Wasn't that a party

Lady Fairchilde hosted a dinner party on Saturday.
It was positively maaaaah-valus!

By herself, she cooked dinner for 10 people.
She's my hero.

Her invitation did say semi-formal dress.
But Robi and I agreed that we don't get out often.
So we decided to kick it up a notch.
BAM!
And we wore cocktail dresses.
Little black numbers.
You know the drill.

The Husband was stuck at home by himself.
Sucks to be you, dude.
He was a little mopey about it.
It didn't help that I kept mentioning it.
"Don't forget I'm going to Lady Fairchilde's for dinner."
"Don't forget girls' night out on Saturday."
"Don't forget you're on your own ..."

Poor guy.

I did keep calling it a girl's dinner party.
Kept going on and on about a bunch of hens
getting together to cackle all night long.
Trying to assure him that he wasn't missing out.

Imagine the look on his face
when I come out all dolled up.

He raises his eyebrows.
"I thought you were going to dinner with the girls."
"I am."

His eyebrows go up even higher.
He's beginning to question where I'm going.
I can tell.

"It's semi formal. You know Lady Fairchilde ...
Only she would have a semi-formal dinner party."

He nods, clearly unconvinced.

I'm sure it didn't help that I didn't
walk in the door until
2:30 the next morning.

Yeah.
That's me.
Party animal.

Of course, I couldn't get to sleep right away.
I think I fell asleep around 3:30.
And wouldn't you know it ...
I was wide awake at 7:30.
*sigh*
I'm never going to get a good night's sleep.

It was totally worth it, though.
Thanks, LF, for a wonderful evening.

Good food.
Good company.
Good times!

Three Time's a Charm

Over at Mama's Losin' It, Mama Kat's post
was about the time she fractured her clavicle.

I have four words:

'bin there.
done that.

not once.
not twice.
three times.
yes.
three times, my blogger friends.


First Time

I was born with a broken collar bone.
Sounds weird.
And gross.
But apparently it's not as uncommon as you'd think.

I'm not sure how this happens.
Mom pushed too hard?
Doctor slapped me upside the head?
Who knows.

The fact is,
in all my baby pictures
my head is a little lopsided.

Don't even think about posting
"dropped-on-your-head-and-that-explains-everything"
comments.


Second Time

I was ten.
Staying up north with relatives.
On my dad's side.
This is an important fact ...
you'll see why in a moment.

One day, we went to the beach.

Strung across the front of the parking lot
was a yellow rope
dividing the parking spaces
from the beach area.
You know ...
to keep the stupid people from parking
on the grass and sand.

At some point, I needed something
from the car.
I ran full tilt, looking down
so I wouldn't trip on anything,
and lifted my head just as I approached the rope.

Now, I don't remember what happened next,
but someone told me ...

I caught the rope at my throat,
literally spun around it
and flipped over it
landing flat on my back.

Needless to say,
I passed out.
When I came to,
there were a lot of people peering down at me.

My aunt got me cleaned up,
patted my bum,
and sent me out to the water.

I actually felt pretty good,
all things considered,
except that my shoulder hurt.

After several days of my shoulder hurting
and not being able to lift my arm up,
my aunt -- on my mom's side -- called me
(you see where this is going, don't you?)
She was supposed to come and pick me up
to bring me over to my grandparents
and was just checking up to see how things were going.
I told her what happened.
She seemed quite alarmed,
and came right away to get me.
(to this day,
my mother speaks of this incident
with a little disdain,
practically spitting out my dad's sister's name)

We went straight to the hospital,
where they took x-rays,
and pronounced that my collar bone had broken.
Right in two.

The problem was,
that I'd been playing with a fractured clavicle
for several days,
and it was now all messed up.

I was told:
don't break it again,
you won't be able to use it properly.

Which brings us to the ...


Third Time

The Husband
(then The Boyfriend)
and I are skiing.

Two kids were skiing out of control
and hit me.

Again, I don't know what happened after that,
but TH told me it was almost comical,
something out of a cartoon.

I was airborne,
mitts, hat, poles and skis were all ejected,
flying everywhere.

When I came to,
all I could hear was TH shouting at someone:
"WTF were you guys doing!?
Don't you know what it means to ski in control?
Don't you dare leave!"

My face is planted in the snow
and I'm afraid to lift it up
because I expect to see blood everywhere.

My vision is really blurred,
and I can hear people shouting,
the ski patrol dude is checking my pulse,
lifting my eyelids,
poking me.

