Monday, 28 March 2011

I should learn to trust my instincts

Let me start off by saying that I do not ever watch - nor do I condone ever watching - Dancing With The Stars. 

This is one of the most repulsive, pathetic, embarrassing, tremendously upsetting shows of. all. time. 

However, I did somehow end up watching 10 minutes of it tonight. 

It was an accident.  I swear.  I got bored flipping channels and I'd already watched all my pre-recorded shows (Ellen, Big Bang). 

So I got stuck watching what I thought would be at least tolerable, if not mildly entertaining (in a I-have-low-expectations kind of way).   

Well, it started out badly, to say the least. 

The first guy should so NOT have been dancing (if you can even call it dancing).  Not only was he flailing and stomping around the stage like a drunk giraffe, but he was doing it with a hooker-looking girl wearing a black bra and red ruffly underwear with big hair and more red lipstick than should ever be concentrated in one place. 

*Uhhhg*  Gross. 
And then it got worse. 

Some cute young guy (dancing with yet another little blond thing) said he didn't know how to be "charming".  

No, I don't know his name. 
Romanticism, he said, was out of his realm of understanding because, quote: he was "born in the 90s, man."   

Born in the 90s?!  What the eff. 

It was at about this moment that I covered my face and lowered my head, wishing that I had known better than to watch this show in the first place.  Seriously. 

Hubby:  "That hits you hard, eh?"
Me:  "F-ck."
Hubby:  "When somebody you think might be around your age says they were born in the 90s, that sucks."
Me:  "Oh my god..."
Hubby:  "That means he has to be at least 6 years younger than us."
Me:  "He could have been born in 1999.  He could be 12 years old."

And that is why you should never succumb to your laziness and end up watching Dancing With The Stars. 

Apparently, Hubby's alternative television programme is a much better choice. 

The Jersey Shore. 


Not kidding. 

Someone save me. 


Sunday, 27 March 2011

Somebody get me a time machine

Sometimes you just want to live in the past. 

You might wish you were 10 years old again, when your only problem was your sixth grade love triangle

Or, you may wish you were living in an entirely different time altogether.  Maybe hang out in the 1920s with a flapper, sit in the local underground pub, down some hooch, and dance to the tunes of a gramophone.  That'd be the cat's meow. 

And if you grew up during the era of The Beatles, you'd probably wish you could go back to that time and bask in the glow of the yellow submarine.  And even if you didn't grow up during Beatle Mania, you might wish you had. 

What an amazing time.  What a revolution.  Musically, and socially.  [Imagine all the people, living life in peace.] 

And let's be honest, there were all those great drugs too.  [Toe jam football.]

Well, last night we had a blast from the past.  We went to see a Beatles tribute band - The Caverners - and it was effing brilliant.  [Ob La Di, Ob La Da]

These guys had the whole vibe perfected.  From Ringo's grin and Lennon's long hair, to Paul's voice and George's electric guitar.  If you closed your eyes, you'd think: "Hey!  It's The Beatles!"  and if you opened your eyes, you'd think: "Holy f-ck, god save me, Lennon's ALIVE!"

They were so good.  I can't even explain it.  These guys made me wish John, Paul, George, and Ringo would come back and kick that little Beiber shithead's ass. 

I've always loved The Beatles, but last night's show shot my admiration to new levels.  [Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns.]

It made me wish I'd been there, in February 1964 when Ed Sullivan brought these adorable young men to North America...

...and then in the following years when they influenced and inspired a generation.

I wish I was part of that generation. 

Even now, those songs inspire me.  Bring me joy and make me smile.  [Little darling, it's been a long cold and lonely winter.]

These songs speak to me. 

When I was younger, so much younger than today
I never needed anybody's help in any way
But now these days are gone, I'm not so self assured
Now I find I've changed my mind and opened up the doors
Help me if you can, I'm feeling down
And I do appreciate you being round
Help me, get my feet back on the ground
Won't you please, please help me, help me

And I wish I'd been there to experience it first hand - the giddiness, and hysterical crying fits, and the freedom - and wishing I knew what it was like to be of my mother's generation, sitting watching this tribute band 40 years later and really, truly knowing exactly what it was like

This was taken about 30 seconds before we burst into tears and rushed the stage. 
Just call me Penny Lane.

