Hello Kitty? I Rock the Hair Bow!

I did it. I bloody well did it! I finished a video game! A whole video game!

I am just so proud of myself. And I finished it in, like, three days. While it was rented.

I am totally awesome. Not only did I manage to finish a game for three years olds in like 4 times the time it would take a baby to finish it, but I saved myself forty bucks! Well, I saved citrusboy forty bucks anyway.

I will take congratulations and large sums of coins. Kitty coins, that is. Unless you have real money. In which case, bring it on!

Why Me? Why?

Cow Kitty loves staring out the window. He lurves it. So sometimes he attracts attention 'cause he's just so darn-tootin' cute.

This time it was a little girl who kept looking into my window as I was peacefully trying to watch The Simpsons. So I thought I would do something nice, Winnipeg-style, and not be my usual bitch self, Toronto-style. I opened the screen door and said: Do you wanna pet the nice kitty?

Big mistake. Big. Huge.

She proceeds to call over her brother and some other little boy who I presume is their friend. They stand in my doorway and pet the kitty. Okaaaay, fine.

THEN they spot the Game Cube. After that it's all "Can we come in?" "Can we play video games?" "Can I feed the cat?" "Can I see the cat's babies?" (This being a male cat and all.) "You know that cat's babies are called kittens?" "Where are your children?" "How come you have a Game Cube and no children?" You should have seen their eyebrows fall right off the top of their heads when I said my husband and I played it. "Can we play the Game Cube?" "Pleeeeeease?" "Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease!?!"

I cannot deal with these children so I sent them off to ask their mothers if they could come inside, thinking that any smart parent would immediately say: HELL NO! And that would be the end of that.

But I suck and the world, particularity Winnipeg, is out to get me so of course one kid comes back and says his mother said he's allowed to come in. Huh? Is she out of her tree? Maybe he's lying, I have no idea.

So the kid marches right into my apartment and politely takes his shoes off. At least his crazy-ass parents have taught him some manners. And then makes himself comfortable in front of the Game Cube.

And just at that moment, who happens to walk by but none other than citrusboy. Ah dear god, my saviour. I say: Honey, this boy wants to play video games. Why don't you play with him? And like the good husband he is, as he can no longer extricate himself from this situation amicably, he parks his ass on the carpet and plays Game Cube with some random kid from the neighbourhood. For several hours.

I run away to the computer and pretend I'm really really busy, grown-up fashion. I grow weary and tired and want to take a nap. But the kid plays on. How the hell do we get rid of this kid?

Then he goes to the bathroom. And takes a pee with the door ajar. Oh dear god. But he did wash his hands after.

Finally citrusboy says the kid has to pack it up because we're going out. As a consolation prize, he lends the kid some PS1 games. Turns out he has a PS2 at home. And here I thought he was video game deprived.

As he's leaving he's all: I'm gonna come back tomorrow and we can play some more. Okay? Okay?

Great, I can never open my blinds again. I hope I can learn to live in a world of darkness. And oh yeah, I have to kill that cat of mine.

That's the very first and last time I try to be nice.

Umbrellas, Daggers, Olives, Oh My!

When you start saying things like "There's not enough stomach in my food", you know you've had a leetle too much to drink. Especially if it's only been three martinis later.

So it's Saturday and citrusboy, Carsin O'Genic, Crys, and I have decided we need to celebrate my birthday with, what else, but sushi and martinis.

But first the extra-nasty, it's-the-icing-that-counts Safeway cake.
I decided to forego a really yummy almond meringue cake and, at my request, got this mess. Think what you want, but I heart icing!

After I licked most of the flowers off the cake, we decided it was time to do some drinking. As we don't own a bodega, we were forced (yes, forced) to go to the martini bar to get our drunken kicks.
New Homeowner was kind enough to send me a birthday card, complete with a drinks umbrella. She thought that a martini with an umbrella in it would rock. She was right. So cheers, NH!
And look, there's even a matching pink dagger through the olives! Even my martinis match. I am such a loser.

