An elf, a leprechaun and now a troll…

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My 6 year old stepdaughter, Amy, has a vivid imagination (mind you, she’s not the only one). While I was reading in front of the fireplace the other night. She informed me that our house may have a leprechaun. Well, this was new.

I immediately thought, ”Oh no, here we go again”. I still wasn’t over the  “Elf on the Shelf” fiasco at xmas time.

I had picked Amy up at the bus stop after school one day in December. She sat in her seat and started rambling on and on about an elf. Oh kids have such vivid imaginations. She continued on and on about it, but I was too busy rocking out to Earth Wind and Fire’s “September” to really hear what she was saying.

After the song ended, Amy resumed with describing this “elf” with such detail I thought for sure she was nuts. She was telling me what he looked like, where in the house she had seen him, what mischief he’d been up to and I was getting creeped out. This elf was starting to sound real. We got back to the house and she started running from room to room frantically. After searching what must’ve been every room in the house, she came to me teary eyed while I was hanging up my coat, totally shaken up that the elf wasn’t at our house.

Amy: He’s not here.

Me: (I’d already forgotten about the elf because, well, it wasn’t about me) Who’s not here?

Amy: (crying now) The elf.

Me: Elf? What elf? (was she still going on about this??)

Amy: The elf in the red suit. He spilled sugar and walked through it on the counter and I saw his footprints at my mom’s house. There’s no spilled sugar here.

Me: Ohhhhh… (at this point I was completely bewildered)

Amy: He spilled milk on the floor, and before that he was in my room on the bookshelf and then I found him watching me from the sofa. And now I can’t find him here.

Me: (thinking… This is just creepy. It was “watching” her from the sofa? I didn’t like the sound of this. What the hell is she talking about? Has she eaten something bad and is hallucinating? Was she on some sort of trip from the pesticides that remained on her grapes from lunch? Like what the hell? Okay, I need to remain calm here.) Okay. I will help you find him. What does he look like?

Amy: He has a pointy hat, looks sideways, has an evil grin and is wearing red lipstick. Oh, and he makes messes.

Oh my goodness, this was getting really weird…. Red lipstick, pointy hat and makes messes… I was beginning to wonder if she had a fever because I honestly never heard of this elf nor had I seen him, and I to be quite frank, I was pretty sure that I didn’t want to see him.

Amy: We have to find him. (sobbing at this point)

And then it came to me, the “elf”… I suddenly remembered seeing him on a friend’s facebook photo. Indeed, many of my friend’s December’s facebook statuses were inundated with photo updates of this “elf” doing bad things and suddenly I recalled seeing one that morning from my friend Tara. It was a photo of said elf driving Barbie’s convertible with his arm around her. Ooooh…. If only Ken could see that evil elf. I grabbed my cell phone and brought up the picture.

elf and barbie

Me: “Is THIS the elf?”

Amy: That’s him!

Me: (I could win an Oscar for this performance) Well no wonder we can’t find him here, he’s all the way in Ontario at Scarlet’s house. Look at that, he’s riding in Barbie’s car! Oh that sneaky little elf!

Amy: (even more distraught) Ontario?!?!? Do you know how far that is Janet? How is he gonna get back here?

Me: (thinking logically) Well, he’ll probably borrow Barbie’s car and drive here.

Amy: (stating rather logically) It takes two days to drive here from Ontario. I want to see him nowwww.

Me: Nahhhh… it’s not a far drive for an elf. He could really make good time in that car, especially if he hits Quebec through the middle of the night, drives straight through, doesn’t stop anywhere off the highway and doesn’t get lost, because God help him if he has to ask someone for directions because it’s been my experience that the people in Quebec are …. (suddenly I had to stop myself because for starters, Amy was staring at me and secondly I was talking like this was really going to happen and I was way too concerned with the non-existent driving route of a doll in a non-motorized Barbie car.)

Luckily, that ended the fiasco with the elf on the shelf. She became too interested in other things and had forgotten about him, well that, and the fact that once we discovered this stupid “elf” was a whopping $30 at Chapters we informed her that elf had poked the cat in the eye one night and was no longer allowed at our house, so he’d only be seen at her mom’s house after that. Hey, it worked.

