True Love

Yesterday I went to the convenience store for some ice. I came back with more than just ice, but that's why I took $10 with me instead of $5. I knew I was going to think something else was also a good idea. So I unloaded my goods at home and heard a *gasp* from the kitchen.
Kris: You bought me Laffy Taffy??
Me: Yeah
Kris: I love you.
When "they" say the way to a mans heart is through his stomach, it's true. Or it's through his craving for something chewy. But I think the way to Kris' heart may also be paved with bacon grease. I've asked him what he wants for dinner and have gotten "bacon" as a response. Who am I to think that maybe he wanted bacon sandwiches, or bacon in a pasta sauce, or on a salad. Nah, just bacon will do.
So I've learned to make bacon my friend, and what a delicious friend it has turned out to be. If I can't or don't want to, think of anything for dinner, trusty bacon is always in the fridge. I usually imply BLT's for dinner, by laying out tomatoes and cucumbers or lettuce with bread, but sometimes it turns into just bacon for dinner. I'm ok with that, it's something I've come to terms with. You'll be surprised the memories you can erase with a long walk and half a cucumber.
Salty and crispy is the only way to enjoy our smoked pork friend. If you're going to eat bacon, you might as well go full salt, full pork. Turkey bacon can't be trusted, it doesn't even change in shape or size when you cook it. Granted, there's a bit of a mental roadblock near the end of frying up a pack, as you watch the last strips swim in the inch of grease left behind by previous victims. But you know in your heart, there's no other way to cook it. Microwaving sucks its soul and baking it makes your oven messy.
So embrace bacon my friends. Embrace bacon. Just wear a shirt you don't really like, because bacon grease can stain.



check this system out! from right to left, a perfectly coordinated station.





my consistency in crispness is shocking I know,
it took me a few months to perfect my craft.



Missed Calling

I think I may have missed my calling in life. Had my Grade 7 Art teacher seen the creative genius behind the "Smoking Kills" clay ash tray I crafted, perhaps I'd be dictating my blog posts to my assistant, or at least using a computer that doesn't freeze every 4 minutes.
Looking back, I'd like to congratulate Grade 7 Dorothy, because making an ash tray with the words "Smoking Kills" written in red glaze and giving it to loved ones who smoked, was a bold move. Is it a loving piece of handiwork? Or a stiff message from someone decades younger that knows better? Either way, I thought I was pretty clever at the time.
The following is proof that I am a sculpting mastermind. Sydney has yet to suggest something that I cannot sculpt with precision, accuracy and the artistic passion that only comes from moulding Play Doh dotted with bread crumbs and tiny bits of paper.




an oyster mushroom






a thoroughbred



Don't. Make. Eye Contact.

People often share awkward and embarrassing moments, in an attempt to make others feel better about the time they plugged the toilet at their in laws house or asked someone when they were due, when in fact, all they were due for, was a few less bags of chips.
Agreed, dropping a feminine pad the size of a toddlers diaper, in front of your high school boyfriend is embarrassing. But I believe I may have found the situation in life that  leaves me the most uncomfortable.
Making eye contact with someone through the crack in the door of the public bathroom stalls.
Nothing is worse than when employing the quad shattering squat method (say that five times fast) in a public loo and you look up to catch a strangers eye through the crack in your door. It just feels odd.

Other situations that me uneasy:
1.) Waking up the sleeping stranger beside you in the airplane so you can use the bathroom.
2.) Going in for the hug with a partial friend or semi-acquaintance and when you're 85% there, you realise that the hug recipient is going for the handshake instead.
But when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. The next time you catch someone eyeing you through the crack, cross your eyes, scrunch up your face and yell "I'M GONNA NEED BACK UP!" Maybe they won't be there when you get out. Or maybe they will. That would be awkward.



whatcha dooooin'



Being at home is HARDCORE

Being at home is super hardcore. Yesterday I was cutting beets for dinner and the knife slipped. Instead of chopping the beet, the knife went right into my finger. One of my favorite ones too! (Relax, it's my wedding ring finger, I like my ring and I don't think it would look as good on a stub.) With beet juice flying, I thought I had maimed myself for sure. I kept calm, and found out that in fact, all I had done, was scratch my massively chipped nail polish and my nail a tiny bit. Phew. But for a second there, I was pretty sure I needed a baggy of ice to hold the finger and someone to drive me to the hospital.
Sydney also pointed at a picture of a majestic bald eagle and said "ooo, pretty chicken!". If any Americans have spy cameras on our house, that would have been the time to break down the door and haul us out into a creepy white van with no windows.
It was a good day! I didn't lose my finger, and I don't have people spying on me! (That I know of...)

Handy Dorothy

Some might say that I pick up and drop hobbies like it's going out of style. They would be right.
I have a tennis racquet hanging in the basement that I've used once. In my defense, I haven't picked it up again due to a rather hard and well aimed serve from my husband, who decided it was time to "try a real rally", within my first 30 minutes of playing tennis ever. I felt like I was being attacked by the ball.
I also once sewed a dress for my daughter while away on vacation in Winnipeg. Yeah, that's not a sentence you hear a lot...Upon returning home, I cleared out the fabric section in Value Village, deeming it all "cute" and "workable". I'll sew more, I just need a sewing machine. I promise, I will.
I went on a girly hair clip making rampage last Christmas season. I surgically replaced my right hand with a hot glue gun and watched every episode of every show on mtv.ca, and every episode of Heartland. But I think the garbage of MTV equalled out the wholesomeness of CBC, and now I'm not further ahead. Needless to say, Sydney has an array of clips for every occasion, and all my nieces are also sporting my goods.
So here's the latest: woodworking! This hobby has been a little less consuming, because when I want to build something, I have to go out, cut down trees by hand, cut wood into pieces, drill holes, find where we hide the sandpaper, find where we hide the paint brushes... So on the days I get lost on Ana-white.com, I just add to my growing "build this" list and then ambush my husband with it when he gets home.
Ambush me with hard tennis serves, I'll ambush you with cut lists. Wa-BAM!



Built with my own four hands (mine and Kris').
Now Sydney can holler out her bedroom window
at squirrels and cats in the backyard.