Aw, rats.

My sister has rats in her house. Two of them. They are quick and they love to disappear into small cracks and crevices. Usually, a rat in your house would be considered a pest,  but at Michel’s, they are considered a pet. Yup, Perdita and Cinnamon.

Now, when I heard there would be pet rats, I had my concerns. But, they are pretty cute. I like to look at them and maybe play with them a little, but I’m not gonna lie: I wouldn’tt want them as my own pets. I mean, they’re funny and soft, but the problem is that rats have incontinence issues. They pee. All. The. Time. Including at such times as you are playing with them or letting them crawl up onto your shoulder.

I am not a fan of holding things that pee on me (I do not have children, you see). Once per year, Maui pees on me and it is not my favourite thing. Just because I recognize that it sounds like I have a special cat-urine day, I’d like to clarify that it’s on the annual bathing of the cats that Maui lets loose. It ends up being a pretty angry bath time. This year’s has not yet occurred. We’re waiting on the last mats to dissipate. I think she’s holding onto them on purpose, delaying the inevitable. I don’t know why. The cat shampoo is lotus-blossom  scented..

Anyway, my niece’s rats, Perdy and Minnie. We discovered tonight that Minnie may have a thing for Perdy. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. The only problem is that Minnie’s unrequited love is not in Perdy’s favour. I mean, whatever: Their love life is not really any of my business, but I hope they can still be friends. Minnie’s not using her listening skills. They share an apartment, though, so it’ll be awkward if they don’t sort it out and set up some boundaries.

This is not Emily's rat. But it kind of looks the same.

Off to bed. I’ll try to find a more inspired topic tomorrow.


Attention Deficit Hyperac—, Mmm! Ice cream!

I was going to write about my ADHD tendencies, but once I started thinking about it, I just couldn’t stop other thoughts from flying in. And then I thought about cupcakes, which led to thoughts of ice cream. Ice cream is pretty much my favourite. Along with pie, but I canNOT go down that rabbit hole right now, or else I will just sit here salivating about cherry pie and get nothing done at all. It is pure coincidence that this image says pie. Or is it…?

Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi.

I still have a thing of peppermint candy ice cream left over from Christmas. It used to be called candy cane ice cream, but I think they got sued by the King of Christmas Candyland or something. Because now it is called peppermint candy ice cream, which is a much less exciting name. It still tastes like magical wonderfulrishical happiness, though! I get a tub of it every year from my wonderful in-laws. I have to work for it, though, lest you be thinking I’m the world’s luckiest girl (which I am, just for the record).

There might be a pretty ribbon I need to unwind and follow, or a riddle for me to solve. Each time, I run downstairs, check the deep freeze, hug my ice cream and replace it in the freezer, and then sprint back upstairs to announce that I had found nothing at all. “Nothing to see here, folks.” Certainly nothing that needed to be shared. Come ON: This kid wasn’t born yesterday!

Moving on, from ADHD (I’ll cover that one soon, I promise. Ooh, LOOK! Hermes…”), to cupcakes and then ice cream, to ZOKU! Ben and Ashley have this and I feel like we need it. Adam feels differently about this. Pshaw. You can make Christmas popsicles! Halloween popsicles! Disgusting popcorn-flavoured popsicles (buttered popcorn Jelly Bellies make me barf). These delicious treats (minus the popcorn ones) have their own blog! I could actually get this fun household necessity with the points from our credit card, for FREE. Or I could save up the points and get a food processor, which we actually need. Adam thinks I will only use the popsicle maker once.

He *might* be right.

Don't eat these ones. They are gross.

Back to the future.

So, as you may or may not know, my amazingly talented, clever and handsome Adam is <<this>> close to completing his law degree. Tell you what; it’s not a moment too soon. Seriously, between my MBA and his Law degree, this most-recent round of post-secondary education has been epic. Not complaining, because wouldn’t that be extremely first-world-problems of me, but still. Still. We have acquired great friends, fabulous experiences, much learning and debt. Oh, Debt: You are a cruel mistress. I will not be sorry to see you go (whenever that may be, which, according to Canada Student Loans, is approximately 3 months into the year 2326).