Sooo… this brings us back to the other night when she informed me of the possibility of a leprechaun living in our house.

Amy: Soooo… I think there’s a leprechaun who lives in our house.

Me: How would we know if there was a leprechaun living here?

Amy: Wellll, there would be signs of mischief around.

Me: Yah? Like what?

Amy: Liiiiiike, if you found messes around the house.

Uh huh. Then I’m guessing the leprechaun is named Amy and I’m guessing it likes to make crafts from construction paper and likes to eat candy and drink from mini juice boxes because I’ve seen plenty of messes left around from that. I know this because when I was growing up there was a leprechaun named “Janet” living in our house too… who used to rifle through my sisters’ purses looking for gum, would dress up the cat, and do other random acts of mischief that no one else enjoyed but me.

Me: And what kind of messes exactly?

Amy: Welllllllllllll, like if you found all your dresses on the floor in your closet.

Oh great. I’m having a feeling there’s an even BIGGER mound of clothes on my closet floor by this new “leprechaun”(hey, I never said that the leprechaun I had growing up ever left).

Me: Uh huh. And what else?

Amy: Welllllllll, maybe there will be stuff spilled on the floor.

I made a 90 degree turn in my chair and did a quick scan of the portion of the kitchen floor that I could see from my seat….half expecting to see a mountain of cereal, a small stream of milk, or something else that needed attention. There was nothing.

Amy: Sooooo… we should make him a house to live in.

Me: And what would it look like?

Amy: It could be a box, because leprechauns are small. We could put furniture in it and make windows out of scotch tape.

This is what Amy had in mind.

This is what Amy had in mind….

And this is what I had in mind.

… and this is what I had in mind… except a bigger lawn, perhaps a little brook meandering through it, and possibly the addition of a heated pool.

Me: Ahhh yes, windows are good.

Amy: It has to have windows, and we could cut holes in the box and put scotch tape over them so he can see through them. He needs the windows so he can watch our big screen tv.

Me: Oh… cuz they like to watch tv, do they?

Amy: Yes, when they aren’t being bad.

And then once again, I got wrapped up in the delusion… I pictured a slew of things I’d seen on Pinterest… we could make the leprechaun a lovely stone house from pebbles, make some furniture, I could make some curtains from small snippets of fabric, and on and on it went. Suddenly I envisioned a whole villa decorated perfectly for a leprechaun. Yes, a leprechaun. A fictitious creature that doesn’t exist.

I’ve since quelled my delusions about creating a living space for the leprechaun… after all, Amy says there may be a troll living under the basement stairs now.. and well… while he’s got a place to live – his wardrobe and appearance need some serious attention.

I'm thinking new hairdo, chemical peel, dental work, some hair removal and new wardrobe...

I’m thinking new hairdo, chemical peel, dental work, some hair removal and new wardrobe…


I’m waaaay past frugal.


It’s true. I’m not just frugal – I’m super frugal. Cheap. A real tightwad, even. I could almost be super hero type frugal. I could wear a cape… made from something I got on sale or made myself from recycled fabric, bags, or cardboard even.


Yesss… I could be like this woman… superhero-like proportions of Pinterest saaviness.

I rarely buy anything unless it’s on sale. Full price? No I don’t think so. In fact, I almost get nauseated and nearly break out in hives at the thought of buying anything at its original price. And I often get disgusted at just how expensive some everyday things are… like Febreeze, laundry soap and countless other things.

So imagine my sheer delight upon joining Pinterest – a true haven for the frugal as it entails an amazing cornucopia of ways to do things cheaply and albeit, fun!


There should be a support group for people like me.

Similar to catching the newest strain of influenza, I quickly caught the “Pinterest” bug. I spent a ridiculous amount of time scouring craft ideas, do-it-yourself projects, and other time wasting ideas that appeared on my screen.

And then it happened…. I discovered a “pin” for a formula for making my own Febreeze.

OMG... i wonder if I can make those gloves too...

