My Hasslehoff

We left for the cottage on Saturday, and returned home tonight. (Our eyes gazing over fields looking for the murderer). I was looking in the corn, the girls were looking in the wheat, and Adam had his eyes on bush lots. Adam took the girls to see an AC/DC cover band, and the man who was going to attempt to flee a Viking Death in Owen Sound. I skipped that one, the thought of burning flesh and possible misfired flaming poky things weren't my cup of tea that night. The girls were very excited, as they enjoy AC/DC, and were expecting perfection, but they were a bit disappointed. They had fun though, and it was good for them to spend some time together. I skipped it because, the vino the night before was still cursing through my veins and I won't do that again for a long time. One drink, I am tipsy, two drinks, I am chatty, three drinks, I am really gregarious, and after that, I feel like I have been dragged through a knot hole. This afternoon, Adam said, "Lisa, lets go find a bathing suit". I have been stuck on the pin up girl type. They are so retro, and sweet, I saw one online, black with little cherries. I fell head over heals in love with it. Alas, they only had extra small. (WTF?) So, after a few hours of smacking through the racks and trying stuff on, I came to a black polka dot pin up inspired type. It's not exactly the uber suit, but it was really cute. I didn't buy it. I came home empty handed because, well, the "one piece" stigma kept nagging at me. I feel guilty buying anything that is not on sale. The only thing I ever bought that was not on sale were my infamous Ugg Adirondack Otters. I do not regret the purchase, but I like to get a bang for my buck. Then I had a panic attack, I started bawling. I felt like a twit. Why would I leave a suit, that was almost what I wanted, that looked good, and would enable me to swim, sitting in a store? Maybe it was the price tag, maybe it was an excuse not to frolic in the surf, maybe it was just one of those subconscious reactions to getting something new. "Do you want me to go pick it up?" He asked. I actually started sniffling and my nose started running. Some people cry beautifully, like a nice impressionist painting, some cry ugly, I cry ultra putrid. Red spots cover my face, snot runs out of my nose, my nose expands, and my eyes go canned pea green. I remember in Drama classes, attempting to learn how to try not to cry without looking like an asshole, it doesn't work for me. "Yes" I puffed. My husband, drove back to the store, and bought the black and white polka dot bathing suit for me, and a piece of fudge for himself. How many husbands would go back to a women's clothing store, to buy a bathing suit for their wife, alone? How many husbands would willingly flip through hundreds of bikinis and one pieces giving them to the sales people for their wife to try on? How many husbands would take interest in such a task? Not many. How many husbands would not begrudge the task and put up with an angry shopping companion? That was the best gift, not the bathing suit, but the actions of Adam. Absolutely darling. We then frolicked in the lake, and I hitched a ride back with him Sponge Bob style to the second sand point. He was my Hasslehoff.

I'm a Pug! Woop - Morphing Pugs

This is a very delicious video. Mmmmmm. . . pugs!

It's a long way to Tipperary

It's a long way to Tipperary it's a long way back home. . . . Or something or other. Let's just say, I went on a power walk tonight, knowing I would be at a bonfire occasion and prepared myself, by buying my most "favouritest" wine ever. Ya, ya. . .I know it's a cheap one, but it's the one I started drinking it out of silver goblets when I was just a a spring pea out of a pod. It is on rare occasion that I do buy a bottle of wine for myself, because my husband is quite the snob when it comes to vintages and dryness, ahhhh the anal retentiveness goes on. He was on nights, so I thought, here is my chance to buy my memories. I did it, without guilt or shame. Castlevitro. It has some spunk. It has just enough bubbly goodness to get you over the hump. No, I don't drink normally, because, that's when I start with the verbal diarrhea, and the funny stories that seem to haunt me. It is like drinking a really yummy tart raspberry. I truly recommend it to the non snobby wine indulger's. So, the power walk was intense, and I had developed quite the thirst, not realizing that those fuzzy bubbles would have such an effect, I drank at least a litre. Considering, that only two standardized drinks, are my threshold, I feel/felt quite happy and light. Except when my chair fell over because my dog pulled towards the bull. Such is life. The evening was spent down the road at W.B's house, with Gibbles and Wookie in tow, and a bunch of other stray Huronians. Ah, the snap crackle and pop of the fire, compounded with the mid summer breeze, and the smell and piercing eyes of the bulls behind us, made for an enjoyable evening. It may not make for an enjoyable morning, but c'est la vie. Frappez la rue mon amies. Je tres bonne, avec la vin et la champignons. Sacre blue. C'est dommage. Get out the cornichans. Je suis tres fatiquez.

