excellence from Dando. Check. Song segueyed into song, until he just up and left the stage without a word. The voice still sounds like a mournful glass of whiskey. And to top it off, he played both "Ride with Me" and "Skulls". Which was all I really needed him to do. Therefor, no accidental make-outs needed.
. Fun with Monica. Check, check. Old times, but only the good bits, you know?
. Ackward run-ins with people from the past. Less so then I thought, but a minor check. A young man that used to frequent the record label's store when both Monica and I toiled there was in the room. We had christened him Kleenex Boy Wonder, and made fun of him because for such a lovely looking man, he sure did have bad taste in music. He gave us a stare of recognition. And then almost followed Dando into the bathroom to be a drooling fanboy. It was excellent.

End.

I Make Predictions

For tonight.

. Complete and utter excellence from the Dando. I've been reading reviews of the past few shows up at EvanDando.co.uk and it sounds like he's on his game. Excellent. I also vow to not accidentally make out with the Dando, no matter how good he is onstage. That's because any making out? It will be on purpose.
. Much fun with Monica as we celebrate our upcoming birthdays. Have I ever mentioned how glad I am that we became friends again? Because I am.
. Bumping into people I haven't seen in years, feeling uncomfortable about it, and running away to the other side of the room.

That's three official predictions, kids. Let's see how they play out.

Roofers, Not Raccoons. Roofers. NOT Raccoons.

Sometimes I have to wonder about the things that go on in the world inside my head. And then I have to confess them to you. Lucky!

Case in point: last blog post, I made passing mention of roofer raccoons. Passing mention in blog-form, that is, because in my excellent brain? That mention became a pause and ponder and plan about just how a roofing team comprised only of raccoons would work.

In fact, it would work like this: the raccoon roofers, clad in overalls, lumberjack shirts and safety boots, purchased in the RACCOON section of Marks Work Warehouse, or, perhaps, the Cabbage Patch Kid aisle of Toys'r'Us, would scamper about merrily on my roof, clutching wee yellow plastic hammers in their paws, replacing skylights and shingles in the blink of an eye. The blink of a QUIET eye.

The reality of the situation, however, is that (a) raccoons are not skilled labour, and (b) I don't think they would ever get down with wearing boots. So real life human roofers have taken on the task, and I am left sighing over the excellence that could have, but can never be, with Mr. Coon and Sons, Roofers.

I will be happy when the roofing work is over and done with, and I will again have the option of walking about my home, nekkid as a jay-bird, without fear of a roofer peering in through the skylights in my bedroom. Because me and the roofing crew? I just don't feel that we're close enough to be comfortable having that kind of relationship. The raccoons, on the other hand - I fear they've already seen too much.

Winter is the New Spring

At least, that's what the roofing company that my condo board contracted to work on our complex is trying to tell me. Thing is, it really is still winter, as evidenced by the sub-zero temperatures that returned after a brief warm spell the week before, when they optimisically started the work.

Yesterday, I was greeted by the vision of a roofing crew, dressed in a bargazillion layers against the cold, running about my roof like the racoons from the ravine below my building do. Racoon roofers! Dude.

In addition to shingling, they also began the process of installing new skylights in my unit. New skylights = excellent. The crap that has been falling down onto the tarps I've had to throw down on the floor? Not so much. Especially since both skylights are located in my masterbedroom. And I hate having to clean building materials up before I can fall into bed. Because building materials? Not my ideal sleeping companion.

But the work is done! And the skylights are lovely and clear and I can see the trees and the stars so very clearly. And though I complain, I am pleased.

Well, God Damn

A couple of weeks ago, NBC bowed to pressure heaped upon it from affiliates in the Bible Belt and the kids who buy airtime to broadcast commercials and cancelled The Book of Daniel.

Did I say God Damn already? Because, really, God Damn.

Apparently, showing a minister with real problems is problematic. Who knew that those who decide to dedicate their lives to the service of God are supposed to have perfect, pure lives? And that their conversations with the God that they serve are only ever supposed to be one sided? Not me, that's for sure.

But who am I to question the godly protestors? I seem to remember giving up organized religion due, in part, to the very fact that some of the most horrid people I knew lauded themselves for being godly and uber-religious (interesting, that). I am so out of the religion loop, I should be ashamed.