Note to self: must find out how to make those pink gloves…


Yes that’s right. I could suddenly make my own fabric refresher for mere pennies, rather than spend the whopping $6.99 at Walmart for the same thing. Andddd, I could make it as strong or subtle smelling as I wanted. (Sometimes the scent of Febreeze was so strong after using it that it gave me a headache!) Hell yeah!!  Suddenly I was dashing around the house, grabbing the squirt bottle I bought at the dollar store some time ago but had no purpose for, then sprinting over to the laundry room for a splash of laundry soap, then the kitchen for some baking soda before stopping at the sink to add some water.

Shake-shake-shake and suddenly I had a whole bottle full of my own fantastic smelling fabric refresher. According to my mathematical equations (which can be dubious at the best of times), I calculated the whole concoction cost me a mere $1.49 . Me: 1, Febreeze people: 0.

Imagine my surprise the following morning when I stumbled upon a recipe for making my own lip balm. Like OMG. I had to do it. Why spend $3.49 for lip balm at the drugstore when I can spend $5.00 to buy all the ingredients and make a whole lifetime supply?!?! Right?!?!?! RIGHT?!?!?!? (this is the point in the story when I tell you that I almost never think things through completely, and as a result, end up with boxes of odds and ends of things that are leftover from such projects like this one…. Just sayin’.)  So I did it, made like a hundred little pots of lip balm, which, I might add is absolutely fabulous. Me: 2, Outside commercial world: 0

And now I’m caught up in pinning a zillion things that I can make myself… body washes, detergents, air fresheners, shower cleaner, carpet refresher, stain remover, bath bombs, play dough (for the kids…*cough cough*… that’s it, for the kids, uh huh), oxy clean, jewelry cleaner, etc. The list goes on, thanks to my many hours of staring at the computer screen.

cat cartoon

Yes, thank you Pinterest for changing my life… and turning me into a computer obsessed zombie that can barely function in the real world. I’d write more of this blog post but I gotta go gather my ingredients for the playdough shower cleaner.

A long line, some donkeys, and a lot of steps.

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Ahhh… the villages of Santorini… built high on top of the island.  White washed buildings and blue domed churches. A romantic island jewel, you might say.

For those of you who’ve read previous posts, you know I’m not a fan of physical exertion, unless I’ve spent too much time at the MAC makeup counter conveniently located right in the terminal of the airport (thankyou Schipol airport) and am running for my gate before the agent decides to close the door. Then I run. But other than that, I’m pretty much taking the easy way of doing anything. According to the laws of physics and human biology, I should weigh 500 lbs and have the heart of a 2,000 year old mummy. (the heart comment could very well prove to be true, I’m not sure when the last time I felt it beat was, so who knows.)

Picture it… Santorini, in October. It’s an unbelievable day, sun is beating down on us in a cloudless sky. It’s a zillion degrees and my makeup is melting off my face faster than you can say Anbesol. We’ve finished our sightseeing tour, and opted to enjoy a couple happy beverages in one of the hilltop bars that overlook the incredible sights below. If it weren’t for the table’s umbrella providing some much-needed shade, I’m certain my thighs would still be stuck to the chair, after all, they were already stuck to each other.

Nice spot, me thinks.

White wine and beer, it doesn’t get better than this. (unless it’s more wine and beer)

We finished our drinks and decided to make our way down to the pier. Since my better half had never been on a cable car, he was somewhat eager to do it. It was an hour before we were due back on our ship so I knew we had plenty of time. That is, until we walked out onto the lane and discovered a lineup that extended down the hill from where we were standing and went all the way to what appeared to be the top of the hill.

Surely to god this wasn’t people waiting in line for the cable car. Was it?

It was.

Now I should point out that the village was seriously overcrowded because there were 3 cruise ships in when there was only supposed to be ours. One was diverted to Santorini because it couldn’t go to Israel as planned and the other was diverted from its scheduled arrival in Cairo. Go figure. Our tour guide told us there was an influx of over 6,000 people in a place usually reserved for 2,500.

We bypassed everyone in the line and went to the top of the hill just to see, if indeed, this was a line for something that perhaps, we didn’t want. We got to the top of the hill which opened up into a small square, dotted with shops and one heck of an angry group of people. The entire group of people would all start to shout when it looked like someone was butting in line. I scanned the group and saw a man who looked like he might be English speaking and by his outward appearances, he should have been jolly. I was wrong.