The Search For The Ultimate Bathing Suit

We went up to the cottage for a little escape from the doldrums of Blyth. I needed to get away so badly, that I was ready to explode. Then I realized, it was bathing suit time. . . Now, I am not fat, but damn, the issue of Body Dysmorphic Disorder came to rear it's ugly head, as I flipped through the bikinis hanging on the racks. It seemed that they were all size 0's, and had half an ass. The bottoms would only cover one eighth of a cheek. I could rug hook a better bathing suit myself, but it would be insanely itchy. Then my family and friends would call me "Lisa Scratchy Pants". It wouldn't be the first time I tried to make a bikini. . .I remember my attempts at the crocheted kind, and ended up looking like I had raided my Nana's doilie drawer. I can only crochet circles, and wonky ones at that. I had gone into Sear's (gag) a few months ago to look at dress pants for Adam, and ended up in the bathing suit section (double gag). The suits looked like "Mother Suits". . . huge assed, droopy tit type apparel, that you know is going to end up down by your knees the moment a wave hits you. Lets just say if I won a lottery tomorrow, I would be lasered, nipped, tucked, zippered and velcro'd ASAP. Even though, looking at other people, I realize, I have nothing to be ashamed of, and neither do they. It's MY issue and everyone has issues, and tissues, and cashews. Everyone (case in point) is so concerned about themselves, that they do not notice other people's flaws. It's funny, thinking back to my teens, I refused to buy a bathing suit because I hung out with the "punk" crowd, and we just wore our Daisy Dukes and a black bras. (Very classy. . .not). Those were prime bikini moments, and I missed out. So, as I flipped through the racks harder, (realizing in retrospect, that I was making a lot of noise), I became angry with the benign pieces of material. I had a hissy fit. Which I took out on the Adam's Family pin ball game a little later. I sucked large. I spoke with my mother and she said when she was 28 she made the decision to start into the "one piece" divide. For me, the "one piece" signifies age. I am not ready to make the jump. Plain and simple, if you wear a one piece you are old (my distorted thought for the day). Old and mouldy. "There are such flattering shapes though" my mother said. "And you can have them as low cut as you want". True mom, very true. But where? Where is the ultimate non-mother-looking- stomach-cinching-waist-trimming-boob-elevating-life-preserving-light-up-with a spot for you Swiss Army knife bathing suit? Where is Stacy London and Clinton Kelly when I need them? Can "What Not To Wear" tell me when to toss the bikini and break out the one piecer? Maybe if I stick to the mantra "Do not look for the suit, the right suit will come to you", I will be a happier person.

Quicky

Things are very busy and chaotic here, so I am not getting to emails or other stuff. It may be why I dreamed of a monkey in a fishnet uni-tard last night.

Sweet 2000 Honda Civic SiR For Sale Update July 2008 Price Reduced to 11,500

Here is something all of you studly boys or sexy girls need. It's my brother's, and he has put a lot of heart and soul into this sweet ride. Very low to the ground, and swanky. Will definitely puncture your eardrums with the "hi fi". Perfection inside and out, so give him a holler if you are interested. Located in the bustling town of Mount Brydges. STILL FOR SALE AS OF NOW (APRIL 26, 2008) WILL TAKE THIS POST DOWN WHEN IT DOES SELL!!!!!! WAS ASKING 20,000, BUT HAVE DROPPED THE PRICE TO 16,000. EMAIL for the extensive list of highly technical details, oh new paint job too. He has really juiced this up in a classy, understated way. All custom tricked out SLICK. 2000 honda civic SiR, custom stereo, 18" wheels, lots of performance upgrades installed and maintained by honda dealer, winter stored, custom body work, 125k, 16,000or best offer OPEN TO ANY REASONABLY SANE OFFER . email at SiRcustom2000@hotmail.com tell him where you saw it.

