Jesus was in my mom group.

One of the greatest joys of 2017 was the mom group I joined.

I was added to the Facebook group in the fall of 2016 while I was still pregnant with Molly by a casual friend from church. Molly was due in February and the group was for mothers in the city due in March or April. I was due in February, but the group was small and in its early stages then, so they pushed the date back to include February. 

The group wasn't super active in the early days, or maybe I just wasn't very attentive to it. This was my second pregnancy and I had a decent grasp on what was going on. The group tried to get together once or twice in late 2016, but I wasn't very interested. Some of the parents had other children, but most of them were a bit older than Parker and our weekends were kind of our family time anyway. I commented on the page once in a while, but most of the people were total strangers to me, and I had enough going on at home to not really feel the need to get involved.

By the time Molly was born in January, making her the old lady of the group, I was committed enough to the group to not feel the need to leave and find a local January group. The next baby was born  in February, then the momentum grew and, by the end of April, there were over 50 us in the group. 

Once the baby boom was well underway the play dates started. When you have a newborn, a playdate is an excuse for a mom to get together with other moms. Playing is optional, particularly because newborns are glorified paper weights, and it's more about the desperate need for social interaction. Moms with other kids would bring them and they'd play while the moms and babies sat around and visited. 

When Parker was a baby we went to a weekly group at the Y. It was lovely, a huge sanity saver, and how I met other moms. It wasn't something I could attend with toddler Parker and baby Molly, though. Enter the mom group.

My maternity leaves were so different from each other. With Parker, I loved the downtime we had, and how easy it was to stay home and do our own thing. I loved our weekly visit to the Y, but didn't feel the need to do much more. With Molly, I needed to do far more to fill the time because it wasn't just me and a sweet little newborn anymore. I had a toddler to entertain as well. Parker's not a high needs kid, but being home with toddler Parker all day was very different than being home with baby Parker.

I hosted my first play date in April. I've always enjoyed hosting, and I found it so much easier to stay home with the kids than take them to someone else's house, a community centre or a park. Parks in Regina in April weren't exactly the nicest places to go anyway. 

I took the plunge and invited the group of (mostly) strangers to my house to come hang out. Many of the moms had not met each other in person before, and only one of them actually knew me. My living room was covered in bucket seats, moms, and babies. I loved it.

I love hosting. It can be draining depending on the occasion, but hosting those moms and their kids in my home felt like my calling. Whereas I had spent my year with Parker selfishly hoarding my time to myself, I suddenly loved having my mornings with those women. 

It started off slow, because I didn't want to make it weird. I hated getting my kids out of the house, so I assumed other people would, too. I later learned I'm a bit of an anomaly. It was so much easier to make sure the Keurig was on and put muffins in the oven than to wrestle my kids in clothes and car seats. Eventually it picked up speed and, instead of waiting for someone to suggest a play date and waiting to offer to host if no one else did, I just started making invitations to the group and whoever showed up was welcome.

Our group was amazing. I sometimes had people over once or twice a week. Sometimes someone else would host. Regardless the location, I saw them almost every week. There were around 20 active members in the group that I met at various play dates around the city. 

I have always felt incredibly insecure about myself. Growing up, I never thought people liked me. I struggled with bitterness for years. So many years. It wasn't until Molly was a baby that that bitterness finally started to seep away and my tendency to be judgemental started to wane. I started actively loving people and accepting them for who they were. 

We were a mixed group, coming from all sorts of different backgrounds, but being around that group changed how I approached the world.

There is no room for judgement in a group like that. Everyone was so different but fighting for the same goal (keep the little children alive and well) that it was hard not to feel united. I'm not saying I haven't struggled to come to terms with some of my friends' choices, but I could love them through it. Instead of feeling the need to snark about them behind their backs I chose not to. I let it slide. I focused on loving them instead.

If this is making me sound holier than thou, bear with me. I didn't always succeed. Sometimes, but surprisingly infrequently with my judgy track record, I did think nasty things. But more often that not I tried to just love them where they were at and be honest. 

I didn't have the great time with that group of moms because of myself. That was Jesus. 100%. 

There is no way that I, as an anxious train wreck of a person with two kids that weren't the picnic I'd been hoping for, could have hosted such a successful run of play dates without Jesus. He was 100% there for it all. I have no doubt in my mind.

He ran the Keurig. He baked the muffins. He sat on the floor and wiped the collective spit up of half a dozen babies off the carpet. He made sure there was no room for judgement and shame and insecurity and He wrapped those play dates up in so much love.

People seemed to genuinely enjoy coming to my house. They'd not so subtly suggest that I should host again. I couldn't believe it.

I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that those play dates were my job while I was home with my kids. It didn't feel like work. It was so easy it almost felt selfish. No one cared that my floors weren't clean or that I'd just wiped the bathroom counter off with a baby wipe right before they came over. They were there for the friends and community and muffins.

Our house wasn't huge, but it was the perfect size for those play dates. Some days there were 23 people including moms and kids in my living room or basement. It was cozy.

All my insecurities were thrown against the wall when we announced that we were moving back to Victoria. I couldn't believe the love that flowed out from people that had been total strangers nine months earlier. When we moved from Victoria to Regina, leaving lifelong friends, I didn't feel the amount of love I did leaving that mom group. I hadn't realized how much people valued those play dates, either.

Something happens when Jesus gets involved and takes the reins. I didn't used to feel likeable, but suddenly I was. I had helped cultivate something special without even meaning to. I took that awkward step out there of inviting strangers into my home, and in the process met some very dear friends, grew up (finally), and Jesus took over the rest. And it was surprising and it was good.

Mom thoughts.

I recently had a moment of clarity that was almost like a punch in the gut. Molly is the sweetest little thing, but she hasn't been the easiest baby. I've been beating myself up with all the things she doesn't do that Parker did at her age, mostly regarding sleep. If you didn't already know this, parents with infants obsess over their sleep like some people obsess over sports stats. With Parker we hibernated for the first year of his life and it was most beautiful of times. We did very little and practically all he did was nap in his crib while I kept a tidy house and did puzzles. It was freaking magical.

Molly just isn't Parker. She's more difficult. She's delicate. The nurse and doctor both bantered around the word colic, but I don't think it's fair to parents of colicky children to apply it to Molly. The thing is, once I really truly realized that she isn't as easy a baby as her brother through no fault or shortcoming of my own it was like a big old burden came off my shoulders. Mom guilt is so real, and we are our own worst critics. Usually.