This guy was a near perfect cross between Shrek and Fat Bastard.

I asked him, “Excuse me, is this the lineup for the cable car or is everyone waiting for donkeys in order to go down the mountain?” He looked at me over his puffy cheeks and shouted, “The end of the line is down there.” I looked at him funny, “No, no, we don’t want to butt in, I just want to know if that’s what everyone here is waiting for.” He leaned in closer to me and shouted in my face, “THE END OF THE LINE IS THAT WAY.” Just then two other people looked to be butting in the line and suddenly the crowd became enraged. I looked at the fat man and said,”Do you know if the walkway down the hill is also this way?” He looked disapprovingly at me and said, “I don’t know, but even if it is, the end of the line is that way.” I wanted to punch him in the face. He sounded like a broken record and was shaped like a big fat donut. The crowd got even angrier at some other people and I looked at my better half and said, “Let’s get outta here before this gets really ugly.” I envisioned a mass riot breaking out at any minute and it was gonna start with me choking out the fat man with my shopping bag for being so rude. There was no need of that. None.

Two other english speaking couples were beside us as we started down the laneway. The man asked me if we knew if the “donkey trail” was this way. I told him that I’d hoped so because although our tour guide advised us against taking the donkeys down the hill, at this point I was willing to put a donkey on MY back if it was the only way down. Several restaurants and shops later we asked a local if this was the way to the trail and we were advised it was “just around the white building”. And that would have been helpful except they were all white. Lucky for us, you could soon follow your nose to the smell of barn animals which lead us directly to the rear end of several donkeys and the stairs down the side of the mountain on the other side of them.

Now, I should point out that while I love makeup, chocolate, gelato, and traveling, I also love high heeled shoes. Noooo, I wasn’t wearing them at this point, but I soon wished I was. Why, you ask? Because I was wearing flip flops and while they were certainly comfortable, I may as well have been wearing banana peels on my feet. The wide stairs that led down the mountain seemed to not only be constructed of extremely worn down and as a result, super shiny stones but were somewhat tilted on a downward grade. And what made this trek even more precarious was the fact that it was speckled every few metres with a fresh (or not so fresh) pile of donkey dung. All I needed was to slip on a rock and fall in donkey poop. That would have completed the trip for sure. I figured that with the tricky steps, a pair of high heels would have given me some traction at least.

Just a few steps…

Like my experience with the never-ending steps at the Eiffel Tower, these steps didn’t seem to end either. Mind you, with every step I was thankful that this was even an option to get to the bottom of the hill. Heaven forbid having to wait in that ridiculously long line up for the cable car amidst a sea of ornery people. No thanks. At least the people partaking in this mass exodus down the stairs were rather upbeat and found the experience humorous.

… and a few more…

By about the millionth step, I finally started to see the light at the end of the tunnel. (Actually, it wasn’t a light at all, but the sun reflecting off of one of the harnesses on a donkey, but hey, it felt spiritual at the time.) Alas, we’d reached the bottom. I gazed upward to the top of the hill, which made me dizzy, so I stopped. I wanted to kiss the ground, or kiss a donkey, or just kiss the side of the mountain for being so happy to have reached the pier before the ship had set sail, but I remembered all the poop I’d encountered and decided against that.

I was dripping with sweat, could feel my heart beating in my face and wondered if I was feeling the ill effects of sunstroke. Probably wasn’t sunstroke… it was what happens to people who don’t exercise and then overdo it every couple of years. Surely the temp outside was nearing 100 degrees, and I’d just completed enough exercise to last the rest of my life. My body must’ve been in shock from such a vigorous workout. (yessss, even though it was downhilllll… my body would still be in shock.) My legs felt rubbery as we made our way onto the tender to take us back to the ship.

I turned to my better half as our little tender left the dock headed for the ship. “I’m sooo glad we were able to walk down that mountain. I’d hate to be still in that lineup.” I said, enjoying the breeze off the water.

“Same here.” he replied. God he looked good… glistening from his trek down the hill… tiny beads of sweat on his neck… leg muscles all tight … wait, getting off topic here.

“I don’t want to see any more steps for a while.” I told him. And I was serious. No more steps. I was all for elevators, those moving sidewalks, escalators, or even being carried around – but no steps.

