Come and rifle through my sad belongings...

So, every year our townhouse community holds a weekend garage sale, wherein we all try and foist our crap onto our unsuspecting neighbours.

This year, the weather was...less than conducive to puttering about people's carports. It was misting passive aggressively and we were forced to sit outside on awkward folding chairs, desperately clutching warm drinks.

It was like camping, but without the nice campfire.

Garage sales are an interesting glimpse into the human psyche.

People will come in, cast their eyes over your paltry offerings and suddenly swoop down and grab something random, like a George Forman Grill and screech "WHAT'S THE LOWEST YOU'LL TAKE FOR THIS". And their eyes turn all wild, like they're fundamentally torn between needing this precious treasure and not paying more than $1.50 for it.

And the bargaining. OH THE BARGAINING.

I mean, I love bargaining as much as the next person, but when the item's already free...there's not much more I can do. Except throw in more crap. Which I gladly did.

I'm happy to say that, despite the gloomy weather, we got rid of a hefty pile of stuff and made a decent profit.

I have to say, that's it takes a lot of self-restraint to not push the hard sell on people wandering by.

I really had to work at not yelling things like "HEY! YOU IN THE HAT! YOU LOOK LIKE A GUY WHO NEEDS A CROCKPOT!"

Surprisingly, this did not help me sell the crockpot. Which is still looming at me, just sitting there smugly on its squat little legs.

Yes, I did just anthropomorphize a cooking appliance.

I blame the madness that comes from sitting in a carport for two full days.

Does anyone want a crockpot?

Sea-to-Sky journey

SO.

In a rare bout of spontaneity, Adam and I decided to bolt off to Whistler for a portion of the long weekend.

We didn't commit to the full three days, because:

1) Crowds make us insane
2) We didn't want to spend mad cash
3) I had lamesauce homework to do

My Friday was spent boozing it up at a co-worker's retirement party. I didn't make that much of a fool of myself (I think...), but I did stumble out of there smelling like I poured every alcohol in the world on my shirt. Poor Adam. He dutifully picked me up and drove me home. Apparently, I started talking about a shirt made out of "baby owl fur". Yeah, I don't know.

So he put me to bed and I tried to pretend that the bed wasn't tilting from side to side.

My Saturday was spent doing horrible homework for my Forensic Investigator course(WOW FUN)and returning the 32342 library books I took out the week before. I was also sweating out all of the debauchery from the night before, so I decided to soak up the remaining alcohol with some carbohydrates in the form of pizza.

Yum.

After laying pretty low on Saturday, I was ready to go get my long weekend on!

So after visiting the most dis-organized Tim Hortons in the history of ever, we hit the road for a beautiful drive along the Sea-to-Sky highway to our destination.

Whistler wasn't as crowded as we feared and we happily wandered around the village. We spent that first day basically eating and taking pictures.

And, speaking of eating, I had the best caramel apple of my life there. Oh god, it was sublime.

I wish I was eating it right now.

Damn.

That night, we had dinner at the literally-named "21 Steps". I gnawed on some prime rib, at creme brulee and basically rolled myself back to the lodge.

Speaking of which, the place we stayed was...eccentric.

It was a loft set up, with a living room, kitchen and bathroom on the main floor and a bed up stairs.

And I mean Up. Stairs.

Seriously, you basically had to get out rock climbing gear to get up there. I was terrified to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night because I didn't want to break my legs. Because then I would have broken legs and a full bladder. Which would suck.

The suite also had a fireplace and we skeptically purchased one of those ~easy fire logs~ from the front desk. It was essentially wood chips and glue.

And it refused to burn. It would halfheartedly ignite on one side and then Adam I would watch it fizzle out in about three minutes.

Our dreams of cuddling beside a roaring fire were not to be. Instead, we read our respective books and drank tea.

The next morning, we ascended BlackComb mountain via two chair lifts and rode the "Peak to Peak" gondola to Whistler mountain.

The Peak to Peak was both scary and interesting. And also scary.

I'm always vaguely suspicion of technology that cradles my life in its cold, metallic hands.

And this was no exception.

And Adam totally helped ease my fears by saying things like "If we fall now, we're plummeting over 600 feet!"

Gee, thanks.

But the views were pretty! And it totally made me want to ski again.

