Saturday. 10:42am.

I've already successfully checked off a few of my weekend "to-do" items.

Things completed in a timely manner include:

1. Eating the rest of Dad's b.day cake. Although I ate it last night. Couldn't hold off until breakfast.
2. Getting a PVR. I celebrated by recording Oprah. Then erased it because it just wasn't PVR worthy.
3. Massage. (With a twist). I was NOT massaged by a woman with strong hands and a tender touch. However, I WAS massaged by Derek. Hairy. Eastern European accent. VERY strong hands.

Weekend to-do stuff

My weekend to-do list is shaping up to look a little something like this:

• Move into the 21st century. How? By picking up a PVR box tonight at Rogers. YES! I will FINALLY be able to record my stories. Everyone else in the universe who already has PVR tells me that my life will change. What a good little early adopter I am.
  
  
• Get massage. Oh yes. I'm going to be all sorts of rubbed up by some random woman with (hopefully) strong hands and a tender touch. Mmm... massage...
  
  
• Go shopping with hubster for more Mexico clothing. I seem to have me a little problem with the shopping. Meh.
  
  
• Eat Dad's leftover ice cream birthday cake. Perhaps for breakfast.
  
  
• Watch PVR'd shows. Giggle to self at the gloriousness of it all.
  
  
• Do boring adult (read: responsible) duties, such as laundry and grocery shopping.
  
  
• Go for run 11km run with Running Room group.
  
  
• Try not to fall asleep at hubby's Grampy's 89th b.day party Sunday afternoon after running 11km that morning.

Daddies and daughters

Today is my Dad's birthday.

So this morning on my way in to work, I decided to pick out a card for him. I usually go with the goofy, funny card. You know... one that references boogers or farting or something like that. (Let me explain my father's sense of humour to you. Farts? Are funny. Burping? Hilarious. Bodily functions are the highest form of humour. My brother, father, husband and I once laughed until we couldn't breathe due to a "chain-fart" thing we had going on. Need I say more? No? Okay then.)

Anyway, as I was scanning the cards, the words "For Dad from your daughter with love" caught my eye. I opened it and teared up a little at the mush inside. Not because the card was superbly written. But because, quite simply, I love my Dad. A whole heck of a lot.

When I was in my second year of university, we almost lost him. He caught a strange virus on a weekend, and by the next Thursday he was in the Intensive Care Unit at the hospital. By the time I got home and arrived at the hospital, I heard the words "If his blood pressure doesn't rise, we may lose him."

We may lose him.

That was just not a possibility. Not from my Dad. The tough, strong big guy who used to hold my arms while I climbed up his belly and did a back flip when I was a kid. The man who would be sure to ask me if I wanted to go with him every time he was going anywhere - even just to the corner store to pick up bread. (I always did.)

The Dad who would let me mold his curly hair into funny shapes or use his belly as a pillow. The Dad who whistled along in a teasing way as I read sappy cards out loud to my Mom on Mother's Day. The one who would "fight" for the last spoonful of the Matterhorn ice cream sundae with me, long after my Mom and brother had given up. And the Dad who would jump into the car and actually chase down the ice cream truck with me.

My Dad: Fun. Amazing. Wonderful Dad.

So the fact that he fought against whatever it was that tried to take him away, and is celebrating his 64th birthday with my family and I today... and the fact that I can keep on making those special Daddy-daughter memories with him for many years to come... well, it makes me cry a little.

And he may try not to show it, but I think he might tear up a little when he reads that card, too.

Happy Birthday, Dad. From your daughter, with love.

Hello from Sunny Mexico

In just 2 and a half weeks, I will be going to Mexico with hubster and friends for some sun, drinking, relaxing, drinking, snorkeling, drinking, swimming, drinking. And - oh yeah... to attend our friends' wedding.

So, it being February in chilly Canada - my summer wardrobe has been far from my mind. Enter Hez checking out her drawers and closest and wondering WHAT THE HECK I wore last summer. I've got nothing!!!

Which is why I found myself hustling off to the lovely stores in and around the fabulous shopping district where I work. (Trust me. I must exercise will power OFTEN. I work at Yonge and Bloor. Have good income. No children. Do the math, Internet.)

Anywho. Point is? I went a little crazy the other day. The Gap had put out their new spring collection and I challenge YOU to try and gaze at the yellows and pinks and other lovely light, cheery colours that remind you of summer, in nice, soft fabrics and try - just try - NOT to walk out of that store having purchased under $250 worth of clothing.

**Looks a little sheepish while trying to justify recent spending binge.**

Of course, now that I have a cute pair of shorts, 4 new t-shirts, a bathing suit cover-up for the beach, a new tank top and a pair of jeans (not for trip... but they were nice, people! How could I resist??), I'm almost all set for sunny Mexico.

Next on my list:

• New bathing suit (maybe... bikini. Not sure I've recovered from this yet.)
• Cute dresses for evening wear
• Another cover-up for the beach

And I can totally justify all this spending. I mean, I'm going to be with a bunch of friends. Which means I MUST look fashionable and chic and cute at all times.

This vacationing stuff. 'Tis hard work, I tell you.

Hubster says "What up?"

What if...

Every once in a while I get into this whole reflective state, where I start seriously thinking(obsessing) about big, important life choices.

My latest obsession? Is work.

I really like what I do. I'm happy. The people are great. I get to be creative. It's an amazing environment. I really, really love it.

But there are these little thoughts in the back of my mind that won't go away. About working for myself one day. Really... How amazing would freelance be? Working from home. Making my own hours. Rolling out of bed and arriving at "work" (read: downstairs).

Of course, in this economy, I have NO desire to make any move in the near future whatsoever. I'm just friggin' ecstatic to be working and happy to have a good job.