I spoke too soon…

….obviously someone in the cosmos is against me, because when we got back to the ship, the lineup for the elevators was seemingly just as long as the lineup for the darn cable cars back on the island.  Imagine my disgust at the very moment I realized we’d have to take the stairs to our cabin. That’s right, 8 whole decks of stairs.

Now that we’ve been home for two months and the weather is cold and I reflect back to that beautiful island, I’d gladly walk those steps every day just to be back there.  *sighhhhhh*  😀

Random Act of Kindness… sure feels good…

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Well, well, well. I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Talk about an interesting turn of events today.

This little story is directly related to one I blogged about back on April 5th (link is posted below the video). If you haven’t read it, you need to read it before you read this post. (just sayin’) (This would be the part where there would be a musical interlude playing softly in the background while you revert to my other post to see what it was about…. so here it is… go ahead and hit play while you read the other post….)

And here is the post from April 5th.

All done reading it? You may continue…

Since that experience I haven’t gone back to that location. I was just too disgusted. And then today happened.

I was early for work and decided to drive around a few of the blocks close to my work to pass some time. Lo and behold, I got the hankering for a donut (not a big stretch because I love donuts, and crave them all the time, but anyway).

Soooo… I was craving this…

Yes, all of them…

But settled for this…

Except it would be a large hot chocolate and if I have to settle for one donut I’d prefer it to be as big as my head (like the one I had at the foot of the Acropolis in Athens, Greece… I mean who knew there’d be a lemonade/donut stand perched there serving up enormous chocolate dipped donuts???) But I digress, and this is pretty much what I had.

Even though I should be eating this….

yeah, yeah… whole grains and veggies.

Soooooo… I come across the Tim Horton’s that I’d gone to back in April and decided to hit the drive thru. Hey, it sure beat driving even more out of my way to hit another one. Sooo… I enter the lot, and as I’m approaching the line of cars ahead of me I see a woman in her car in exactly the same spot that I was last time – that is, entering from the side street. Now, I’d like to point out that I think I’m a pretty fair person. Clearly, that woman had entered the lot before I did and therefore she should go ahead of me. So, I paused when there was an opening in the line and allowed her to go ahead of me.

She pulled in and I couldn’t help but notice she didn’t give a wave of thanks, no head nod, no mouthed out word of “thanks”, no nothing. I rolled my eyes. That irks me when people don’t acknowledge a nice gesture with a “thank you”. But whatever.

It was then I started reminiscing about the last time I was in this same drive thru. Should I try to do another random act of kindness? Should I even bother?

I ordered my hot chocolate and (albeit, regular sized) donut and arrived at the window to pay. The cheerful cashier says, “There’s no charge for you. The lady ahead of you already paid for your stuff.”

I was shocked. I looked at the cashier like this…

Yes, this is pretty much the same stare I had.

I couldn’t believe it. Here I was on the receiving end of someone’s random act of kindness in the exact same drive thru, and the exact same situation that I was in back in April – only our roles were reversed. Wow! It felt AMAZING! What a lovely surprise on a grey, cloudy morning.

And as she passed me my stuff I said, “Well, let’s keep it going then. Let me pay for something the lady behind me ordered.” The cashier looked it up and said, “She only ordered a large coffee.” So I gave the cashier the money and she said, “Cool! I wonder how many people will keep this going. It will be interesting to see.”  I smiled, feeling pretty good and I pulled away.

It was at that very moment that I replayed in my mind what happened the last time. If you’ve read my post from April 5th, you realize that I was all up in arms because my “pay it forward” didn’t work at all, or so I thought. Back on that day, I watched in disgust as the woman who I’d treated to coffee still paid for her drink! Or did she? I bet that she herself, after discovering that I treated her, maybe decided to treat the person behind her as well, just like I did today. And the act of her paying for the next person looked to me like she was paying for her own drink. Wow. Never saw that coming.