Half a Freckle and a Fiddler's Banana

I had someone say "fiddler's banana" to me. I wasn't sure how to take it, since I forgot what the man was saying as soon as he said the two words to me, I lost it's context. I googled it, and just came up with a Jazz page. Anyhow, the whole weekend from Saturday night on was a complete waste of my time. I had a fall. It sounds so "old ladyish". Even though Adam says I am the clumsiest person he has ever known, I just don't go around falling. I trip, I stumble, I flail, but fall? To make a long story short, I was saying my goodbye's to my brother and his girlfriend, the neighbour approaches from behind, I am halfway between my neighbour and my brother, beside Wookie on her chain, Wookie gets excited and her chain wraps around my right ankle, she runs, I fly straight up in the air (at least four feet) and land on my right bum cheek and arm. I heard my vertebrae pop and chuckle. "Holiday Syndrome". Nice. So, most of the weekend was spent chewing muscle relaxers and drinking tea. My fanny is a bit blue. I was too looped to even attempt some rug hooking, and my bum burnt from slathering it with A-535, from which I had a "bit" of an allergic reaction to. Roboxacet. . ."it's a hellava drug". I was "grinding my feet" into my leather couch. Now the kidlets are back, Adam is back with arms full of chocolate from the Hershey Factory. Good Lord, I will never lose my love handles. I think I am going out for a power walk tonight, it seems like a good night for it. It is a tad muggy, but I like to live life on the edge. Right now I am listening to Adam on the phone with one of his work buddies. . .he has a bit of his "Man Voice" on right now. He has three distinct voices. The Man Voice (when he is talking to a man). The Lady Voice (when he is talking to a woman). or The Exasperated Husband Voice. (No need to explain this treasure, it's when I bug him, tease him, gross him out, or poke him). The Man Voice is always such a delight. He sounds gravelly with a sprinkling of Tabasco, and a dash of lumber jacket.

Mow Maniacs #3

I just received a call to look out my window. . .yup, they are at it again, no, not mowing intently, but watering. Last week, they watered almost everyday, throughout the day. We are on watering restrictions. 7:30-9:30 pm every other day, odd and even numbered homes take turns. Meanwhile, the renegades are watering copiously, they have no new sod, so they do not have a viable excuse. I won't rat them out, but I sure hope someone does, I have caused enough crap in this town.

BBQ Thieves Beware

Here is one of my favourite, fun letters that I have written. We have still not replaced the BBQ, but I got some funny responses from this. Some people in town actually thought my letter was serious, because at that time, I was producing some art. Yes, the BBQ was missing. . .but the rest is pure fiction. "BBQ Thieves Beware Letter to the Editor: Warning to those who stole my barbecue on May 2, 2***. I am sorry that you do not have the funds to purchase your own; it must be embarrassing being so terribly destitute, to resort to stealing what you thought was a simple five-year-old barbecue. I truly hope you do not get sick, as for the past nine months, I have used the barbecue not as a tool for grilling frankfurters, but for artistic applications. The chemicals involved are unfit for human consumption and when residue is orally ingested, it has a half-life of approximately twenty years. This residue is on the grilling surface, is embedded in the charcoal, and surrounding porous surfaces of the barbecue. If one were to utilize this barbecue as a means of cooking, these chemicals would permeate your dinner. The toxic chemicals can cause severe liver and duodenum damage as well as impair reproductive functions that include (but are not limited to) impotence. Lastly, what you perceived as spatulas and tongs used for flipping hamburgers, were in fact, implements for removing my dog's bowel movements from the premises. You may want to be tested for Giardia or a round worm infection, which, left untreated, can be very uncomfortable and awkward. If you have any concerns please contact me. You obviously know my address, it shouldn't be a problem getting in touch. "

Red Alert

Since scuttling my children out the door, after a day of chaos, not completely knowing if they were going to go on their trip (long involved story), the dogs have been on RED ALERT. The dogs saw the bright orange luggage and the kids leaving and now they are huddled around me (Pug on lap, Boston scratching at my leg, and Heinz 57's paws wrapped around my foot). Six eyes are looking at me. Wookie is also intermittently barking with Stella at any noise. I guess they figure they have to protect the homestead. I am going to have to fill the Kong up with a few baked potatoes to keep them quiet. Then the phone calls. . .Holy Mother of Pearl. I think I am old enough to be left at home, but everyone seems concerned. Geez, it's not like I am going to have a wild party or hang nude from the chandeliers. I was hoping to have a little piece and quiet (as these times are few and far between), and aside from this blogging interlude, it has been anything but solitude. One person called and asked me if I wanted to try Mock Duck. . . a loving neighbour, but if it is "mock", I don't think I really want to go there. Thanks anyway, I know it was a caring gesture, but I figured it must come out of a can and it literally turned my stomach, I am not even going to google it. I am honestly afraid that she is going to show up with a spoonful of the concoction at my door. It happens frequently. . .spoonfuls of stuff at the door. Later: I feel like a kid on the third day of summer holidays. All that hope and fun that you thought you would have, had anticipated all year, you used all that gusto up in the first two days. On the third day you whine to your parents, "I'm bored". Well I can't say I am actually bored. It's more like, apathetic. I know there is stuff I have to do, but I am avoiding it. I know there is stuff I could do, but, I don't want to. Also there is my nightly roamer in my yard again tonight. Harmless enough and a great neighbour (I really couldn't ask for better, he is a sweet guy), but, he is drunk happy as a clam right now. He knows Adam is away, and thinks that I should be joining him for a beer by his campfire. Problem is, I cannot understand him when he is inebriated, then his eyes roll around all over the place like milky marbles in a popcorn maker, and then I just feel sad for the poor bloke. Obviously, my fence hasn't been put up yet. I will breath such a sigh of relief when I can walk into my yard without being descended upon by people. I feel like a piece of road kill just waiting for the pecking vultures at times. There is no privacy, I actually need some kind of force field. He has knocked on my door twice tonight, and waited for me each time when the dogs have been let out, he can hear my screen door from his place. No, I am not a paranoid delusional and yah, I should probably give my hinges a spray with Nutz.

