Coffee & Zombie Movies.

Whoa... Hey there Campers.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Mon, 08 Dec 2014 03:09:00 +0000

Has it really been so long, Readers? It has.

Couplefew things have changed. I went to school last year. It was horrible. The program was a clown circus run by clown circus folk who expected student clownery to produce professional results... which bless their pea picking hearts, some students achieved.

Other than that, it was great. I made the dean's honours list and EVERYTHANG. Just the way a mature student such as I'm is supposed to do.

But I was traumatized because clowns.

So I switched programs. Now I'm taking Graphic Design and it is 74 shades of better for me. Everythang is so fancy over at Graphic Design. All Adobe and being snooty about kerning and leading and planes and linework and nearfield OH MY. I can judge all of the signs I see now and feel totally superior while shivering and wishing I could afford a winter jacket.

Ha. *cough* Aherm.

Being a first year student for two years in a row is like a long lesson in humility. I like to think of myself as a first-year monk martyr. Two years of being a Firster. I made that word up. Pretty good right? College people like me know how to do that. But really, the insecurity that goes along with being a noob combined with being THE oldest lady in my class who still says noob can be tiring.

Anyway. Might as well blog about it. Is anyone still there?

Another thing that has happened is that I've learned things and now I can barely tolerate the layout of this blog. *shivers*

And done.

MERGABERNDER

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Wed, 21 Aug 2013 02:53:00 +0000

So.. I'm getting ready for college. At least that's what I think I'm doing, you guys. Basically I don't know what I'm doing or what I need. Nobody distributed a "school supplies list". I need that shit.

So I went to Staples. I bought: 2 fountain pens. Shut up. They are disposable so that makes them modern and sleek. But they have those adorable fancy, very pointy ends that I love so very much. So pointy and fluid. I want to write on the world with them.

So this belies something about me that I wasn't expecting to face: Generation Gap. Already. That's right, kiddies, I plan to take notes. With my pen. On paper. In a Multimedia Design program.   They are going to laugh at me, but I read an article that validates my position as a mature student: It stated that people who physically write their notes retain their information better, okay? I NEED ALL THE EDGES I CAN GET.

Yeah. Shut up, you. I need to write notes. In cursive. With my new pointy pen. The French call it a stylo. That's "stee-low". I think we both know that they know a thing or two about pens. So fancy.

So the other thing I bought? (It seemed like a really good, practical idea when I was in the store). The other thing, Readers? Is the world's biggest binder.

I said shut up. I need to write notes, I said. In cursive. IN A BINDER.

So I get my brand new binder home. I put it on my new desk and look at it.   I'm ready to admire the crap out of my new Five Star binder. I get it all set up and then blammo.

Holy God. It is so big. This is the biggest binder you can even get, I think. But it didn't seem this big in the store. It didn't seem hilariously giant when I was combing through the binders to select the perfect one that didn't say, "KEENER" or "TRYING SO HARD" or "MATURE STUDENT ALERT". I mean, it's black and blue and rather respectable. That's what I thought. I'm only 34, you guys.

But it takes up more than half the desk. The desk is five feet across, okay? It eats the new fifteen cent package of loose leaf paper that I went out and bought for it. It eats it like so many dainty aperitifs.

It has a damned handle. WHAT WAS I THINKING? A HANDLE??? That should be indicator numero uno that the binder is too large. Neil made me do it. He said I needed a handle so I could carry coffee at the same time. Coffee, you guys. I was suckered. Yes, I could carry my coffee in one hand and my binder full of everything else I own. Including the life vests.

So now I have to go back, return it and worry over the smaller, less camping shelter sized binders that don't require a handle like luggage. Because I am going to have a binder, yes I am; but perhaps not one that very well might take diesel fuel to operate.


Check it out. I photo edited it. OoOooh!

Seriously. That is a 17 inch Macbook in the background there, okay? 17 inches. I would die of embarassment if I had to open this sucker up in front of people on the first day of school. Die. Dead. No, no no no no... I need to buy a much more discreet binder. Perhaps a tiny binder. One that fits in an altoids tin or pack of gum so I can hide while I physically write notes with my new pen in cursive. One that only holds sticky notes.

Hey! That reminds me! Look at what I got for F-R-E-E at Staples when I bought the megabinder:

!!!!!!!
It's a sticky note Happy Apple! (Photo Edited fancily to prove that I'm not a Luddite.)

I think they were probably just impressed with the size of my new binder. I hope they don't think I'm overcompensating for something.

Random Acts of Unkindness?

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Mon, 22 Jul 2013 01:32:00 +0000

So I had this dream the other night where I was tasked with washing the feet of the city's homeless during the heat wave we've had.

I just used the water bottle, soap leaves and cloth that I obviously carry in my Mary Poppins dream-wallet.

I was humble in my dream. Quietly keeping to my work; ignoring the curious onlookers. People wondered if it was like, a church thing. It wasn't, I assured them. I was just trying to help my fellow downtrodden peers cool down in such a way that I would wish to be cared for if I were at my lowest. It was moving to reach out to people and physically help.