By the way, still sober here. First sentence of post has not been uttered as of yet.
But the best moment of the night came when I remembered all about Soho liqueur. I can't believe I forgot all about it until citrusboy pointed it out at their bar. I tried to get it in Toronto once a long time ago and the people at the store looked at me like I was mentally unstable (which may be a true fact, but asking for booze doesn't make one so, does it?). They hauled out this book with a list of all their products and made me find it. So when I actually found what I was looking for, they were baffled and thought "This shit totally exists?". Then they made up some stuff about it being out of stock or something. Idiots. So anyway, I got a Lychee Martini. It has been added into my permanent martini rotation. Score one, Winnipeg!
Speaking of, not quite so sober anymore. Sentence has definitely been uddered. I mean, uttered. This is around the 10th martini mark.
And apparently neither was Carsin O'Genic, as he attempted to eat a huge wasabi ball topped with ginger.
The end result was not pretty. So not pretty in fact, that I won't subject you to the pictures I got of the aftermath.

After we had drunk enough (enough?!?) we were going to go to a club, but the music they were playing was horrible. Horrifying. Horrendous. Need I go on? So we ended up at Baked. I really have no idea how. I tried to get my almond meringue then but they were all out. Damn! So I got a caramel cheesecake. Not bad. And some of citrusboy's club sandwich. Yum, greasy bacon. Does a drunk good!

We stumbled home and I passed right out. Got up the next morning and felt perfectly fine. Yeah, I still got it!

Are You Feeling A Little Mixed-Up?

I was in the kitchen a couple of days ago trying to make some spinach soup. Trying being the operative word.

Apparently I don't even know how to work a blender. Apparently.

So I have my spinach all puréed in the blender. Then I pour some of the liquidy soupy part into the blender for further mixing with the puréed spinach. Then, I put the cover on. Oh yes, I did put it on. I'm not quite all that half-baked. Then I hit the power button. Then the pulse button. All the while holding the cover down firmly. Like the instructions say.

Can you see where this is going?

The cover flies off. Boiling hot soup everywhere. Spinach chunks everywhere. Everywhere. On the counters. On the walls. On the floor. In the cat food. On me.

Lesson learned? Indeed yes. The blender is only good for two things: Pina coladas and daiquiris.

Another little surprise for me!

Citrusboy came home from work early bearing the gift of a box of Jalapeno Poppers. Mmm Jalapeno Poppers! He had the good intentions of bringing me home some sushi, but the restaurant doesn't open until 5. As if!

Let's say it all together now: What the hell is wrong with this city?!?

I'm taking the day off today from writing anything worthwhile. Not that that's what I've been doing in the past anyway, so anyhoo. (See, I didn't even bother thinking up a title).

But my point is: it's my birthday today and I refuse to do anything. Except make that creamy, gooey, calorie-laden cheesy pasta dish (recipe courtesy of New Homeowner, who is obviously trying to kill me) for myself.

I won't even go to the gym. Suck on that slice of old cheddar, calorie gods!

So all together now: Happy birthday to me! Happy Birthday to me! Have some macaroni!

See you tomorrow folks.

Damn You, New Homeowner!

I got hoodwinked again. This time by New Homeowner. She's all: I have a new post up - you should really read it. And then immediately signs off MSN so I can't e-yell at her. Look what happens when I'm a nice friend. I get tagged.

So here goes. Even though you may really not care. I mean, really really not care.

7 things I plan to do before I die

1. Finish Paper Mario: the 1000 year door (it will be the first video game I've ever finished, as citrusboy so kindly mentioned today)
2. Live all around the world, spreading wisdom where ever I go
3. Get that dang-blasted professional degree
4. Become so flexible that I can put my legs behind my head
5. Make shopping into a full-time profession
6. Live in Manhattan for several years while plying my trade
7. Go to Japan and eat every single piece of sushi possible

7 things I can do
1. Play chess
2. Read. I mean crazy read.
3. Remember useless facts which sometimes come in handy during Trivial Pursuit
4. Write essays
5. Put together IKEA furniture in 2 seconds flat - I'm the original Konstruction Kommando
6. Cook yummy foodstuffs
7. Make citrusboy laugh. Even though no one else thinks I'm funny, I'd like to think he's laughing with me and not at me.

