I Wonder How Many Angels Had to Die in the Making of This Bed?

I never knew how much I needed to have a beautiful bed in my life...

I never knew how big a difference existed between average sheets...and lovely sheets...

I never realised that seven pillows on a bed--ridiculous though they are--could soothe me to sleep...

A headboard never seemed all that necessary before--let alone a foot board to match...

Let's just say...

I've never lived until now.

Headboard/Footboard: $30.00 from Craigslist.

Extra brackets on bed frame so headboard would stop squeaking: Free labour.
Bed skirt, sheets, pillow cases, duvet, duvet cover, quilt, and one million pillows we'll never use: Gift from mother in law.

Sleeping like a queen for the rest of my life: About $250.00, all said and done.

*[Bet you thought I was going to say "Priceless," huh?]*

And I Wonder Why I Can't Run a Marathon...

Because if I would stop watching the Olympics and get off the couch, maybe I could win a gold medal, too. Even if it was in something silly, like women's air rifle or table tennis. But I'm not and I won't, and let's not get carried away with what-ifs. Instead, watch these commercials and see if some of them don't make you cry. [If you're reading this at work, I'm sorry, but probably you should wait until you get home for the day.]

The Top Ten Reasons You Should Watch the Olympics

10. This commercial, even though the mass of arms and bodies makes me feel uncomfortable in a "Little Mermaid" kind of way:



9. This commercial, which is surprisingly effective on a girl like me who will only ever buy foreign for the rest of my life:



8. This commercial, which kind of makes me wish I was an Aussie:



7. This commercial, even though most Americans won't receive it on their regular broadcasting network. It makes me proud my children will be half-Canadian:



6. This commercial, which makes Poor Kyle laugh every time, because I'm always sitting on the couch going, "Oh! This makes me want to be a better person!":



5. This commercial--another one that simply motivates me to go out and do:



4. This commercial, not only for the eye candy, but also because it's kind of funny:



3. This commercial, which Kayleen already commented on in my last post, and I knew exactly the one she was talking about because I've been known to watch the Olympics for 10 hours at a time, and with that kind of persistence, why shouldn't I know each commercial by name?:



2. This commercial, which makes me glad I'm a Diet Coke girl and not a Diet Pepsi (though if we're getting technical it's actually Diet Dr. Pepper that makes my world go 'round):



1. This commercial--it was the first one I saw during the Olympics, and I'm kind of attached to it. I've never owned a Samsung™, but obviously I should have:




And if you lived in Canada, you could see this one as a bonus. It has nothing to do with the Olympics, but I'm kind of addicted the entire feel of it...

I'm a Glutton for Deprivation

I'm sleep deprived right now. Being sleep deprived really is the best kind of deprivation--much better than carne asada burrito deprived or heavy summer rain deprived or even fat baby nephew deprived...

Does it mean that he's iron-deprived if he enjoys chomping on blankets?

But anyway, if I have to be deprived of something, I definitely choose sleep, because the funniest things happen to me when I'm running low on zees. For example...

Couches totally collapse...

Previously sane (well, moderately sane) people turn into pirates...

...the pirateage continues...



...and people get eaten by giant reptiles at the Phoenix Zoo...

So do yourself a favour and lose some sleep this summer. You'll thank me for the advice after the pictures have been taken.

Mike Holmes Might as Well be Superman...

..if you ask me, that is.

Picture from here.

This is Mike Holmes. Do any of you know this man? I do--at least, I feel like I know him personally. I feel like we're best friends. Mike Holmes has a way of making people feel good about themselves.

Picture from here.

I know, I know--he looks a little bit like he could kill a man. And here's a secret...he probably could. He could, but he won't; he never will, because he's Holmes on Homes. He's a good man.

The Canadian contractor and television show host has made it his goal in life to rid Canada of shady contractors. His motto is, "Do it right," and if someone has already screwed that part up, his backup plan is to "Make it right."

It's a Discovery Channel show, but I watch it on HGTV. And from what I can tell, Mike Holmes is truly a caring individual. Some of the homes he fixes (all of which have been buggered up by previous contractors) are for people in wheelchairs--in which case Mike Holmes bends down to speak to them at their own height. Mike Holmes is gentle when helping sweet little ladies, and he explains all of his actions on an age-appropriate level. In other words, he cares.