Wednesday, 23 March 2011

Ellen Degeneres, Bryan Adams, and a love triangle

When I was a kid, Bryan Adams was the god of the radio waves. 

He was everywhere.  And, even better, he was Canadian.  (Still is, I guess.)  And we were so damn proud of our little Bry-Bry.  He was topping the international charts and we were up here, cheering him on. 

I think my school even ran a campaign for the greatest Canadian of all time.  One of the teams picked Bryan.  I can't remember if he won.  I think the other candidates were Donovan Bailey (fastest man on earth), Wayne Gretski (The Great One), Terry Fox (athlete and hero), and Mike Myers (party time, excellent). 

Other notable Canadians, for your interest: Shania Twain; Celine Dion, Neil Young, Jim Carrey, Pam Anderson, and Avril Lavigne (who, btw, is pretty much from my hometown - not that I'm proud of that or anything, because that would be really sad).

ANYWAY, in the 90s, Bryan Adams was the shit.  Like, in a good way. 

Cuts Like a KNIFE! 

T'was the Summer of siiiiixxty niiine. 

Can't. Stop. This. Thing. We. Staaaaar-ted. 

Pleeeeeaaaase ForGIVE Me.   

And of course,  Everything I Dooo (hmm hmm) I Doooo It Foooor Yoooooouuu (hmm hmm). 

That was my favourite.  I wasn't even allowed to watch whatever sexy movie it won the grammy for, but I still loved it.  

I loved it for years, but I loved it the most when it was written out for me lyric-by-lyric, on a repeatedly folded sheet of paper, and dropped on my desk by my seventh grade boyfriend.

Yes, the same boyfriend who made up the third part the love triangle between him, me, and Hubby when we were 10 years old... the boyfriend who I finally went out with in grade seven after my desperate love for Hubby went unrequited through all of grade six.

And then, it all went downhill.  We grew apart.  I got sick of him and he sorta fell off the face of earth.  And he just wasn't cool anymore.  Yes, sadly, I lost my love for Bryan Adams.  A shame, but still true. 

I went through the following several years with very little respect for Mr. Adams.  I had a soft spot, sure, but I just wasn't riding the Brian Adams train anymore. 

Until today. 

Bryan was just awarded one of those road star thingies.  Cool, right?  And I saw him perform on Ellen, and I have finally, after all these years, reconnected with my love and respect for this artist, who, as it turns out, is actually really good.

Don't judge me.  See for yourself...


Bryan, if you're reading this, Hubby would like you to know that he has always had tremendous respect for you.  The fact that my seventh grade boyfriend wrote out the lyrics of your song is the only reason he didn't kick his ass into pulp.
Also, he really admires your guitar.  Like really.  He thinks you must be so rich and famous that you have a lot of guitars.  And you're so charitable and generous that maybe you sometimes donate them to aspiring rock stars.  That would be so cool of you. 


Tuesday, 22 March 2011

Bad Day

Sorry.  This is a departure from the regular pickle shit. 

I've just written this and I have not yet decided whether or not to post it. 

If you're reading it, I guess I clicked "publish". 

This is very hard for me, but having been inspired recently by the strength and courage of several of my fellow bloggers, here I am writing it.  And if nothing else, it's nice to let it out.  Even a little. 

If you know me in real life, maybe reserve your judgement.  I've got enough of that already, in my own head. 

I didn't write this, or post this, for you.  It's for me.   


Bad Day. 

Really Bad Day. 

Have you ever had one? 

A day in which you can barely bring yourself to get out of bed.  A day that feels like the culmination of weeks upon weeks of denial about some type of overall loss of emotional strength?  A day that snaps you into reality, highlighting that this isn't just being "bummed out" - that a day or two of sunny weather will not resolve this. 

A day in which nearly anything can make you cry.  The fact that you're running late (because you couldn't get out of bed).  Or the fact that it's snowing.  Again.  Or the fact that everything you've been working on for months upon months at work could just... dissolve

On the verge of tears throughout the day, and yet unable to let yourself feel because you're supposed to be a professional who can hold herself together under pressure and get results

And then you spend the day trying to self-diagnose on the internet. Which helps nothing. It either scares you into thinking you're worse than you are. Or shocks you into realizing this is worse than you thought. Or makes you feel like shit because your "symptoms" are nothing of what they could be - nothing of what others are experiencing. So why are you complaining?