7 things I cannot do
1. Play checkers
2. Drive a standard car
3. Cut Cow Kitty's claws by myself
4. Make a grilled cheese sandwich. They always burn. Always.
5. Finish the Rings Trilogy by Tolkein. Got to the second last chapter of the last book and I just couldn't take it anymore. I have tried to read it three times now.
6. Give myself a manicure
7. Sleep without a teddy bear. So I suck. So what.

7 things that attract me to the opposite sex
1. Sense of humour
2. Some brains
3. Tall
4. Likes animals
5. Likes my friends/tolerates my family
6. Treats his mother well
7. Nice smile/teeth

7 things that I say most often
1. Nice!
2. Lovely, honey.
3. What the hell is wrong with this city?!?
4. Moo.
5. Bloody fucking hell!!!
6. Sushi?
7. Cheese, please.

7 celebrity crushes
1. Scott Patterson
2. Patrick Swayze
3. John Cusack
4. Colin Firth
5. Paul Rudd
6. John Corbett
7. Gwen Stefani

7 people I want to do this (in no particular order) (Woohoo, my turn to torture people! Heh heh)
1. Lindsay
2. Deep End
3. Karate Explosion
4. Whoever lives in the 'Peg
5. Whoever hates doing these
6. Whoever likes Patrick Swayze

7. Whoever bothered reading this far. Consider it your punishment.

Gym Olympics

So I was on the elliptical thingy at the gym yesterday, when a guy came up to me and said "When are you done?". Now, there were, quite literally, a million other elliptical thingys free in the entire gym, including the exact same one right beside me. But we have this stupid rule that states: 30 minute maximum if someone else is waiting EVEN IF another machine is free. So even though I wanted to do another 15 minutes, I had to admit I only had 5 minutes left and give up the machine.

So I got off my machine and moved to the one right beside it to finish my 15 minutes. And the guy had the nerve to start talking to me. My god. You read while you do this? Is it recreational reading or studying? Don't you find it hard? What'cha readin'? I got so annoyed I just gave up and went to shower.

For them to even have such a sign means people must complain. Constantly and all the time. Get a grip, people! Just use another machine! What bloody difference does it make? You can't be THAT in love with one particular machine.

I hate people.

Sugar Was Poured

I went to the Def Leppard concert Friday night at the MTS centre. It was Fuckin' A (that's a direct Joe Elliott quote). I love you, Def Leppard!

Citrusboy was kind enough to get me tickets for my birthday and suffered through it like a man.

The Tea Party opened up for (or as it's called now: supported) Def Leppard and I must say, even though I was kind of upset that I didn't get to see Brian Adams instead, they were really good. Way better than I expected. During the break, after Tea Party's set, I did something quite silly.

I got this T-shirt. 'Cause I'm cool like that, folks, yes indeedy.
I will actually wear this thing out in public. But not to school. Because if I ever hear "Who's that?" I will have to kill myself.

The guy who was selling them was hilarious. He was all "They don't pay me enough to do this or that". So when a couple on the left of me wanted a shirt off the display, guess what answer they got. Or when they complained that it wasn't fair, because someone else got a shirt off the display. And then the guy on the right of me, who had been waiting for a while, had to add "Life's not fair, bitch. Get over it." I thought I was going to laugh right in their face.

One thing I find interesting about concert-goers in Winnipeg is that they are all very well-behaved. No insane rocking-out. No wild dancing in the stands. Some swaying, some singing, but nothing like Toronto, where people go CRAZY. And here they drink a lot of beer. I mean copious amounts of beer. People would even leave in the middle of the concert to get more beer. I guess some people go just for the beer. But I did smell pot, so I guess at least one person was rocking-out, or at least was well on his way.