Although NBC did what they had to do (questionable, as it is), I do applaud their commitment to getting the unaired episodes out to the show's audience. Every Friday, true to its original airtime schedule, NBC is airing all of the episodes filmed up to the time of it's cancellation via their website. Why this is different from airing on TV, I'm not quite sure. Perhaps the religious shun the Internet? Either way, I'm glad the show is continuing on in another medium. And I'm glad that I'll get to see it.

Here's the deal:
. Fire on up IE 5.5 or higher on a Windows machine.
. Head on over to NBC.com/The_Book_of_Daniel.
. Watch the episodes.
. Head back next week for a new show.
. Fall a little more in love with Aiden Quinn.

Unexpected Rabbits

I have a new art crush. Behold two prints that I just ordered from the Toronto shop Magic Pony.




































Both are by the illustration team Kozyndan, and both prints are 16" x 22". The tsunami of rabbits, entitled "Uprisings" first appeared on the cover of the magazine Giant Robot, while the second, "Bunny Blossoms" is its breedin' bunny sequel. I can't wait for them to arrive!

I Have Been Outbid!

On the skirt! And I am crying tears of anger and sadness. Tears of frustration and rage. Tears of...right, I'm not crying. In fact, though I did love the skirt verra much, I'm releaved that I will no longer have the duty of attempting to find something to wear with it. Brown and gold? What? Before being outbid, I was stressing over matching browns, or going completely another way in natural, earth tones that weren't brown, and finding something lovely enough to wear with the skirt that wouldn't overpower it, and...

I have the uncanny ability to focus on the mundane. As you can see.

Since I had earmarked a wee bit of money for the purchase and delivery of the skirt, I have decided to spend them ducats on a small spree at Sephora. My pleas of "Hey, you going to Sephora? Wanna smell something for me?" have been answered (WITHOUT the help of my SLACKER COWORKERS), and I have settled on including a new Philosophy 3-in-1 in my order. Chocolate mint chocolate chip ice cream? Why, don't mind if I do! When I settle on an eyeshadow and eyeliner (I like the pretty colours, she says like an ass) I will make it mine. And then I will compose sonnets and make you read them when it arrives at my house.

Competitive Reading

When I was in primary school, one thing that I looked forward to every year was the MS Readathon. Did I care that the money raised went towards Multiple Sclerosis research? Hell no. But a sport for your brain? Ohhhh, yeah.

Every time I looked at the book log put out by the MS Society to aid in that year's Readathon tally, I scoffed, SCOFFED at it. 20 books? Ha!

Even when I was young, I was a voracious reader. And when you read to live, you learn to read fast, so you can digest an incredible story and move on to feast on the next. And, not to brag, I was a pretty advanced reader, swallowing novels whole while my classmates were walking about with Mr Mugs.


















Mugs Scores, indeed.

PS: The only thing that comes close to Competitive Reading is Competive Eating. If only for the gross-out factor.

Its a Right Hand World. Plus, A Toilet.

I feel like I need to apologize to every left handed person in the world. Being of your ranks, even though it is only for a short period of time, I understand what a pain in the ass trying to make use of things designed for people with a dominant right hand is.

Holy crap!

And, speaking of crap, I do believe that I've found my new toilet for my upcoming bathroom renovation. For a bowl that is only ever supposed to be filled with unmentionable nasties, it sure is cute. And, in the grand scheme of toilet costs, reasonably priced.
















PS: I am still aghast at the prices of toilets. And the fact that there are people out there willing to spend $5000 on a bowl that you shit into.

Hello Random!

Random One - The Fashion

I am bidding on a BCBG skirt that I am a little in love with via EBay. Longing? Check. Making plans for us for the future? Check. Starry-eyed adoration? Definately getting there.




















Unfortunately, my love is conditional, and my maximum bid is rather low. I fear that I will be out-bid in the final hours and we shall never be able to run across a meadow, into each other's arms. But I am of the mind that if I can't get it for a song on EBay, I might as well just mosey on into a store and pay full price.

Three days, and we will know if fate has been kind. Hope for us, children. Hope lovely things for our lovely future.

***
Random Two - The Soap Opera

Dr Noah Drake needs a new liver. And is also now spouting lines like, "I will not let them waste a perfectly good liver on me!". In other General Hospital news, Luke Spencer is now the proud papa of a monkey. Who wear clothes.

Listen, they had me with Rick Springfield. The monkey? THEY HAVE ME FOR LIFE.

PS: I wore my monkey shoes to work today.