While I think I’m a fair person, I can also admit that I almost always jump to conclusions in almost every situation. (shocking, I know) And I’d almost bet a million dollars that this is exactly what happened the last time.  Who knew? Not me, that’s for sure. This wouldn’t be the first time my moments of jumping to conclusions nearly started a widespread revolt amongst people… like the time my stapler went missing from my desk and I wanted to call the Police/FBI because I was sure there was a theif in our midst and I wanted him/her to be punished to the highest degree of the law. Turned out the stapler was under a stack of papers that I’d put on top of it and wasn’t stolen at all. … but that’s another story… and obviously a mistake that any rational person could make. (I have to believe that, or else I’m just a crazy person.. hahahah)

So, while I’m still on my high from the “random act of kindness”, I’m gonna go enjoy my lunch hour and see to whom else I can pay it foward today.


The Littlest Hobo…

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It’s a sad day here at work. I think my little friend has moved on… to what, I’m not sure, but he’s gone. Packed up and gone.

My little friend is “Winston”. I affectionately named him that the day I discovered him. The name “Winston” just sort of suits him. He’s a spider who has lived outside my office window for months, you know,  just hanging around day after day. Several times now I thought he’d left for good, only to find out he’d merely moved his web to a new spot, either sunnier, or drier, or just better. But today, I don’t see him anywhere. No web, no little legs dangling down, no nothing.

A close comparison to what Winston looked like. Minus the grin of course.

I should point out that I’m not particularly fond of bugs, especially spiders, but since he has kept mainly to himself and nowhere near me or my belongings, I kinda liked having him here. Had I encountered him running across my computer screen, or sitting on my desk, or {gasp} meandering amidst the contents in my candy drawer, well then, we may have a different kind of relationship. No one steals my candy. No one.

This is me when it comes to my candy…

Luckily, Winston lived in the great outdoors, and was no threat to my candy supply. (thank heavens!)

That being said, a year or so ago I did have a spider in my office who I affectionately named “Norman” and he lived in the big binders that house the old microfiche files. I stumbled upon him one day as he was quickly getting out of my way. I let him stay in his little “binder” house because he was kind enough to leave anytime I needed to look through his house for a film strip. And truth be known, he was too big and scary looking for me to get involved in having a battle over boundaries or property lines. I just let him be. Then one day, Norman left too. I found him a few months later, deceased, on the bottom shelf of the bookcase – not far from his house. {sigh} That was a sad day too. (though now I wonder if “Nanna” had anything to do with Norman’s death… hahaha… the story of Nanna and her homicidal tendencies towards insects can be found here.)

It reminded me of the old Canadian tv show called The Littlest Hobo. For those of you around the world who aren’t familiar with it, it is a sort of Canadian version of a homeless Lassie, except Lassie’s human costars actually had talent. The Littlest Hobo originally aired back in 1979 (through 1985) and has been in syndication many times over the years. I watched it a few times in the last six months or so, merely because it was like watching a car accident happen… I couldn’t look away. The acting was awful, so much so, I was embarrassed the show was Canadian. Seriously. We all know the kind of poor quality show…. like in one scene when the dog jumps from a moving car and you can tell the real dog was replaced by a stuffed toy that was thrown by someone because you see a glimpse of a person’s arm, and it wasn’t even the same kind of dog. That’s quality tv, I tell ya. (of course, I’d rather a toy being tossed out than someone pushing a real dog, but still.)


The premise was a homeless German Shepherd dog that wandered around from town to town encountering people to help. One episode was where the dog helped an innocent man wrongly accused of murder. Talk about nail-biting CSI material or what. Another riveting episode was when he helped protect an elderly prospector from greedy land-grabbers. Wowsers. Not to mention the compelling episode when the dog helped a young boy prove to his mother that you don’t have to play a rough sport like hockey to have courage. Like holy cow, and to think that there was a chance we could have gone through our entire lives when a story like that may not have been told.

At the end of each episode the dog would walk away – much to the bewilderment and heartache of his new friends – and go to his next adventure.