All in all, I had an awesome time, even though we were one of the youngest people there. I probably can't say the same for citrusboy, but he did say it was worth the ticket price so he had to have some semblance of fun.

Yay, Def Leppard!

Stupid University Board People and Their Stupid University Board Decisions

Ever had one of those moments when all you can think is: What the fuck? Like seriously, what-the-fuck? I had just such a moment yesterday afternoon.

Citrusboy comes home and hands me the mail. There's a letter from the University, Faculty of Science, in the pile. What now, I think. I imagine all the gruesome things it might contain. We've decided you're an idiot and are expelling you. We've decided you can't take this or that course. We've decided you have to take the last year over again. We've decided we're going to murder you in your sleep because we just don't like you.

After I give myself a mini stroke, I open the envelope and quickly scan the letter. Turns out I've made the Dean's Honour List, where, I quote, the dean states "Your highly successful academic performance...offer my own congratulations and those of the Faculty, and to wish you every success in the future".

So let me get this straight, people. I get kick-ass grades and you STILL refuse me admission to a Professional Program? How does this work, Stupid University Board People, because I was under the impression that kick-ass grades was what was needed to enter the Professional Program.

I swear, the Stupid University Board People have a vendetta against me, ever since I challenged some of their more idiotic policies. For a while there, I thought that maybe my grades weren't as awesome as I thought they were, but no, they are. They just hate me.

How do I get a degree from a University where the people who run it act like they don't even have one?

Hopefully next year their loathing will dissipate and they'll admit me. Keep your fingers crossed. And your toes. And your shoelaces. And anything else you can think of.

It's A Bird, It's A Plane, No - It's Super Piercing!

My nose piercing continues to work its magic.

Ever since I had an extra hole put in my nose, no one has tried to piss me off. Usually - guaranteed - at least once a day, someone will tick me off, but good. Lately, nada. Not the bus driver. Not Financial Aid. Not even the Registrar's Office. Not even when I said I wanted to take courses outside my faculty but was too stupid to realize the deadline for switching faculties had passed. They just smiled, signed my sheet, and waved me off.

I went to cancel my gym membership and they canceled it with glee. With glee, I tell you! Glee! Last time I tried to do that (sans third nose hole) they gave me such a hard time that I thought it would be easier to just keep the membership and never use it. But this time, there was much laughing and giggling, and I even got a free magazine out of the whole deal.

At the library, the librarian chatted with me about one of the books I was taking out. These women never chat. They always have way more important things to do. Like wandering around aimlessly, "shelving" things. She also waived the new $1 per DVD charge. Which is excellent as I didn't have any actual money on me. And I saved myself two bucks. That could get me half a Beach Roll, people. It's no laughing matter.

I wonder what's up?

Asbestos? You Mean That's Bad?

I went to the University yesterday to beg for various sundry things from the powers that be. I'm so glad this is the first thing that greeted me when I walked into the University - Asbestos Spring Cleaning: Welcome One, Welcome All.

And not just in one spot, but all over the place, including the Student Centre building and the Science complex, two of the places I spend the most time at. Now we know the true genesis of my illness. It's not West Nile Virus like I was starting to think, but rather asbestos poisoning.

I salute (cough, cough) the University that has decided it is high-time it did some thing about those pesky lung/digestive troubles that have been plaguing faculty, staff, and students. Seeing as it's the year 2005 and not, say, 1925.

Hmm. There goes my bus. I'm gonna be late again!
Stupid Transit. Grumble, grumble. Mutter, mutter.

Incredible, Earth-Shattering Wordy-ness. Or Not.

Three nights ago, when I was lying in bed sleepless from said lung-puking, I thought of this great post to write about women authors who commit suicide. I thought it all out in my head, word for word. What I should have done was got my lazy ass out of bed and wrote it down, but I'm an idiot to the nth degree so now I can't remember a word of it. Apparently Winnipeg is prone to inducing amnesia now too.