I figured that I had just risked my life on the gondola, so I could totally handle strapping myself to two skinny boards and going hurtling down a mountainside.

We took much many pictures, so I'll let you enjoy some visuals:



Posing on a balcony



We're going up there?!



Hmm...



We abuse our bears in Whistler by sitting on them.



Tea + book = contentment



Adam on a chairlift. This is his "whee!" face.



Adam not on a chairlift. This is his "stop being paparazzi" face.

Like a Wounded Duck

Dear faithful reader(s): I have another injury.

From the state of my recent blog postings, you would think I need to be secured in bubble wrap to protect me from myself. And you would probably be right.

This injury involves the soft, helpless underside of my left foot. And because there are no obvious shattered bones sticking out, the doctor diagnosed me with the ambiguously named "soft tissue damage". Which could really mean anything from a bruise to a torn ligament.

I wish I could be as general at my job and still get paid for it.

"Sir, it appears to me that you may or may not need to disclose that information, that may or may not be material in nature. Oh, and you may or may not be in default"

Actually, that's pretty on the mark.

Anyway, back to the injury.

As part in parcel with my soft tissue diagnosis, I was also given crutches and painkillers.

The painkillers are more fun.

The crutches are a lesson in faulty limb co-ordination and awkward flailing. And that's just trying to get down a hallway.

If you add doors and other elements (like tea) into the equation, you're met with embarrassment of the most epic proportions. And tea-stained clothing.

But, my foot is healing. But don't tell Adam. Because I'm rather enjoying bossing him around and making him fetch me things.

Here is how our conversation goes:

Me: Adam!
Him: ..yes?
Me: I need a snack!
Him: But you just ate dinner.
Me: I NEED A SNACK TO HELP ME HEAL
Him:...
Me: *puts on sad eyes and points to foot*
Him:...
Me: *puts on even sadder eyes*
Him: Sigh. Fine. What do you want?
Me: Nothing - I was just testing you. Congrats! You passed. If this had not been a drill, I would be eating pretzels right now.

All I need is a little bell that I can ring. To get Adam's attention if he's hiding out in the basement.

Circles beat Triangles

Dear blog reader(s) - I have a bruise.

It's quite a spectacular bruise, with colors like a Mediterranean sunset. It's all purple and blue and green. I'd call it pretty, if it didn't hurt so dang much.

I acquired this bruise at work and, no, it wasn't because I hip checked my co-workers in a fit of rage.

Essentially, it came to the fact that:

a) I only have two hands
b) I was trying to carry four things (including tea)
c) I have all the spatial awareness of a horse with blinders on
d) I was talking AND walking at the same time

This, my dear reader(s), is a recipe for disaster.

Basically, my tea was looming at a dangerous angle, so instead of being smart and putting something down, I tried to do a creative juggling maneuver and ended up maneuvering my thigh right into the corner of my co-worker's desk.

Ow.

Ow. ow. ow.

I made a dignified noise (like a stuck pig) and limped off to the bathroom to examine the damage.

Nothing looked out of place so I was all "Oh, it's not that bad...".

HA.

And then the bruise came.

And boy, was it a doozy.

I would take a picture, but I don't want to offend the delicate sensibilities of my reader(s).

The sad thing is, this sort of thing has happened before.

In fact, I've actually managed to bruise the heck out of my arm because, get this, I tried to crawl into bed sans glasses and...

I MISSED THE BED.

Oh yes. I mistook the deep shadow around the bed for the bed itself and put my hand...on nothing.

And fell. Onto my bedside table.

Sigh.

I think I need to move to a world where there are no sharp edges or corners.

For my own safety.

Oh Captain, My Captain

May 21 marks a very strange and bittersweet date for me at work. That Friday, the oldest, most experienced and sassiest member of my work team is retiring. After working at the Commission for over 30 years, her split with this job is well deserved.

After she leaves, it will vault me into the position of the most experienced on our team. I'm not quite sure how I feel about this. One of the reassuring things about my job was the understanding that if I was ever unsure or unclear on an inquiry, I could turn to my team mate and get the answer I needed.

Now I'm turning into that person. I'm becoming the expert that my other team members rely on, and I find myself providing the answers that I used to ask for.

It's a strange role reversal and my instinct is to fear the change that's coming and try to ignore the inevitable.