And, in the worst case scenario, getting caught crying in front of colleagues.  And snapping at them.  And really just wanting to go home, except not, because that means you'd have to sit and wallow in your own self-pity. 

And even worse than that, losing your very delicate sense of cool at the end of the day and bawling to your manager about something being Wrong with you.  Something you can't identify.  And certainly can't fix.  And it's interfering with your work, with your life, and you don't know what to do.

And everyone telling you to go to your doctor.  And you will.  You've been meaning to.  But part of your brain tells you this isn't a big deal.  It'll get better.  There's no reason to be so upset.  This is "ridiculous".  How dare you?  People have Cancer.  People have died.  And other people are left to deal with the mess left behind.  You have a perfect little life.  Get a hold of yourself.  You're so pathetic. 

And you don't know which part of your brain is the logical part.  Or the self-defending/destructing part(s).  Going to the doctor seems logical.  But it also seems so unnecessary.  You are so strong.  How heartbreaking to have to admit that you can't overcome this by yourself.  That you are out of your own control.  For the first time.  Ever. 

And worst of all, there is no known reason.  No One Thing that is causing you to feel so... so... helpless.  Home is fine.  Work is fine.  And yet, you can't bear to be at home because you can't bear to actually do anything with yourself - except sitting around and being bored.  You want to.  Desperately.  You just can't.  And you can't bear to be at work either because you have to hold it all in and try to be productive and un-obvious - to put on a show - an act - that you are your normal cheerful self. 

And overall, you cannot stand to be alone

Such a Bad Day. 

A day that makes you embarrassed and ashamed (even though logic tells you that you ought not be either of those things) and, above all, tired.  Exhausted from battling yourself - pushing away your irrational negativity. 

And so damn fragile.  Broken.  Weak. 

Wanting nothing more than to just crawl under a blanket and weep...


Sunday, 20 March 2011

My intelligence is *limitless*

Hubby and I went to a movie with friends on Friday night.  There were a couple of film-viewing options. 

Option one: Limitless

I'd never heard of this movie, so, obviously, I had no interest in seeing it. 

It stars that guy who was in that movie with Scarlett Johansson.  You know the one.  He and Scarlett meet in a grocery store and have an affair.  I don't know the name of it, but he was really sexy.  Despite the fact that he was a cheating asshole.

Anyway, Limitless stars him - Sexy Guy.  Except with longer, curlier hair.  His character gets addicted to a drug that makes him exceptionally smart. 

I would have rather watched our second option: The Adjustment Bureau, with Matt Damon.  Because Matt Damon trumps everyone.  Except maybe Leo.  

So naturally, us girls wanted to see the Matt Damon flick.  But the boys wanted to see Sexy Guy (my name, not theirs) get all hopped up on the smart drug. 


Suckers!  We win!  Matt Damon, here we come. 

But then my gal-friend totally stabbed me in the back.  Somehow she talked me into being a good person (wtf?) so I bought tickets for the smart drug movie.  Just to surprise them, she said.  What a traitor!  At least Sexy Guy was in it... 

I guess it wasn't bad, but I gave up when Sexy Guy drank another drug addict's blood to get his fix.  Gross.  

In the end, I wish we'd seen that one with Jake Gyllenhaal instead.

"I think it's called Unstoppable" I said.
"Really? Isn't Unstoppable just like Speed... except on a train?"
"No, no. It's not the train that's unstoppable, it's fate that's unstoppable.  Jake repeatedly travels back in time to the same train accident to save his girlfriend."
"Oh, that sounds better.  Like Groundhog Day on a train."

But it turns out I was totally wrong.  As usual.

I guess I don't actually know the title of the Jake Gyllenhaal movie.  Someone told me I was confusing it with a Denzel Washington flick with the same premise - time travel to solve a train bombing. Unstoppable, I was told, is exactly like Speed.

But THEN I noticed that Unstoppable is listed on my Rogers Cable, and it stars Denzel.  Without Jake Gyllenhaal.

So NOW I'm really effing confused and you can't trust me with any basic movie knowledge whatsoever.