So humble and saintly I was. Such a martyr and a hero. Such a kind hand in a cruel world. That's me. But what could it mean? Don't weep at my feet yet:

So then I was outside the book store in real life yesterday. A man uncomfortably asked me If I could give him some change for a sandwich and I blatantly lied that I didn't have any (yep.. just debit) and sheepishly went into the store.

Not shown: dark, secret chamber full of evil.

But then I couldn't focus on anything in the store. Nothing. I circled around and around with the dream and the real situation boiling around in my brain. I felt so guilty that I was shopping for nothing and that maybe that guy really was going to buy a sandwich with the change and not the xyz things that I personally disapprove of. Who the hell do I think I am? I went back and he had gone somewhere else. I wasn't going to wash his feet- but I was thinking I'd at least get him the damned sandwich.

I feel like I really screwed up that prophetic seeming dream. What made me lie to that man? I am generally a complete sucker for this kind of thing. As in, I see myself and my family in them sometimes and my heart breaks times 1000000000. I lied to him, even as the dream weighed heavily in my mind. Me, the person who loves random acts of kindness more than I love gay parades and baby orangutans.

What the hell, Self? Now I will worry about that man for basically ever.

Something New

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Thu, 30 May 2013 17:03:00 +0000

I'm going to college. For 2 years. I'm all signed up.

Hold me.

What if all the cool kids think I'm a dweeb? What if I don't know what anyone is talking about? What if I don't know what to do? What if I get lost every day for the first month? What if nobody picks me to be on their team and I have to be teamers with the teacher?

Pickled Eggs up in Hrrrr. I pizzled the ezzles..... No? Fine. Jerks.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Mon, 08 Apr 2013 21:15:00 +0000

I'm just still trying to be cool. Also, winter will never end. My life is like that wintery place in Game of Thrones where it just snows and zombies show up and everyone is dressed like they just stumbled out of a circa 1991 Heavy Metal video. Even the fat, unpopular kid. Especially him.

Well maybe my life isn't exactly like that. Plus I haven't been paying very much attention to Game of Thrones because whenever I do, I get the lyrics to "To Be With You" by Mr Big stuck on loop in my head and then Neil wants to leave me. He hasn't said it, but whenever I serenade him with it, I can see his eyes flash with tiny red hate-fires. So that's why Game of Thrones isn't a big deal around here. Plus you can't just serenade someone with To Be With You nice and quietly. You have to belt out the, "AHM THE Waaaaa-AH-OOooOOOOOOOOONNNNNE" part and you have to do your own back up vocals at least until you can train the 5 year old.

If they were dressed like The Clash, Neil would be all over me. ALL. OVER. ME.

Probably.

Eggs in jrrrs Y'all.

So I pickled up some eggs in the houuuuuze. (I'm practicing talking like that because I have a teenager and I want him and his friends to know that I understand the youth of today. Which I don't. Mainly I grieve for their future. Sorry about the whole ocean full of plastic/mutated monsanto heads, grandchildren of my verrrrrrrry distant future. Here, have some pickled eggs. *Memaw wants you to have one, honey.)

The pickled eggs are fascinating. I've never actually had a pickled egg in my life. I've always looked at them, and they've looked at me and we've had an agreement that our lips would never touch. Eggs have lips, right? They have potential beaks which is pretty close. I don't want to find out. Anyhow, the agreement has been going swimmingly until I found a recipe for them and decided that it is time to test out whether my pickled egg truce was in vain. Plus I'm bored from all the winter and I don't know how to make hooch in the bathtub. Plus they might be awesome.

"They have to pickle for 3 more days", the recipe says. "Don't keep them for too long", it says.

It didn't say that my fridge would smell farty, though. THAT is something the recipe did not indicate. The preserved lemons I discussed last time made my house smell like a candy factory. The pickled egg smell has killed every last lovely lemon and licorice scented breeze in this whole house.

This version has Spanish subtitles. You're welcome. I have to go shake my lemons now. Literally.

* I plan to make my distant future grandchildren call me Memaw. I don't know why, stop asking questions. I'm too young to give sound answers.)

Shake your Lemons

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Sun, 07 Apr 2013 16:26:00 +0000

Alright, so I'm a follower of Punk Domestics. A website filled with strange and magical preserved things and homemade cheese and vinegars and stuff that I don't actually undertake, but I might.

I imagine myself being a real and true punk domestic one day- with a dark cellar (note to self: start digging) filled to the tippy top with old timey witchy foodstuffs and little pickled jars of voodoo radishes with heart shaped gingers stuffed into them. I picture myself skipping merrily through the woods, foraging for edible foodstuffs and rooty types of things. I would bring them home and boil and ferment them into healthy jars of old-timey-amazing that my kids would never eat, not for a thousand dollars- but I would still make them stick out their tongue and at least taste them. Then I would feel like a good earth mother because my kids licked a probiotic thing before attacking their Walmart Easter basket like feral little badgers- ergo leaving their guts filled with some kind of marvelous bacterial culture that would no doubt turn them into geniuses. Is "geniuses" a word?

Oh.. was that probiotic?? I feel invigorated!!

This would leave me more time to watch Walking Dead reruns and less time trying to figure out kid-math homework. Geniuses don't need help with homework.