Adam is also doing coaching training, so he can be using his significant talents and inspiring enthusiasm to help people to find themselves and to follow their true paths. It’s a pretty noble calling. He is also currently looking for articles, which is a new development (that I think is a very good idea for many reasons, after many changes in direction). This is where we might see some big changes.

You see, finding articles can be tricky. They’re very tricksy and they like to hide on the nice law students who seek them. Sometimes, they hide under rocks, in treasure chests in sunken/hidden pirate ships in secret lagoons (oh, wait—no, that was The Goonies) and in places like <<gasp>> Saskatchewan. Now, I love this great country, but I kind of sort of have no real use for the middle bits. I’m sure they’re lovely, to some people. Mainly to those people who are prairie people. I am just not those people. I have lived on one coast or the other, my whole life. I like the water. Endless rolling fields make me nervous.

I am maintaining positive thoughts that we will get to remain here in Victoria. Otherwise, we are moving and I’m trying to maintain positive thoughts about that option, too. This is harder for me. Those who know me may understand that I am somewhat, just a little bit, entirely resistant to change. I’m working on it. But seriously you guys, I come by it honestly: Did you know that by the time I was 4 years old, I had lived in Nova Scotia, then British Columbia, then Nova Scotia again? And by the time I was 7.5 years old, I was back in BC? I’d attended three elementary schools by half-way through grade 1.

If I count the moves I can recall between apartments growing up (after age 4 and before I moved out on my own at age 22), I lose count at 15 moves. I know I’m missing some, but regardless, that’s a lot of moves. I mean, maybe not if you are a military family, though I still think it’s above average even in that circle. But the thing is, I’m not from a military family. All that moving  has left me averse to things I am working on overcoming, such as shifting furniture. Also my fear of cardboard boxes.

Hence why I’m working on my attitude to moving for a year for articles. I’m trying to think of it as a grand adventure. Sometimes, I think it would be really cool to live somewhere completely new for a while. After all, nearly all of Adam’s fellow students (and our dearest friends, whom we’ll miss when they move back home), dropped everything and came out here for three whole years!

What would I do? Would I lose my job? Would we have to sell our home (strata rules dictate that we can’t rent it out)? I don’t know the answers to those questions. I do know, however, that no matter what, it’ll all work out. Because it always does (check out Adam’s speech if you don’t believe me).

That wasn’t a very amusing post. It probably would’ve been more funny if you were able to see me counting apartments on my fingers. Several times. Because I lost count. On my own fingers. How is that even possible?

The last person I saw having difficulty counting on his fingers...

An MBA who can’t even effectively count on her fingers. No wonder Finance made me cry…


I bet you never thought I’d write about bot flies.

But you’d be wrong. I made myself a note yesterday! Let’s see now, what did I say I’d talk about? Oh yeah, they are (in no particular order):

  1. Brain-eating amoebas
  2. The Plague
  3. Bot flies

There is a common thread to all of these disgusting things, but you’ll have to read this whole post to figure out what it is. First, let me tell you why they’re on the list. As you may know, I write a blog for work, all about health. It’s called Health-bent (how I got away with that name, I’ll never know) and it’s pretty much the best part of my job. Last week’s post was all about allergies, which must’ve resonated with a lot of people, because many people commented in response to my quest to find a magical cure. It was all going well, and then came the brain-eating amoebas.

Well, actually, first came my comment about neti pots and distrust of this image, which I cannot stop posting. There’s something mesmerizing about just how much this guy is enjoying his ridiculous predicament. One of my readers posted a comment (with a link to a news story, no less) about how people using tap water in their neti pots somewhere in the southern US contracted a brain-eating amoeba. Seriously, you guys; this is for real. It was in the news in December. <<barfs>>

So, that’d be a bad day. Imagine: There you are, rinsing your sinuses, and suddenly your BRAIN is being eaten. By a zombie-like, brain-eating amoeba. FOR CRYING OUT LOUD, THIS IS TERRIFYING STUFF. And to think I was contemplating trying a neti pot. NOT ANYMORE.