Right now I'm focusing on baby steps with her and it's doing wonders for my sanity. Those first 2 1/2 - 3 months as a mom of two were the absolute hardest. Now, I'm just focused on what we are getting done. Molly goes to bed around the same time as Parker. Yes. Thank you, Jesus. She's starting to put herself down to sleep while she's swaddled. Hallelujah. She's not co-sleeping as much. Glory be to God. She is only napping for 45 minute stretches at a time. Well, you can't win them all. Baby steps. I figure that by the time she's 7 months old we'll have her on a spotty morning nap (second child problems) and a killer afternoon one like her brother. And that's really all you can hope for. At least we'll always have bedtime.

But enough about my daughter's sleep, let's talk about my jeans. There's this beautiful time right after you give birth where you feel like a sexy, slim beast. Your body is amazing, it just ejected a homegrown human, and DANG where did your jumbo belly go? That lasts a couple weeks, then you feel fat and milky and overtired and like you'd like to burn every reflective surface you see because your body is disgusting. Then that goes away, too, and eventually you just accept the fact that you need to do some work to fit your pants and that the body you once had is nothing more than a memory. For me that happened right around the time my belly band started to wear out. I tried and, magically, succeeded in buttoning up my pants. It was a big, fist-pumping moment for me. Then I ate something and they didn't fit anymore.

My weight has always fluctuated, but I'm currently in that stage of life where if I eat just a little too much junk my pants are too uncomfortable to do up. I'm really looking forward to the elastic waist shorts days of summer, but until then I'm in this weird limbo of wanting to do my pants up and wanting to eat cookies. I'm really glad my kids are too young to see this side of me. I don't want them to ever worry about their bodies, as long as they're healthy, and I certainly don't want them to complain about their or another woman's thighs. But right now,  their mommy just needs to lay off the doughnuts and she's got clothes to fit into.

While Parker and I enjoyed our time together when he was little, he now needs to socialize far more often. The weather still isn't fabulous and I'm not really interested in braving it with a newborn but Parker needs more stimulation than just me to facilitate epic naps. Last week we had four play dates, and tomorrow morning I'm having five moms and their kids over. I know one of them, but the other four moms are complete unknowns.

You know you've been momming for a while when you start just accepting a certain level of messy for having strangers over. Sure, I tidied and swept the floor, but I didn't do a real clean. I reserve that for visiting family members I need to impress. If everyone wears socks they might not even notice. I will, however, make muffins and coffee. That's all moms really need anyway. And hugs.

Speaking of affection, Parker has re-entered a sweet stage. When he hurts himself he instinctively knows that kisses make it better. I have no idea where he figured that out, but one day he just started asking. I am more than happy to provide as many as he'd like. It's pretty stinking cute. He also puts himself in a time out when I tell him to. It makes me want to laugh and cry all at once.

Oh, motherhood. It wrecks you and builds you back up all the time.

The highs and lows of 2016.

I read something online the other day where someone said that they get together with their close friends at the end of the year and share their high and low points of the past 12 months. I thought that was brilliant. I've always loved going around the room and hearing everyone's high points of the year, but I like the idea of sharing the low moments, too. It's good to look back on where we've been in the year and see how far we've come or, maybe, still have to go.

I know a lot of people that have had big struggles in 2016 whether it's health, professional, or personal. Breakups and health scares and job drama have all been big players in the lives of many of our friends this past year.

Looking back, it seems like the high and low points of my year should be fairly straightforward. High point: getting pregnant again. Low point: losing my job. It's not all black and white, though.

Losing my job was hard. It really was. The funny thing is, before I knew that my job was gone, I was struggling with the prospect of returning to work. Having the choice to return to that hard job taken away from me was actually a blessing. It taught me something about my faith, and it reinforced for me that God's plan is so much bigger than ours. There is no part of me that wishes I still held that position, and I'm so grateful for the part time opportunity that was dropped right at my feet when I needed it the most. I applied for a dozen jobs and got only got one offer and it was the perfect offer. God was there, holding my hand the whole time.

I was searching for a different post today and came across one I wrote a few years ago on the cusp my 24th birthday. So many years later and it seems to echo so perfectly a lot of the same sentiments that I felt this year.

It's hard to put into words the high points of 2016. We spent a lot of time with my side of the family, and accidentally spurred a family reunion in Ontario when we visited. I hadn't seen my dad's siblings since I got married in 2010 and most of my cousins for almost 15 years. It was wonderful to discover that not only are were connected to these people through blood, but that I also really like them.

This was also the year that I ate some many vegan/dairy-free doughnuts that I almost got tired of them. 2015's word of the year was "baby" and 2016's is "doughnut." 2017's will probably be "thighs."

Getting pregnant again has, of course, been a huge highlight. Not that pregnancy is the most fun thing in the world, but I feel like I've been better at it this time around. I'm looking forward to welcoming our little girl in a month or so and have, for the most part, gotten over the nerves I initially had about it. Raising a boy and a girl is going to be a wild ride, I'm sure, but I'm ready. Bring on the headbands and frilly bums.

How do you round up your biggest moment of a year without feeling like you've left things out? Visiting friends, doing puzzles during Parker's naps, the anticipation of a new life in our home, sharing in the joy of friends' pregnancy announcements, months at home with Parker and now watching him grow into a little person with a fabulous personality, working on a women's ministry, discovering a dairy-free bakery, and finding a new hairdresser all made up the high points of 2016 (some more so than others). It's been a wild ride of a year, but was ultimately so good to us.

I know that 2017 is going to be its own beast. We'll be growing our family and I won't be the only one wearing dresses anymore. I'll likely be off work for the entire year. Towards the end of the year we'll (hopefully) start making gradual plans for moving back to Victoria. I'll read a lot of books, paint a lot of things, and knit through my ever growing yarn stash. I'll also drink a lot of decaf coffee to make up for lost time.

Bring it, 2017.

New year, stay you.

I see a lot of "new year, new you" things floating around the internet and I just don't like them. Yes, January 1st is the easiest date on the calendar to make big life changes, but I don't understand why we need to completely overhaul our entire lives. There's nothing wrong with who you are. Okay, maybe there is, but you don't need to wait until January 1st to start working on it. I also don't think there's anything so wrong with you that you need to become a new person in the new year. That's just weird.

I think it's a good idea to try and make better life choices all the time. For instance, after Christmas and the holidays is the perfect time to start eating better. It shouldn't be that hard considering the overindulgence that happens this time of year. I haven't been hungry for almost a week. Love yourself, love your body, and please don't try and do a complete makeover of yourself because I still want to recognize you. By all means try bangs out, just don't shave your head, join a cult, and ask me to start calling you Moonbeam.