There is always a method to my madness, and it is usually an elaborate way to avoid doing kid-math.

So I was clicking around on the punk domestic website when I came across something that looked pretty interesting to me: Moroccan Preserved Lemons.

Did you feel that zing up your back? If something is touted to be Moroccan, it's automatically spicy and mysterious. Even if it's just an ottoman or pottery barn lamp or lemons stuffed in jars filled with their own juices and kosher salt and adorable anise stars.

I bit.

I spent a week scouring my city for organic lemons, because apparently the lemons have to be organic. If they are not, you will grow another eyeball. That's because you pickle the rinds: The part the government sprays with pesticides and mind-control drugs. Duh.

I refuse to have my mind controlled by my lemon preserves, so I spent about 5 days looking for organic lemons and finally found them at secret organic Farmers Market in an old medical building behind the Canadian Tire.

dramatization

I'm not kidding. That's where I found them. I dropped $20 for 24 lemons and laughed all the way home to make them.

Here is the proof:

Yeah, Look out, PINTEREST. I can take arty photos of lemons with the best of 'em.


OoOoh... can I frame that photo, Michelle? Yes you can, for $100.

I do so much work. It's delightful.

There. 3 Salty Moroccan jars of mystery. That's 8 lemons per jar. I know because of math. I can't escape it.

Also, The recipe I followed can be found here


But I have to shake them every day for a month, I'm told. Neil made a reminder for my kitchen wall chalkboard area. I think I'll leave it there forever because that is just good advice.

So these lemons are apparently some kind of wonderful when you want to cook chicken and fish and anything that you want to add lemon voodoo to. I have to wait a month. I have to shake them.

Remember when I was making raisin yeast? And I sang to you about fizzy raisins? Well you can probably expect a lemon shaking song in the near future because lemons are a going concern in my house right now, well at least until later because later today I am making pickled eggs.

Everybody sing!

Piiiiickled eggggggs
In a jaaaaaaaar........ ?

No?

K.

Leave it to Me to Lose my Panties in an Approximately 1x1 Meter Examination Room

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Wed, 06 Mar 2013 05:09:00 +0000

That's right, Reader, I disappear for months at a time, only to return and regale you with what I think is really important: Stories about my lady business.

TrAaaalLLLlaaaalalalaaa

Right, so Everyone? I have a new doctor. This means I had to get a physical today. *stressful violin scree*.

But first, I think you should watch this video because it's the "I'm getting a physical" song. It ran through my head all day. In fact I'm doing the one-shoulder-shrug dance and I've wrapped a bandana around my forehead right this second. Plus I'm super stressed out over the whole thing so I'm acting weird.

Annnnyhoooo.... I forgot that physicals include a lady-exam and vaccination needles and invasive questioning. I was happily living in denial for 4 entire years of having no doctor. Also, they involve paper gowns.

Now, I know what you're thinking, Reader. Paper GOWN? GOWN? That word denotes some kind of glamorous starworthy accoutrement, right? A GOWN is something you get married in. Yes, an origami frock worthy of the longest runways and frothiest of fashion aficionados. Why, to devise and execute such a practical garment would simply have to be the work of none other than the likes of Versace or Lacroix. I bet it looked AMAZANG, like-a-this:

Nope. It's really just a big joke the medical staff is playing. I looked more like a chewed up lunch bag with oddly pasty legs. *sad trombone*

Medical Staffer #1: So, we have a new clinic! Should we get some proper cloth gowns for our stressed out patients who are about to have a new doctor/total stranger slap on a miner's head-lamp and safety goggles so that they can peer deep into the dangerous nether-junglezone of their ladymine?

"Jeee-uust a few more seconds and we'll be all done here. I just need oooone more quick sample."

Medical Staffer #2: NooOoo no no no, how about let's give them one of these gowns made out of feeble, kleenex-thin birthday wrapping tissue? Then, give 'em each a 4-inch long hunk of garbage bag plastic to tie around their waists, tell them to put it on backward and to give the plastic a tug so that it will stretch into a belt. *slaps hands together because his work here is done*

Then we'll see if they EVER complain about actual hospital gowns again. Amiright? High five anyone?

Medical Staffer #1: But... doesn't that seem a little bit... y'know... cruel?

Medical Staffer #2: Fine. Give them each a tissue blanket too- in case one of the nurses leaves the door open... but to save money, we'll cut the blankets into four! SAVINGS!

Medical Staffer #1: So just a kleenex for a blanket then? *writes on official medical clipboard*

Medical Staffer #2: Hmm.. name brands are pricey. How about a ValuePlus toilet paper square?

Medical Staffer #1: Vallluuue... Plus. Got it. I'll start separating the two-ply.

Medical Staffer #2: Attaboy. Way to be a team player.

Right so, I put on the gown and carefully arranged my toilet paper square so that I wouldn't get too much of a draft. And I left on my gear. My undergear. Okay? Because at this point, I still hadn't realized that I was going to be explored liked a prospective coal mine and I was wearing a paper birthday napkin and I had a strip of garbage bag wrapped around me and someone had taken my blasted waist measurement and they told me I was getting a mumps shot and a tetanus shot and a diphtheria shot and they asked me if I do street drugs and I don't, but I suddenly felt worried that nobody would believe me.. like I would do some kind of twitchy nervous "tell" that only doctors know about, but I didn't mean to get so nervous because I was just trying to be a model patient- so I went off on a tangent about my elbow and how it doesn't straighten quite right ever since I broke it 9 years ago....