I call this "The Ostrich" and I'm very good at it.

But there's also a part of me that is excited about being the true, indisputable leader of the group. A part of me that's confident and sees the road ahead with clear eyes.

I'm finding, as I'm growing long in the tooth, that the ambition and drive that's been sitting dormant within me is coming to the surface.

I finding myself wanting more opportunities, more education, more experience, more, more, more.

And I want it all now.

Apparently, as my ambition increases, my patience decreases.

I would draw a graph, but, alas, my math skills have not grown stronger with age.

When I look back at the person I was when I first started this position, I can truly see how far I've come. From being green and eager to taking a leadership position in three short years, I'm quite proud of myself.

Plus, my retiring team mate promised to give me her home phone number so I can call her at home and disrupt her retirement with my inane questions.

It's good to have a lifeline - especially when you're steering the ship.

Just because I'm the boss, doesn't mean I've stopped mixing my metaphors.

Flora

I thought that I would share the fruits of my yardening labor from this weekend.

We bought flowers. Lots and lots of flowers. We bought flowers to pretty up our deck, which has recently been through the most thorough power wash its ever had. Ever.

It's now a different color.

It used to be a hazy greenish mossy algae grey color. And now it is a pinkish taupe-y dull color.

It really is an improvement. I promise.

And here's a picture of Mortimer looking judgmental on aforementioned deck.



Yes, so the deck is squeaky clean now, so we felt obligated to dress it up a little.

So we wandered around Art Knapp Nursery and picked out various flowers with fancy names. I tried to look like I knew what I was talking about, but honestly I was just happy that I remembered the difference between annual and perennial.

Here's some pictures!

Enjoy our flora.











Now if I can remember to water these guys and keep them alive long enough to recoup the investment, I will be most pleased.

I don't have much of a green thumb. I kind of look at plants with a kind of puzzled trepidation and try and figure out how not to drown a poor wee seedling in the first hour of its life.

I like flowers. I like to be given flowers (RIGHT ADAM?!). I like the smell of flowers....but I'm just not sure about the upkeep of flowers.

But, I'm going to try and channel some kind of nurturing mother nature persona this summer and keep my balcony plants from singing a floral swan song.

Wish me luck.

Flirting with Academia

I sometimes wonder if I'm a wee bit masochistic.

Not in any kind of scandalous way, but in a "I must take as many classes as humanly possible" kind of way.

I like to torture my brain meats.

From April - July, I'll be involved in three full time courses. Three courses that all demand essays, exams and various assignments.

I also, apparently, have to continue to work full time as well.

I feel I may need to invent some kind of time halting device in order to cram in all of the demands of these courses.

Or, you know, I could stop watching trashy TV shows in the evenings.

...nah.

I think the time halting device sounds more fun. Plus, maybe I can go on Dragon's Den and get money for inventing it.

If I were to psycho-analyze myself about my propensity to take as many classes as possible, I would say that I am pining for the days of full time academia.

And it's true.

I miss bemoaning the "earliness" of a 10 AM class. I miss cramming for an impossible number of exams. I miss writing lecture notes while half asleep and then trying to decipher them later on.

I miss school.

If I could afford it, I would definitely be a full time student. I would throw myself back into university and stay there until they dragged me out.

Ideally, I'd become one of those mad, old professors who is covered with chalk dust from insane chalkboard scribblings and who wears loud clothing that's 5 years out of style.

This isn't actually too much of a stretch for me. I basically resemble that remark, minus the chalk dust.

I know that I'm idealizing academics, and it's more than brilliantly minded people sitting around debating interesting issues, but I think I would still gladly drop my job like a hot potato if the opportunity for scholastic study was offered to me.

I think I need to win the lottery.

After buying myself a unicorn and a hover car, the next item on my agenda would be to fling wads of money at a university for the pleasure of being locked up in that academic ivory tower.

But, for now, I temper this desire for school with courses that are of vague relevance to my job.

So instead of taking a class called "Zeus - The Formative Years", I have to take classes called "How To Motivate Employees Without Violence" and "Organizational Behavior - Like Herding Cats, Only Harder".

Sigh.

One day I hope to be able to happily ensconce myself in school. For now, I will just continue to teach my cats about Greek Mythology.

They're star pupils, my cats are. Except we need to work on their essay writing skills...