So I'll try my best to live up to the title.

I was watching The Hours the other day when it dawned on me that most really good, awe-inspiring writers are completely off their rockers: Virginia Woolf; Sylvia Plath; Anne Sexton; Ernest Hemingway. They were so immured in their art that nothing else mattered. And when they couldn't produce to their own satisfaction, they offed themselves.

This is bad news for me and my writing. I'm not mad (well, citrusboy says I am, but what does he know) and I don't feel a great urge to do away with myself. To be so dedicated to your writing is amazing to me. I just don't feel it. I write trash, stupid little stories full of colloquialisms, while these great writers wrote, in such seductive language, about their tortured souls, their lives on the page for anyone to see.

So I got kind of depressed about that. But really, what sense is there in being depressed about the fact that you're not clinically depressed. Sounds insane. Maybe I'm on to something here. Or not.

Maybe I need to get some angst. See a therapist. Make stuff up. Pretend I hear voices. I'm not saying I want to kill myself, but does pen to paper really require one to suffer from nervous breakdowns and incurable depression in order to write really really well?

I guess I'll always be mediocre - unless I stick my head in an oven. Does that even work with electric ovens?

Let's Get, Let's get Rocked!

Okay, I still haven't written the afore-promised earth-shattering post because I just wasted all morning looking for the answers to the Def Leppard Guitar Contest. Fruitlessly, I might add.

You'd think you could find just about anything on the 'net but all I found was this. Which was highly amusing in itself. But I could just be an incompetent net-surfer. Or a really useless Def Leppard fan.

So if you want that post, people, cough up the answers. Especially if you want me to use the word colloquial.

I'll love you forever, by the way. Not enough, you say? I'll send you a bib that says: Spit Happens. What's that got to do with anything, you ask? Well nothing, but it's all I got.

Winnipeg Induces Nausea

Ugh. I feel like the smegma you find at the bottom of your shoe after walking through a heat-ridden, chewing gum covered sidewalk today. I was going to write this mind-boggling post about women writers but my brain is dead. Dead, I tell you. I think I up-chucked a couple of brain cells.

Winnipeg is slowly trying to kill me. By making me barf up a lung. And you need lungs to live.

Or it could be the two birth-control pills I took at the same time last night. Since I'm so brilliant and forgot all about the first one.

Or it could be the sushi I scarfed down yesterday for lunch.

But I choose to believe it's Winnipeg. This city is enough to make anyone nauseous.

So my post of incredible, earth-shattering wordy-ness will have to wait until tomorrow.

Pray for my right lung. Please.

Child's Play

So my mother calls me the other day and if we all remember my mother, we will all immediately realize that this could not possibly have gone well.

Now I've always thought I've been lucky enough to escape the familial pressure to squeeze out a couple of puppies as soon as I got married. Everybody around me is either having kids or being harangued every five minutes as to why they don't have 20 yet. I mean, my mother loves kids. She loves them so much she would eat them up with a spoon if she could, so I've been a little suspicious as to why she's kept silent for a whole entire year. Then the phone call came. And I could stop wondering.

My mother has a plan for me. Apparently the almost 10 years I have spent in school will be for naught. As soon as I graduate I am to produce the first grandchild. Shudder. So I point out the obvious (to me) fact of "why bother getting a degree then?" and she says I can't have children without a degree. Interesting little tidbit of information that's completely new to me. I wonder why the very bright people at University Marketing don't put that in the brochure? ATTENTION ALL POTENTIAL MOTHERS: You cannot reproduce until you graduate from this university (and that's not the School of Hard Knocks).

So then, in my feeble defense, I say "Well, I could just have kids now, since I won' be able to put my degree to any use after I start squeezing them out" and her response is "I'll look after them and you can work". Good god woman! The lengths she will go to.

