Newfoundland Pictures!

We'll chat about this soon, but oh!  How gorgeous this place was!!!!  Perfect weather, awesome surroundings, fantastic people.  I almost stayed.  I would have stayed, but my hideous job requires that I "show up for work" in order to get paid.  Pfft!  Unreasonable much?

Here are a few of the pictures taken by my not-so-super camera phone.







Must.  Go.  Back.

On My Way!

Dearest, I've been naughty yet again, I know I have.  It's been another chunk of time apart.  Can you forgive me?  Will you forgive me?

I'm writing this as I sit in an airport, praying to an Omnipotent Comedian that the free wi-fi emblazoned on the signage dotting the long hallways will actually allow me to use the internet on my phone without having to sell an internal organ to pay the roaming charges.

That's right.  ROAMING charges.   I'm in Canada. 

Okay, I'm  barely in Canada.   I'm just over the border in Vancouver.  But I'm waiting for a flight that will take me to St. Johns, Newfoundland.

Well, I should be accurate.  If nothing else, let me be accurate, right?  I'm actually waiting for a flight that will take me to Edmonton, which will lead to another flight that will take me to Montreal, which will then let me board the flight to St. Johns.

I know.  I know!  But it was the only flight that got me to St Johns at a decent hour.  So what if that decent hour is sometime tomorrow?   So what if I'm beyond exhausted?  I'll nap a bit and be ready to enjoy a summer evening in Newfoundland!

I just have to get there first.  On a teensy, tiny little plane.

...No problem!

Live with it.

So Roommate decided it was time for me to get a haircut.  Normally, I am profoundly indifferent to hair, but at this point, my hair had gotten a little out of control.  After all, a woman of a certain age isn't always done a favor by longer hair.  The problem was, I hadn't decided on a hairstyle.

Again, normally, this isn't a problem.  The best haircut I ever got was picked out for me by my former coworker Paula and her stylist.  Paula had had a rough day that week and I told her she could pick out any hairstyle she wanted for me.  It sounds selfless and giving of me, doesn't it?

Yeah.  It isn't.  That's seriously how little I usually care about my hair, per se.  I want to look decent over all, but hair...meh.  It grows.  You get a bad cut and you hate it, it grows out.  You get a good cut and you love it, it grows out.
Anyway.  Roommate and her coworker Kelly [who does a very nice job cutting hair] flipped through some hair magazines and the snipfest began.  By the time Kelly was done, there was enough hair on the floor to make a whole new Lisa Marie.

And I had a hairstyle that makes Carol Brady

 look sexier than Salma Hayek.

Yup.  It's that...unsexy.  Seriously.  It is the hair equivalent of the mom jean.  It's not the length.  It's not the fact that my hair has a freaking mind of it's own.  It's that this cut, that looked adorable on the model in the magazine, makes me look like like Carol Brady's less appealing sister.

I'm never getting lucky again.

Ad nonsense

At what point, dearest, does one say to oneself, "I am just too freaking lazy?"

Oh, yes...when one is worn to a nub holding a book.

And look at that picture!  She's not even reading a book!  It's a couple of sheets of paper!  If she were reading the Oxford English Dictionary, maybe I could see it.  But come on!!!!

And she's got decent arms.  It's not like she's suffering some debilitating disease, fer chrissakes.

Look, I know I'm lazy.  I know I spend a fair amount of time figuring out ways of doing as little as humanly possible.  I know part of my hatred and loathing of the gym and all things exercise are related to my laziness.  But, again, come on!!!  Even I'm not this bad.

Ooo!  I just found a boundary.  How...unsettling, really.

I'd best go lie down until it goes away. 

The new addition!!!!

See, this is why I don't usually go antique shopping.

It's not that I needed another teapot.  I have...um...nineteen of them.  And while this wasn't an expensive teapot, I certainly didn't need to spend money on it.

But look at it! It's pretty and swirly and it has a comfortable handle! It's got the cool hook-y bit that keeps the lid on the pot while pouring. And it's a happy color. It goes with my growing collection of
of Paragon china, the commemorative pattern designed to honor the birth of Queen Elizabeth's younger sister.  Princess Margaret Rose.  It's so pretty, too.  It's got parakeets and rosebuds and the rosebuds are raised--

Never mind.  Here.  Look:

See?????

The soft yellow with the bolder yellow of the teapot?  And the center of the daisies?  How adorable is this?

It blends.  It looks nice with my pale green Depression glass.  Can't you just imagine coming to tea at my house and having your scone and tea sannies on this plate, your tea poured out of the sunny yellow pot?  Doesn't it just make you feel pretty?

Oh, don't be silly.  You are pretty.  Almost as pretty as my new teapot.

You know what?  I changed my mind.  I did actually need it.

"It's a simple question."

A few weeks ago, I saw my primary care physician. No, nobody likes it. I expected not to enjoy myself, and I wasn't disappointed in that expectation.  But that really isn't my point.

Yes, I do so have one.  Here it is--and you couldn't have waiting another two seconds?

Anyway.  During the Q&A session with the medical assistant, I was asked:

"Are you sexually active?"

Dearest, I was completely stymied.

After a few moments of opening and closing my mouth like a codfish, interspersed with furrowed brow and contemplation of the ceiling, as if it might hold the answer to this perplexing query, the medical assistant said rather sharply, "It's a simple question." 

I would have to disagree.  I would also submit the idea that this MA was, in fact, not single.

How long does one have to be celibate before one is no longer considered sexually active?  Where's the cut off, so to speak?  What's the practical and specific definition of "sexually active?"

It can't indicate awareness or thought about sex, can it?  Obviously, given the terminology, one must be actively involved with the process.  Of course, active involvement might preclude a fair number of married people whose response to sex is along the lines of, "...Fine.  Go ahead.  Whatever."

Ah, romance.  Some marrieds sure know how to live.

It also can't be willingness.  I'm willing to look exactly like Kathy Ireland, but that doesn't make me a supermodel, does it?

And it certainly cannot be about availability.  After all, the Mr-Right-Now dating site provides nearly endless opportunities for random and/or illicit sexual activity.  The twenty-somethings who are looking for a good time alone allow for numerous penises on call.

Yes, they actually put that on their profiles.  "Looking for a good time."  The penis on call designation is mine.  But really, wouldn't that be a useful box to check?  So to speak?

Oh, but let's not leave out my other source of readily  available potential partners, the STD patients!  My, what a fun group they are!!  If there's anything that makes me just feel pretty, it's the overly flirtatious STD patient.  I can't count the number of times I've said, "Here's your cup for gonorrhea and chlamydia testing, and yes, I am single, thanks for asking!"

I'm single.  But am I sexually active?

It's not really that simple a question.  And I have absolutely no idea.

And Cup Goes To...

The Los Angeles Kings. Yeah, I know. It's because I didn't bake yesterday. I blame myself.

Wait a minute. No, I don't! I blame whomever sold his soul to make this happen! [coughDarrylSuttercough]

But it's okay. The Kings won. Good for them. I wish them all the joy and satisfaction in the world. There can be no feeling like this, I imagine, and it should be cherished.

Sigh.

And now begins three long and painful months...without hockey.

Sniff. No, no. I'll be okay.

Sniff.