That said, I'm not usually big on New Year's resolutions but I have pretty extreme weight loss goals for 2017. I'm hoping in the next month or so to drop about 15 lbs in a day. It's a bit of an intense weight loss program, but I've done it before and had decent success. It's the kind of diet that gives you more curves and a more voluptuous bosom within days. Yes, it's childbirth and it knocks Beach Body out of the water. Take that, Shakeology.

Remember, to me, you are perfect. Spend five minutes with a baby and you'll remember what self love is. Don't go wrecking that person we all know and love. Maybe just stop chewing with your mouth open.

Lately. Again.

The other day we decided to go Costco. As we were heading out the door I took out all the extra stuff from my purse, like my lunch, book, scarf, etc. so that I wasn't carrying around a million extra things for not reason. Reasonable, right? When we got to Costco I realized that I'd done such a great job of taking all the heavy stuff out of my purse that I'd left my wallet, and that magic Costco card, on the kitchen table. Thank God I'm pregnant so I can totally blame the baby.

A year or so ago I became a real adult and got on the "clean the kitchen before bed" train. I feel like most people know to do this intuitively, but it freaking changed my life. Now my kitchen is always close to being clean! The dishes don't stack up, the dishwasher doesn't sit clean for days on end, and I can actually find things on our kitchen table. Never mind that I'm not stepping on the whole week's ration of floor Cheerios every morning. If I had to make a list of the one thing you need to do to change your life for the better (aside from meeting my friend Jesus) this would totally be it. Life. Changed. I can also flop onto the couch at 8 p.m. guilt free knowing that the mess is gone. Amahhhzing.

We had our last weekend of livable weather this weekend and I had plans. Oh, I had plans. Okay, we were just going to wash our windows, but it was a big thing. We don't wash our windows ever (we're animals), so I was curious how much more natural light we could actually get into our house. Then, oh, the reality of being a parent happened in the form of a tooth. Yep, always with the teething.

After just getting over his awful molars, Parker had another front tooth come in on Saturday and it was a real demon. No one slept. No one could leave the house. He ate a lot of pumpkin muffin comfort carbs and I ate a lot of ice cream when he was in bed. We make a good team.

Now that toothmagedon is over, Parker has an ear infection. It's like it never ends. Karl gets to miss a couple days of work because it could be potentially contagious (HOW?) so I guess they get to enjoy some impromptu male bonding.

Speaking of children, we found out a couple weeks ago that the little kickboxer in my womb is a girl. I've been thinking of her as a girl for over month for no reason and couldn't believe when the tech told us. I cried. Also, when has looking at a labia ever been such a happy event?

I'm going to be honest with you, part of me is terrified of having a girl. I was nervous about having a boy the first time around, but now that I know I'm going to have one of each I'm not really sure what to think. Having a boy meant I'd have to deal with boy things. Figuratively and literally. I've already got one, so how different would having another be? Aside from having to get a second job to feed them when they're teenagers, of course.

Having a girl, though, especially second, means that I'm going to have to go through girl and boy puberty at the same time. Puberty was traumatizing enough going through it once, but having to go through body changes and bra shopping and the hormones all over again gives me the cold sweats. It was hard enough the first time! I'm just praying for a couple of late bloomers so I can delay the inevitable.

In all truth, it's going to be amazing having a little girl and boy. My family is going to be so Hallmark ready, unibrows and all. I'm also so glad that those big decisions like deciding the sex of my children are out of my hands. Like I told my doctor, if someone had put a gun up to my head and told me to pick whether #2 was male or female I couldn't have done it. My little boy is going to be amazing, and so is my little girl. And, bonus, now there's no pressure to have a third! Glory, hallelujah. It's the little things. And the tiny polka dot frilly bottomed pants I bought yesterday.

Lessons in self-esteem from a baby.

My mom and I took Parker to the pool the other day and it made me second guess every single calorie I have ever put in my mouth during my entire life. I am also going to start a campaign to bring back the bathing costumes from the 1800s as soon as I get back from the gym.

As hard as it is to love the "mom bod" I realized that there's a lot I can learn from Parker when it comes to self image and how I see myself.

Thighs are a sign of prosperity. Parker has some of the most thunderous thighs you've ever seen and he gets a lot of love for them. I am so infatuated with them that I'd kind of like to stuff them and mount them on my wall.

You are gorgeous. You haven't understood self-love until you've seen my son find his reflection in something. It's like he's reuniting with his best friend after years of separation. There's giggles, high-fives, and full on making out. He likes what he sees and he doesn't care who knows it.

It's very hard to capture this love affair on camera because it's just so passionate.

Nothing can make you unattractive. Snot caked on your face? Diaper full of toxic waste? Food smeared from head to toe? It doesn't matter, everyone loves you and you know it.

Listen up, friends. To me, you are perfect. Now get out there and free those thighs, embrace that bed head, and go make out with yourself in the mirror. You are one mighty fine looking babe today and it's time to conquer the world.

Survey says: You're a bad mom.

The latest incredibly made up statistics are in and, as predicted, they're horrifying.

79% of children that undergo some form of sleep training have abandonment issues. Your child needs therapy because you let them cry it out in their crib one night when they just really, really wanted to stay up and scream at you because they were overtired. I hope you left room in your budget for this, because it looks like you gave them PTSD.

Mothers that drink while nursing are 61% happier than those that don't. If you can still hear the baby whining you probably need another margarita.

Children whose parents consume alcohol within 50 feet of them (awake or asleep) are 27% more likely to become raging alcoholics. Whereas the other 73% will just have run of the mill alcohol dependencies.

Breastfeeding mothers are 100% more likely than their formula feeding counterparts to complain about the return of their monthly cycle and the baby weight not "melting away" as quickly as promised. They will then compensate by eating lactation cookies.

Infants that co-sleep don't move out of their parents home until the average age of 32.4 years. But they do tend to sleep through the night at a younger age.

Babies that wear pajamas all day are 80% more likely to go to the grocery store in their sweatpants as an adult. Without make-up.

Those children given soothers are 41% more prone to obesity than those without something constantly in their mouth. They are also 12% more likely to take up smoking and intravenous drug use.

Cloth-diapered infants are 34% more likely to become vegans and use natural deodorants as adults. Studies show that there may also be a correlation with playing the acoustic guitar.

Mothers that return to work before their children are in school feel 25% more shame than those that stay home. Consequently, 80% of which comes from themselves.

84% of parents that read to their children from a young age can tell you exactly how Thomas feels about getting into his snowsuit. Noooooooo!

My co-workers are giving me a complex.

There’s university co-op student in my office. She makes me confused about my age. I know I’m not old. I’m young, I’m hip, I’m still a mid-twenty-something. She does weird things, though, that make me feel a lot more than five years older than her. She says things like “You’re not that old” that leave me shaking my head and wondering how old she thinks I really am. Chances are, we watched some of the same cartoons growing up and both liked Britney Spears.