And then she pins me with the very frightful statement of: Haven't you and citrusboy discussed this? Well, truthfully, we have. And quite truthfully, we don't really want kids because we're selfish bastards. I tell her I might consider adoption, because, well, I might and the fit she blows is worthy of Mount Vesuvius. I refuse to write down the things she said about adopted children because it's just not very nice. Frankly, I'm quite horrified, but there's no point in my blowing a steamy fit as well.

She goes on to tell me a life without children is tedious, unhappy, fruitless, miserable, and in general, just plain old stinking bad. I try and say I have no maternal instincts, that I just don't care enough, and I just don't see it. Maybe, one day, when I'm ninety, I will have realized the folly of my way, but not right now.

And then - a miracle happens. The phone cuts out. Seriously, it does. I am saved because I know she won't continue the conversation when next we speak.

So, thank you MTS. Even though you're one step above inept most of the time, this time you rock!

Deep-Fried Fun

On Saturday night, citrusboy and I went to a friend's house where we stayed up all night drinking beer and playing PS2. It was awesome - I felt like I was 16 again! We played this game where you launch your player out of his car towards a dartboard to try and get the highest score. Highly amusing when drunk. When sober, probably not so much.

We left at about 5 AM and walked down to Salisbury House, the closest greasy spoon I could find in Winnipeg that resembles Fran's. Unfortunately, they do not serve Mac n' Cheese or I'd be theirs forever, so I settled for some deep-fried perogies. Yum deep-fried. Yum perogies. Diet starts tomorrow.

On the way home I spotted this:
The white streak above the grass is actually a layer of mist hanging over the road. Stuff you just don't see in Toronto. Neat.

Winnipeg - You're A Pain In My Back!

So I've had this back pain on the left side of my back, where I've managed to lose sensation in about a third of my left side and I have this achy feeling around the shoulder blade area, for over three years now. A year ago I went to my doctor and, after feeling around for awhile, she told me nothing was wrong. Then she looked at me like I was a hypochondriac bitch who was most definitely wasting her time. Wonderful. Yet I still have pain woman, so SOMETHING has to be wrong. Right? An apathetic back just isn't normal, don't cha think? I guess in her experience a stab-me-with-a-pencil-I-won't-feel-it back is just par for the course as she wouldn't even let me get an x-ray.

Last week I decided I would see a Registered Massage Therapist (RMT). She should be able to figure out what's up with El Back-o. I get there and she also feels up my back and says she notices my muscles reacting in said numb-numb area. Aha, now we're getting somewhere. She does my massage and ends by telling me I have scoliosis. Which would explain quite a bit actually. Apparently the muscles on the left side of my back are straining too much to try and make up for the curve in my back, which causes the pain, and in the process they're crushing a nerve somewhere, which causes the stick-a-pencil-in-me feeling. HA HA you stupid doctor. I'm not a crazy with a I-love-wasting-doctors'-time complex. HA HA HA! Except now I'm officially broken.

Stupid Winnipeg. Giving me scoliosis on top of everything else it has done to me. Bah-humbug!

Hot, Hot Bear Action

Excellent week spent with New Homeowner. As predicted, we spent it boozing it up and staying up way past our bedtime, though, quite thankfully, no stomach pumping was involved.

On Sunday, we decided to go out for Thai and then hit the Martini Bar (not literally, mind you - although, if drunk enough, anything is possible). We decided that beer would be the perfect compliment to our Thai dinner and we were right. 300 degree weather calls for beer. In fact, it doesn't just call, it screams.
Afterwards, we headed straight to G's Martini, even though it was still daylight out. Don't hate, we're truly not alcoholics. As it turns out, and it would because this city it out to get me, G's was closed Sunday and Monday for the long weekend. In what city, in what country, on what planet does a bar close for a long weekend? Bars were made for long weekends, people! Made-for-them! I hate you Winnipeg! Hate, hate, hate!