Okay, next point. Right. Moving on. To the Plague. Mmm hmm. A nice light topic. Last time Adam was in Seattle for coaching training, I was watching movies on Netflix and saw one with Sean Bean. I figured it must be good. Except for how it was all about bubonic plague (not sure what I thought it would be about, given that it was called Black Death). Suffice it to say, this movie was Pretty. Darn. Gross. Seriously. It was gory (people die in horrifically medieval, by which I mean not generally humane, methods). The next day, I was at work, and began to wonder if the way they portrayed the plague was, in fact, based on fact. So, I looked it up. Do NOT do this. I urge you to heed my advice. But, I can assure you that the way they depicted black death in the movie (which you probably shouldn’t watch) was very true to reality (which you probably don’t want to know).

Clearly, I cannot be trusted to take care of myself whilst on my own. I watch horrible movies and stay up too late. I need a grown up.

Okay, so last one. Bot flies. Last week on my monthly Friday-night craftiness party (in which my friends and I make crafts involving rubber stamps, double-sided tape and oh-so-much glitter), we somehow ended up listening to Ashley describe bot flies.

By “somehow”, I mean that we were talking about bugs and Annie mentioned that her crazy roommate on the MBA trip to Brazil (oh right, that was me…), felt compelled to look up and learn about the types of insects they might encounter while pottering about in the Amazonian rainforest. I admit that, in hindsight, this was a mistake. As was, apparently, the sharing of my new and unwelcome knowledge with Annie, who has evidently not yet forgiven me.

All this talk of looking up disgusting bugs that want to kill you made us discuss the spiny fish that swims up your you-know-what, if you pee in the water (I don’t know if it’s true, but our guide said not to pee in the water, so I took his word for it). After agreeing that this would definitely be an unpleasant experience, Ashley shared with us a story about bot flies and how she learned what they do by Googling them. I would strongly suggest you do not do this. For real. Trust me. I haven’t, because I have the benefit of Ashley’s verbal description and I’m not quite done twitching when I think about it.

What’s the moral of this long, seemingly disjointed and rambling account? Don’t look things up. Do not Google them. And heaven help you if you do, but do NOT click on the images tab. Just leave it alone. Look at pictures of cute kittens to distract your mind. Trust me. There are some things you don’t need to know, especially graphically.

I remember the day I looked up the plague at work. I ran over to my coworker’s desk and told her how horrific it was. To which she replied, “Well, yeah. It’s The Plague. What did you expect?”

How very reasonable of her. I didn’t really have an answer. But I wish I didn’t know what it looked like.


Ooh! Look! A bumblebee!

That title has nothing to do with anything in this post. However, should you feel inspired to giggle, you can always watch Michael McIntyre’s Comedy Roadshow and on one of them, you’ll see a Welsh guy named Steven Williams. He will say “Ooh, look: A bumblebee!” I guarantee you that you will laugh. If it weren’t 10:35 pm and thus past my bedtime, I’d go watch it right now. It’s that good. You’re welcome.

I guess I just made my title refer to the content of my post. I assure you, this was not my aim. I fully intended it to be just a random quote I picked out of my memory banks. Sometimes, though, I’m too clever for my own good.

I had an idea for a blog post tonight, but I forgot to write it down and now it’s gone. Pffft. Vanished into thin air. Just like my intention to write the idea down. Perhaps I shall remember it tomorrow. Perhaps. We shall see…

Oooh, but you know what? I forgot to tell you the best part about yesterday’s hot yoga class: Bending & Boiling, Part Deux. There was a girl in front of me (who has clearly done hot yoga before, inasmuch as she, unlike me, was not wildly looking around the room as if to say, “What’s going on? How did I end up here, inside the molten core of Earth herself?”) whose nose just started bleeding. I’d noticed it for quite some time, but was too damn hot and bothered (not in the way you think, either) to mention it. Also, people don’t talk in hawt yoga and I was not wanting to break the rule, just in case they sent me to an even hotter corner to sit and think about what I’d done for punishment.