Then the adrenaline leaves my body,
and the pain in my shoulder shoots through me.
I yell.
Loudly.

The ski patrol wraps me up and puts me on the sled.
We're right below the ski lift.
This is humiliating.
Not to mention excruciatingly painful.

When we finally get to the hospital,
and take x-rays,
the doctor comes out and pronounces the results:

"Your clavicle is fractured."
He waits for a reaction.
I already know this.
So I just look at him,
waiting for him to continue.

Doc looks at TH.
"Perhaps she has a concussion."
I roll my eyes.
"Look," I said, "This isn't the first time.
Just give me some drugs and we'll go home."

"You don't seem to understand,"
he says.

"Oh, I understand, alright."

He looks at TH.
"She should be crying.
This is really painfull."

TH shrugs. "She's tough."
He actually sounds a little proud.



And Now

My left clavicle sticks out
at an odd angle.

Arthritis has set in.

Stay tuned ...
I'll tell you all about it,
the next time I break it.

That's Suhmooookin'!

Each morning, when The Husband drops me off at the train,
I walk through the gang of smokers clustered outside the station.
Unfortunately, there's no detour around them,
so I am forced to walk through the mushroom cloud.

They remind me of the kids in high school:
losers trying to look cool,
but failing miserably.

My knee-jerk reaction is to wrinkle my nose at the smell.
It's icky.

I don't smoke.
Do you?

I never smoked.
Well ... I really shouldn't say that.
I tried it.
ONCE.

I was seven years old.
Yes, you read that right.
Seven.
My best friend Yvonne and her sister Patricia
stole their dad's cigarettes.

Export A.
Unfiltered.

Go big or go home, right?

We hid in the ditch and sparked one up.
Yvonne inhaled, coughed a little, but was OK.
Patricia inhaled, coughed a little, but was OK.
Now it's my turn.

Both my parents smoked.
You'd think there'd be some sort of gene passed down.
'pparently not.

I took a drag,
thinking the entire time I looked pretty damn cool.
I inhaled ...
Holy Moses!

The coughing and hacking that took place afterwards
would have riled that of any emphysema sufferer.
I thought I was going to die.
So did Yvonne and Patricia.

They're pounding me on the back.
Giving me water.
Making me eat food.
Everything they could think of to keep me alive.

Eventually, the coughing fit passed.

Needless to say,
I never tried that again.

More Proof

I've said it before,
and I'll say it again ...
I married a gay man.

He works crazy hours.
So do I.
We don't get a lot of time together.
In fact, we get every other Sunday.

Sunday is a big deal for us.
I usually make a big breakfast.
We hang out together and get reacquainted.
(who are you again??)
Then go out for dinner somewhere.

The Husband surprised me yesterday morning
by making a delicious breakfast:



That, my blogger friends, is
french toast,
spread with peanut butter,
rolled around fried banana,
sprinkled with icing sugar.

Do I have the best wife husband in the world or what?!

Gord's 1929 Caddy

Our good friend Gord is an avid car fan.
For those of you who read my blog
and know C. Gordon ... you know who you are ...
yes, that's the infamous Cadillac.
And it's FINALLY on the road!

Gord has been restoring a 1929 Cadillac for many years now.
Almost 30 years, to be exact.
It is finally on the road.

Although the interior still needs a lot of work,
the exterior is looking pretty good.
It still needs some finishing touches,
but to a non-car person like me,
it looks just fine.



Notice the bitties in the background?
We were at a classic car rally a few weekends ago.
It was raining.

Needless to say,
everyone in open cars got a little wet.
These people wipped out their portable convertable top:
a.k.a. plastic.

I bet the Saran Wrap people could market that.

Rembrandt

The Husband’s best friend lives in Sweden. How his best friend lives in another country, on another continent, is another blog post.

For now, I want to share the story I was reminded of by Pictures, Poetry and Prose, when we visited his family a couple of years ago.



I’ve always loved art and have a true appreciation for the gift some people are given to bring life to pencil and paint. I am especially fond of the classics: Monet, Van Gogh, Rembrandt.

While in Sweden, we visited the National Museum in Stockholm. Knowing we were only interested in certain works, we carefully planned our visit, analyzing the visitor’s map, setting out our own personal tour. As with most art museums, each room was dedicated to either an artist or a particular period, with small foyers separating each area.

