Improvising

 

Who says you can't use Nana's old potholders as wall art? Ok, I'm guessing a lot of curators and interiors designers, but I don't care. These remind me of waking up at the cottage on a summer morning and heading out to pick blueberries with my sister and Nana. I would later trip over a tree root, spilling the freshly-picked berries on the forest floor, but that's not what I'm remembering right now. Right now, I'm remembering picking berries, the hot summer sun warming our backs, while Nana sings "There's a Skeeter on my Peeter" to keep the bears away. 

Memories

 

Fall is approaching in Northern Ontario. It's in the air, on the trees, in the department stores with thier Back to School specials. The mornings are crisp and cool and the sun dips below the horizon earlier every evening. 

 

I'm fine with that though, because I know my Summer 2012 memories will always be there to keep me warm on the coldest January night. I'll remember where I was and who I was with when I bought the straw fedora (Toronto, my sister,) and that I wore it on the best day of my life so far (when the roommate asked me to be his wife.)

 

Bring it on, Fall. There are more times to be had. More memories to be made. More "best days" are yet to come. 

Keeping expectations low since 1983

The roomate (now fiancee, although I refuse to use that word as it brings to mind elbow-length gloves and afternoon croquet matches) made a comment the other day about the ease with which we transitioned to living together. While I think this speaks volumes about our relationship and how we get along so well, I think it also speaks to the roomate's easygoing nature. I'm sure it was more of a transition for him than it was for me, as I ploughed through the door, my arms full of pink pillows, picture frames and furniture adorned with flowers.

"LET'S MAKE THIS THE GUEST ROOM!" I squealed, as I rounded the corner to his then-roommate's bedroom. His then-roommate was still there, but did that stop me from pausing at the door to envision the pretty flowered bedspread and vintage-inspired accents that would transform the room? I'd like to say it did, but no, IT DID NOT.

Cohabitation has been swell, and the roommate has agreed to pretty much all decor changes, handing over the reigns and admitting that I'm "better at this stuff" and that the place looks great.

In the glow of my new role as roommate, along with keeping a warm and cozy apartment, I also wanted to kick some ass in the kitchen. I gathered all of my cookbooks and marked the recipes I would try with those little neon page markers. I shopped, planned, and cooked. I made sure that three nights a week, there was something new and exciting on the table. Some of the dishes were really good, and were met with an enthusiastic full-mouthed grunt that sounded something like "keeper!" He would never go so far as to tell me he didn't like something, but would fall silent after taking the first bite. Never the less, I trudged on, scouring my books, and the grocery shelves, feeling every bit the devoted roommate I knew I was. 

One night a couple of weeks ago, I worked until 5 p.m. and the roommate worked night shift, leaving us with about an hour from the time I got home to the time he had to leave for work. I called and told him I would pick up something quick for dinner on the way home.

When I got home about 15 minutes later, he peeked in the grocery bag and let out a "WOOO!" 

"OH YEAH!" he said. "I LOVE THESE! I HAVEN'T HAD THESE IN SO LONG! I MISS MEALS LIKE THIS!"

 

Eat your freakin' heart out, Julia Child. 

 

As he ate, the roomate oohed and ahhed over the meal.

 

"You know what?" he said, as he sopped up the last of his mustard. "We should do meals like this more often. Your fancy suppers are good, but sometimes you just want a pig in a blanket, you know?" 

 

I guess there are some aspects of bachelorhood that will never change. And you know what? TOTALLY OK WITH THAT. 

Bling

Driving home from my Dad's place this morning, I wasn't looking at the late-summer sun as it reflected off the already changing leaves. I wasn't taking in the beautiful scenery that surrounded me as I whipped down the highway. Had there been a bear riding a tiny bicycle down the road wearing a tutu, I probably wouldn't have noticed. I was too busy staring at my brand new engagement ring.

 

Brand! New! Engagement! Ring!

 

The best part: it looks good with ALL of my outfits. There's also that whole 'by this time next year I'mma be someone's wife' thing.

 

That's pretty kickass, too.



At least I'll have someone to blame when they have to lift me out of my bed with a crane

Didn't know it was possible to simultaneously love and hate a person, but that's how I'm feeling about the summer student who gave me this recipe.

Recipes that take one minute in the microwave are WAY too easy. 

The relationship with this deep dish single serve chocolate chip cookie ended last night (I think. There may still be some late-night phone calls and tearful pleading but I'm feeling strong). Actually, it was my sister who set me straight. 