***

Random Three - The Peanut Butter

I made cinnamon peanut butter from scratch this weekend, then I pressured my workmates to eat some. Does that make me a bad person?

Oh, 1992. You Were a Vintage Year.

So much so that I will be revisiting you in weeks to come!

In support of upcoming birthday celebrations, my friend Monica (twisted backstory: used to be best friend, broke up 6 or 7 years ago (dude, that time thing - it stops mattering when you start to measure them in years) because we became different people with different priorities, reconnected last year because, uh, we're now different people with different priorities?) and I will begin the celebration part of the birthday part, hers being the day before mine, by being in the audience when Evan Dando plays a wee bar in a town smack dab in the middle of the cities that we live in.

Oh, Evan Dando, how I had dreams of marrying you. And yet, the hilarity of my consistent back-turning ignoring of you on the few times that we met continues to be stuff of legend. Which is probably for the best, because had we married, the crack and heroin? Well, that would have had to stop. And then you would've lied about it, and we would've argued, and you would've chosen the junk and I would've dumped your ass. So its all for the best.

PS: The pterodactyl bar? Has a goddamn delightful heated bite!

Ask and Ye Shall Receive

Chocolate arrived at my door this afternoon. Chocolate! At my door! And all because my co-workers are lovely, amazing, crazy people.

Chocolate delivery had been attempted on Friday, unfortunately, I was out at my Fracture Clinic appointment, and the courier needed a signature. The notice of delivery, however, specified that the shipper included the word "Chocolate" in its name, and I've been all a-twitter ever since.

Inside the package was a selection of Dagoba Organic Chocolate bars. Selection! Organic. I am beside myself, and in total confusion over where to start my tasting. I have a feeling, however, that the Xocolatl will be the one with the loudest, most insistant voice. Oh, the days to come. They will be good. They will indeed.

PS: There is a Creampuff skulking about my office. I wonder how long it will take for her to don a Castro cap and initiate rumblings of a revolution.

But What if I Need to Cut a Bitch?

Thankfully, unlike Kimora Lee Simmons, the need to cut a bitch has never come up in my life. Which is good, since I still can't work a knife.

Lack of bitch cutting ability aside, things are looking up in my latest injury saga. On Friday, my orthopedic surgeon pronounced the crack in my radius quite wee. In fact, he decided against casting it up and gave me a new splint instead.

Regard my new, fight the future, swollen like a son of a bitch mummy hand:






























The good doctor's prognosis sees the crack healing up in two to three weeks time. Hot, and also, damn. Want to know what the funny thing is, though? The hurty bits in my wrist have naught to do with the placement of the crack, but instead are localized in all of that tissue that connect my badass hand (it can be quite rude, sometimes) to my wrist. Holding things of any weight makes it yelp, and don't even think about asking it to move from side to side, or to rotate. However, things hurt less then yesterday, which hurts less then the day before, and again and again and again. I reckon I'll be back to doing the queen wave (Why, Helloooooooooooo!), not to mention making threats of bitch cutting, in no time.

Meanwhile, it's excellent to be able to type with my right hand again. And I'm slowly but surely making myself become ambidextrious. I'll be a whirling, two handed knife wheeling dervish when this is all over and done with!

Things that might have been embarrasing if it was anyone else but me:

• Before leaving the emergency room on Tuesday, I had to ask a triage nurse to zip up my coat for me. Hi! I three!
• That evening, I had to call my mom and dad over to my place to CUT UP FOOD FOR ME. Hi! I three!

I swear, being injured leads to the most excellent, snort-worthy tableaux.

I Have a Mummy Arm

Because its about time for a new injury blog post.

Fell on ice, broke fall first with hand then with ass. Small crack in right wrist. Splinted. Fracture clinic will decide whether to cast it up on Friday. Guess who's also working from home for the next few days?

Why, yes, I AM right handed!

Send me chocolates to make it okay, please.

Deluring Week. Who Knew?

Apparently, not me, 'cause I've only caught the last day. But anyway, the skulking in the shadows? It's supposed to stop, for this week only. Which is excellent, because I am nosey and have wanted to do a roll-call for AGES.

So I put up this button with a cute wee pooch, and hope that it'll trick you into responding.

Delurk week, brought to you by Paper Napkin, via, Kate, via Rose.

Is This The First Real Food Post of 2006?

Why, I think it is!

Excellent.