 

She never used MSN for anything other than emojis in high school (whatever that means). We use the newer Office version of it, and I tried to explain to her that it’s just like MSN. I’m not sure how she can consider herself a well-rounded individual if she didn’t spend her formative junior high and high school years chatting with her youth group and school friends online after school and on weekends via instant messenger. How did she communicate then? Texting? Snapchatting (whatever that is)? Instagraming her lunch? Facebooking or MySpaceing?

 

She wore a romper to work in her first week here. And she pulled it off so well that for a nanosecond I thought that maybe I could wear a romper. Because she didn’t look like a child, she looked like someone who knows how to dress and can somehow make a bodysuit/romper look like office appropriate attire. And all the while I’m trying to make tank tops and sandals into work clothes because they don’t constrict the bloat.

 

Regina doesn’t have any official standalone Starbucks locations. This is important because neither the student nor I are actually from this city. We both come from places where Starbucks are like seagulls; yhey’re everywhere and always in eyesight. Here they’re only in certain grocery stores, Target (may it rest in peace), and there’s one at Chapters that’s considered the “real deal.” I used to work at Starbucks so I know that Chapters Starbucks locations are not the “real deal.” At least they never used to be and I’m carrying that bias with me because I’m a Starbucks purist/elitist. And there’s actually a coffee shop close to my work that makes better iced Americanos (it’s a big deal) than Starbucks and has amazing peanut butter cookies. But I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about the fact that Starbucks is hard to find here and a quality beverage from one of the poser locations in this city is even more rare.

 

So. Our co-op student saw that I had Starbucks after lunch one day and, being from the civilized Starbucks-are-like-seagulls world, got excited and asked where I found a Starbucks. She then jokingly commented about us “basic” people getting so excited about Starbucks. And I chuckled along because I’m young and hip and totally cool (minus the internal space heater currently bbqing me from the inside) except I totally didn’t get it. What does “basic” even mean to the university kids these days? I asked one of my other co-workers if she understood the lingo and she was just as stumped as me.

 

I’m deeply concerned that I’m now too old for the lingo. But at least I can interpret “fleek,” which I think is just the new basic generation’s version of “fetch” but don’t tell me if I’m wrong. I just want to be as fetch as possible.

Day seven.

I think it's funny when people talk about living a minimalist lifestyle and how they love living in small places with less things and are so much better than me. Okay, they don't actually say that last part, but they might after this. I love living in a place with stuff. I like the cozy look that comes from crowded bookshelves and walls. You heard me. I like it.

Our house is 2000 square feet (total) with four bedrooms and 2 1/2 bathrooms. And I like it. I like having the room for the baby, the bedroom for the office (grown-ups have offices), the guest room, and our own bedroom. I like it!

I hate cleaning three toilets, especially since I stopped being able to find my favourite toilet cleaning tool and I am really not a poop person (but sure, we can talk about it if you want). I do, however, LOVE having multiple bathrooms. Karl and I use our en suite and the main bathroom at the same time all the time. It's what I like to call a marriage tension releaser. Our third bathroom is for guests when they stay and is in the basement so is perfect for when we watch TV. To be totally honest, we don't need that downstairs bathroom 90% of the time, but it's amazing for company. And commercial breaks.

I like that we have an upstairs living room and a basement with a TV in it. That's what civilized people have. Sometimes I feel like we have too much space because it certainly doesn't all get used all the time, but I know that it does get used. The extra basement space is awesome for kids to hang out in and we fully intend to make it the official play area of the house. You know, when our kid is big enough to play and not just hug my bladder.

People with minimalist style kitchens blow my mind. I had a tiny kitchen for years and it made me want to start knocking down walls, ripping out my hair, and throwing things. Sure, we got rid of our espresso machine when we moved and I'm thinking of getting rid of our toaster oven that we never, ever use, but that's about as downsizey as I want to go right now. I may not have used my waffle maker in a few years but I have room for it and I will use it again! Like this weekend, okay? Baby needs waffles. With coconut whipped cream, bananas, and strawberries. Or maybe raspberries. And a dusting of cocoa powder. What about some cinnamon sugar? I think I just drooled on the keyboard.

Sorry. I got lost in a food fantasy. Which would be hard to make reality in a teeny tiny kitchen, okay?

Oh, man. Waffles.

Now, I don't need a lot of space to feel like my life is worth living. We lived in roughly 600 square feet for almost four years, remember? But having lived in an itty bitty basement suite for almost four years really makes me appreciate what I have now. And that's room to lay on the floor unencumbered. And windows. And a deck. And a front and back yard and who even uses front yards if they have a back yard anyway?

I appreciate the notion of not having stuff stuff stuff everywhere and not finding our worth in stuff because, really, it's just stuff. And it's fleeting and meaningless and we can't take it with us. But I also appreciate having enough space for you when you visit, a kitchen with enough room to make waffles in, and enough bathrooms that if Karl and I get sick at the same time we're not going to risk our marriage over it. I also like that I'm at a stage in my life where I might even have too many bookshelves and am contemplating getting rid of some. I may not be a minimalist, but an empty bookshelf is just as sad as a puppy that thought it was going for a picnic. We don't need that much stuff or sadness in our lives.

I hope I'm not giving the wrong impression that we're super rich people and poop five-dollar bills (in our multiple bathrooms) because a lot of our stuff has been given to us, picked up used, or bought after great discussion and forethought. I'm also not a hoarder except for books. Hoarding would really interfere with my ability to lay on the floor.

All that to say, I applaud you minimalist people for doing your thing and living in your tiny houses with your tiny kitchens and only having enough bath towels as warm bodies in your house. You're great in your own way. But you're totally welcome to come over and use my excess of small appliances any time because I know you secretly want to.

It's the end of the world.

It snowed today. We don't get a lot of snow here, so when we do it's usually a snow apocalypse. We had 2-4 cm. Snow. Apocalypse. Last year we were really lucky and only got a very light dusting one night. This year we doubled that by 10 a.m.

Today at about 4:35 the power went out. I was excited because this meant that I'd get to go home early. A whole ten minutes early. I take what I can get.

My mom was coming to get me, so I had to wait outside for about 15 minutes. It was cold. The sun was just setting. 

My phone was dying so I only got this one picture, but this is downtown at rush hour. About ten minutes later it was too dark to take a photo. I wish I had. Chaos ensued.

It took Mom an absurd amount of time to come get me. Traffic was insane. My phone wasn't working properly and I could barely make a phone call. I'm going to chock that up to everyone losing their minds over the beginning of the end of the world. It was the perfect time for a zombie outbreak to start.

