Whiskers on kittens

I have a cat.

Her name is Nymeria.


This is not news to veteran readers of Rant and Roll.

But for all you newbies (WELCOME MY LOVES!) please let this post serve as a wee introduction to this little creature who takes up major real estate within the confines of my heart.

We adopted the little miss in February of 2008.

This was after five years of constant badgering on my part, to my brilliant (though long-suffering) partner Marc.

Writer’s note: Marc is now my brilliant (and longer-suffering) husband.

Seriously, I was unrelenting in vocalizing my desire to adopt a pet.

The first animal for whom I had ever before cared was a grey and white kitty named Sophie (named after the famed Sophie’s Cosmic Café here in Vancouver) who ruled my family’s roost for a number of years before she succumbed to her heart murmur at the relatively young age of eight.

Her death (which took place just before Christmas in my second year of my undergrad) was one of the most crushing blows I had suffered up until that point in my life.

I received the phone call mid-holiday party, and as I collapsed into a fit of tears, Marc ushered our well-meaning, though slightly confused guests out the door.

Wrapped up in his arms, I cried myself to sleep that night.

And the next.

My mum has since adopted two other cats – brothers Rufus and Simon who are as adorable as they are bonkers.

Simon is so sketchy, I often refer to him as a beetle, because anytime he is spooked, he will scuttle under the nearest couch, table, or bed.

Rufus is a consummate lounger – too cool for school, and utterly fabulous. Whenever I put on makeup in the bathroom, he’s right there in the sink, trying to massage his cheeks up again my blush brush.

And I love both of them, truly.

Like her cousins back east, Nymeria is also completely mad.

A calico, she speaks all the time, but especially as feeding hour approaches.

Sometimes I feel a little nuts, because I start to make noises in response her to mewls and meows, and before I really know what is happening, I’m engaged in a very strange conversation, without any idea of what it is I am hearing (or in fact saying.)

This is very similar to when I speak Russian with anyone beyond proficiency level 1.

(Babushkas man. They just love the chance to talk to anyone!)

Nymeria’s brilliant for the fact that she doesn’t destroy our furniture, but less so because she does a fabulous job of managing her stress on the carpet that covers our stairs.


She will sleep with me up until Marc gets into bed (he always retires much later than I) but then will return around 4 a.m. to sleep on my legs.

She loves to be brushed.

A giant ‘fraidy-cat, she will hunker out on our balcony, until she scares herself, and runs back inside.

She has such tiny feet, that more often than not, I will refer to her as Little Paws.

Other nicknames include: Beauty Cat, Big Eyes, Little One, Kitten, Douce Baggins (only used after a very, very stinky bathroom break), Duck (because when she sits a certain way, she looks like a duck riding the waves), and Dragon Cat.

I really, really like it when she’s Dragon Cat.

Anytime she hears a bag opening she will immediately run to the kitchen in hopes of a treat.

Anytime we come home from a trip she will shower us with the softest of kitten kisses.

Anytime I think about her, my little heart smiles.

Because she is, quite simply, our little gal.


It’s all the little things

Hey you jazzy cats.

Let’s just say that I’d like to imagine that you all look like this:


Because goodness knows that would make me so, so happy.

Anywho, let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we?

Sometimes there are moments of such infinitesimal happiness in my life that I feel as though my heart might just shatter.

Take for instance, last Saturday morning. I had gone to bed incredibly late the night before (actually, come to think of it, it was more like very early the day of) and woke up at noon to this kind of magic:


And it’s at moments like this that I absolutely relish being a grown-up gal, and all the shiny splendours that my little life has to offer.

Now, on the other hand, there are also times when I feel as though being an adult is total rubbish, and all I want to do is tie my bed sheets into one crazy long bed sheet-rope, fling my belongings out of the window, and then Robin Hood my way to adventure and freedom.

No one likes to pay Visa bills, or get up at the crack of dawn every day, or have a conniption fit every time the price of apples/cheese/detergent/moisturizer/paper towels/gas seemingly doubles overnight.

Seriously though, how are all of these things so expensive!?

Mortgages aren’t exactly a barrel of laughs, and neither are budgets and financial planners.

But despite all that, very often I am overcome with so much joy about my life – and all the amazing things that come with it – that I am basically struck mute (and sometimes motionless.)

Now, to be fair, there are times when this reaction may or may not have something to do with the delicious knowledge that should I want to, it is totally within my power to spend ten dollars on gourmet jellybeans at Save on Foods.


But – not always.

Sometimes they are but a work of a moment; a short interaction with a stranger, or watching the sunset as I walk home from work.