So when my doctor donned the headlamp and safety goggles (SAFETY GOGGLES??), and told me to hunker down and put my feet in the stirrupy things- I began to feel nervous. Nervous as though, you know, she might be planning to send in a canary or something, too.


"Alright, little fella... it's time."

So I had to be reminded that I can't wear my underwear during a ladytime exam. I was hoping she wouldn't notice, that she'd just laugh this whole papsmear business off and forget about the whole thing.

So.. you want me to take these off huh? Say, is that a marching band over there? Wakka Wakka. How about my wonky elbow, eh? Huh? How about it? Wanna see? My elbow? *bend bend*

So the doctor left for 30 seconds while I sort of panicked and scrunched up my face and tried to remove my under-euphemisms without shredding my gown. But I was already tangled up in the stirrup things and the paper on the vinyl bed getting transmogrified and the worrying and the twisting and the trying to hurry, because I didn't want anyone to see any of my stuff and then the clamminess and the ringing in my ears... and then the getting stuck and writhing around like a seal and then the wadding up of the underwear and sort of just hiding them to the side under my toilet paper square while regaining my composure.

But it looked like I had taken a hand mixer to my gown and the paper sheet on the exam table, and there just wasn't time to fix it.

"I'm in here, doctor. I'm ready!"

But I survived. It wasn't that bad. The main thing was that I was allowed to get dressed again. Phew. The doc left, I got up and peeled the remains of my gown and the sheet from around my neck and felt around for my undies.

Gone.

Seriously gone. And the next appointment... and it already took too long... and the polite knocking on the door....

But they were gone. I looked beside the bed, I looked in my pants, I looked in the wads of paper that where everywhere like the dregs of a toddler birthday party. They were gone with the wind, with the tide.. lost in space.

My panties were gone. My hanes comfy fit panties. My goin-to-the-doctor practical panties. gone. But then I had a eureka moment. OF COURSE!

UNDER the solid metal exam table. There they were, as though a heavenly light was shining upon them. I could see the edge of them peeking out from way underneath, against the wall behind the drawer unit. The only problem? I was going to have to discreetly, nudge the table over to the side. Surely, I'd have some kind of heroic adrenaline rush to help me. How heavy could one of these things be?

Keep in mind that I had no pants on. So I silently and quickly nudged the table over.

"SCREeeeeeeeeeeEEeEEeEEEEEEEEEeeeEEEeeeeeCH" said the examination table.

Retrieved my underpant-a-lettes from the pile of suspicious medical dust bunnies and went home commando.

The End.

It's Raining Body Parts in my Back Yard.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Sat, 08 Dec 2012 19:48:00 +0000

Snowman body parts.

Bikini Bread Head. Why not?

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Wed, 14 Nov 2012 17:43:00 +0000

Here is what is new with me:

Nuthin.

Made some bread. I feel meh about it, even if it was a beautiful poster child loaf of bread. I'm not even getting ugly bread right. It's turning out all beautiful and pefect with a perfect tan and white teeth and a bikini, judging all the other regular loaves of bread who are just trying to get by on their seeds and bits of rosemary. Such a miserable brawny loaf.


"Oh look at me! I'm so PeRFEcT!"

Look at my perfect golden tan. *Sigh* I wish I could be more pale like YOU... but alas, it's a career hazard. And all these CARBS. I feel positively SWOLLEN!

I can't believe I put that on the internet, either. But you know how it goes, I have to contribute to this amazing web of information when I can. You know, leave my legacy. *aherm*

Also, I can't believe that this woman is still gorgeous, even with a loaf of bread for a head. How is that even fair?? How is this good for my self image?

So I've perfected bread. Now what? Why even go on baking?

Maybe I should finally learn how to weld.

Sunny Hates Zombies.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Wed, 31 Oct 2012 13:26:00 +0000

But she loves Neil so much. This whole thing is very confusing. You know how the old Veterinarian reacted to his family turning to zombies in the Walking Dead, right? He locked them in the barn and threw them live chickens because he still loved them, Reader. HE STILL LOVED THEM. Even though they might eat his intestines.

That's how Sunny felt.

Duct Tape Hawkeye Jacket. Boom.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Sat, 27 Oct 2012 19:37:00 +0000

Okay, I'm kinda proud of this one. Halloween at my house this year is all about making costumes out of duct tape. You remember the duct tape bacon, but here I've crossed into the world of actual duct tape clothing.

Duct tape super hero clothing. I should probably start setting personal limits right away..

I give you... *imaginary drumroll* Duct tape Hawkeye. You know... from The Avengers? Okay so it's not IDENTICAL.. after all it's duct tape and I only have a limited amount of time.

Right?