Dream

Things have eased up a bit around here, now for packing. My Tibbles, Gibbles and Adam are going away for the weekend and unfortunately, I can't make it. I am going to my Aunt D's 50th Anniversary celebration at (get this) The Transylvania Club. I wouldn't miss it for the world, although, I think I may have pink eye. I dropped my contact in the sink, although I cleansed it, I woke up with a puffy eye. I googled it, and one of the remedies suggested was breast milk. Hmmmm, I don't have any lactating friends, but maybe if I call around, I could secure one. I woke up today, a bit unsettled. Not only was my eye gross, but I had had a dream of having a baby in the bathtub (9 pounds, 4 ounces). It was a beautiful fat black haired baby named Rosa. I was so relieved that there was no one around when I had her. It was a relaxing labour. Immediately after the birth, I went over to my neighbours to go to a community supper. The baby pooped, and then Adam told me it was grainy. I could see all these little seeds, like flax seeds. Weird because: 1) I hate community suppers. 2) No more babies in my future (thank god). 3) I did see an old bathtub on my power walk last night. 4) I did eat some multi grain crackers, prior to retiring to bed. Adam put the stairs back in down to the basement last night. I helped a bit, I was feeling pretty lazy, and my job was to lie down on the floor upstairs and use the hammer drill in an upside down position. So "the girls" became very uncomfortable squashed on the threshold of the steps, I felt like I had had a two hour mammogram. Meanwhile, Wookie, has decided she enjoys power tools. She stole the screws, licked the bit of the drill, and licked the end of the sledge hammer. Regardless, we have the stairs in, the basement has actual basement jack posts, and things may just be looking up. . . . Now, I am wondering about the actual jack posts, they say they hold 8000 pounds each (there is about a 5 foot span between them), we put in two (where the exsiting support was originally, it is by a stairway). I am wondering how much they are actually holding, obviously what was there for 130 years had done an admirable, but in past years, a failing job. Old houses do have slope, and ours certainly did, I think in total (I may ask Adam later), we jacked the house up about 4 inches------ very slowly. When the house fell down in the midst of it, that was kind of scary. They posts are holding up the main floor, and the upper floor, and the attic. I think what we have is called balloon construction. So I will ponder away as I start sewing a button on a pair of Adam's shorts.

The last few days have been fraught with so much stress that I feel like I am a tick about to pop. Sometimes, decisions that you made come back to haunt you a decade or more later and you just do not know how to grapple with the deluge of emotions, that you thought were gone. You thought you did what was ethical, moral, and had long term benefit. Sometimes those decisive moments are those moments that even if you could tele-port back though the sticky curtains of webs and space, you wouldn't change them, but if you had been more aware of the ramifications, you could just twist the situation a little bit, and give it a tug more in your favour. Or maybe you could just have a bit more of a long term vision into what could be. But "could's and should's" are just what they are, things that never happened and you are stuck with a basket of "what is". You now have to hand that basket off to the previously unknowing participant, and you give the gift your own decision, of which you initially thought was best, but now know that it may not of been what exactly was presented to you. You have now given someone a defining moment, good or bad.

Mole #2

The post below has some pictures of what I received in the mail. My father, the giving man that he is, had been asking me if my mail was slow, had I checked it lately, had I received anything of note. He seemed a tad irritable, when I told him, I hadn't been checking the mail. I could hear some disappointment in his voice. "You need to check your mail". I had not been paying attention to the mail, and finally waddled down to the post office, and what I opened was such a "treat". Yes, it was a letter from my mother, and with an added bonus, a mole from my father. Affixed strongly to the duct tape, and sealed with a layer or two of Saran Wrap, I was the proud new owner of a mole. This will go into my collection, of things that I have, kids hair, teeth, Adam's long ponytail (and other extras). . . all squirreled away in a secret drawer. This is not the first time someone in my family has received a mole in the mail. If I remember correctly, my Nana, had given some sound advice on removing a mole by tying a thread around the base, and letting it die off. Months later, she received an envelope from England, which contained only the thread and a shriveled piece of crisp. She was mortified. But, back to my new addition. It must have been a hairy nevus, sumptuous and bulbous, that was removed. I showed it to my sister in law who happens to be a Naturopath, and she was horrified at the removal method consisting of merely duct tape / gaffer tape and pure brute strength, as my father had a friend help him in the removal. I am picturing the accomplice's foot on my father's back, yanking. Yes, my family is quirky, but man, are they ever funny. Thanks Dad. Hey, and if I ever need to clone you, if your beard doesn't work, I can always resort to the mole!

