His and hares adventures

Ooof. I did not sleep well last night.

The rubbish combination of McDonalds for dinner, strong tea before bedtime, and unusually warm spring temperatures ensured that the couple of Zzzzs that I did catch were restless, and even worse, non-consecutive.

(Normally I would never begrudge a meal of fries and a McFlurry because 1.) they happen so rarely, and 2.) DID YOU KNOW THAT MCDONALDS MAKES DRUMSTICK MCFLURRIES?)

However, waking this morning, dehydrated and exhausted, I lamented like hell over my choice in food stuffs. Dinner of champions it was not, especially because I just crammed the whole thing in my mouth on my way to meet with my Little Sister.

I’ve also been rocking this really sweet eye twitch for the past week now, so I can’t imagine that my thirty-two minutes of rest will do much to help out with that.

(If anything, I think it’s gotten worse, EGADS.)

I kind of feel like bugs bunny in the below cartoon (clip starts at 40 seconds):


It actually blows my mind when I think about how much of my life is influenced by the cartoons, books, and movies I watched and read as a child.

There probably isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t reference or quote (or ever just think about) Looney Tunes, or Kit Pearson, or Shel Silverstein, or The Simpsons.

I think my favourite is when I think I’ve over done it with the make-up, I like to ask Marc (or whomever is around) if it looks like I’ve “set the make-up gun on whore.”


I’m laughing just thinking about it.

This weekend should be a sweet, sweet mix of soaking up all of the sun rays I can get, (seeing as though I currently look like a specter, this is a VERY good thing), Mother’s day brunches, and hopefully a date night with that long-lost husband of mine.

I tell you, we are two little worker bees he and I, so much so that it’s hard not to fall into a rut that I like to call: “two highly productive, yet sleep deprived ships passing in the night.”


It might also be nice if I could find a dress or two for the weddings that I am attending (and participating in!) this summer.

Honestly folks, time is passing at such a speed I cannot believe that we will soon we welcoming the arrival of June. I’m not sure about you, but I need to buckle up tight, and grab hold of the OH CRAP BAR because –


Things be moving fast.

Alas, I cannot complain because at the base of it all is such boundless awesomeness that I feel a little nuts sometimes – I really am too lucky for my own good to be surrounded with such beauty.

My friends, family, fantastic (ship of a) husband.

Our little cat.

Adventures a plenty.

So let’s put on our dancing shoes and boogie the night away.


Happy Friday to you all!

It’s just a cake. It’s just a birthday cake.

Hey kids.

It’s my birthday in two days, and as such I’ve been gifted with some pretty sweet swag from Sephora:


Seriously, all you need to do is purchase one expensive blush there ONE TIME, and two years later they’re still giving you free stuff!

Now that is the kind of relationship I can get behind.

So yes, this Sunday I turn twenty-eight years old, which officially vaults me into the “late-twenties” catagory.

This is fabulous, because it means that my actual age is finally catching up to what I feel to be my “inner age” – a number that I imagine hovers somewhere around seventy-two, give or take a few tubes of Polydent.



Meanwhile, my “outer age” seems to be suffering from a whacked-out case of Benjamin Buttons, as I can’t seem to go anywhere without getting IDed.

Just the other day I was carded at 7-11 while trying to buy a one dollar scratch and win.

(As you can imagine, my life is pretty much a continual stream of glitz and glamour.)

Of course, being me, I didn’t have any ID on me, (because who brings their whole wallet on a late-night jaunt about the neighbourhood?) so I wasn’t able to complete my purchase.


Then I took my can of coke and ran out of the joint laughing like a maniac.

(That didn’t actually happen.)


This weekend, Mr. M and I are going to gussy ourselves up for a fancy-schmancy dinner on Saturday night, and then it’s off to the familial units on Sunday afternoon for more pageantry and more importantly, some sweet, sweet Superbowl action.

(Or as myself and many others have taken to calling it: The SUPERBAUGH.)

To be honest though, I was so super (har har) bummed when Seattle was eliminated (WHY OH WHY DID YOU CALL THAT TIME OUT PETE!?) that I’m a little less than enthused about the two teams competing the finals. However, if I had to pick a team, I’m going for San Fran because I don’t think I have it in my being to actually cheer for Ray Lewis.

I cannot stand that guy.

I’ll have to wait a week to celebrate with friends, as VanComedy Fest is next Friday, but I figure what better time to jam that after some crack-up comedy?

And in the meantime…

Fry-up time!

Sister acts.

So I don’t know if you are all acquainted with the awesome Canadian power due that is Tegan and Sara (they are two sisters from Calgary, Alberta), but if you’re not, you should probably rectify this situation at once.

These gals have been making rad music for years, but their most recent release is much “poppier” than their older records, and being the pop-lover than I am, I really can’t get enough of it.

So if you have a hankering for some mad dancing about your house, please let me recommend the following:

Last weekend I was in full-on cleaning mode and I must have listened to this song well near twenty times.

Plus, this music video is pretty much exactly what I imagined every one of my birthday parties would be, during my years as a permanently love-struck, doe-eyed teenage girl.

(Unfortunately, it never did happen.)



Olive garden.

So the other night I returned home from work to a startlingly cold and very much empty house, what with my husband having to work late, and the temperatures hovering just above zero degree centigrade outside.

My whole neighbourhood was socked in with a low-hanging, thick, wet fog, and just walking home from skytrain had left me feeling well-soaked and completely ravenous.

After taking off my boots and putting on the fireplace, I immediately set about preparing a dinner that would both quell my hunger pains and warm-up my frigid little body.