My devotion to the food stylings (food stylings!) of Susur Lee has been well document. Sometimes, too much, I think, but I feel the need to recap anyway. Last year, I decided that I needed to mark my 31st birthday with something excellent and special. And I decided that I needed to do so, accompanied by my oldest friend Brad, by partaking in a food stuffing feast of the highest degree. And I decided that we needed to experience the tasting menu at Susur. Brad and I spent the next two months congratulating each other on being clever enough to sit through that meal. When Brad's birthday rolled around, we went to lunch at Lee, Susur's second restaurant, located next door to Susur. And next month, Brad and I will be returning to Susur because, goddamnit, my 32nd birthday needs to be celebrated with another go at the vegetarian 5 course tasting menu.

And on to today. But first, last year: the final quarter of 2005 was the living place of a particularly frustrating project. In order to celebrate project completion sans corpses, my boss and I decided that we needed to reward ourselves with an excellent lunch. Today, we did just that at Lee.

We entered the restaurant, and the host promptly disappeared my coat, and seated us at one of Lee's excellent transparent rose coloured Plexiglas tables, coincidently, the same seat where Brad and I celebrated his birthday last year. Our server explained our menu options and left us to decide over sparkling mineral water. Lee, helmed by ex-Susur sous chef Jason Carter, rides the wave of tapas-style service, and gives its guests the option to order absolutely nothing, and leave the responsibility of the decision making up to the chef. Like Susur, Lee accommodates vegetarian diets admirably, and though I encouraged Mr. L to feel free to order meat-based dishes for himself, we ended up letting the chef send us out a mess of vegetarian dishes. Oh, the surprise, it is delightful, no?

The rundown...

Singapore Slaw: As always, Lee's Singapore Slaw is one of my top ten favourite things in the world. IN THE WORLD. 19 vegetables, citrus-based dressing, tossed at the table by a guy who, I swear, is the only person in the room allowed to touch the dish as it makes its way from kitchen to table.

Asparagus Salad, dressed with Mustard Seed, Daikon, Green Onion and Hazelnut Oil Dressing: The asparagus, quickly blanched, had an amazing colour, and a lovely snap. The dressing was tangy and delicious. I only wish that the spears could've been left to marinate in the dressing for just a few more minutes before they were served, because those suckers at the bottom of the bowl? Freaking awesome. The bits at the top? A wee bit bland.

Mexican Goat Cheese Tart with Figs, Black Olives and Basil: Melty! In the mouth! Spicy! On the tongue! And so very happy to be in my belly. I freaking love goat cheese, and the pastry base was so tender, it started to dissolve the minute it hit my tongue. Oh, man.

Mushroom Dumpling Gratain with Red Pepper, Olives, Capers and Feta: Okay, the gratainy-bits with the peppers, olives, capers and feta was really lovely. The mushroom filling in the dumpling could've used more attention with the herbs and spices. And the dumpling dough, while excellent around the edges was a bit too thick every where else.

Thai Baked Lentil with Paneer, Spinach, Coconut and Polenta: I like my dal with a nice angry Indian-spice bite. This one? A bit too gentle and laid back for my tastes. I postulate that the lentils were lulled into a dairy coma from the paneer and just couldn't put up the kind of fight that they're capable of.

All in all, I was pleased, and left with a belly distended by a verra good meal.

The end.

A Decision Has Been Made - And It's All Project Runway's Fault

Or, as the kids say, "Less Talk, More Rock".

The excellent and hilarious Project Runway has returned to the airways, and I couldn't be happier. I also couldn't feel more humbled. Watching the joy and passion that these people have in their work amazes me. And makes me realize that I am slack-ass and scared. And that's just not something I care to admit.

Dammit, I have felt that love and that passion for making things with my hands. And what did I do? Run away from making the next, difficult step. Spend time developing an unholy fascination with celebrities who act like assholes. Pretend that the art, though admittedly silly, isn't important to me. That is didn't make me happy. That I couldn't, maybe, possibly, convince people that I didn't already know to buy a piece of it.

So right - it's super easy to make a decision to do something, but it's just as easy to pretend that the decision? It didn't happen. So I post for posterity and to keep my ass honest: Over the next couple of months, I'm going to build up my freaking portfolio. And then? Then I'm going to shop it around. Dammit.


PS: Even though I will never even to attempt to design a piece of clothing in my lifetime, I wish for Tim Gunn to be my mentor. In freaking anything. That man knows his shit, and tells it like it is, baby.