So yeah. Her nose is a-bleeding, all down her face. Seriously, you guys. There are mirrors all over the frigging place in this hotter-than-Hades room. And she’s all bending and sweating and seemingly oblivious to the bleeding, which I can only assume was occurring due to severe over-broiling of the body. Eventually, she turns to her friend and mouths: “Is my nose bleeding?”

Um, yes. Yes it surely is. Unless you sweat red, my friend, and if you do, you have a whole other set of problems. Gives a whole new meaning to the saying “Blood , Sweat and Tears,” doesn’t it?

Oh! I just remembered what I was going to write about! How very absent-minded-professor-like of me. I’m too lazy to draft more right now, but I will leave myself a cryptic hint, for tomorrow:

  1. brain-eating amoebas
  2. The Plague
  3. Bot flies

I bet you’re intrigued now, aren’t you?

I will end off with this little story for you:

In 2005, Adam and I went to Disneyland. It was the funnest. Time. EVAR! Seriously, there are many yarns I could weave about that adventure-laden expedition, which I shall mete out in small, delicious morsels, lest you be overcome by the EXCITEMENT of it all.

So, anyway, they sell all these princess costumes for the little kids to wear there. Any little girl can be her choice of princess, but alas! Not so for the more mature (you have to pronounce that “mat-ooor” for the full effect) royal wannabe, such as myself.

Oh, the humanity! So, I went to the princess section, bought a tiara and stuck it in for the remainder of the day. I mean, really: the kids’ mouse ears have elastics on ’em, so the kid can wear them about, but not the adult ones. I guess we’re meant to just sit still and watch happiness happen, to avoid any gentle breeze that might knock my last vestiges of childhood from my head. Why, yes; it bothered me—how can you tell?

But I digress. While wandering around California Adventure, a park employee dashed out in front of us from one of the movie-making buildings (I don’t know what they’re called, but you can go in and see/learn things, I think. I don’t know for sure; we didn’t go in because we were too busy having The Time of Our LIVES). He was gasping like he’d run the Boston Marathon, holding one hand up to stop us. We thought we must’ve dropped something.

And then. You guys. Then, he takes a step back, makes a massively regal-looking and graceful bow to me, and announces, “Your Majesty!” FOR ALL THE WORLD TO HEAR. Didn’t I just die (of happiness)!

Best. Moment. EVAR! Seriously. This guy wins like 9 zillion customer service points from me.

Anyway, long story made short, this picture reminded me of that moment:

Owl + Royal Treatment = Happy Place

Well, that was fun. At least it was for me. Aaaand, that’s what really matters. Adieu!


D00d, where’s our car?

Law Grad Formal was nothing short of AWESOME (requires all caps to convey my happiness). You know, I made some fabulous friends during my MBA (I believe it’s normal for people to bond during highly intense and traumatic experiences, at least according to Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock in Speed. It’s in a movie, so it must be true), and there are a couple of people I know I’ll be friends with forever. But when it comes to the people we’ve met through Adam’s law school experience, I’m thrilled at the bountiful abundance of exceptional, talented, lovely-inside-and-out, funny and clever people with whom our lives have been blessed.

Have I mentioned that they are all exceptionally good-looking?

The handsome gentlemen of The Old Swingers Club.

And also stunningly beautiful 😉

The gorgeous feminine side of The Old Swingers Club

[Just for the record, because he’s about to become a lawyer and I don’t want to get sued, I’d like to attribute these amazing shots to the fine photography skillz of Mr. Ryan Johnson]

Anywho, last night was super-awesome-amazing good times. To say the least. Know what’s pretty fun? Having everyone you meet say, “Oh you’re Bay? Adam’s wife? He’s such an amazing guy!” Never gets old hearing that kind of stuff! Adam’s speech (voted by his peers, along with his fellow student, Darcy, to address the class) was perfect. Thought-provoking, humorous and inspired. I got all misty, and saw several other people wiping their eyes. I’m so lucky to have married this guy. For real.