At the moment there are three things poking about the recesses of my mind, each one responsible for giddiness and glee.

They are:

1.)    Races and places. I recently signed up to run the BMO April Fools Half-Marathon and I am SO EXCITED. First race of the season and I’m already jittery like jittery thing. The race is on the Sunshine Coast which means a beautiful course, and hopefully a mini-vacation for Mr. M and I.

2.)    Milkshakes and crosswords. A late-night snack. (Full disclosure: I only ate the milkshake.) But it was awesome. And not totally unhealthy because, well, CALCIUM right?


3.)    All the love. That I get to spend the rest of my life adventuring around the world with this mad hatter:

Edinburgh 271

(The fact that he gifts me pain au chocolat and coffee on Saturday mornings just adds to my delight.)

And I don’t know about you folks, but all of this brilliance makes my mundane grown-up “musts” shine just a little bit brighter.

And as a honourary hummingbird, goodness knows I do love my shine.

So happy Wednesday to you all!

I hope you’re all celebrating may and multiple fab things, wherever you are.

Such a smooth operator

Yesterday I drank a beet-berry smoothie.

It was weird.

I really like beets. And I really like berries.

But mixing the two together in a smoothie was a little like drinking a (strangely sweet) emulsified garden.

That is definitely one sentence I never really imagined I would ever be writing.

Thank goodness that the drink was at least red, because goodness knows I cannot abide a green smoothie. Anytime I see someone sucking down some horrid kale-spinach concoction, I always think the same thing:

“It looks like they are drinking a salad’s tears!!”


So anyway, the following facial expression pretty well sums up how I felt the entire time I was consuming the beverage:


Not good. But not bad either.

Just strange. Really, really strange.

I’m fairly certain all of you are staring at your computer screens thinking: WHAT THE HECK IS SHE TALKING ABOUT?



I mean, what I’m trying to say – in the most roundabout way possible – is that my life at the moment feels like one massive beet smoothie.

Ya know what I mean?

I’ve been feeling all over the place of late, stretched a little too thin by the GIANT ROLLING PIN OF LIFE and I’m having a little trouble trying to keep myself together.

And I really hate it.

I really hate feeling like I don’t have my stuff together.

But mostly I despise feeling like I don’t have my stuff together when my stuff IS actually together – all neatly folded away in colour-coordinated drawers (or hung on sweet plastic hangers, and not those awful cheap wire ones that always end up sagging in the middle) if you get my clothing-storage-focused drift.

Seriously friends – WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?

It’s like my Type A insanity is at an all time high.


For all you other TAers out there, how do you cope when you’re certain your manic perfectionism is taking over your life?

Normally a solid week of 9 pm bedtimes has me feeling right as rain, but I’ve having a hard time getting myself together this time. Any advice you have to help me stop BEETing (heh) myself up would be much appreciated.

In the interim, shall we see what’s frying up on YE OLDE FRIDAY STOVE?

Forsooth, and forthwith my good chaps!

Clean as a whistle.

Exhibit A:

IMG_3204 - Copy

Now, normally I wouldn’t get all shirty over a pre-washed bag of lettuce, but TRIPLE WASHED?!

Come on.

How dirty were the leaves to begin with? And how anemic was the water spray that they were using? Where you using something other than water to begin with? Who was doing this washing?

This notation had me so freaked out that the entire time I was eating my salad all I could think of was: I AM TOTALLY EATING ALL THE RADIATION AND OR COMPOST.

Compost salad!! AHHHHHHH!

Side note: Am I the only one who eats the entire bag whenever picking up one of these things for dinner? I always think that it will last me at least two servings, but nope! I hoover that stuff down like it’s a beet-berry smoothie.


Guns a-blazing.

So just the other night I finally sat down and watched Guy Ritchie’s Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels.

I remember when it came out and it was THE FILM amongst all of my guy friends (it, and Boondock Saints.) I don’t know what exactly it was that made me so resistant in the first place, but for some reason I just never got around to viewing it.

Over the years I somehow began conflate it (and other works by GR) with the films made by Quentin Tarantino, which only hardened my resolve never to watch it.

I won’t get into a diatribe on the subject, suffice to say that I don’t and most likely will never enjoy Mr. Tarantino’s films, as I believe him to be a psychopath.

Anywho, back to Lock Stock – this film is hilarious! Great acting, awesome directing, and really interesting cinematography.

I loved how every scene looked as though it filmed through the filter of a really dirty window. Or the bottom of a wine bottle.

Also, Jason Statham is hot.

Like, a lot.


Nap nap nap.






I don’t know about you folks, but I think I’m going to be following Nymeria’s lead.