As a small kid when it was on, I’ve been told that I used to cry at the theme song because the dog had no home. I was baffled as to where he would have slept, where did he go when he was cold, who fed him food and treats, what if he was thirsty??? Didn’t anyone love the dog??? I was a softy. Still am.When I saw it a few weeks ago, I hate to admit that there I was, 30-some years old sitting on the sofa and getting misty eyed when the theme song music started. The images coupled with the music would move me to tears every time. And evidently still does. (sniff sniff)

On a (somewhat) brighter/darker side (depending on how you look at it), while Winston may have gone, I’ve just now noticed that the crumb of english muffin I dropped earlier this morning and was too lazy to pick up has disappeared. I’m thinking I might have a new many-legged workspace roommate. I really hope (for their sake) it’s not the family of ants I evicted from my office last spring for stealing my stuff.

The ants I had last summer were just like this little brat… stealing jelly beans from my desk.

It was about to get really ugly. Like this…

Don’t make me obliterate you with one finger. (yuck…like THAT would happen… I’d use my shoe.)

Soooo… it appears my beloved Winston has moved on. How sad. Farewell dear Winston.

I guess on that note… “Maybe tomorrow, [he’ll] want to settle down… until tomorrow, [he’ll] just keep moving on….”


Egg on my face (uhhh… literally)

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There are just some days when I don’t know why I even get out of bed. I think I could have been Garfield in another life, cuz this is me Monday to Friday…


I’ve been going to the same fast food drive thru for a couple of years now. I love the staff who greet me each morning as I roll through for my morning green tea. Truth be known, they love me too, probably because I’m the perfect customer with exceptional drive thru etiquette. Miss Manners would be proud.

Wow! I had no idea there was even a book about this, mainly because it’s not chocolate, traveling or about me (thanks Google Images!) Note: I have excellent manners in situations where I’m buying something… like tea, clothes, vacations… but not necessarily so in some other social situations. Just sayin’.

That’s right, each morning when I get to the speaker, I already know what I’m getting (even on mornings when I get more than my green tea). I don’t just sit there for several minutes staring at the big board pondering what to get, no sir, I know when I leave my driveway what I’m getting. Plus, when I get to the payment window I have my money counted and ready to go. I’m not one of those annoying people who sit and sift through their wallets, pockets, purses, or car change drawers looking for the money to pay while holding up everyone behind them. And my manners when ordering are impeccable.  “Good morning, may I please have a large green tea – black- and an english muffin toasted with butter?” And when I pull up to pay and get my stuff, I greet them with an almost nauseating (but honest) cheerful attitude each and every day. Yep, they love me. And even mornings when I’m full of piss and vinegar and don’t want to be going to work, I am happy to see my little drive thru people and it makes the morning worthwhile.

In fact, many mornings, I often get my tea for free. They. Love. Me. Well, sometimes it seems that it’s one employee more so than the others that love me. He’s the tall glass of hot chocolate who I assumed was a ‘kid’.. you know… maybe 20 or 21, turns out he’s 30 and I’m soon discovering that anyone younger than me is someone I refer to as a “kid”. God I’m old. He tells me that whenever he’s working I don’t have to pay for my tea. Awwww… how sweet. The way I see it, I’m taking him up on the offer because hey, there aren’t many perks in this world anymore and this place can afford to give me free tea… thank-you-very-much.

Sooooo, yesterday, my better half had the day off and sent me to work with a homemade toasted egg sandwich with cheese. Seeing I was running slightly late, I opted to eat it on my way to work. (I’m sure you see where this is going…)

It was a delicious fried egg sandwich. Like, unreal. So good I wished I had another one.

So, as I rolled through the drive thru, I see the tall glass of hot chocolate and notice he’s acting somewhat different. My tea was free, but he’s not looking at me and he’s nodding his head like he’s in a hurry and can’t wait until I drive away. Weird. I pulled away wondering if perhaps he was nodding to me because there was someone talking to him on his headset.

I was wrong.

Or so I think.

I got all the way to work and realized as I did my final makeup check before getting out of the car that oh my god – I had a small piece of egg stuck just above my lip.

I was like….


No wonder he could barely look at me. I shuddered as I reflected back to every facial expression, smile and word I said to the drive thru people – all the while having egg on my face. That explains why the girl who handed me my tea kinda giggled when I took it from her.  She was probably watching the little egg piece wiggle with every thing I said. “Nice morning, isn’t it… oh, thanks so much… have a great day!”  All the while she was snickering to herself. Grrrreaaaat.