He’s going to put his speech up on his website and when he does, I’ll link to it here!

Since I know you’re all dying to know how my ensemble worked out (No? You’re not? Oh well, I’m telling you anyway), you’ll be pleased to know that it was a hit! I felt pretty good, too, which is always nice. Not that you need compliments to feel good about yourself, but you know what, my friends? It doesn’t hurt. Not one bit. And the big wildcard of the evening, a.k.a. My Hair, was a success. I did an intricate kind of updo, with French braids on my temples, a small bouffant (I teased it! Me! TEASING my hair!), and then 93 trillion bobby pins holding up the curled ends. You can kind of see it in this photo:

We're blowing kisses. You're welcome.

There was a professional photographer at the formal, doing a photo booth. I LOVE the whole photo booth thang. It came about just after our wedding (just missed that trend…) and it’s such a stellar way to capture all the guests at an event, have a little fun and create memories. I love them. They typically involve props and hilarity. We did a bunch of group shots and couple shots, so I can’t wait to see them! I’ll share ’em when we get ’em!

I could go on and on, but I’m tired, because of the late night good times (and possibly many adult beverages). I was definitely dragging my rear today. I was going to get up at 9 am and go for a run, followed by hot yoga/sweat-o-rama at 1 pm. The run did NOT happen.

Oh well, I thought, I’ll catch yoga now and then run later. At precisely the moment I needed to leave to get to yoga on time (it’s not within walking distance), I remembered that our car was parked somewhere downtown: We’d abandoned it in favour of being responsible adults and cabbing… So, I caught a cab to the car, but alas! it was too late to go to yoga.

So I went for a run and caught the later yoga class, at 3:45 pm. Oh wait, no I didn’t—I watched bad movies with the boys, didn’t run at all, and missed that class, too. At 5 pm, I kicked myself in the rear and dragged my sorry self to yoga after all, for which I’m pretty glad. I wonder if the people around me could smell the haze of night-before-excess that I was sweating out (“Does anyone else smell pinot gris?”).

What a great weekend. Awesome. Thank you, Weekend!

Prom 2012!

Tonight is Adam’s Law School grad formal. I am VERY excited. I don’t get nearly enough opportunities to get dolled up and prettified, so I’m getting right into the spirit! This morning, the wives of the law grads (and the one lawyer-to-be who is a wife), all went for manicures and pedicures together. Davis kindly and generously took us all for that treat and Val brought wine (we waited until 12:04 pm, because we have some standards). My nails are an amazing orangey red, called “My Chihuahua Bites”. I feel like Gloria from Modern Family.

Because it’s obviously all about me, I’ve been quite concerned about what I should wear. I hear “formal” and I think floor-length ball gown. I have several of these on hand (of course, right? A girl always needs to be prepared for fabulous parties and fancy shindigs). But I don’t want to get there and be way overdressed, even though, according to Oscar Wilde, “You can never be overdressed or overeducated.” The other problem is that from ball gowns, I have oodles of sundresses and not a lot in the mid range. Any dresses in the cocktail range are all hand-me-downs, and they’re all a little big. I mean, that’s better than them being too small (especially given my shocking propensity towards laziness and missed workouts as of late), but still. Strapless dresses that don’t fit quite right are a problem.

I am wearing a gold dress and gold peep-toe heels. Seeing’s how the sun only made her grand debut two days ago, my legs are still pasty looking, but whatevs. Some of the ladies are getting their hair done, which, in retrospect, would’ve been a good idea for me. I can do French braids, but apart from that and ponytails, I am not skilled when it comes to styling my hair, which is currently at The Most Difficult length ever. In fact, I’d love to write more, but I have to pore over Pinterest to see if there’s any way of saving this mop from looking so, well, moppish.