Basically, I took his old Christmas button up shirt from Old Navy, cut the sleeves and collar off, cut the sides open under the arms, reshaped it to be more body fitting and tape tape taped while it was still on his body. It took about an hour. Then we added some leftover brown and silver.

I kind of wish I'd have photographed the whole process.

I also made a quiver which is fairly straightforward. It's a duct tape tube with a strap. So... now I just have to concoct some kind of nonlethal bow.

Hm.

Hrmph.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Fri, 26 Oct 2012 13:41:00 +0000

You know, I don't know why my dog, Sunny has to look me straight in the eye when she's pooping. Right in the eye as though she is trying to bond with me. If I was going to go poop on someone's lawn, I would have the decency to look away.

Her droopy brown eyes bore into my psyche, "I'm pooping on your lawn right now, and there is nothing you can do about it. How do you like THAT?"

In which I disparage e-readers & say the word, "disparage" to sound fancy.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Sat, 20 Oct 2012 20:40:00 +0000

I've been manic reading. I'm on a bit of a bingier binge than usual.

What happened is that this summer, I read 11//22/63 by Stephen King. I liked it well enough, but it had a few things going against it, namely #1 it is on Neil's ipad. That means it isn't available for me to cart around everywhere I go, since it is not MY ipad. I don't have an ipad. #2, It's an e-book. I hate e-reading. #3 It wasn't THAT amazing.

So it took forever to traipse through. Every time I'd decided to plunk myself down and clap eyes onto my book, someone had lost my page or the ipad was needed elsewhere. So it took forever. FOREVER. ALL summer. My attention span is not that highly developed. I need to get my book, get that emmereffer read and move on as soon as possible. I basically violate them.

Watch this until it gets to the part where Bruce Lee ninjas a book shelf. LIKE THAT, YOU GUYS. K... Might take a second... THERE! BAM!

I couldn't do that with Neil's ipad. Pft.

I hate not holding a real and true old timey book. I hate pushing the button to turn the page (my e-reader is kind of ancient but I refuse to replace it lest I drop it in the bathtub). I hate when the battery dies and I have to read while plugged in somewhere leaving me unable to both read and attend to the rest of my shiz. I hate not being able to flip around through the book at my leisure and reread passages because if I lose my page it takes 20 minutes to find it again by flip flip flipping through tedious e-pages "click....nope...click....nope..." I can't look at the edge and guess where-ish the passage I want to reread is unless I remember my page number and go through the little calculator kobo systemy thingy and it just kills it. I need real, tangible, burnable books.

Ugh. E-reading is only convenient when traveling or totally broke. I also hate going to the library- they always want their ruddy books back.

The real problem is that I've been fully soaked into book after book. Five this week. That is a heavy load of novels for a fancy lady who is supposed to be doing other stuff.

I haven't been doing other stuff. Not even my hair. I'm in THAT place, Readers.

This week I've read: Sussex Drive by Linda Svendsen; Dying Inside by Robert Silverberg; The Strange Case of Dr Jeykyll & Mr Hyde by Whatshisface; The Great Gatsby by F.Scott Fitzgerald and The Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell.

Because I read them one after the other after such a long drawn out, sporadic summer reading experience and because they are all very fanciful; they are all sloshing around in my head like classic-pulpy-scifi stew. I read them too fast and now the plots are blending inside of my brain. I'll be reading along when I confuse two plot lines, need to flip back but then remember: I have a stupid e-reader so I CAN'T.

Why must real books be so expensive and why must I insist on book shopping in new book stores? Why am I going to publish this without proofreading?

Some things are mysteries.

The Anatomy of Spongebob

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Wed, 17 Oct 2012 20:14:00 +0000


Spongebob (by Neil)

Spongebob's muscular system.

Spongebob's skeletal system.

Living with a cartoon professor never stops being educational. Thanks Neil.

Duck Tape Bacon Costume, Readers. You heard me.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Sun, 14 Oct 2012 23:42:00 +0000

So your kid wants to be bacon for Halloween, and you willingly nod your head up and down up and down up and down because you are just happy that she has the brains not to want to be a scantily clad xyz such as every costume store on the planet would have her be.

Bacon. LOVE IT.

But now you have to make a bacon costume. Well never fear, because it turns out that all you need are a few rolls of red, white and brown duck tape, some pictures of bacon printed from the internet, and a roll of white (or brown, I suppose) butcher paper.

Roll of Paper: Check.

Bacon-coloured Duck Tape: Check.... However I will tell you right now that you need two rolls of white, two rolls of red and ONE roll of brown. I got it all backward.

Realistic bacon pictures so that you can copy the pattern. The bacon pattern

Start Taping in a baconish pattern in order to make duck tape fabric.

I discovered that you don't have to make it flat. Just twist that tape around in bacon fat/meat ways.

Probably measure your kid before you start... Or in the middle of the project.. You're going to cut the sides anyway.

There, we are basically done making a giant slice of bacon from duck tape.

Cut the sides all meatishly.

Cut a face hole. TADA.

Then repeat, except for the face hole part. Your costume needs a back.

Then you want to tape around the head area of the costume and just a small part under the arms so that it isn't impossible to move in. Like a sandwich board. You don't want clumsy bacon, unable to complete her school work!