What if the power never came back on? The whole city was out. I'd called home, but the answering machine didn't kick in. I knew the power was out all over.

When Mom did show up, the drive home was insane. The power came on for about five minutes, then went out again. What should have taken no more than ten minutes took a half hour. 

People were losing their minds. Traffic was gridlocked, it was getting really dark. Pedestrians were trying to cross the streets, but loose four way stop etiquette didn't really leave any room for them. The roads were getting icy. I was so glad that I'd been picked up. Walking home would have been a nightmare, down pitch black, slippery streets.

Other drivers wouldn't let us in, almost rear-ending each other in an effort to keep their place in the slow moving lines. It was human nature at its finest.

We drove down a side street and passed a parked police van. A block later we came across a man laying in the road. He'd fallen off his scooter. There were a couple pedestrians there with the guy, but Mom stopped and put her fourways on to stop anyone behind us accidentally running him over. I jumped out of the car and ran down the street, waving my arms to try and flag down the cop. I must have looked like a crazy person, because the officer didn't notice me until I was right up next to his window. It was all good though, because he thanked me and put on his lights to go look after the fellow on the ground.

Power was starting to come on at this point, grid by grid behind us. By the time we got home it was like driving into a black cave, leaving civilisation behind us. We were only inside long enough for me to get my headlamp on before the power came on for good.

All this got me thinking, though, as to how we would survive in a crisis. Earthquake, zombie apocalypse, global power outage...  And I came to realize a few things:

First, Karl and I have enough toilet paper and paper towel to buy protection/barter for food.

Second, some people need to work on loving others enough to let them merge into traffic. I'm pretty sure you have to be a team player and work with others to survive some sort of global crisis.

And, third, not to toot my own horn, but I think my mom and I would do pretty well in a crisis. We'd make friends and gain a crew by helping people and flagging down cops. And if that failed we'd barter with bathroom paper products.

I've totally been doing my Couch to 5K training, though, so I think I could outrun a few of the selfish hoard. That or Karl could just fix us up some pretty tricked out cars so we'd make it. 

One last thing...

I always thought that living on an island would be a huge benefit when the end of the world came, but I'm starting to doubt that. I mean, zombies can live under water so they could totally make it over here eventually, and if everyone handles themselves like they did today I so do not want to be in a well populated area when it all hits the fan. There's nowhere for all the crazy people to disperse to.

You've found what you were looking for.

My blog is pretty big and popular. According to my reader stats, I'm HUGE in Russia. No big thing.

So, because my blog is so popular and internationally acclaimed, I now have meaningful stats. I mean, when you've been blogging for years like I have, you get successful and start popping up in Google searches. Like I said, no big thing.

The first time I saw that someone had found my blog by doing a search I was inwardly giddy. When I saw what search it was that led them to me, I was even more giddy: pointy object in my gum.

Winner. I would like my internet presence to be related to nasty, bloody trips to the dentist. But just wait, they get better.

"i'm not feeling well, running": Preach it, sister. Not sure about the punctuation there, but I'm sure we've all had times where we haven't felt well running. I know I have (clearly, I've blogged about in some way or another), but I think the important thing to take away from this search is that I basically have a running and fitness blog. When I'm done this post I plan on thinking hard about going to the gym.

"i'm scattered like a": Bag of marbles, is how that one ends. Story of my life, folks. I mean, if you've been a follower for a while you'll know what I'm talking about.

windy weather for ladies wearing dresses: Perv. Unless you're looking for advice on how to avoid that issue, in which case the answer is to wear a long coat and a slip. But, as I mentioned here, there's really no rescue aside from pants.

douglas street(person): While I highly doubt I was the intended subject of this search I'm flattered that anyone looking for Sir James Douglas would stop at my blog before hitting up Wikipedia. Or maybe they did and found me more entertaining. I never colonized anywhere and certainly don't have a street named after me, but maybe someday there will be an Anna Barbie Lane. I'm also alive, though, so I'm pretty sure my blog is way more entertaining than SJD's.

living in a basement: That's me! My biggest survival tip is to carry around a butterfly shaped fly swatter at all times. It's armour against any big uglies that might try to menace you. Kind of like the Canadian equivalent of a hand gun, except for different kinds of home intruders. It is also not going to save you against zombies, no matter how many taps you give.

me in eighties sweaters: I have no idea. I am a product of the eighties but I only say that to impress teenagers. I also wonder who searches themselves.

my cobbler wouldn't stretch my boots: My calves are fat, my boots are not, and they're now sitting in a box waiting for the internet to send me a buyer. My boots, not my calves. Maybe the person that searched this should join a support group with me where we only wear TOMS.

sounds that say "this is new and exciting": I could make a few sounds like that, if you wanted.

watching douglas street: Obviously you were typing me into your browser and it searched me instead, but I'm still flattered. You love me enough to type me in.

I should say that, as big as I am in Russia, I'm even bigger in the US and Canada. And that, my friends, is what it's all about. You, me, and pointy things in my gums. Thanks for being you.

Getting stabbed with a sharp point object.

This morning I had my first dentist appointment in a year. Since I got married they kind of forgot who I am so I keep having to call in to make appointments. I also hate going to the dentist so I tend to put that one off. Don't even mention the fact that it's really expensive. Thankfully I have benefits. Benefits that are covering me up to and including December 7th. I had to bite the dentist bullet (figuratively, because I'm sure that's really bad for your teeth) and go. I mean, I want to keep my teeth after all.

The dentist has never been fun, but once I hit adulthood it became seriously less fun. I'm not even talking about the fact that I now have to pay for it, or that it smells so bad, either. I'm talking about the fact that my appointments are twice as long and involve some sort of scraping with a sharp pointy object. For half an hour.

I don't have any cavities. I have never had a cavity and, Lord willing, never will. I'm also a lazy flosser. As in I do it sporadically and when I'm feeling the spirit move me. Or I have something stuck. Because I'm a lazy flosser I'm used to the dentist telling me a I have a little inflammation and bleeding from my gums. If you aren't used to that I'm not only impressed by your dental hygiene but a little disgusted. Because you're better than me. Apparently. Who has the time or motivation to floss every single day? I'm a busy, busy person, doing busy, busy things.

When you become an adult and they start doing the teeth scraping with a sharp pointy object guess what? You bleed a heck of a lot more. Fact: I take better care of my teeth than I did when I was younger. I'm aware that I have a couple potential cavities and that I want to maintain my 24 years of cavity free living. Besides, fillings for me aren't in the budget and I don't want them to ever be.

