Water words

It has been a busy November, just like most of my Novembers.

It’s the big changeover month where work transforms from a long-blown popsicle stand to a manic hive all abuzz with delightful and charming bees. It’s the month that I spend writing terrible novels.


The novel is going swimmingly, by the way. I seem to be keeping up with the required daily word contribution of just under 1700 words, getting ahead on the weekend, barely scraping by on Wednesday, and completely blowing it on Monday (thanks to my Danish classes) and Tuesday (because of dodgeball).

And here I am now. Sparkly and practically begging to ruin the trusty Bluetooth keyboard that’s been my buddy for at least five years now. The typing has been free of mishap so far, but I’m making no promises. If I drown my keyboard tonight, at least I’ll comfort myself knowing that we had a good run.

Hey, USA, good job picking a president. I can’t imagine what more could possibly be said about that. I’m sure the rest of the Information Superhighway has no comment.

All of these words are not counting as part of my novel. I’ll bet I can sort that out before the water gets cold.



I’ve got a yucky confession. I don’t do Halloween. It’s taken years of forgetting, avoiding, and resisting coming up with a costume to realize that I’m a non-celebrator, and it’s certainly not something I’m proud of. I can’t deny it any longer, though.

I can barely dress myself on regular days. To come up with a costume, and a clever one at that, and to do it well is beyond what I can or will do. And because this is the season of parties with prerequisites, it means I stay home. Or maybe it means that I show up to parties where sexy kittens and sexy police officers and sexy Charlie Browns shriek “where’s your costume?!”, but when I know something like that is waiting for me, I mostly just leave ‘er hanging.

I don’t dislike Halloween, not even a bit! I’ve been oohing and aahing and giggling over Facebook all day. Good job, Facebook friends!

I’m just a Halloween spectator. I will cheer for your efforts, and I will never upstage you. Not today, at least.

Laziness aside, I may have my reasons. November starts with the letter M for a growing (ooh, see what I did there?) number of people, and my beloved Scott is one of them. Most Novembers, he participates in Movember while I tap away at Nanowrimo, and if all goes well he ends up with a moustache and a bucketload of donations for the cause, and I wind up with a 50,000 word novel that I vow never to show anyone.

This year, my beloved is stepping into my turf. Luckily, I don’t have the face-follicles to step into his. See, I don’t have time to be scraping off face-paint right now. I can’t spare a minute to comb out a silly wig, or return a rental. I have a novel to write!

I hate winter, but I secretly love November.


Winter is a jerk.

It’s barely even begun, and I’m ready to hibernate. Bears, you’ve got it good.

But I can’t complain either, even though I really, really want to.

I’m not one of those afflicted Vancouverites who suffers through the rain. I haven’t had to purchase a magical lightbox to get me through this part of the year. I like umbrellas, and I like using them, especially the plastic bubble umbrellas that fancy ladies (and I) prefer. When I can see the rain without having to physically endure the rain, it makes me feel like I’ve won. There’s no happier me than a me in a cozy little greenhouse in the midst of a downpour. Victory!

The rain is awesome, and the colder it gets, the fewer slimy buddies there are to avoid on the sidewalk. Oh, I look out for the snails. And the slugs, too, even though they don’t wear crunchy hats and are 97% less adorable. Nothing reaches out and slaps the smile off my Sunday like the inside-parts of one of those little dudes painted across a sidewalk square. Yuck and despair.

I won’t even begin to think about my feelings and how they’re incompatible with winter fashion. Mittens, I’m looking at you. Layers? BORING. If I’m covered in endless layers and I’m not in bed, someone lied to me. And to an extent, I’m lying to myself. I hate being cold. I hate water falling on my head. But I choose to live in Vancouver, and to live in a rainy city is to live under an endless blanket of droplets. So, fine then. I will zip up my ridiculous puffy white marshmallow coat, and I’ll open up my bubble umbrella, and I’ll force a grin until the sun comes out again.


Maxopotamus from every possible angle

I spent most Wednesday mornings hanging out with our cat. Since he spends the other weekday mornings making his hurt-feelings face and Marge Simpson sounds because I’m busy getting ready for work, Wednesday is the day that I try to make that up to him. It’s also the day that I use to get as many housewifey chores out of the way as possible. Housewife Wednesdays are my favourite day of the week.

The mornings always start slowly, full of optimism. Sometimes those long mornings stretch into the afternoon, and then Scott gets home from work and it all goes downhill from there. I’m not saying today won’t go like that (anything’s possible!), but I know I got a ridiculously huge task out of the way: I finally put more pictures of Max on Flickr.

I used to take pictures of everything. EVERYTHING. Mostly Scott. But also everything. That habit waned a bit, and now I only take pictures of cats, bands, and food, just like a good Internet Person, but I’ve still got this backlog of various pictures that I want to put up, but never get around to organizing. I’ve still got a few happenings from this year and last (and anything before that can suck it), but the cat pictures were the most colossal and daunting of computer-related janitorials.

Behold! The early pictures of him melt my widdle heart because he’s become such a grand fluffy beast since then. I’m going to go find him and give him a little kiss on the top of his head. And then I’m going to do some dishes.



They’re playing my song

I’m just going to say it, even if it sounds like bragging: I have amazing friends. And they do amazing things, and I’m the lucky one who gets to tag along. I’m always humbled by their company. A good a-humbling is an important part of a balanced personality, and weekends like the one I’ve just had remind me of how lucky I am to be surrounded by such people.

I did my silly dancing to my favourite band, The Orchid Highway. And I did my completely non-silly swooning along to my favourite song of theirs, which was penned on the very patio I now call (part of) home. What’s more romantic than a serenade?

Nothing. Except, possibly, carrying guitars up six flights of stairs at around 3 in the morning and then sleeping in super-late the next morning no matter how much the cat wants you to wake up.

I also rode bikes with my favourite boy (who is not a cat), and I visited with birthday people and their amazing birthday keg, and I bellowed the word BORING more times than I could keep track of. I could easily recount how BORING became a thing, and it would probably ease a lot of Facebook-comment confusion and bruised feelings, but I shall not. I don’t ask you about your in-jokes. I may ask you about your out-jokes, though, so have them ready.

It’s been a bit of a slow burn in some aspects, but 2012 has been a stellar year so far, and since we’re more than halfway through it I’m bound to get to 2013 with at least a C+, even if everything tanks the moment I hit “Publish” (behold! the power of blogging!). As long as weekends like these keep coming, I won’t even look at the proverbial report card.

This bodes well.