What are your thoughts on squeaky clean lettuce leaves? Are you a fan of Guy Ritchie’s cinematic oeuvre? And what are you plans for the weekend?

Put up your feet, and rest awhile.

The sky’s the limit

Hey chickadees.

I cannot believe that it is already Friday. The mind boggles.

I took this snap of the sunrise yesterday morning:

I seem to have developed a rather large obsession with the sky, in all of its variations, which has manifested itself in an insatiable need to take dozens and dozens of photos of everything from mid-day cloud cover, to startlingly brilliant sunsets.

But in all honesty, my favourite will always be the sorbet coloured striations that divide up the early morning, and patch together the early evening skies.


Fry-Up Time!

Tom Hanks.

So I watched Sleepless in Seattle for the first time the other night and I have to say it wasn’t half bad.

Despite never really warming to Meg Ryan, I’ve always loved Tom Hanks – in particular 1980s/1990s Tom Hanks.

Sure, I haven’t been that a big fan of his work post-Y2K scare, but nothing will ever take away from the majesty of his early stuff.

(Except of course, for Joe vs. the Volcano. What broke acip trip was responsible for that hot mess?)

Erm, right. So what I’m trying to say here is that while I don’t go to see any of his newer stuff, I certainly do love to dip my toes in his more seasoned pool of material.

For instance, I always, always laugh my face off while watching The Burbs. Yes, I understand that this movie is completely daft and terrible, but nothing will ever stop me from falling over during the scene when the weirdo neighbours drive their garbage to the bottom of the driveway and anytime Mr. Hanks goes absolutely bonkers.

(Which is pretty much the entire film. See the below video for details.)

I will never stop laughing at pretty much every scene in Splash, I LOVE That Thing you Do (and still know every single word to that song), and A League of Their Own is, well, in a league of its own.

Remember kids: Avoid the clap.

It’s sound advice!

Anyways, I was thinking about ole’ Tom as the end credits to Sleepless were rolling, and I was trying to figure out what it is about this actor that I like so much.

M put forward the hypothesis that so many women (and dudes too) love Tom Hanks because he’s a normal human being. He’s not stereotypically “hot”; he’s not ripped, or suave, or an Adonis in human form.

He’s attainable.

Women (and men) can actually see themselves with him.

Men (and women) can see themselves being friends with him.

While I’ve never thought about Mr. Hanks this way, I can see his point.

However in my case, what really does it for me, is the fact that Tom is the absolute master of the hilarious angry yell.

Even when he’s pissed off, he’s bloody entertaining as heck. Seriously, check it out:

Ohhhhh, I die.


Elevated discourse.

So it’s no big surprise around here that I am massively in love with my cat and will pretty much do anything for her because of how nuts I am about her.

However, of late I’ve really started to notice just how barmy I sound when I talk to her.

(And just how barmy I sound even typing out those words.)

But it’s true. I’ll be walking around my house, jabbering on like a monkey in a tree, regaling Nymeria with details of my day, when I’ll just start telling her over and over again how beautiful she is.

Eventually I’ll transition to complimenting her on how good of a job she is doing of cleaning her paws, how awesome that last yawn of hers was, or how impressed I am that she jumped up on the windowsill with such grace and agility.

Sometimes I’ll just pick her up and do nothing save mutter “beauty cat” over and over and over again. (Sometimes for variation, I’ll make those words into some sort of three syllable nursery song.)

I’m seriously waiting for the day when she’ll turn, look at me and say, “Look lady, is it possible for you to stop talking to me like I’m some kind of simpleton?”

But until that day…

Ten kilometers go!

So I made the executive decision to sign up for the Fall Classic 10k race.

It’s on November 19th, so it’s bound to be raining, and freezing – but I think I have managed to coerce a number of my amazing pals to also run, so I am really looking forward to a massive post-race hang-out fest.

(Hopefully somewhere warm, and dry, where people won’t be turned off by our non-stop laughter.)

When I signed up to race, I had to enter my estimated finish time, as the two individuals with the closest guesses will win a New Balance prize pack.

I submitted a conservative forty-two minutes, but I’m hoping to run it faster than that. However, I don’t know how the rain or cold will affect my race, so I figured I would rather be safe than sorry.

My comedic genius of a friend Alannah just entered: I’m done when I’m done.


Also, I think she may have made herself an automatic shoe-in for the prize!

Humour and brains, folks.

Humour and brains.

(If I was a zombie, this is what I would put as my “ideal match” in the zombie classified ads.

So that’s all she wrote folks.

A very merry weekend to all of you fab chaps!

I hope it’s absolutely smashing.