When the dentist informed me that I had some bleeding I wasn't surprised. When I saw my blood on her fingers and the sharp point object I wasn't surprised. I was a little horrified, but how could she not expect me to bleed from my uncalloused gums when she stabbed them with a sharp pointy object. It's not like my gums are out running around doing stuff to toughen them up. They're delicate! They can't withstand sharp pointy objects stabbing into them!

I'm sure she meant well, but I could feel the pain, the poking, the stabbing. I could see the extra suction  coming to clean up what I can only imagine was a blood pool in my mouth that would make CSIs cringe. Like I said, I could see my blood on her finger tips, what was coming off the sharp pointy object and being wiped on a piece of gauze. Let me tell you, it was disheartening.

Afterwards, I wanted to inform her that of course my gums are inflamed, you were just STABBING them. I didn't, though, because she's my new dentist and I like her more than the old one.

I was worried that I'd have to go home for an hour to let my mouth calm down from the inevitable swelling and blood gushing everywhere. The hygienist wiped my cheek before I left. Presumably because some of my own blood was there. I should have asked her to leave it and gone as a vampire to work.

When all was said and done I checked myself out for telltale signs that I'd been to the dentist and repeatedly stabbed with a sharp pointy object in the name of oral hygiene. Aside from a teeny bit of redness around my teeth, all was normal. No blood gushing, no awkwardly swollen gums.

(One time the gums between my two front teeth decided to swell up like a little ball. It was the most disgusting thing ever and felt so weird on my tongue. I spent my mouth closed a lot, that day. If that had happened I would have come in to work later. No one wants to see a swollen gum ball in my mouth, front and center. And my gums are always on display. I have a large mouth.)

All I can think is, my teeth are clean, they're cavity free, and I've been told to floss and mouth wash to save my teeth that are teetering on the edge of cavityfied and normal/happy. Yuck. Mouthwash is for old people.

I'm glad the dentist didn't notice that I was clenching my fists throughout the gum stabbing part of the check up. She might not have believed me that I was okay.

One last thing. What is up with people who try to talk to you while they're cleaning your teeth/stabbing you with sharp point objects? This is their job, they must know that it's impossible to talk while someone has two hands in your mouth. I always feel so bad for not filling my side of the conversation with anything but grunts. But... I don't want to make the dreaded dentist visit last any longer than absolutely necessary. And I'm pretty sure distraction is how most gum stabbings occur. Like 70%. The other 30% are just mean spiritedness. (Those are real facts, by the way. Look 'em up.)

Now I don't want to eat anything. My teeth are so clean! Except I'm hungry. Guess who wins the war between teeth and tummy? Tummy every time.

Douglas, I'll miss you.

Today was a classic example of all the crazy Douglas street has to offer.

As I'm doing my morning routine, a young woman, roughly my age, comes in with a little rolling suitcase in tow. She asks if she can have a seat. This is totally unprecedented but I say sure. We have a couch and a couple chairs out front so she sits down.

There's silence for a few moments and then I ask her if she's doing some travelling. She responds that, yes, she is and is actually from Ontario. She said she had to take a break from school so she was doing some travelling but had to go home now. She said she had been working. Actually, in retrospect, her story was a little confusing.

She stared out our window, doing some soul searching. She asked me if Denny's had food for ten dollars because she had that much to spare. I told her I was sure they did and that there's a coffee shop and grocery store around, too. She informed me she'd had M&Ms for breakfast.

It seemed like she was okay, just sad and lost. Like she was doing some serious soul searching.

What do you say to someone like that? I looked up train fares and bus fares for her (bus wins, always always). She informed me that she hates busing and wishes there was some sort of magic carpet or magic taxi that could take her there.

My comfort zone was stretched. I kept imagining my boss' reaction if he showed up and she was sitting there. Since she didn't look like she needed help, I was as friendly as someone as awkward and unsure of the situation as me could be.

After some silence she said, "It's all because of the number 4."

When I asked for clarification she informed me that threes and sevens were very important to her grandfather and dad and were always in their postal codes.

Eventually she thanked me and left. I wished her good luck. What else could I say?

Stay crazy, Douglas. Ontario Girl, I hope you find what you're looking for.

I don't want to depress you, but Thursday is nowhere near the weekend.

Wednesday nights Karl and I are doing Financial Peace University, led by another couple at our church. I'm sure I've mentioned it before, but I enjoy repeating myself so I'll do it again. We really value the time they're investing in our lives, the relationships we're building with them and their kids, and benefiting from their wisdom. Not to mention the fact that they're teaching us valuable financial life skills that are going to help us get farther in life and achieve our long- and short-term goals.

But that's not what this is about.

Wednesday nights are Financial Peace night, but they're also our late night. It's safe to assume that we aren't going to be home much before midnight every Wednesday. Usually we're home by 11:30. That's 7 hours before I need to take Furlo out in the morning. While I don't mind staying out past my preferred bed time of 11, by the time I'm crawling into bed I'm thanking the good Lord that tomorrow's Thursday and that means the next day is Friday.

In our tired, before bed haze last night, Karl and I began to ponder the great oddities of life. Why do we get so excited for Thursday when we still have two full days of work left? (At least the rest of the normal world and I do, Karl's got his weird rotating weekends thing going on.) Once you ask why Thursday's so special, and realize it really isn't, you have to wonder why on earth we get excited for Friday?

Reasonably speaking, Friday should be the worst day of the week for us. I know I especially have a hard time with it because it's day 6 of taking Furlo out before the sun is up. For the rest of the normal working world, it's the fifth out of five days of having to get up in the cold morning and go to work. Gross, right? Really, Friday morning should be the roughest and toughest morning of the week. Physically. I guess mentally an optimist would be okay, but their body would be cold, tired, and maybe even a little stuffed up.

And yet... We always look forward to Friday. It's probably the day you try the least and just clock watch. I know I do. I feel like I'm dying of boredom and can't stand another minute at my computer and in the office or I'll DIE, but when 5 pm hits, I'm practically dancing out to my car. No word of a lie. One more than one occasion I have had to remind myself that spontaneous hand clapping and awkward grinning are signs of insanity. So is bursting into song. Been there, done that.

Really, if anything, Monday should be the easiest of the work week because we're rested and have hopefully forgotten the week before's horrors of the work place. Or, in my case, have rested enough and spent a sufficient amount of time away from a computer screen and gross toilets that it's like a blank slate. Blank enough.

Saturday is really the day to look forward to. You get to sleep in, not go to work, then lather, rinse, repeat and do the exact same thing on Sunday.

So if you're American you can feel really good about yourself right now because you're not at work, you're doing some sort of pilgrim related activity. If you're Canadian, it's okay to think dark and hateful thoughts towards Thursday and Friday, those jumbo jerks.