Then you can be all

while chaperoning at the school Halloween dance because once again, YOU SIR, are an awesome Mom.

Nerds of Passion

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Sat, 13 Oct 2012 21:56:00 +0000

So Thanksgiving was a hit. I put bacon on everything and therefore it was all gourmet. Bam. Done.

Anyhow, last night I went on a date with NeeEilLy. We'd decided to get sushi and head over to see the film Looper, except something happened to us.

We didn't go to the movie.

What happened, Michelle? Were you struck by passion? Did you decide instead to make passionate love on a moonlit, deserted stone bridge to the dulcet tones of a live mariachi band playing in the distance, roses clenched firmly in your teeth? Wolves howling in the background and a soft, fall wind rustling your hair as the creek below burbled so gently? On the soft, mossy section? Without a care in the world except for staring deeply into each others eyes? And then did you share poems you'd composed for one another about limpid pooling eyes and such? Whispering softly to one another like a breeze over water?

Um. Calm down, Reader. Stop pressuring me!

So we had our sushi. We had to eat in a hurry, because the movie was going to start. We ordered yam rolls, spicy salmon rolls, octupus & shrimp sushis. We proceeded to eat the sushi while gently making fun of one another for being sushi neanderthals. Seriously. Sushi in a hurry= hilarity. We shotgunned our sapporos and ran to the register to pay.

Cave Squid Sushi & Neil's arm.

We made it in time to see the movie.

However, we began to feel a light inward pull. The pull became stronger until it took hold of us. We were thrust out of the theatre.

"WHAT'S HAPPENING??? My nerd senses are going BERZERKO!" I thought.

And we found ourselves in Chapters: The gigantical bookstore.

TRAH LALALALALALALAlaaaaaAAAA!

It just... It just happened.

So we perused around separately, only reuniting to discuss how many books were described as, "A rollicking good read". "A ROLLICKING GOOD READ" is the standard issue blurb for most books these days. I began to suspect that some of the books were not as rollicking as they purported. Hmph. I mean, how many books can really be rollicking? Can't some be frolicsome? Exuberant? Sobering?

We ended up in the Political Science section, and Readers? The most romantic thing ever happened: We spotted the Ann Coulter books. Chills. CLEARLY in the wrong section. So Neil and I deftly moved them, without a trace of evidence. We pilfered all of the Ann Coulter books, one at a time over about 30 minutes to new homes in the Humor, Romance, Fantasy and Psychology/Abuse sections where they made much more sense. We were never detected by the piercing eyes of the older lady. The book liason. The book GUARD. Then we laughed ourselves sick.

Obviously, we are unbelievably funny.

Oh we were wild that night, Reader. We were the Fast and the Furious Nerds at Chapters that night.

We came home and feverishly read our books until we fell asleep; our faces pasted to them with drool- lights still on.

*le sigh*

I'm gonna Thank the $#!# out of this Sgiving.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Thu, 04 Oct 2012 14:13:00 +0000

Canada. That's where I am, World- and here in Canada, it is nearly Thanksgiving. The origins in Canadian Thanksgiving do not lie among the corpses of pilgrims or whatever American Thanksgiving seems to be based on. (I don't know, Readers! Stop staring. I see a lot of hype around pilgrims during the American Thanksgiving, and Americans seem to want to hang on to the whole Pilgrim scenario with an iron grip. I'm just a friendly observer and this is what I've observed throughout the years of watching Thanksgiving specials on American Television during the wrong month.)

Right, so here in Canada, we don't know why we celebrate Thanksgiving, we don't know why it's in October and we don't plan to find out just in case someone investigates and ultimately, the conservative party cancels it or something. Dodging a bullet there. As for the origins.. well basically, I think we were all jealous of the Americans and their turkey dinners so we wanted one too, and we wanted it first.

Our teachers told us that we were giving thanks because it was the end of harvest or some bullshit. Don't believe it. We just wanted to beat the Americans to the holiday so that we could look at all of them across the border with an air of satisfaction while we eat pie.


"I am tankfull dat I 'ave turkey and you don', Pigdogs!" History is so ugly sometimes.

Right, so I guess Thanksgiving is this weekend. I volunteered to cook EVRATHAAANG a couple of weeks ago while I was a little bit drunk. Not D R U N K. Just... cheery-volunteery. Dummy. I felt a surge of domestic prowess.

"Everyone" I said, "Everyone, just show up. I have a giant turkey."

"Let us help." They said.

A resounding, thundering, "NOOOOooOO!!!!" erupted out of the depths of my trembling body. "YOU SHALLLLLL NOT HELLLP!!!". And I banged my magic cane against the floor, knocking everyone unconscious.

"Ok" They said, as they backed slowly away, holding one anothers hands- and they slipped out the door.

K. So. Now I'm cooking dinner for the extended fam. I've done this before and everything. No biggie. I get to control all the turkey things and stuff. But I didn't actually have to do this. It could totally have been a potuck.. but now I feel.. I feel like people are secretly doubting me. Like this is a challenge that I must conquer and ANNIHILATE. *beats chest* *ape noises* *trips* *bloody nose*

I just wonder why I have to be so weird sometimes. Maybe if we would outline some rules and specifications for Canadian Thanksgiving. You know? So that we're not just bumping around up here trying so hard to know what to do. Maybe then, I wouldn't get so confused.