The Husband was reading the map, leading the way, and I simply wandered behind him, awed at the paintings I was seeing.

I glanced over my shoulder to see The Husband disappear around a corner. I followed him and found myself in a tiny darkened foyer. To my left was the entrance to a larger, brightly-lit room in which hung enormous paintings, at which The Husband was already gazing. I was about to follow him, when something caught my eye. The walls in this foyer were barren except for a glass-enclosed case to my right. I turned to look and the air rushed out of me as I gasped.

There, before me, was one of Rembrandt’s self-portraits, one he painted in 1630. It suddenly hit me—where I was, what I was experiencing. These were works I had only seen in books and slides in classrooms. Here I was, standing amidst paintings that were brushed hundreds of years ago, by legendary artists. Overcome with emotion, I began to tear and I stood like a fool gaping at this incredible artistry.

As I’m standing alone in this darkened room, gazing at the portrait, in walk four Chinese tourists. They do the same thing I did. They walk in, all gibbering to each other then stop cold as they see the self-portrait. There’s a moment of silence as it registers, then they all start chattering excitedly to each other in Chinese. Clearly, they can’t believe it either and are equally impressed. They see me—the only other person in the room—and point excitedly at the painting. I smile and nod with them, the excitement clear on my own face, I’m sure. They gather around me and we all stand there, in silence, gazing in wonder at this masterpiece.

I sniffle, trying to swallow the enormous lump in my throat. One of the men pats my shoulder and murmurs something comforting in Chinese, smiles at me and they go off into the next room, the bond broken, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.



Before we left, we stopped by the Gift Shop. I purchased a post card of that same portrait, not really knowing what I'd do with it when I got home. A few weeks later, The Husband surprised me: he had taken it to have framed. It now hangs in our living room, a constant reminder of a wonderful memory.

Itsy Bitsy Spider

I hate spiders.
They creep me out to no end.

They have far too many legs,
move way too fast,
and are just generally
ICK!

Even as I type this, I'm convulsing.

This is a picture I took this morning.
From my boss's window.
It's frickin' huge!
Needless to say, I don't go in his office too often.
Quite frankly, I'm pretty impressed with myself
that I was able to take the picture at all.


What amazes me most is that
we're on the 34th floor of an office tower.
As you can see, we overlook Lake Ontario.
There is a constant brisk breeze coming from the lake.
The web vibrates at an alarming rate.

My boss is not the only one with a 'guest'.
Just about every office window has one.
It's like some horrible arachnid department store.
Walk down the hallway,
glance in the offices,
and window shop for this season's spider.
Free purse with every purchase.

Window-washers come and wash the windows on a regular basis.
The spiders just come back.
It's eerie.

My boss was telling me that this spider is quite aggressive.
He recently pushed another spider off,
and took over his web.
Cuz I'm not going to have nightmares over that!
Visions of spiders taking over the world
are already flitting through my head.

However, it did remind me of this video clip.

Anyone who grew up in Canada
during the 60s and 70s,
will be quite familiar with the
Hinterterland Who's Who series.

Opening with distinctive flute music,
these short 60-second public service ads,
narrated by a deep-voiced man on Valium,
profiled Canadian wildlife.
Each episode ended with the same refrain:

"For more information on the
[insert type of animal here],
contact the
Canadian Wildlife Service,
in Ottawa."



I'm impressed with how realistic this clip seems,
compared to the original Hinterland series,
especially the opening sequence.
I think my fellow-Canadian followers will agree.
The narrator sounds the same and
it even has the crackly 60s film sound.

Despite my overwhelming fear,
I think this is hilarious.

Not to mention that I may pop a cap
into the next spider I meet.

Me Tarzan

We're upgrading our computer system at work.
You know what this means.
Even more crashes!
I'm so cynical.

I am usually one of the people who is chosen to be on the pilot program.
It's not because I'm adept at the computer.
I am, but that's not the reason.

It's because I give off an electrical vibe that makes computers go wonky.
Yes, 'wonky' is a technical term.
It's better than 'kablooey'.

I swear no matter where I go, no matter how new or old the computer is,
something will go wrong.
Murphy is continually channelling through me.

Needless to say, even in the class yesterday, my computer hung up.
We can put a man on the moon, but we can't get a computer to work.
Go figure.

This class held only six people, plus three programmers/trainers.
It was a lot of fun (I know, I'm such a geek!)
And I'm looking forward to using the new programs today.