Turns out that the interwebs are pretty good at answering random questions. 

I just found this picture.  Sexy Guy is Bradley Cooper and he was in He's Just Not That Into You with Scarlett Johansson. 

And Source Code, with Jake Gyllenhaal, is, in fact, Groundhog Day on a train.

Unstoppable is with Denzel - and yes, it is basically Speed on a train.

There is another Denzel movie called Déja Vu, in which he time travels to find the bomber of a ferry - not a train. 

Hopefully you can follow this mess.  I think I'm still lost. 


Thursday, 17 March 2011

It's hard to admit

I don't really get St Patrick's Day.  It's beyond my realm of understanding.  So, I'm not going to blog about it.  (Besides, I think there was plenty of green in that last post - in the form of my 1986 bedroom carpet. Puke.) 

Instead, I've been thinking about Easter.  It's falls so late this year, which is a bummer since a late Eatser unnecessarily delays the arrival of Spring.  Easter always brings Spring sunshine, and Spring tulips, and Spring chickens bunnies

And you know what else it brings?

CHOCOLATE.  Ewy gewy, rich and chewy, milky, nutty, creamy, sugared, flavoured, coloured, yummy CHOCOLATE. 

And particularly with all the recent chatter about my mind-tempting bedroom wall, I just can't get chocolate off the brain.

Not that I want to.   

There's something about chocolate that is so fantastical.  It serves so many purposes. 

It can be fun, when encircling a little build-it-yourself toy.  It can be erotic, when dipped in strawberries and releasing all kinds of hottie tottie hormones.  It can be soothing when you're sad and it can even be a friend to talk to when you're lonely. (?)

However.  (Yes, there is a however.  Shocking, I know.) 

However... I have to agree with my blogger friend Elle that chocolate Easter bunnies are, in a word, ca-reep-y

Wow.  That hurts to say out loud.  I don't think you understand how painful that is to admit. 

Bunnies and chocolate should be a marvelous combination - one of the rare instances in which cute and delicious blend together to form one of the most pleasurable things known to humanity.  

But, sadly, Elle, I think you have a point.  You reminded me of a photo I took last year at Easter dinner with Hubby's family. 

It was a gorgeous weekend - I think about 20 degrees Celsius.  Which, for early April, is like a miraculous gift that you never EVER question for fear of getting evicited from rainbow land or falling off your unicorn. 

And yet, all these beautiful things - warmth, and chocolate, and bunnies - spelled disaster when combined.  Tragedy struck

And as much as I hate to admit that chocolate isn't perfect - that in the wrong mould with the wrong candy eyeballs, it can be quite disturbing, I have to come to terms with this:  


Yes, that is what you think it is.  Formerly two adorable kissing chocolate Easter bunnies reduced to the definitively saddest puddle of creepy I have ever friggin seen.

Shameful, but true.   


Monday, 14 March 2011

Pass the Oreos

Spur of the moment home improvements.  Love 'em. 

As an alternative to another Sunday jam-packed full of sitting, Hubby and I made a game-time decision to paint the master bedroom. 

It's one of those upgrades that we've wanted to do since we moved in - over two years ago. 

We've managed to paint nearly every other room in the entire house (sometimes more than once, including when the basement came out looking like an underground zombie dungeon). 

So we went out Saturday night to get the paint.  Painting began bright and early Sunday afternoon.

As much as I love doing home improvement projects with Hubby, I'm not sure we're cut out to work together.

It started with Hubby insisting that we nail and caulk all the crown moulding to eliminate the apparently very visible lines and cracks. 

This is me pretending to caulk the crown moulding.  Yes, those are my penguin pajama pants. 

This is Hubby actually caulking the crown moulding.  Notice the blue rubber gloves.  That's hot. 

It didn't end there though.

Hubby decided he needed to blow his nose.  So he made his way into my bathroom - blue rubber gloves included - and pulled some toilet paper off my roll.  

Me, shocked and appalled:  Ew!  No!  Now I'm going to put that on my hoo-hah!
Hubby, confused:  Put what on your hoo-hah?
Me, indignant:  That toilet paper you just touched with your gross rubber gloves!
Hubby, laughing:  They're a brand new pair.  
Me, insistent:  It doesn't matter!  I don't want that rubber on my hoo-hah.  
Hubby, with a clever grin:  It's just latex.  You've never had latex on there?
Me, defeated:  ...
Hubby, laughing:  That's the quote of the day.  