Rule #1- Never listen to Michelle when she is cheery-volunteery.

K. I have to go find some recipes and shiz. PINTEREST AWAAAAY!!!!

Nakedness.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Tue, 25 Sep 2012 17:14:00 +0000

Normally, I am not the sort of person who goes around posting topless pictures of myself on the internet, but today I'd like to share a picture that makes me feel particularly vulnerable. All of my flaws, all of my assets- on display. For you, World. For you... But only because I like to think of it as fine art.

Being a portrait artist myself, I know how difficult it can be to really capture the stark vulnerability of a person rather than just squeak out a likeness as though it were a simple photograph. It's draining. You have to pull yourself into your subject to catch every glint of light in just the same way they are projected from the person you are capturing without it appearing to be stuffy and stiff. You want to pull in a moment that not only accentuates someone's flaws alongside their more flattering features to make it really BE that person.

Of course, when the art is pouring out of a crayon in the hands of a 4 year old, it becomes all the more honest, don't you think? All the more impressive. It really makes you stop and think about how a little person devoid of judgement and preconceived notions of perfection might interpret a portrait, since they have never felt the pressure to fix the imagined flaws of their subjects.

So that is why I'm sharing this. This portrait just really captures exactly what I see in the bathroom mirror each and every morning:

I work out.

That, World, is why I drink.

RAOKs

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Fri, 21 Sep 2012 20:55:00 +0000

This morning, as I was desperately shoving oreo cookies into my face, I decided that today I would do a random act of kindness. I get some kind of nerd-high out of doing RAOK (which is cool person slang for Random Act of Kindness, in case you didn't work that out right away. You're so welcome, Reader.).

I really love RAOKs. I've been the recipient of them and they make everyone involved feel like they have supepowers. SUPERPOWERS, Reader. So if they are self-serving, fine. You know what else is self serving? Desperately shoving oreos into your face as soon as everyone leaves the house- and you don't see me criticizing that. So back off, all of you imagined critics of RAOK.

RAOK is important to me. It courses through my superhero veins. It's possibly genetic, since my dear old Dad has always been big on them. He works incognito and on a grander scale, which makes him the ultimate ROAKer.... Except for when he punched that bear.... but I think, you know what? He's RAOKed enough to make up for that kind of bear punching behavior. I figure denting a few bears won't shake his karma too badly.

My kitchen chalkboard wall.

Anyhow, all day, I was obsessively watching strangers to see what kind of boy scoutery I could muster. You know what I came up with? Now, not to brag or anything, Reader, but I bought the feller who happened to be in line behind me at the convenience store a scratchy lotto ticket. I handed it to him and walked out without saying anything else. A CASH FOR LIFE. The possibilities are mind boggling.

Relic. Ruled.

Adrenaline PULSED THOUGH MY VEINS. You think I'm exaggerating but I'm really that nerdy and it kind of did.

Now I'm worried that he won, because Lord knows, MY ticket didn't. Maybe I gave him the wrong one and now I can't track him down, except that I remember that he looked kind of like Relic from the Beachcombers (Who, BTW, was the BEST Beachcomber. *sigh* Vintage Canadian TV....) and he was buying milk. Not many clues there.

Does that cancel out my goodwill toward men? I unno.

Nah. I hope he wins. He'd write a super sick blog if he did, I bet... all about his life as a Beachcomber with an awesome tiny touque. All thanks to me. *eats oreo*

The One about the Worried Cupcakes.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Mon, 17 Sep 2012 18:23:00 +0000

This is what happens when you make cupcakes for your kid who is in 9th grade because he hurt himself in gym class, but not very badly- but even so, his gym teacher called to tell you that he walked into a post or something and might have a sore shoulder later, and then you get bored waiting for him to come home:

You take a picture of the cupcakes, edit it to death with your phone's fancy editing software, you put it on facebook because obviously, cupcake photos are meant for facebook.

But then as you are waiting, you realize that the edited photo isn't quite good enough, so you open photoshop up (after all- what else would you do with obscenely expensive professional software?) and give all the cupcakes some worried little expressions.

Like this:

Then you write some run on sentences about it and put that shit on the internet because you Sir, are an awesome Mom.

Culture Surprise

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Fri, 14 Sep 2012 00:41:00 +0000

Maybe shoulda used a clown?

Was it so terrible of me to hide this delightful piece of cultural art in my daughter's bed this evening?

I like to surprise her with educational finds. It's just so much more powerful when the children are confronted with art rather than prepared ahead of time, you know?

The idea came to me just as the child finished pouring ice water down the back of my pajamas during a nice mother-daughter hug.

This particular carved sculpture is FULL of historical goodness. Neilykins picked it up in the wilds of Montreal during a fit of batchelordom. If that isn't cultural, I don't know what is.

Tsk. And here I thought she might find it and be filled with wonder and questions about this breathtaking two foot tall statue, which Neil has lovingly and carefully dubbed, "Evil Guy".   I was all prepared to dazzle her with cultural tidbits that she could share with her little friends tomorrow at school during one of their deep, intellectual group conversations.