Here are my feet. I always feel like I should apologize to the person working on my feet, because 20+ years of dancing and copious amounts of swimming, running and yoga make the job a little tougher…

At least my feet are cute (if you don’t think they are, keep that to yourself. I think they are.):

Lucky Feet!

I gotta go figure out my hair. I’m pretty sure it will involve some degree of French braiding and ponytail.



Spring. It’s so hot right now. And The Shower Incident.

So maybe “hot” isn’t quite the right word, but whatever! It was GORGEOUS outside today! Working from home, which, by the way, is favourite, means getting out for a lunchtime run is a bit more simple than when I’m at the office. This is because when I work from home, I wear sweatpants (which I call my “creative pants”. Jeans are “happy pants”, just for the record).

I can run and not shower and I don’t have to get all dressed up again afterwards, like I would at work. Okay, so I don’t really get all gussied up for work, but from the home office, I can just put the sweatpants back on (sweat is in the name, so it’s fine to do so sans shower). Hey, at least I wear pants when I work from home: From the sounds of it, I’m doing better on the wearing of clothes at home than some others I know. Or at least according to their purported home-working ensembles, which tend to involve degrees of partial nudity, or so they would have me believe.

Here is a thing about me:

I do not like shared showers. Never have, and am fairly certain I never will. If there’s not a shower stall, I’m not showering. I don’t feel comfortable prancing about in my birthday suit. Oh yeah, that reminds me, I still haven’t told you about the Shower Incident. <<shudders>> I will do so below. Read on, brave souls. You’re in for a treat.

Honestly, though, I’m just not into it. I wear deodorant and shower at least once every day, so I really don’t think I reek of feet or armpits. Plus, I’d have to lug in even MORE stuff every day and life’s too short. I have yet to hear someone around me say, while quizzically sniffing the air around them, “What’s that stench?” so I think I’m doing okay.

Also, I like my shower. It’s got all my stuff. I have a prescribed order of shower-related events to which I adhere, so my bathroom is the place to be. Plus, Hermes sits on the toilet and waits until the shower’s done, then jumps into the tub to lap up the tub juice. Then he jumps out and leaves cute little paw prints on the tiles. I don’t get that at the pool, though it would be a nice touch. Pool cats. Aww!

Here, in a nutshell, since you’ve waited so patiently, is the Shower Incident:

Once upon a time, which was roughly 2 years ago, I was at Crystal Pool for my morning swim, when, whilst showering as per the pre-pool regulations—in my bathing suit, of course—before entering the pool area (this seems to be optional for many pool goers, but it’s really more of a rule than a suggestion, so COME on, people: Read the rules! And then follow them!), I turned around to find a naked woman surprisingly close to me.

As you may know, I’m particular about my personal space and a bit of a prude, so you can imagine my discomfort at being in close proximity to a stranger who was naked as a jay bird not wearing any clothes, let alone any feathers. Not even a smidgen of modesty. Shame on you, Jay Bird. Shame.

Egad! I thought, what does she think she’s doing? And then she smiled and asked me, “Would you mind getting my back?” At which point, she held out a pouf that was manufactured during roughly The Dawn of Time and vigorously used ever since.

Here is where I calmly said, “I’m sorry, but I’m really just not comfortable with that,” and left to go for my laps. Because that’s what an adult would do who did not wish to do the thing requested. Because it is my prerogative to say no.

Except I didn’t say no, because the first thought in my head was: “Aaaah! There’s a naked lady here, talking to me!”

The next was: “EW EW EW! I don’t want to touch her scaly old back!”

Followed by: “I really need an adult! I want to say no, but then she’ll think I’m a weirdo freak with boundary issues (which I one hundred percent do have).”

So, I said sure (and threw up in my mouth) and gingerly accepted the disgusting pouf and lightly ran it on her back, letting the water from the shower hide my tears of horror while I gagged and shuddered.

You guys. Do you know what happened next?

No, of course you don’t. So, let me tell you. She said, “Harder.”