So, then we rearranged the furniture.

Patches lovin the upside-down box spring - aka, fat cat hammock.  And Tuxedo, contemplating the possibility of joining her.
Hubby, taking charge:  We have to move all the stuff into the middle of the room.
Me, apathetic:  Nah.
Hubby, insistent:  Yes!  We do.  I refuse to paint around stuff.
Me, dismissive:  Don't be silly.  It's fine where it is.
Hubby, losing patience:  No!
Me, with no patience whatsoever:  Fine.  Move it yourself then.
Me, later in the day, trying to paint the wall behind a dresser: This dresser is is my way.  We should move it.

But aside from these few little run-ins, we managed ok.

Oh, well, until the paint wouldn't dry quickly enough and a mutual hissy fit ensued. 

But we're happy with how the room turned out, despite ourselves.

Cream on three walls and dark brown on the other.  Like Oreos.  Yum.

Saturday, 12 March 2011

Television is *delicious*

So it's Saturday morning and all I want to do is just sit in my pajamas and watch tv. 

It's so annoying when there's nothing good on, aside from, say, Hannah Montana, or Flip This House, or Let's Get Religious.

Alright.  Channel surfing.  Channel surfing... nothing. 

Time for the guide.  Next... next... Hmmm, what's this?

The Fireplace Channel. 

So stupid, and yet kinda calming.  It's nice.  But I have my own wood fireplace RIGHT NEXT TO THE TV.  So, kinda boring.  (And yes, those are Hubby's dirtly little stumps in the bottom right-hand corner of the frame.)

Ok, back to the guide. 

Oh, what's this little gem?  Next in line, right after The Fireplace Channel?  Fishies!

Well, that's kinda cool too, isn't it?  But it kinda triggers some bad memories.  Memories of when Hubby insisted on keeping his giant 40 gallon salt water fish tank in our miniature basement apartment.  I wouldn't call his as nice as this one.  It was less corraly and fishy, and more watery and smelly

Alright.  Moving on. 

Oh, what's this?  Another one?  Sunsets?  How nice!  I love sunsets!

Ok, so, this is one of those great ideas that doesn't really translate.  There's something about a sunset that should be majestic and all-encompassing, and, ya know, susceptible to the passage of time


Oh my.  I never thought it would come to this.  I never thought we would reduce ourselves to this level.  I should have known better. 

Wow.  The Rotisserie Channel.  I don't know what else to say, except WOW. 

And yet, I can't bring myself to change the channel.  It's so relaxing, and peaceful, and deliriously hypnotic... mmmmmmm....


Wednesday, 9 March 2011

At least cough up a bunny

Spring forward, Fall back. 


The Spring springs us forward into a new year, a new mood, a new series of longer, sunnier days.  The Fall, on the other hand, sends us falling a slow death spiral into the abyss of Winter... Winter in Canada.

And yet, have you ever heard of something more effing backwards in your life?
I haven't. 

Spring is supposed to be a happy time.  A joyous time.  A time for blooming flowers, and chirping birds, and bunny rabbits. 

Forget the fact that Mother Effing Nature doesn't follow the goddam RULES -  that it is still effing SNOWING out.  That centimetre upon centimetre of that fluffy icy white shit is piling onto Ontario as we speak.  That there is more salt on the sidewalks right now - on March effing 9th - than ever.  And that if I ever do see the light of Spring again (and don't think I wouldn't settle for a simple mud puddle at this point), I'll go into such a state of shock that you'll have to peel me off the floor following my Southern-belle-style fainting fit.   

But what about the fact that "The Powers That Be" make me give up an hour of sleep.  Sleep!  They just take it.  Steal it from me and my family.  Assault my tender sensibilities and make me adjust all over again to depressing and impossible dark mornings.  Daylight savings, my ass. 

They just take the extra hour and do whoknowswhat with it.  Probably sell it to Donald Trump so he can make more money in a 25 hour day than most small countries do in a year.  Shouldn't they give it to someone who needs it?  Like mothers, or, um, orphans (?), or something? 

