January 2006

Dear God, people, I have about 4,000,000 tentative blog posts inside my head and nothing – nothing – comes out when I sit down to type. I get a few words onto the screen, in the magic white box, and.. gone. Whoosh! Shazam! Ziiiiiing! Gone.

So let’s begin with a quick “state of the dana” update.

It makes me giddy whenever I think about Coffee’s immigration proceedings. It makes me equally as giddy to think about his Ontario driver’s license appearing in our mailbox (hopefully) this week. Actual Canadian ID with his face on it? Unspeakably amazing. Tangible proof that he’s allowed to be here now. Now we wait for some Federal clearances and we wait for the work permit clearance and we wait for his medical results (and retests if needed?) and we wait and we wait. And by the time my birthday rolls around, there’s a chance I’ll have a Permanent Resident sleeping next to me in bed. Sometimes I joke that he’s an illegal alien and sometimes I joke about harbouring fugitives and the like, but the truth is that I’ll feel a thousand times better when all of the signatures and stamps are in place.

My knitting.. I’m currently working on chemo caps for a local organization that my friend Kathie recommended as a potential recipient. I’ve decided to make some funky, colourful caps – if I needed to wear a chemo cap on my head, I’d want something that was kind of creative. Currently I’m making a lime green hat. :) Next up, fuschia. Or fuCshia if Melle is reading. Melle is a stickler for using the actual spelling of words instead of what randomly springs to mind and then gets stuck. (Weirdo.)

Coffee made chocolate chip cookies today, which is an interesting break from the rice krispy squares. As much as I love marshmallowy gooey chocolately squares warmed slightly in the microwave, I also have a big soft spot for chocolate chips and cinnamon (which is a crucial and often forgotten ingredient). Curling up on the sofa with two warm cookies on a plate? Orgasmic. Mmmmm.

Everyone around here is healthy and happy and life is good. Chock-full-o’-cookies-good!

Do they still call it horse?

I can feeeeeeeeeel my eyes glazing over.
Blah blah blah blah blah. Blah? Blah blah! Oh, blah blah blah.
Meh.

“Can you look these immigration papers over?”

“Sure.” [a millisecond passes] “You spelled my name wrong! Dude?!”

“What?!”

“My name! You spelled it wrong!”

“No I didn’t. Where?!”

“Umm.. Oh my god! You spelled it wrong in TWO PLACES!”

“WHAT? Wait. How do you spell it?!”

“E-n-e. E. Not ‘INE’, but ‘ENE’.”

“What? Really?”

“OH MY GOD! You don’t know how to spell MY NAME?!”

“Well.. You hardly ever use it! I mean..”

“WHAT? I hyphenate my name on everything!”

“Umm… gee, maybe I..”

“OH MY GOD, YOU HAVE NO LEG TO STAND ON NEXT TIME I FORGET *ANYTHING* ABOUT YOU!”

Coffee: I’m going to run to the bathroom real quick.

Me: Why? Do you have to use the telephone?

Coffee: Maaaaaaaaaybe.

In any other household, that wouldn’t make any sense at all.

Coffee is now the proud owner of an Ontario driver’s license, thus permitting him to, uh, drive. Not that he wasn’t driving before, but he was driving as an American. Which means nothing at all in the grand scheme of things, but in a few short days he’ll have some Canadian ID with his photo on it and that’s pretty cool. He already has a library card, which is more important, anyway.

In other news, my application as his sponsor was approved. The Canadian government feels that I am a reasonably responsible person. I feel.. conflicted. I guess I’ll have to settle for being Public Enemy # 548,199,211 instead of #1. I’m apparently not all that talented at being dangerous. Heh.

It’s now time for us to apply for Coffee’s work permit so I can pimp his ass out at long last. Then, while he’s working his fingers to the bone, we wait for his full immigration approval and then he can NEVER LEAVE. Of course, if by some chance he DOES sneak away, he’ll also be allowed to cross the border back into Canada when he comes to his senses and wants to return. Also, he can shop at Target with me. Which is both good and bad. Bad, because he may just try to tell me that I do not actually need 47 pairs of socks and turkey jerky every time I go there. Good, because he can come along and help me carry shit. Oh, and buy stuff that he wants. Whatever.

I’m rambling.

Changing subjects completely: I’ve decided that I’m going to knit some chemo caps – but I don’t know where to send them when I’m done. Can I just drop them off at a hospital? Or mail them somewhere? Anyone local to the Hamilton area know of a place that accepts them without it being a big deal? (Leave a comment or email, please!) It’ll give me a chance to use some of my softer, gentler yarn, and to practice some simple circular knitting at the same time. I’ve found some pretty spiffy patterns online that aren’t overly complex – and which are rather attractive, too.

This morning I got on the treadmill for run #2 of week #1 in my 8 week training to run a 5K. Was that enough numerical crap for the rest of you? (It’s like I’m talking in code!) It wasn’t bad at all – in fact, week one has been easy as pie. I suspect this means week 2 is gonna’ suck, and week 3 is going to kill me. I’ll let you know.

[holy crap, one of the dogs just farted and I think I'm dying...]

[much air-fanning inserted here]

I watched “Napoleon Dynamite” while running, bringing me up to somewhere in the neighbourhood of 487 viewings of said movie. Perfect movie to watch while running.

Sidenote: Dear God, clearly something died inside one of the dogs’ asses. I don’t know which one, but HOLY SHIT. WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THESE CREATURES?!

*GAG*

Your attention to this important matter is greatly appreciated.

Effective immediately, please commence using the phrase, “Man Meat” in your daily conversations.

Bonus points if you can work it into conversation at the office.

Double bonus points if you can say it to, or in front of, one of your parents.