He's also set up a scholarship program for higher-education in the trades, which he believes is a necessity if we're to handle the retirement of the baby boomers with any sort of grace at all. And to top it all off, he received an honorary doctorate from BCIT, on account of his exemplary craftsmanship and humanitarian efforts.

Picture from here.

I've always wanted an honorary Doctorate.

And so what if he has a seemingly never-ending supply of overalls and white tank tops? A trademark's a trademark--plus, he dresses up his overalls with long sleeve button-up shirts if he's going somewhere fancy...like the Ellen Degeneres show:



That's classy right there. I love a man who knows how to act in public.

My Year in Review: Happy Birthday, Little Blog!

On Saturday, July 12th, this blog turned one year old.

I debated holding another giveaway to celebrate, but I still don't make any money off this blog, (or as a human being in general) so I decided to limit my expenditures.

Instead, I dove into the Archives of my life, and picked out some of the most monumental (or just plain mental!) posts of the past 367 days.

For those of you who've been following faithfully since day one, this might get tedious. But I thought the newcomers may enjoy reading up on AOOL, how it came to be, and what-not.

And if nobody enjoys reading these archives, I suppose it will have been an exercise in humility for me. Humility--maybe that's something I can write about for next year's birthday?

-Day 1

-Back when Poor Kyle was simply "Kyle"

-Coming to terms with my sense of style

-The time I threatened to quit blogging unless more people started commenting

-How I feel about the OB/GYN

-Trying to plan a wedding and having a nervous breakdown

-Trying to plan a wedding and losing my mind

-When Kyle became Poor Kyle

-Wedding time

-How I feel about the MVD

-This podunk town's emergency room

-That mean old lady at church

So there ya have it. Read them all or don't read any.

But if you do read one or two, feel free to leave comments, even though they're old posts--I'll get them right in my inbox, and I'll cherish every one.

Thanks for a fantastic year!

{I Met Loralee and All I Got Was a Low Self-Esteem}

I drove 13 hours to meet Loralee.

Okay, so I was going through Utah anyway, and I had three hours to go from there, so I needed to stop for dinner. But that doesn't mean I was any less excited for the rendezvous.


See, there was this time in my life that I lost my faith in humanity; Loralee renewed that faith. During the first few months of my blogging obsession, I stalked many a talented bloggers, and didn't quite understand why none of them stalked me in return. Loralee was the first professional blogger to acknowledge me, and even then it was only after I begged on my hands and knees for it. But however pathetic my reasons, I felt like a superstar the first day I read a comment from her, and every comment thereafter. I'm sure she was just trying to be nice, because she'd been in my position, but eventually I gathered the courage to email her and now we're sort of friends.

And we've met, so we're sort of better friends.

She's really very nice. For anyone wondering whether he or she should try and meet his or her blogging hero, my advice is to go for it.

For one thing, she buys cute shoes at good prices. Very likable indeed. (The blogger, not the shoes. [Though the shoes are nice, too.])

Probably all blogging heroes are as cool as Loralee, who asked the waiter to split our cheques right from the start [I am so paranoid about whether or not that is tacky, I would have paid for me, Loralee, and her displaced southern belle friend, if it meant I could avoid an awkward situation. I bet you wish you'd never spoken up, eh Loralee?].

Also, I got the scoop on a lot of juicy drama that Loralee is too tasteful to ever actually post on her blog--it was the real inside edition, and totally worth every moment of pre-meeting anxiety.

But really, our friendship was doomed from the beginning. Loralee and I can never become truly bosom buddies. Because when our dinner at Chili's was over, our pictures were taken and our goodbyes hugged, I unlocked the door to Tamra Camry, sank--relieved at my presence of mind through the meal--into the driver seat, and checked the visor mirror. Only about an hour too late...

Like I said--doomed. And it'll be a cold day in Mesa before I order lettuce wraps in public again.

*Really, though. Loralee is lots of fun. Go meet her and tell her that crazy girl sent you.*

{Of All the Goodly Things in Life, This Has to be the Best}

I am whole again.

This is just like the time in 6th grade (grade 6, Canadians!) when I picked and tore and bit at the wart on my thumb so much it eventually fell off, but once it was gone, I missed it. I missed the entertainment my old friend Warty brought me while the rest of the class was learning about the prime meridian [a subject on which I was already an expert].

But before long, it returned--as warts are wont to do--and I was whole again. Warty and me, just like the old days.

Now, years later, the feeling has returned. Not in regards to the wart on my thumb, though...