Mole (don't look if you are of a sensitive disposition)

If you click on the pictures, you can read the letter and see the mole close up! Amazing.

Screw the Ab Lounge, I Want Flan

If my house could harness the amount of teenage angst percolating, I think it would spontaneously combust. Not only do I have an EMO, I have a drama queen. It took me a while to understand the term EMO, and realized it was just a short form of "emotional". I thought people were just mispronouncing Emu, or were referring to a skin condition. My daughter doesn't dress like an EMO, but certainly acts like one. I think EMO's are actually Goth's that didn't quite make it, so they just sit around and cry about it. They are like the cast offs of the Goth society. Anyway, my house is ready to explode, and I can feel the tension like elastic bands encasing my head, that's why I am posting in spurts. There is a topic that I MUST post tomorrow, and it is an exciting one, of something I received in the mail. The sender of the item, has been upset because I haven't written about their gift. Patience, Brian-San. I must warn my incognito readers. . .it may offend, or it may warm your hearts, but it is certainly exciting. Also: My husband is addicted to Facecrack, and has been frequenting websites containing information on doppelgangers http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Doppelganger and chupacabras http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chupacabra He is an odd man, but a lovable lump. He made this flan at work today, while building cars. (No, he bought it, but it would be funny to see someone on the line whipping up this delight, especially a "flan"). I am just addicted to caffeine, sugar and pastries. I have gained a total of 10 pounds this month, knowing this, I just ate half my birthday flan. I will not even consider a bathing suit this year.

Rambles

Well we had our first rain in what seems like ages. It was more like a sprinkling, it did make the grass a tad greener, but now I have to hop on the lawn tractor tomorrow and cut the lawn. I stayed in Adam's MC Hammer flannel PJ's until this afternoon, trying to do some computer stuff. System restore discs and back up discs were flying everywhere. I don't know if it actually worked and the "crux of the biscuit" is that you are only allowed to make one copy of the system restore discs for the computer. So I am not allowed to do it again, how moronic. I also realized it was my birthday (I had conveniently forgot until I looked at Facecrack, and saw a bunch of well wishes), and figured I am allowed to wallow in flannel and dishevelment on this day. It was a tad irksome being befriended by a weirdo from the Hell Kittens Group that I am in, so I blocked him. I asked who are you? He said, "someon tring to mac freends" (I should talk, somedays I am ridden with typos). I said "learn to spell first", and then blocked the twit. So in between making jerk chicken and wondering what colour my hair really is, and pontificating my navel, I just haven't done anything of worth. I have actually been trying to avoid a hug from a certain neighbour, so after taking some quicky pictures of my garden, I flew back inside my non walled house and had a cup of tea, while I looked at my partially hooked rug. (I was given a bunch of ends of wool from the store to play around with, so I have hooked, and then unhooked, and just used so far what I have on hand for material). Then I ate a crouton.

I wanna be a hooker

Quicky Update. In "I" fashion. I got my hair dyed a bit browny red. . .still wondering if it was a good idea. I wore heels, had blisters explode in Mexx at Masonville Mall. I feel like a tick about to pop. The 90th birthday of Adam's Grandpa went well, that guy is well preserved. I didn't get up to Sauble :( I did take a tour of Pianovations in Londesborough (sp), and saw how they refurbished century old pianos. Found out that a Grand Piano has 20,000 pound of pressure on it, and if you harnessed that energy, you could blow up a house. Don't ever try to take apart a piano by yourself, you could be injured or maimed. I want to learn how to play the mandolin. Not that I have ANY musical talent. I fudged out at the Kiwanis band recital by pretending to play my clarinet. I didn't blow and just moved my fingers hoping they wouldn't notice a rogue third clarinet having issues. The judges did notice and pointed me out. Long story, another time. I also received a lesson in old fashion rug hooking, I have my burlap, hooker, frame and some pieces of wool. I have created my first circle.

dawn Landes - Young Folks (bluegrass style)

neato burrito cover song :)