"Don't defend the shoe!"

Wine at work!

Well, not really wine, but Wine Kit Kats.





















Dude, I KNOW.


A co-worker brought in a wee box of them this afternoon, straight from Japan via Chinatown. Do they taste like wine? Not so much. Perhaps as it approaches your tastebuds, but after that, it's just a pleasant, but strange, sweet taste of white chocolate that really doesn't taste as cloying as white chocolate usually does, enrobing a very thin wafer.

I am now obsessed with the other flavours of Kit Kat that the Nestle company has unleashed on the world. I am currently jonsin' for Kit Kat Cherry (limited edition US), Kit Kat Double Berry (blueberry and strawberry, Japan), Kit Kat Lemon Cheesecake (limited edition Japan), and Kit Kat White Winter zimt (cinammon, Germany).

Who would like to join me on my candy fact-finding travel mission?

Oops, I almost forgot: Rose tagged me on a blog topic, but it's going to take some time, 'cause right now I'm all, "Ha, all I ever do on this here sucker is confess all of my facets o' wierd".

The Ulimate Melissa Machine

Who knew that a randomizer program could be so astute? PS: Randomizer!

Anyway. Here is a gratuitous picture of piglets. Competitvely swimming. From the fine folks at Cute Overload.



















So intent on the finish, I doubt they are even able to enjoy the journey.

I miss swimming. Unfortunately, two things keep me away from it:

• Without some kind of lense in front of my eyeballs, I am a walking danger-zone. And I have yet to meet a goggle that didn't cut off circulation to my brain and result in headaches the size of Texas. Where, I hear, everything is big. And I don't relish inadvertantly becoming the crazy lady who makes knew friends by equally inadvertantly suggestively bumping into other swimmers while doing laps. Laps. Suggestive in itself, no?
• I gots me some excellent hair, for once in my life. And the chlorine? Oy.

I reckon I shant ever be able to challenge a piglet to a swim-off. But on a bike? Dude, I'd win every time.

Sting Cannot Possibly Be the Same Guy Who Was in The Police

Atom and His Package had it right, kids. Sting ISN'T the guy who was in the Police. Bon Jovi ISN'T the same band who released 7800 Fahrenheit (definitative shark jump = Keep the Faith), and Def Leppard hasn't been the band that recorded Pyromania in a good bargazillion years.

The latest travesty that Def Leppard is releasing upon us is. A. Cover. Album. Of glam rock. A cover album! Just like Mandy Moore! And Paul Anka!

Please, make them just stop.

PS: I pretty much adore Mandy Moore and Paul Anka. Is that wrong?

Snakes on a Plane, Bitch!

Today's MSNBC Test Pattern column celebrates the horrific awesomeness that is Snakes on a Plane.

When I read about this incredible piece of Samuel L Jackson movie magic, this is what happened:

Melissa: GODDAMN!
Melissa jumps on Snakes on a Plane bandwagon without hesitation.

Snakes! On a plane! I said, GODDAMN! (see above).

I now wish to wear only this t-shirt until the film's premiere.





















Someone, please make that happen.

Also?















In other news, I walked into my office to find a bag of excellent chocolates on my desk. It's going to be a good year, I reckon.

This year, my department's pillars o' pillary stuff are as follows: Evolution (perhaps into robots. The possibilities excite me); Quality (this falls into my lap. More on that later); Content (Well, der.)

I am pleased because I can now tell people that I am Inspector #12, and amoungst the other things I do, I'm responsible for putting "Inspected by #12" stickers in Fruit of the Loom underwear.

Back in the Saddle

When I was a wee baby, I used to want to grow up to be a horse. And that is completely apropos of NOTHING. Apparently, I like my confessions random and stupid. Who knew?

After an extended absence, I head back into work tomorrow. I was putting together my mountain of food to bring to work tomorrow, and packing up my computer and books to bring in as well, and it struck me that, goddamn, I've been away for a long, long time.

And you know what? I'm so very ready to be back. Attack my projects with a vengence, I will. Because recharged batteries, I have. And boy, are the kids at work going to be sorry for that when the random chatter starts up from my side of the room.

I can see it now..."Hey, you know what? Yesterday, I saw a car that looked like it was smiling. It made me wonder what it was so happy about. I came to the conclusion that it was playing a really good song that reminded it of that time it went on a really good first date".

Sometimes I fear that my brain may be broken. But then? Then I snicker and go on with life.