Just so you know, it's almost Friday. We can get through this. 

Now go enter my giveaway if you haven't already. Your chances of winning are very high. 

Small giving.

A few weeks ago I went on a rant about giving and charity and handouts. Well, a week or so after I wrote that post I was downtown at a shoe store where a friend from my church works. It was a part of the epic boot quest of 2012 (or something) and I was just perusing my options and figured I'd say hello while I was at it. While there the very same deaf guy that had come into the office approached my friend and asked her for some money. The thing was, she knew him. He'd been coming in for a while and when she had the money, she'd loan him five or ten dollars. She said he always paid her back, too.

As it turns out, she didn't have anything on her to give him that day, but he eventually understood and left. That was it. She told me that the first time he asked she knew she was taking a chance, but figured it couldn't hurt.

It's funny how we can pass judgment, of varying degrees, on people and be totally and completely wrong. I'm not saying that what she did is what everyone should do, but the fact that she was willing to give to him says so much about her as a person. She doesn't care and she's not judging him. It adds a whole other layer to the question of whether we should give to people or not, doesn't it?

I still don't appreciate being asked for money in my place of work, or constantly asked for change by the man standing outside the grocery store, but it adds another layer to the problem. So today when I went to buy cream and the same guy that's been standing there for a year asked me if they were selling poppies inside, I bought him one. He didn't ask me to, and when I came out with it he was counting his change to get one himself.

I know it's not a big thing, but sometimes you have to give what you're comfortable with, whether it's a ten dollar loan or a one dollar poppy.

Tick tick tick.

Six and a half hours until the weekend.

Boo yeah.

Bullying and hypocrisy.

One thing that's been in the news a lot lately is the story of what cyber bullying can lead to. I don't know if you've heard the story of the girl who was cyber bullied and then took her own life as a result, but it's been a big thing in the news around here. A hacker group decided they would do the vigilante thing and look up the creep that wrecked that girl's life and make his information and address public.

That, to me, is the biggest contradiction ever.

There's been some speculation as to whether the hackers finger pointed at the right person or not, and a lot of people are talking about doing some vigilante justice on the guy. They're calling him scum, saying he deserves terrible things to happen to him, and suggesting that the public can do more than the police ever could. It sounds like they're about ready to lynch the guy. Why? Because he bullied this poor girl until she couldn't take it anymore.

How is it that people so against the cyber bullying actions of this one creep (just assuming for a second that he is, in fact, who those hackers say he is, which is still up in the air) can turn around and do the exact same thing? I'm not defending the actions done by online child predators or stalkers or bullies one bit, it's deplorable, but I think people need to take a step back and look at the situation.

When I was a kid I was bullied and it was the worst. Thing. Ever. I also turned around and picked on one or two other kids because I needed some sort of defense mechanism. I know that's bad, but it's the truth. Bullying begets bullying and we do not live in an anarchic world. Thankfully.

We are not living in the state of nature. If you haven't read Hobbes that might not make any sense, but one thing my political science degree ingrained in me is that we really don't want to live in a man against man world. Anarchy is chaos. It blows my mind that people think they have the right to go out there and attack someone else because the law can't do anything.

Honestly, I was shocked that people would suggest doing the exact same thing to this guy that he did to the girl. You know what Gandhi said about an eye for eye making the world blind. Sure, the judicial system can make some pretty questionable calls at times, but we have to trust that they're doing the job that needs to get done. You know what? If you don't like it you should probably move somewhere else or suck it up because you can't win them all. And be honest, would you like to live in a world of vigilante justice where someone can punish you for your dog pooping on their lawn? Didn't think so.

So I think it's beyond hypocritical that hackers and regular people think they have the right to both judge and punish someone that was a bully, even one so terrible. The hackers should have gone to the police with their information, not the internet. I trust that the police can handle situations like this. That's their job.

And honestly? People that threaten or do worse to this guy are no better than he is.

Woes of a chubby calf posseser.

I'm going to be totally honest with you, today I am mourning something utterly ridiculous.

I have chubby calves. This is a fact of life that I deal with the best I can. Really what it means is that I can't wear super skinny pants because my calves don't fit in them. It also means that I can't tuck my pants into my rain boots and that I can't, as a rule, wear tall boots. Looking at my calves you probably wouldn't peg them as particularly large, but they just come in size large. Not extra large, just large. This is my lot in life and I'm okay with it.

Because tall boots are very in vogue, and have been for the past couple years, I had a heck of time finding myself a nice pair of leather boots that not only fit me well and without a heel, but didn't have to compete for air space with my calves. Last fall I did. They were gorgeous, leather, black, a little slouchy, and within my under $100 price range. Factor in the tax and they were hovering just a little over. It was a match made in boot heaven.

I was so excited about my new, gorgeous boots that I may have gushed about them to everyone I knew. I did it! I found nice boots that fit my chubster legs! And they're nice enough to wear to work and with dresses. Ah, booted bliss.

Or so I thought.

The sole of my boots is underneath the boot part. Meaning it doesn't creep up the heel or back of the boot at all. This resulted in some wear on my right heel from driving. No big thing. It's a little inconvenient, but that just means I don't drive wearing my right boot. Easy peasy.

Well, yesterday I began to notice things falling apart. Literally. The wearing on the back of the right heel is getting more and more intense and there's a tiny hole. The left boot has a much smaller version of this wearing. I stuck my hand inside to feel what was going on and I was disappointed when I realized that the lining by my heel is pretty much worn right through. I used the left boot, which seems to be faring much better, for comparison. Yep, righty is starting to die.

I'm so disappointed! I'm even a little upset. I figure I probably need to take my boots down to the cobbler to see if anything can be done (I'm doubtful) to prolong their livelihood. It took my two years to find a nice pair of boots that I thought were going to last me at least two years themselves (at least!), but it turns out they only lasted one.

Sure I packed on the kilometers in them and made sure they got good use, but the wear is in the heel, not the sole. I don't baby my soles (I don't even know if that's possible) but I sure as heck baby my heels. Apparently for no reason whatsoever. Soft leather, apparently, does not do well over time.

The ironic thing is that my mom has a pair of boots from the same store that are roughly the same age as I am. They need insoles because the bottom is doing something weird, but I wear them all the time. Because they're so old they aren't the nicest looking, as in I'm not sure I would wear them to work, but they work great. The toes are a little worn so my feet get a bit damp when walking through wet grass and they could use a good polish (no thanks...), but aside from that they're great. They even have a half inch heel that makes me feel like a giant. When you don't wear heels, anything makes you feel like you're towering.