...but Tastespotting.com. It's back. If Alias came back on T.V. for one last season [with Jennifer Garner and Michael Vartan both alive for the duration], I would not be as happy as I am today with the return of Tastespotting.com. If I could rewind to the time before I knew Wal-Mart™ existed, my joy would not even compare to today's. If I could believe in Santa Claus again, I would not trade that feeling for having Tastespotting.com back in my life.

It's like losing a $20.00 bill in last year's winter coat and mourning its loss, but then forgetting all about it until the first frost of autumn.

What once was lost...now is found.

I'm Havin' Fun. {So Sue Me.}

I haven't been neglecting you. On Monday morning I got a phone call from my mom.

"We're coming," she said. "Can you be ready for us?"

Absolutely. It only took 18 hours of spring cleaning that I never did back in the spring, but I got good and ready. They arrived on Tuesday at 5 a.m., with an extra three people I was thrilled to see--my sister, her baby, and dear dear Chelsie.

We're full to the brim in this house, I'm out of milk, and I don't know when I've been happier. {As a side note: anybody who as physically met me before and reads this blog is 100% welcome to come visit me and Poor Kyle in Canada--we're all friends here. Any time, any day. We're very accommodating. I cherish company.}

So please, blog, don't feel abandoned. I mean, when it comes right down to it, would you rather spend your days thinking of clever things to post on the internet, or do this: (see below) until the wee hours of the morning?



[Starring my dad as lead singer. I've never heard him rock like he rocked that day.]

I will return to regularly scheduled posting when I get around to it. Sometime this week. Or next.

{I Lost 10 Pounds in Five Hours}

The spring in my proverbial step has gone in for servicing, and has come out looking 10 years younger.

And I'm not kidding, either:

Before--Hello, halfway houses of America; meet your newest druggie!

After--Even in dim lighting and using a webcam, the difference is shocking:


And yes, both these photos were taken today.

I probably should have gotten my hair done in March, but my stylist had mono, and nobody in Canada could possibly know my hair as well as she. So I waited three more months. She's just that good. And it was totally worth it; these photos don't even do my hair justice--wait until I take some decent ones tomorrow!

It may seem arrogant or vain for me to flaunt such accolades of my own hair, but trust me when I confess that my beautiful hair has nothing to do with me. The best hair days of my life have been because of Lindsey. Here are some photos of my hair under the influence of her magic hands throughout the years:

Work in progress...

Even Poor Kyle's hair cooperates when Lindsey has her way with it.

Here we all are--Lindsey having spruced us all up nicely. I think she ended up being the hairstylist for the entire wedding party.

She usually agrees to do my hair before a big trip when I know I'll take lots of photos.

She fixed me up for my engagement photos...

My bridal shower...

And my wedding.

She has a real gift.

In contrast, here are photos of my hair when I'm in Canada and left to my own pitiful devices:






...There are no words to express the debt I owe this woman.

This is the Kind of Day That Engaged Couples Dream Married Life Will Be Like...

Poor Kyle got to sleep in. I had my errands to run. And when we got back together, we had a cookout.

One day, over a year ago, I stood next to Poor Kyle on the back deck of his newly purchased home in Mayberry. It was Autumn, we'd just gotten engaged, the weather was nice, and we had great expectations of all the bonfires we'd host in our fire pit...once we were married.

Who'd have thought we'd actually arrive at this point? The point where we're starting fires of our own free will, and not just to collect homeowners' insurance. But because we're so inclined. To look at them. And cook with them. And burn our trash.

And I feel sorry for you, since none of you were invited to our impromptu dinner. So I'll give you a recap, in photos:

The Day We Envisioned We'd Have as Married People, Back When We Were Not Married:

Poor Kyle was there (looking not unlike Napoleon Dynamite, in my opinion). My husband is a stud...

...see any resemblances?

Poor Kyle wasn't happy when I pointed out the uncanny coincidence. I don't suppose I can blame him.


The fire pit--well on its way to becoming our favourite place to cook.

The Log. The Log is for food preparation and extra seating. The Log is not for burning, despite common thought processes.

These may look like wieners, but in fact they are pepperoni sticks. Just a little appetizer while the coals got hot. Because when we cook out, we do it in style. Appetizers, cocktails, palate cleansers...the whole shebang.

Of course I should take a photo of my husband's bottom. I like it.