(I may have taken a few minutes to cuddle with my kitten before commencing dinner preparations.)

The end result was a meal of spaghetti with tomatoes, olives, basil and fresh mozzarella, accompanied by crunchy French bread and a massive mug of earl grey tea (not exactly the most traditional drink, I know, but goodness knows if it wasn’t needed to rejig my sluggish circulation.)


And it was absolutely, blooming glorious.


Part two.

So last week I wrote about Guy Ritchie and how much I liked Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.

Well, I took many of my brilliant readers’ advice and watched Snatch, the quasi-following up to Lock Stock.

There I sat on the couch, with my spaghetti and tea, and there I laughed like a drain to end all drains.

Which is to be said, A LOT.

So thanks to you, beauty cats! Do keep the film recommendations coming – if there’s more laughing to be had, I WILL HAVE IT.

And there you have it you fab chaps! Are any of you celebrating a birthday this weekend?

I will be partying it up with my (day of birth) twin Alexei Kostitsyn.

That Belarusian doesn’t know how lucky he is.

Oh make me over

I have a question for all the beautiful people.

What, pray tell, is the difference between “very black” and “classic black” in terms of mascara?

Or equally confounding, in life?

Won't somebody please think of the children!?

I mean, there can’t actually be a discernible distinction between the two – can there?

From what I remember of Art 8, (and there really isn’t much) black isn’t even a colour, so there can’t be all that much variation in terms of its presentation (or interpretation).


Of course this conundrum doesn’t even begin to scrape the surface of the impossible and completely insufferable colour coding on the (seemingly) millions of packaged eyelash-extending products available for purchase at your friendly neighborhood drug and/or department store.

The amount of merchandise on display is overwhelming to the point of paralysis.

Seriously, what is this? Bill’s Candy Shop? I mean, a company (that shall remain nameless) actually markets a product called “blackest-black”.

Those twisted bastards.

To be fair, I totally get why they do it.  They’re just trying to make as much money as they possibly can, through their totally warped and markedly transparent manipulation of the otherwise blissfully unassuming masses, and yet I still want to scream: HELLO COMPANY EXECS! WE ALL SEE WHAT YOU’RE DOING HERE AND WE KNOW ITS ALL ABOUT STUFFING THOSE GIANT ALREADY FIT-TO-BURSTING MONEY BAGS OF YOURS!

Also, if we are going to venture into this totally inane, waste-of-time-marketing-territory couldn’t we get a little creative? Where is my “the-Grinch’s-heart-pre-Cindy-Lou-Who-black,” or “black-hole-before-you-knew-anything-about-physics-black,” or “everyone-knows-you-look-skinnier-in-black-black”?


Well, give me time. I’m working on it.

In the interim, I can’t bring myself to buy any other brand than this one pictured below:

This colour scheme is pretty darn 80s.

It’s still the cheapest product available that (in my opinion) provides the best results.  Yet, I’m worried. The price has been steadily rising and I’m afraid that its affordability may be heading the way of the dodo.

So, in the near future, should you see a woman stockpiling Greatlash mascara with an almost deranged fervor, don’t fret – I’m just saving up in preparation for the zombie apocalypse.  Because if there is one thing I’ve learned from the Resident Evil franchise, (and I’ve learned a lot), it’s that the hotter I look, the more proficient I will be at kicking major flesh-eating, walking-dead butt.

So boy do I plan to look SMOKING.

Another point I feel as though I must touch on today is a bit of a post-script to my post from Monday, in which I mercilessly lampooned Forever Twenty-One’s horrifying fashions and equally disastrous window display.

Not to be outdone, it seems as though Holt Renfrew has thrown its hat into the ring in order to compete for the “erm…right…okay…” prize of the year.

Exhibit A:

No Bessie! Not on the Chanel!

Yeah, I’m pretty sure the last time I checked, right below “buy couture clothing” on my bucket list DOES NOT READ “bottle feed baby cow.”

In fact, the more I think about it, those two enterprises done in tandem just seem downright counter-intuitive.

(I’ll let you guys guess which of those two is actually on my bucket list. Please, be nice.)

Also, I cannot help but think of all the individuals of Swiss heritage I know, and how hard they would laugh at this display – not so much in a “hah! What a novel idea for a high-end department store to employ over the holidays,” but more of a “hah! Canadians are such silly, simple creatures. Please pass the gruyere.”


The other displays are equally alarming: bird people playing tin-can telephone? French maids wearing lace corsets over Victorian-style blouses?

Voulez-vous acheter des vetements vraiments cher? EH?

Didn’t anyone ever teach the store’s head display designer the dangers of mixed metaphors?

Can they even read?

(I kid. I kid.)


I worry that someone could end up with a bad case of mistaken (or even lost) identity from simply setting foot in the store!  Though to be fair, something tells me they are more likely to suffer from massive hemorrhaging of sweet cash dollars that anything else.

But I digress.

I also shouldn’t lie and say that I don’t desperately want those birds chilling out on the teeter-totter.  These awesome dudes were what definitely caught my eye in the first place:

Come on Jim! Left, left, left, right, left!

(Though the Swiss-miss Vogue cover shoot was a close second.)

They would make an excellent addition to my office, any day of the year.

Finally, yesterday my excellent friend A accompanied me to the Hyatt over lunch where we perused some of the stellar gingerbread creations currently on display in the hotel’s lobby.

It’s really quite amazing to behold how creative people can be in terms of the tasty treat! These people aren’t just culinary masters – they are bloody architects to boot!

Now, if I can just find a way to make this one life size I’ll be set.

Our house! In the middle of the farm!

Even more so if those Holt Renfrew birds want to join me.