So we were forced to go across the street for some margaritas on the patio. What a tragedy.
On the way home, we ran into some nature of the not-mosquito variety.
I also managed to accidentally kick one of the frogs as it was in mid-jump. Slimy. We made sure it was okay before we scurried away to make sure no more nature could reach out and touch us.

One Monday we stayed home and got rip-roaring drunk. We tried to play Simpson's Clue, but we were too stupid to actually try and figure out who done it. I ended up asking citrusboy the same question three times because my marking scheme went awry in my happy hootch haze.

Then we tried playing Mario Party 4, 5, and 6. That went slightly better as no real skill is actually required.

Then we played Trivial Pursuit 6. For some reason, the drunker we got, the smarter we got. That was the quickest game of TP I've ever played.

Then it was time to play Simpson's Game of Life. For the first time ever I decided to chose the Get A Job route instead of the Get An Education route and for the first time ever I won the game. What does that mean? Is there a sign there somewhere? Or was I just drunk-lucky?

For dinner New Homeowner made the best cheese pasta dish ever and we watched Dazed and Confused on DVD.

The only evidence that remains from this day is this:
Game of Life tiles drowning in my Pina Colada. Don't ask me how it happened.

You all know what happened on Tuesday afternoon so I'll just move on the evening portion of our day. Winnipeg is hosting Bears on Broadway (Bears on Broadway St. I kid you not) which are sort of like the Moose In Toronto, but I think there's an actual fund-raising point to the Bears, so we went to take a look-see.
Our favourite bear was Don Bearry, mainly for the clever naming and Cherry likeness.

Also Hot Hot Bear was pretty awesome too.
Then, from afar, we spotted a haven for the over-heated. A water fountain, aka Winnipeg's Ghetto Pool.
We decided to act like all the other ninnys in the fountain and got ourselves nicely spritzed.
That's when I noticed the sign that said:
But as I actually saw parents bring their children with bathing-suits on, I was beyond caring.

That done, we hiked back to the Sushi/Martini bar and had us a good old time. Nothing goes better together than some sushi and a martini. Really. Try it and you'll never go back.
The infamous Extra-Dirty Gin Martini also made an appearance.
As did the Extra-Yummy Firefly Roll.
I had an awesome time and I hope New Homeowner did too! Even though the mosquitos almost ate her alive. Even though everything I told her about Winnipeg was true. Even though she though I was lying the whole time. Even though. Cheers till next time!

The Nostril

On Tuesday New Homeowner and I ambled down to Osborne Village while I was still in a debate with myself as to whether or not I should put another hole in my body. We stopped off for lunch first where I tired to drink myself stupid so The Crypt people wouldn't let me anywhere near a needle, but New caught on to my devious plan. Too bad, it could have ended so well; me with my head in the toilet, but no extra holes that didn't belong in any place that was previously hole-free.

So New drags me into The Crypt anyway, where she proceeds to buy an Emily Strange Tee that I absolutely adore. She saw it first though, so it sucks to be me. Especially if I decide in the affirmative for that new decorative nose hole. She pays for the shirt and is about to walk out, when I, stupidly, dig my own grave. "What about my nose?" I say. "Oh," she says. "I thought you talked yourself out of it." And just when I could have made good on my escape, the owner at the counter notices me waffling, hauls out his appointment book and tells me to come back in half an hour. Now I'm stuck.

We wander around - me in sheer panic, New in shopping mode - until it's time. My piercer, who has reduced me to a body part and calls me The Nostril, looks very scary indeed, but turns out to be the biggest sweetheart alive. He takes the time to explain every little thing to me, lets me check out the spot where he's going to stick a gaping hole in my body, tells me to take a deep breath and then stabs me. No seriously. He takes a needle in his huge paws and stabs my nose. I suppose it hurt, but it was so quick that it didn't even matter. He was awesome. Though it definitely is a peculiar sensation to feel something slide in through the outside of your nose.

And here's the end result:

I love it. Citrusboy loves it and thinks it's sexy. Double-score for me! Anything that makes me sexier is worth a little misguided sheer panic, right?