Here is my personal version of the egg on my face while sitting in my car at the drive thru. (note: this drawing is not accurate since my hair has significantly more body in this picture than in person, the egg is enlarged to show detail, and my car does in fact have seats.)

Ughhhhh… I wanted to go crawl somewhere.. like back to bed, or in a hole, or under the car. Could have been worse, my shirt could have been wide open. Oh wait, that happened last month when I was walking around at Second Cup. (That whole saga can be read here.)

I figure it will be the end of my free tea privileges. Surely having breakfast on one’s face eliminates them from the free tea program. I’m thinking that getting tea is like driving… it’s a privilege, not a right and clearly, I must’ve broken some laws or at the very least lost many demerit points for this whole scene.

The moral of the story is “check your face BEFORE greeting any member of society, not AFTER.”

I guess I have to go find a bunch of change so I have the right amount for tomorrow’s tea…. I’m guessing I’ll be paying from here on out.


Admit it, it’s a purse.

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I like men. Actually, I love them. But in saying that, I like manly men. Rugged ones. Ones who get their hands dirty. Ones who know how to use a wrench, can do yard work, and can look dead sexy having a little dirt on their face. I don’t like when men have had manicures, get facials, or can identify any items at a cosmetic counter.

Gerard Butler… definite manly man.

As a result, the one thing that still makes me chuckle every time I’ve been to Europe is the number of men carrying purses. Yessss, they are purses. Call them what you want… carryalls, bags, satchels, whatever. They’re purses, okay? PURSES. Of the many men I’ve seen with them, not one of them looked manly even though I honestly think they were trying. And what was even funnier was the number of men giving it their best shot to act masculine even though they were toting a purse. Seeing a man with hearty tattoos, bulging muscles in a shirt that is two sizes too small gently flip through the contents of his purse looking for something nearly sends me into full belly laughs. Do any of these men necessarily care if they look manly? Probably not. But I care.  It hurts me to see a man look, well, dainty. Sorry, but it’s true.

It seemed to be a phenomenon on my recent Mediterranean cruise with my better half a few weeks ago. It was interesting to note not just how many men carried them, but how many men had more than one. I don’t mean, more than one at a time, but owned more than one. It was to the point where they were actually matching their purse to their outfit. If they were wearing yellow skinny jeans (this is a whole other story), they had a yellow purse. Fire engine red jeans, then a corresponding purse to match.

Excuse me sir, I love your purse.

I guess the plus side to dating a man who wears a purse is that you can borrow it whenever you want.

My theory is, if you are carrying something that isn’t a shopping bag, a briefcase or a backpack, then it’s a purse.

Suuuure, they might be “in style” right now, but so were parachute pants at one time (although they may be coming back which is beyond frightening), and they weren’t attractive either.  So there.

No one should be wearing these pants unless you’re in a Broadway revival of “Aladdin” and playing the Genie.

I’m just saying that man purses don’t exactly ooze masculinity. Unless you are Indiana Jones. He had to carry a man purse because a backpack would have been cumbersome and reduced the chances for his shirt to be open and would have made it nearly impossible for him to narrowly make it under those vertical sliding doors. Indy was a manly man. If you are not running through a jungle, a desert, or an ancient temple either chasing or being chased, then you don’t need a purse. Running through a crowded street in London, Paris, or Rome trying to catch a cab does not constitute needing a purse either.

I’d hold his purse anytime….

Now, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with having one, I just find it funny looking, because no matter how you carry it, you aren’t emitting any testosterone while you are wearing it. You can’t make a purse any more manly than you can a tube of lipstick.

My boyfriend couldn’t help but shake his head at all the men wearing purses (he’s a manly man and found these “bags” feminine, as did I). He didn’t want to know what they carried in them. But as for me, I couldn’t help but wonder what on earth they even had in their purses… a wallet, and then what? A comb? Lotion? Lipbalm? Nail file? Gum? Mirror? Maps? hat was in there???

My man wouldn’t even put Chapstick on if his life depended on it. He says it’s only one shade away from being lipstick and well, then you have a whole other issue at hand. So there you go. No man purse for him, which might be too bad because sometimes I’d like a break from mine and I could have put my stuff in his purse for a while. Oh well!


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