Sure, it'll be lighter outside in the evenings.  And don't think I don't love a 9pm sunset in June.  But what the eff, man.  I can't go back to dark mornings.  I can't.  I can't give up an hour of my precious slumber.  Please don't make me. 

Maybe I could do it if I was getting something in return.  Some sun.  Or some warmth.  Or a goddam bunny.  Something to make me feel like there was anything in this cruel, cold, dark world to look forward to.  Aside form shoveling and scraping off my car - as AWESOME as that can be. 

So don't forget to "spring" your clocks forward this weekend.  Maybe the extra hour can be sent to Mother Nature as some type of sacrifice.  An offering.  One "spring forward" hour in exchange for, oh, I don't know, SPRING. 


Saturday, 5 March 2011

News flash: I'm a lazy f-ck

As a kid, how smart were you?

Maybe you were "smart".  Or maybe you didn't "fit the mould".  Or maybe you just "didn't care enough".

And why do you think that is?

Ms. Betty Fokker drew my attention to this interesting tidbit.

Apparently smartie-pant fifth-grade girls, compared to the boys they chase around the jungle-gym, are more likely to bail on their book learnin' if it's outside their comfort zone - if it doesn't come easily.
Bright Girls, when given something to learn that was particularly foreign or complex, were quick to give up; the higher the girls' IQ, the more likely they were to throw in the towel.

Bright boys, on the other hand, saw the difficult material as a challenge, and found it energizing. They were more likely to redouble their efforts rather than give up.

Bright Girls were much quicker to doubt their ability, to lose confidence and to become less effective learners as a result.

Bright Girls believe that their abilities are innate and unchangeable, while bright boys believe that they can develop ability through effort and practice.

But I'm sure there's more to it than that.

I think different kids are encouraged in different ways - or not - which shapes their entire educational careers, as measured by the standard A,B,C,D,F conceptual grading curve.

I was one of the “smart” kids, so my bright little girl brain was nurtured.  I was accepted into the “Challenge Program”.  I was invited to “Leadership Camp”.  I was asked to edit the yearbook.  I was encouraged to “fast-track” through high school.  And so on.

And yet, if my grades weren’t As (which was rare), teachers wanted me to re-take courses (!) because they thought my B+ (bestowed upon me by a power-hungry douche canoe) wouldn’t cut it on my university apps.

Meanwhile, Hubby, (who went to school with me since grade five - insert "ah, cute" here), is so smart in so many outside-the-prescribed-learning-box ways that were NOT nurtured by our oh-so-wise educators.  He was not invited to special events.  He was praised by teachers for a B (on the same essay for which I may have failed, because the expectations on him were for some unknown reason lower).

And now?  Hubby can accomplish anything he sets his mind to.  Running his own business.  Mastering a song on the guitar.  Learning how to make the perfect sushi.

And me?  I won’t even try a single thing that doesn’t come easily.  I nearly toss my cookies at the thought of using Hubby's power tools, or learning a chord on his guitar, or making one damn role of his finicky sushi.

So what's the point? 

I'm glad I was one of the so-called "smart" kids.  I'm glad I got "good" grades and went to a "good" university.

But at the end of the day, I'm still just a lazy f-ck.  Tell me something I don't know. 


Wednesday, 2 March 2011

Being positive was harder than I thought

This is my 101st posting.  Tah-dah!

I was tempted to just leave it at that, but that's not really fair to you, my loyal readers, now is it?

So then I thought, how could I make this post special?  I could make it exactly 101 words long, or I could post 101 pictures, or I could make it really introductory

But I decided that in honour of 101 posts (most of which in some way bitch about shit that bugs me, or people that piss me off), I'm going to turn over a new leaf.  For one post.

So, here are 101 of my favourite things.  In no particular order (because that would be way too much work). 