And I died inside, after dry heaving and fainting cold on the disgusting tiles of the shower room floor.

When The Horrid Event was over, and I turned my shower to scalding to wash away my feelings and clean my soul, she said thanks and winked conspiratorially at me, saying, “It’s just so hard to reach your back!”

You know what, you guys? It is not actually that hard to do. Reaching your back, I mean. And you know what else? This lady is A FIT WOMAN. She could probably kick my arse. She can for sure reach her own back. I was so ashamed of myself. Seriously. Who does something like this when it makes them retch and squirm? This girl, that’s who. Yeah, the girl who is technically bilingual (I’m a little rusty) and knows how to say “no” in no less than five languages, except in moments when she really needs to.

Thing is, this woman is at the pool every morning I am, same time, same channel (different lane, though). So, you know what I did to avoid this unpleasant scenario? Like the big, grown-up and independent woman I am, I changed my schedule to ensure that I wouldn’t be in the shower with her EVER EVER AGAIN.

So sad. If you’ll excuse me. I need a shower.

This will do nicely for me.

Oh Day.

You know when you can feel things ramping up at work and you’re mildly concerned because you have no idea what you’re doing? No? Just me? Well then. Aren’t I lucky.

I’m feeling morose. On account of it being Thursday and all. Thursdays go from 8:30 am until 10 pm. That is long. I cannot brain anymore. Though, my neighbour in InDesign tonight made me laugh so hard tonight that it nearly made up for the day of meh. You know when you are laughing at something that’s not really that funny, but you can’t stop? Those moments that occur usually at incredibly appropriate time and places, like in class, or church. You guys. I was crying. Tears of mirth.

Well, this made me smile. I like this bear, who likes California. I like California, too. I could so use a road trip right about now.

I'm not stealing this image. I'm promoting it. Buy this print. I want to.

It’s almost the weekend. Come on, Friday!

Speaking of weekends, this Saturday is Adam’s Law grad formal. I’m pretty excited. The girls and I are getting mani/pedis (ooh!). I’m still not sure what to wear, though. “Formal” is throwing me. Do I wear an evening gown? Because I could, you know. I have several (just in cases). I also have tiaras. I need to wear them more, too, so that’d really solve a couple of problems.

On that note. I’m off. Ciao.

Oh wait, before you go, I should mention that I could probably spend a lot of time on This owl is AWESOMESAUCE, for 2 reasons:

  1. It is an owl. Enough said.
  2. It’s bowing to my royal self, not unlike that employee at Disneyland who MADE MY DAY!

You know you’re a grown up when…

Today, I used my lunch break to hoof it to China Town, so I could get soap. Uh huh; soap. Not just any soap, mind you, but little cute ones from France that smell AMAZING (all the best things are French, says the Acadian girl). For serious, you guys. You should smell the ananas (that’s pineapple, friends) soap. If you come over, you can! Then I got a soap dish (will the excitement of my life never abate?). It’s a plain, clear glass one. I heart it. I’ve decided bar soap is better for the environment than liquid soap, so that’s why this little sudsy endeavour began.

Actually, the entire reason for this little jaunt was so I could visit the shop cats there and in Fan Tan Alley. All these shop cats are super friendly, lovely, soft and purry creatures. My own two cats are much less of all those adjectives. Yup, Maui and Hermes are ingrates. Good thing they’re so cute…

Anyway, here are those cats, for your viewing pleasure. They were chillaxin’, big time. The big black one, though it’s hard to tell from the photo, is roughly the size of my car. He’s a big boy (but not just fat, like Monsieur Le Hermes). The short-haired tortie looks a little like Minnette the 2nd, for those of you who remember my late confidante of 15 years.

So handsome & luxurious!

“You may pet me now.”









Just for the record, while torties are really pretty, I’m not ever getting another one. They’re nuts. My vet was surprised I’d picked Maui, another tortie, because “torties are all weird, genetic freaks.” They call the bizarreness “tortitude“. If you will. Isn’t that cute.