I was there, too, of course. But the only evidence you'll get are the photos of my garden. Which, given all the blood, sweat and tears that have gone into my garden lately, it might as well be me.

But just in case you wanted solid proof, there I am. (I'm skinnier in my shadow, which is a blessing, given all the chocolate-covered strawberries I ate for breakfast. And lunch.) My skinny-ish shadow is covering the corn. Only you can't see anything but dirt because I only planted a few days ago. And evidently, it takes longer than two days for corn to grow. What a rip-off.

If you look closely, you can see the word "CORN" etched laboriously into this copper marker. That's where I planted corn. Clever, I know.

And this can is what I use to water my tender little transplants. Not that it's doing any good at all, since I think I already killed the basil:

It's looking a little peakish.

Then again, that could be because of my weeds. They're pretty monstrous. I've gotten a lot, though. A quad trailer full, anyway:

See?

Die, monster weeds!

But I've digressed haven't I? The point of this post is that...

...today, being married was fun. We have a fire pit. We have a garden. And we're going camping this weekend, because that's what ambitious newlyweds do with their first long weekend of Spring.

Meet Chair.

Hi. I'm Chair.

I'm old, but you can't call me "Old Chair"--I've been called that too often throughout my life. People have called me "Old Chair," "Ugly Blue Chair," and even "Worthless Piece of Garbage Chair," but my new owner doesn't believe in stereotyping, so she just calls me "Chair." Because that's who I am. Anyway, it's nice to meet you. Let me tell you how I came to be...

...Actually, I can't start from the very beginning, because the lady typing my story hasn't known me from the very beginning--and I can't type it for myself, because I am an inanimate object and therefore cannot type [though I seem perfectly capable of speaking...].

So instead I'll tell you how I came to be, insofar as my typist knows the story...

Back in the '70s, I was a very fine piece of furniture. When I was brand new, I lived in a nice home with my courteous Owners. They sat on me all the time of course, but I didn't mind, because I am Chair, after all. They never let their filthy kids jump on my cushions, and they never allowed their sneaky cat to scratch at my legs. I was loved--at least as much as humans can love their living room furniture.

But that was over thirty years ago, and times...they change. One day, Mr. and Mrs. Owner came home from the city, talking excitedly about their new furniture. They kicked me to the curb (quite literally) to make room for the new arrivals, and I was left for the garbage collector. But that night, a nice lady driving by saw me, and thought, "That ugly old chair has potential!" Which of course I did. The new lady picked me up and dropped me off at her nearby parents' house to store for a while--next to an old rickety door that someone else had already scavenged--until she could take me home and make me her own.

To make a long story short (because nobody likes reading Very Long Stories), the new lady never did get around to picking me up from her parents' backyard. I stayed there all winter, and got snowed on and peed on and probably bird nested on, too. Finally one day, a different new lady--who had recently taken up exercising (and who happened to have scavenged the old door sitting next to me)--ran right past on her morning jog. She jogged directly into the old new lady's parents' house and asked what I, Chair, was doing in their backyard. As it turned out, the parents were sick of me sitting there, and said, "Take it, if you want it. Our daughter scavenged it from the neighbors and never did pick it up. So you take it, and don't forget to take the old door you scavenged from the neighbor last summer, too. Get that garbage out of here."

Everyone seemed to think I was garbage.

So there we were, just me and the door, and the new new lady. The new new lady took me home (even though she felt guilty for scavenging me off of her sister-in-law's scavenge). She sanded down my already-worn finish:

And she placed me in her well-ventilated garage:


(Oh, look--there's my old friend, Door... Hi, Door!)


...and painted me a nice crisp black. She washed my foam cushions and their blue covers and finished my black paint with a shiny coat of polyurethane.

And now look at me! I'm sharp, I know.

The only problem is, I don't really fit here, because I'm blocking the walkway to the Twins, and that's bad. So the lady tried putting me in her living room:

But while I look nice by the piano, I don't really blend in with the other colours she's got in the living room. See? I kind of stick out like a sore thumb.


I also look bad in the basement, even though none of the furniture down there matches anyway:

Where can I live? Finally, the lady had a breakthrough. I am now the proud resident of...any guesses? Here's a few hints:



The Blue Room! But of course! At long last, I have found my niche in the world. Good thing some previous owners' teenage yahoo painted this room blue to match me. And it's another good thing that the blue room hasn't been painted over yet.


...and that's the story of a chair named Chair.