"Ok, you need to stop microwaving sugar and butter and chocolate and eating it with a spoon, hun," she said gently when I talked to her on the phone tonight. 

She's always been so good at tough love. 

Someone's growing!

 

Toto, I don't think we're in Dwarf bunny territory anymore.

The other night, Bun Bun's ears picked up a radio signal from a station in Russia.

When we got her as a little ball of fuzzy cuteness, they told us at the pet store she was "either a dwarf or a lop." I want whatever they've been smokin'. I think she would be better described as a "giant hare on ear steroids."

I'm not going to tell you that I buy kale and carrots and herbs just for Bun Bun. I'm also not going to tell you that I bought a harness and leash so I could follow her around in the park.

That would make me mentally insane, RIGHT? 



Indestructible (question mark)

Ok, people. Bear with me while I vent. If I can't do it here, in front of thousands hundreds tens of people, where can I? The roomate won't listen to me anymore (remember how the honeymoon period is O.V.E.R?).

It's no secret that I'm a little less graceful than your average ballerina. I've heard the word 'klutz' used to describe me, but don't you think that's a bit harsh? People are always putting things in my way for me to trip over and moving walls for me to walk into. I'm convinced someone sneaks in in the middle of the night and greases up all of my best dishes so they slide right out of my hands and crash to the ground.

So, I had a Blackberry. I loved my Blackberry. Most of my friends had Blackberrys and our BBM relationships flourished. This is in no way sponsored by RIM. Frankly, I don't think they could afford it. That being said, my Blackberry and I went strong for almost three years. My friends would complain of the odd problem, but my Blackberry was loyal to the end. Then, one day, my Blackberry up and died. I picked it up and it was just gone. White screen, unresponsive. 

When I took it in my service provider, they said there appeared to be water damage in my phone. I asked the roommate if he remembered anything being spilled on it. He said no. I still don't fully believe him as the word 'klutz' has been used a couple of times to describe him, as well. Anyways, that's a moot point, and after having a brief yet touching memorial service for my Blackberry, I turned it over to the service manager and walked over to the Blackberry table to pick out a new friend phone.

"Oh. Hmm. You're looking at another Blackberry?" said the service manager.
"Yes," I answered. "I loved my Blackberry." 
"Well, I wouldn't go with a Blackberry again. Don't you know RIM is kind of in the pooper right now?"

Ok, so he didn't say pooper. But he did strongly discourage me from buying another Blackberry. 

"This is the new Samsung Rugby," he said, holding up a shiny touch screen. "It's pretty much indestructible. Break-proof, waterproof, dust-proof. This phone will not break, so it's perfect for people like you."

The hint of smile that crossed his lips did not go unnoticed.

Anyways, the point of this long-ass story is that I was in Toronto walking down the street (coincidentally talking about my new phone to my girlfriend Trish,) and my phone broke. I pulled it out to show it to her and it slipped right out of my hands and crashed to the concrete. Those fucking grease-elves had followed me to Toronto!

The screen was completely smashed. To pieces. Long story (not so) short, I brought it in a month ago and I still have this "replacement" phone as I wait for the repair:

Along the way, I HAVE had contact with my service provider. First for them to tell me that it likely wouldn't cost more than $50 to have the phone fixed. And the phone company has this AWESOME new program where they'll pay up to $150 for a repair. So "you're laughin!" Then a call to tell me the phone would in fact cost $240 to repair (the phone retails for $250.) Another call to say they would call and "check on why it's so expensive, but there's nothing I can do about it anyways." Two more weeks went by and I finally went into the store to get my phone back.

"Sorry for not getting back to you sooner, but today's been crazy," said the service manager. 

"Today?" I said, smiling as he did when he sold me the "indestructible" phone. "I brought my phone in a month ago!" 

In the end, I have to pay $124 to have my phone fixed. The phone that is marketed as "indestructible." I asked about a protective case for it so this doesn't happen again and was told they don't even make one because "it's indestructible." I asked if there was anyone I could call to let them know that HI! Your "indestructible" phone? SO NOT FREAKIN' INDESTRUCTIBLE! I was told that it was a manufacturer issue and since it was their first model they would probably just take notes for the next model. And even then "you can't really speak to a real person."

So, here I am, still waiting to get my phone back. Still texting like it's 1994.

Do you have a ridiculous first-world problem to tell me about? Cause that would make me feel a lot better about spending the last 45 minutes writing about my cell phone.