Well I feel terribly unappreciated right about now.

Guess who is an amazing dog trainer now.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Mon, 09 Jul 2012 05:40:00 +0000

I present this unaltered photo still of Sunny, the superdog from today. Well, she probably isn't that super because whenever you remind her that she has a tail, she will chase it for a full minute, which makes me question how smart dogs really are... But I still can't get Neil to do this trick where I put milkbones in his mouth and all over his head and make him wait until I say "OK" before he can eat them. So. Maybe I should stop trying to use milkbones. Maybe Neil would prefer it if I used, like... haggises (haggii?) and chip butties and jammy jams. He says that his favourite food is stew... so.. Who knows. All I know is that I now have a project for August.

I won at pool a good majority of the time, too. Remember, guys? I went on a pool date the other night? The bonus was when, for a lark, I looked up how many calories billiards burns. Apparently, I burned close to 800 calories. So, I'm thinking of writing a new fitness book called, "Michelle's guide to getting ripped" and it involves drinking beer and playing pool for 5 hours per day. Basically that is as far as I've gotten on the scientific research part of it, but I'm thinking of hiring a scientist to back it all up. I'm thinking the caliber of scientist I have in mind will be okay with being paid in dog tricks.

See how I tied those two subjects up? *polishes nails on shoulder* *looks up how many calories I burned doing that* *8*

I could totally be a journalist.

LE Up le Date.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Fri, 06 Jul 2012 23:00:00 +0000

OMG. I can't believe I left you with that horrible post for so long. I'm sorry, Reader. I'm sorry.

Here is a quick and dirty update on my life.

1. I've lost 15 pounds. I know that you, as a stranger on the internet, are thrilled that I wear a different pants size now. IIII am thrilled because I have been hulahooping my arse off. You can't see yet, Reader. Not even the internet is not ready for that kind of madness.

2. I'm going to play billiards tonight with MR NEIL. He's all, "OooOooh it's our anniversary" and I'm like, "Anniversary? For what? We are not Married... I mean YAYYY! Siiiiix... *squints eyes at Neil and receives visual confirmation of this number* years since we like.. met!" And he's all, "Let's go out for a fancy dinner! Oysters!" and I go, "Um.. sounds expensive. How about BEER?" Then he's like, "I was going to make a reservation at Les Fougeres..." And I'm like all, "That is WAY expensive and I won't be able to wear ~~your~~ my 'communism rocks' tshirt..." and then I was like, "Let's go play pool instead!! Whee!!" So he was like, "Kay." Because he knows he can clean my clock. ( That means win at pool, BTW. ) *swoon*

So basically he's Marge and I'm Homer now. Don't tell him I said that or else his flowers might wilt.

3. Bleached the ever loving bejeepers out of my hair agaiiiiiiin!

Voila. Communism Rocks. Cool Shirt made by buddy Weldon.

Romancing the Pup.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 00:20:00 +0000

So my cat is a moron. A MORON. "Oh that isn't nice to say about a poor little animal, Michelle!"

I know. But she is. A MORON to be precise.

Smarties, the moron cat, has gone into heat and has found herself incredibly attracted to... "Another male cat in the neighborhood?", you ask, "But it's ill fated because he is neutered?

No.

"Another Ken doll?"

No.

"Your pillows again?"

Nope.

"How about a stuffed turtle? Is she writhing about in the hallway in ecstasy with a stuffed turtle, Michelle? Well is she? Eh???"

No, Readers. But thanks for asking.

Smarties has found a new object of affection to throw her sack of disgusting, trampy, desperate cat bones around at. To... saunter casually past and then ready herself into "the position" in case her heart's desire should requite her affections and become wild with passion for her.

It's futile for poor, confused Smarties, though. She is a star crossed lover. Poor, lonely Smarties.

She's hitting on the dog; the 4 month old, female, golden retriever puppy. I SWEAR IT. Moron.

I made this movie over the course of the past two days to prove it. Sit back, relax and enjoy this awesome romantic comedy:

That's right. My cat is a pedophile.

Don't be jealous of my life.

Wavin' Fwag.

noreply@blogger.com (Chelle) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 22:52:00 +0000

Here is a wee bit of awesomeness from my day:

Also? I may have found out that Roxette will be playing in my city. *breathes into paper bag*. It's not a big deal. Seriously. ROXETTE? Lame right? *bites through lips*. I mean, Early 90s pop band?? *runs around kitchen island 24923842 times* Who even likes that? I'm like, super cool and listen to artists like Tom Waits and Joe Strummer and Billie Holiday. It puts more of an edge on the Spinnerette. Just because I have 3 Roxette albums on regular rotation in my itunes, mingling amongst the Ramones and the Pogues means NOTHING. NOTHING. It means NOTHING! You back off. I don't even CARE about Roxette. I only know all the words to every song because it was so overplayed in high school... by... someone. Probably not me. *pulls collar* No judgy.

I've never coveted those leggings in my life.

Derr... My kid eating a lemon! Looky:

*throws glitter* *does jazz hands out of the room*