  1)  The sound of Patches purring on my pillow.
  2)  Nurturing my love-hate relationship with The Young and the Restless.
  3)  The fact that my childhood baby sitter's husband was the one to introduce me to The Young and the Restless.
  4)  When Hubby adds "midget" to the grocery list. 
  5)  Jenny The Bloggess.
  6)  Rick's road trips
  7)  When, in an effort to soothe my headache, Hubby makes me a grilled cheese sandwich and he reads my mind and puts a bowl of pickles on the side even though I didn't even have to ask for them. 
  8)  Ellen
  9)  The fact that I'm so Hip it's Tragic
 10) Dairy Queen ice cream cakes.   
 11) Fireworks.
 12) Kiwis. 
 13) Listening to Hubby play You Belong To Me on the guitar. 
 14) My new-found love of books.
 15) Including Gone With the Wind.
 16) And Jane Eyre.
 17) And the Twilight Saga.
 18) And the fact that Pa-In-Law was the one to introduce me to the Twilight Saga. 
 19) The 1990s.   
 20) Russel Brand
 21) My parka cape
 22) The fact that Mom knew to buy me a parka cape. 
 23) Swimming - in a pool - when it's hot out. 
 24) The SUN.  Hot and glowing and soaking into my soul. 
 25) Andy Dancing.
 26) Sexy vampires.
 27) Sunlight streaming through the clouds in the morning. 
 28) Rainbows. (And here too.)
 29) The fact that the Honey Badger doesn't give a shit.
 30) Leo. (*Doctor Evil whisper*)
 31) Looking at my high school yearbooks. 
 32) Crying at cheesy movies. 
 33) Hubby massaging my neck. 
 34) Hot, strong, bold, caffeinated tea. 
 35) My Pledge pet hair eraser
 36) My wedding. 
 37) Paris. 
 38) And Nice. 
 39) The Beatles. 
 40) Peeing when I really have to go. 
 41) Sleeping in. 
 42) Going to bed early. 
 43) Hand lotion.
 44) Lip balm.
 45) Fresh local raspberries. 
 46) Saying the 'p' in rasPberries. 
 47) Windmills.  The new kind, and the old kind. 
 48) Walking in the wilderness.
 49) Boxing.
 50) Pointy high-heeled pumps in random colours.
 51) Sitting on my back deck in the summer. 
 52) A bath so hot that it burns my skin. 
 53) An hysterical contagious laughing fit with my Mom. 
 54) The fact that I take a moral (and slightly irrational) stand against over-hyped movies, such as Lord of the Rings and Avatar.
 55) Getting Hubby to slow dance with me in the kitchen - so rare but SO worth the effort. 
 56) Shooting stars. 
 57) Being reminded that this cannot possibly be all there is. 
 58) Pajamas.
 60) Chocolate for breakfast.
 61) Chocolate on rasPberries. 
 62) Hubby fixing everything around the house. 
 63) Email.
 64) Pretending to like gardening. 
 65) My dish heater
 66) My dish washer. 
 67) Wii.
 68) Having a good Yoga day. 
 69) Friends, the sitcom
 70) Friends, the real thing. 
 71) Learning something new about Hubby that I never knew before. 
 72) Coming to the realization that my mother had a life before me. 
 73) Tuxedo head-butting my face. 
 74) Candles.
 75) Toasted marshmallows. 
 76) Halloween.
 77) The smell of lilacs.
 78) The first time every summer when I can wear a tank top outside at night and not be cold. 
 79) Sunsets. 
 80) Blowing bubbles - soap and gum. 
 81) Ice-cold water when I'm really thirsty. 
 82) The fact that my head fits right into the crook between Hubby's shoulder and collarbone. 
 83) Songs that remind me of specific moments in time. 
 84) Talking about people who have died.  Remembering them.  Missing them.
 85) French fries.  With ketchup and vinegar.  Or with gravy and cheese curd.  
 86) Kraft friggin Dinner.  
 87) Having an adult conversation with smart young women / girls.  
 88) Seeing a live band. 
 89) Seeing a celebrity. 
 90) Goat cheese.  
 91) Hubby's 1988 shit box - ahem - white Chevy Cavalier with spray-painted white hubcaps and ghetto sub woofer. 
 92) Spearmint gum.
 93) Thin-crust crispy pizza. 
 94) Mangoes.
 95) Slippers that are so comfy they're gross. 
 96) Franglais (the effective and hilarious combination of English and French).
 97) The acoustic version of any song. 
 98) The fact that Hubby only needs to sing one line of a song for it to be stuck in my head for hours. 
 99) Making fun of strangers (sorry).
100) Stainless steel wine glasses.
101) Blogging, and the world wide interwebs.