So woe is me. I need to start the epic boot hunt of 2010/2011 all over again. Luckily this time Karl agrees with me that it's probably worth it to put out a bit more money and get something that will actually last a few years. The irony being, of course, that I have a pair of sandals I spent $25 on three years ago that are still doing great. And yes, they are poor quality. Or that my $25 flats I bought from Aldo around the same time as my boots last year are still in perfect condition. Or, even, that my checkered wanna be Vans that I bought at the ripe old age of 15 are still, more or less, in functioning condition. And they cost me $5. Sure, I wouldn't wear them on a rainy day, but they got me where I needed to be countless times. I probably had six years of hole-free wearing on those bad boys.

Oh price, why don't you dictate quality?

Giving. Or not.

My office is next door to a former motel that now serves as housing for some of the rougher members of society. While it makes for some entertaining passersby, it's also led to some awkward encounters. It's not like I work in a bad part of town, because it's not that black and white. It's a busy road, the main one in and out of town, and gets a lot of different kinds of people. The mall in town with the most expensive stores is spitting distance from my desk. If you could spit half a block.

It's happened a few times now that the less than high class folk from next door have come in asking for money for bus fare or to use the phone. Honestly, it's awkward. Normally you don't think letting someone use the phone is a big deal, but I can't do my job if someone's tying up the phone line. I'm also not comfortable if the person using the phone is discussing how much money she made panhandling this afternoon and dropping f bomb after f bomb. It's not that I have delicate ears, I used to be a bartender after all, but it just flies in the face of good manners. You need to use my phone? Keep it short, keep it sweet, and then, please, get out.

I know that seems harsh, but at least I said please. Metaphorically speaking, that is. I'm too nice to kick anyone out.

When people come in with big sob stories about how they locked their keys in their car and just need bus fare to get to their wife's work it's hard. My boss is very firm that we are a business and can't give out money for things like that. The thing about sob stories is that they aren't usually true. And, a lot of the time, generosity leads to people coming back and wanting more. It's like donating to a charity. Do it once and you're on their mailing list for the rest of your life (not that that's such a bad thing).

Before I dig myself into a hole here, I want you to know that I am a huge believer in charitable giving. I love to give my money away. Sure, I don't give all that I could or should, and I definitely struggle with it sometimes, but deep down I know that my money is not my own and we are called to give. Giving is something that has always felt so right to me and I hope it always will be. Even if it's an inside battle to give versus keep.

A man came into the office yesterday around 4:30. He handed me a note and pointed to his ears. I skimmed it and got from it that he needed $6. It's always a toonie, a loonie, six dollars. Small, seemingly insignificant amounts. It drives me nuts.

This fellow claimed he was deaf and I'm not going to dispute that. He used his deafness as an excuse to play up the fact that it took him longer to read my body language. I'm sorry, but a head shake is a head shake and whether you're deaf or not you know what a no looks like. So he asked my boss, then insisted they shake hands even as my boss was pointing towards the door.

When someone comes into my place of work and asks for money it puts me in an awkward place. Whether I want to or not, I notice his clothes, I notice that he probably came from next door, and I know I have to say no. It doesn't matter how much I want or don't want to give that person bus fare, because I'm not the boss here and when the boss says no, they'll just keep coming back, I have to respect that and trust that he knows what he's talking about. And honestly? I don't want to give them the money, anyway.

When I give it's almost always to Compassion, World Vision, or Blood: Water Mission. Things that have nothing to do with where I live. I should probably reevaluate that. I don't give to Green Peace or animal shelters because I really believe that if I'm going to give I'm going to do it for people. People first. As much as I like trees and baby pugs I think that people are more important. A tree doesn't have a soul and need to hear about Jesus. True story.

I'm also not a big fan of straight up giving. Charity type giving. "Oh, you have no food? Here's a handout." That helps nothing but feeding someone for the moment. I absolutely believe that people have a right to food and, of course, if they need food then give it to them, but that's not how problems are solved. Don't go build a well in Africa and pat yourself on the back. If you want to build a well as a service, that's fantastic and I applaud you, but make sure you involve the locals in the process and do it with a humble heart and make darn sure you teach those locals how to maintain that well and use it properly. Because handouts don't help fix the long term problems.

So what am I getting at here? Well, I'm kind of ranting about people who put me in the uncomfortable position of refusing them things because they come in and demand them, usually with lies. I'm also sharing a bit about myself because one thing I really struggle with is judging people. My friends, my husband, myself, and strangers. It's not a good thing and it's something I need to work on. I have to force myself to think of people that come in, that aren't as clean as I am, with lives that are clearly tougher than my own, in a different light. Maybe their stories are true, maybe their problems aren't lies. Maybe they actually are going to use that money for the intended purpose. It's hard, though, because, let's be honest, a lot of them aren't.

I think I need to work on softening my heart towards people in my own city with needs and be much more reluctant to pass judgment on them. It's hard, as I'm sure you know, to feel any sympathy for the person that you've see scamming people everyday for the past year asking for ferry fare, always, everyday, just a dollar or two short from what he needs so he can head over and look for work.

Just some food for thought.

Decorate that mantle.

You know what blows my mind? People who actually decorate their houses for fall.

First of all, I pass no judgment on those people. Okay, I might judge them a little, but it's not what you think. I don't understand how people find the energy or motivation to make their homes autumnal. Honestly, I have a hard enough time keeping our place clean without the added pressures of adding a wreaths and candles and decorative leaves to our mantle. Our imaginary mantle. We have leaves, but they just blow in behind us and sit there until I get a chance to sweep them up.

For me, decorating our home after almost two and a half years has become a bit of a hobby. It's something I try to partake in when I'm not crazy busy and have a few free nights in a row. I mean, what could be more fun that colour coordinating your book shelves? The answer is nothing. If you want to know what's more fun than un-colour coordinating your bookshelves, though, then the answer might be everything. Because I still haven't done that.

I understand wanting to decorate your house for Christmas. That makes sense to me. Who wouldn't want a fake three foot tree covered in sparkly ornaments and lights sitting beside their table? The answer is no one, no one that loves joy.

So for those of you out there that seasonally decorate your homes, I salute you. I also think you're insane and invite you to come over and help me organize my bedroom.

On that note, since I know you've been wondering, operation "Don't Live in a Freaking Pig Sty" (working title) is doing very well. I'm actually hoping to finally unveil  to you sometime next week the humiliating before pictures of our dresser tops and the much more delightful after pictures. That is, of course, assuming this weekend isn't as busy as I think it will be and I actually get a chance to be productive, but I'm pretty sure artfully decorating Karl's dresser won't take more than an hour.

Until then, you'll find me "decorating for fall" by putting my sandals in the closet and pulling out my boots. Ta da!