While I was in the class, I received a text message from The Husband.
He was supposed to go fishing on Lake Ontario with some co-workers and friends,
but we've had some pretty incredible storms lately,
and he was sure it was going to be cancelled.

TH: Out on a 40' boat on Lake Ontario fishing. So what's gong on there with you?

Then a few minutes later ...

TH: I can see your building!
Me: Waving
TH: Armpits could use a shave

*sigh*
Nice.

He did make the first catch of the day:
A 15lb salmon.

But, as much as I love salmon, I don't think I want to eat fish from Lake Ontario.
I'll stick with Red Lobster, thank you very much.

Guest Blogging at C. Beth Blog

I am guest-blogging over at C. Beth Blog.
Now before you go rushing over there,
it is important to read this post.
I need to explain and apologize .

First ...

The explanation:

When C. Beth originally asked for guest bloggers,
ages ago,
I was still new at the whole blogging thing.
I had never read a guest post
and therefore didn't know what it was really all about.

I guessed
(somewhat correctly)
that it involved someone else
writing the post
for that person's blog.

What I didn't realize is that the guest blogger
(in today's case ... me)
is supposed to do the preamble.
I thought the host blogger did that.
I expected C. Beth to say,
in an Ed Sullivan sorta way ...

"And now, ladies and gentlemen,
today we have a reeeeely big shoooo!
Our next guest blogger,
all the way from Canada ...
Crazy Mo!"

Or something to that effect.

Which brings me to ...

The Apology:

In hindsight
(and I will be sure to do this next time)
I should have added a little bio
something like ...

Hi everyone!
I'm Crazy Mo.
And as the name would imply I'm a little nuts.
Not so bright either.
As my friends will attest to.

I'm honoured that C. Beth selected me
as a guest blogger.
She is one of the first bloggers I followed
and probably the sweetest one I know.

I find both this blog and her
One-Minute Writer blog
to be quite inspirational ...
not only her post,
but the comments from followers, as well.

So, without further ado,
I give you my Guest Blog,
aptly inspired by The One-Minute Writer:


So I apologize.

I should have been a little more aware
of Blogger Protocol.
Instead, I look like a pompous goof,
who assumes that everyone knows who I am.
In reality, only the voices in my head truly know me.
Please believe that the intro above
is what I would have written ...

... if I wasn't a ditz disguised as an idiot.

Full Moon Madness

I've been feeling uncomfortable in my own skin the last couple of days.
This has been happening quite frequently.
And with some consistency.
I really should have picked up on it.
But didn't.
Colour me blonde.

It's a full moon phase right now.

Not to mention that Devi pointed out
that it's yet another eclipse
of said full moon.
Which magnifies its effects.

No frickin' kidding!



Everyone is going bonkers lately.

This morning, GTB
—that's GO Train Buddy, for those of you playing along,
and he will henceforth be named as such—
was telling me about how his morning was going downhill.
Of course, being the compassionate friend that I am,
I laughed at him.

In hindsight, I should have known better.
That came back to bite me ... threefold.
Damn rule!

MY day was going fine until I got to work ...

The photocopier went haywire as I was rushing for a meeting.
The equipment I ordered for said meeting wasn't set up.
Then the projector in that boardroom wasn't working.
So we move everyone over to another boardroom.

And we have students starting on Monday.
There's this huge fiasco to remove boxes stored in their office.
They're not MY boxes,
but some dunderhead insists on ignoring that fact,
and keeps asking me to move them.
You want them moved ... YOU move them.
Knock yourself out, honey!

I'm surrounded by idiots.

If the moon doesn't begin waning soon,
heads are gonna roll!

Literally, yo.

Today's Message ...

... is brought to you by Lady Fairchilde




Now, when she first posted this,
Robi and I tried to figure out what she was trying to say.

I saw the u donkey and immediately figured
she was calling me an ass.
No question there.
Not a big surprise either.

But neither Robi nor I could figure out what the chef gr meant.
But knowing that Lady Fairchilde is a foodie,
and also knowing that she is our resident cupcake aficionado,
we assumed it meant Chef Girl
and she just didn't have enough letters.

Turns out, we weren't far off.

It seems that chef gr stands for Chef Gordon Ramsay
from Hell's Kitchen fame.

I don't watch that show very often.
Mostly because it pains me
to hear those poor sods get yelled at ...
they're trying so hard,
under a tremendous amount of pressure,
and he cusses at them!

Quite frankly, it reminds me too much of work.