I guess I'm just daydreaming about one day. "What if..." And, "Wouldn't it be great..." And, "Imagine what life would be like if..."

There's also part of me that thinks I would really miss feeling important at my job. Having a leadership role. Making key decisions and being a part of a team.

So, as you can see, I'm really getting nowhere with this line of thinking. I'm flip-flopping all over the place. But that's part of life. Part of my reality. Which is totally okay. Because I'm excited about the future possibilities that lie ahead for me.

What's your "What if..." moment?

Everybody loves ya, Oscar

I love the Oscars.

I stayed up late last night to watch them to the end. Then went to bed to daydream about what my acceptance speech would be if I ever won. (Kate Winslet and her shampoo bottle story inspired me, what can I say?)

A lot of people have no interest in the Oscars whatsoever. But I adore them. Perhaps it's due to my obsession with movies. Hubster and I see a movie almost every week at the theatre. And I usually see each film up for Best Picture before the Oscars every year (only missed "The Reader" this year). I love discussing which actor or actress should win, who did the best job, which films really stood out. I just love it all.

Here's why.

I have a passion for storytelling. I appreciate all forms - whether it's storytelling through words, music, dance... love it all. And when you see a movie - it's like the ultimate storytelling medium. You get the complete package. The written word - coming to life on the big screen. And, if it's done right, you get the beauty and emotion of reality. Right before your eyes.

For me, a night at the movies... now that's entertainment. In its best form.

What's up

An update on Me (cause I just don't tell you enough in these blogs)...

• I'm officially back to running (went for another run last night) and feeling good. I SO want to reach my goal of running TWO half marathons in May at 2:15 or under
• My cold has not yet gone away. Which is v. annoying
• Not doing much this weekend (again) and looking forward to it!
• I'm at work early again today because I've been Busy (yes, with a capital B) this week
• I lost 2.2lbs. this week! Hurrah! The weight loss thing seems to be going well
• I'm irrationally annoyed by a certain person on Facebook. Don't know why. (I said it was irrational)
• I'm stressing because I haven't started work yet (wasting time on you, Internet!) Gotta get started
• Bye
• Oh - enjoy your weekend everyone!
• Bye for real

Orthotics: They ain't just for Gramma anymore!

Just a quick, short blog this morning, as I'm on my way to an early morning appointment with a podiatrist. Yes. I have a podiatrist. Who is fitting me for orthotics.

Orthotics? Why - what on earth would a young gal like you need those for? (You may be asking yourself). Well, I need orthotics because (as Wikipedia so aptly explains) they're designed to support or correct musculoskeletal deformities and/or abnormalities of the human body. Yes ma'am. You heard it here first. Hez has some deformities and/or abnormalities of the human body that need a'fixin'.

I'll let you know how my gramma shoes feel after I get them.

**Edited to add: It's 1pm now... Got my orthotics and they feel great! Long Distance Running, look out! I'm comin' to KICK YER ARSE! Oh... and I fixed my spelling issue. POdiatrist... not PEdiatrist. Hey - it's a good thing I'm cute, right??

In which I try not to disappoint my dear readers

So I've received many requests from all my dear reader fans for a new, fresh, juicy blog. 

(Okay, really - it's just my family. Thank you for reading, family!)

And now... here it is. In all its glory. A new blog post. The one in which I talk about my first run after a TWO WEEK HIATUS.

Two weeks of not running was starting to have quite a negative result. I was blah. I was grumpers. I was unpleasant. (Gasp! It just ain't true. Hez... grumpy?? The hell you say!) Alas, 'tis true. But that's neither here nor there... 

Because tonight, I went back to my running clinic, despite my chest/head cold. We ran 5k. I felt good. No foot pain. And I was Forest-Gump-ing it all over the place: "From that day on, if I was going somewhere, I was... RUNNING!!" (Just a little movie quote for you trivia lovers out there.)

And now, here's a reenactment (through words) of me coming home from the run, all high on endorphins and junk:

"Hi hon, I'm home! I'mbackfrommyrunanditwasgreat!Yep...hadagoodrun.NowI'mgoingfora quickshower! In shower: NewYorkNewYork!!!If I can MAKE IT there, I'll make it ANYWHERE! After shower: Heybabe!Outofmyshower!Sojustgoingtogetmydinnerand-OHMYGOD-thisdinnerisDELICIOUS!Howdidyoucookthepotato??Boiled,yousay??Wow.BESTboiledpotatoI'veEVERhad!!!"

Needless to say, I'm feeling good right now. Very good and lovely. 

Running and me? Yeah. We're friends.

My Hubby Valentine

12 years ago today I waited for an 18 year-old boy with contact lenses and dirty-blonde hair to pick me up in his Mom and Dad's Corolla. It was my first date with hubster.

It was 12 years ago on this day that we hung out, just the two of us, for the very first time. Doing the things most 18 year-olds would do for a first date: going to the mall, catching a movie (Star Wars) and going for coffee after (except, we both had tea. We share a mutual distaste for coffee.)

Looking back to 12 years ago today, I remember meeting the first boy my age that I felt really comfortable around. I remember that we didn't have that big "I knew I was going to marry you from that minute" moment. Because that's just who we are. Realistic, in my opinion. But we both knew we really liked each other after that first date. And it wasn't much longer until we realized we loved each other.

For 12 years we've been growing, changing, figuring out who we are and where we're going and how we fit together. We've shared. Laughed. Cried. Fought. And talked about our lives, our futures, our families, our goals and our values. It hasn't always been easy. And it hasn't been one of those "When Harry Met Sally" love stories that the old couples tell, about eyes-locking across the room and never looking back from that day on. 

But for 12 years I've been a different person. An incredibly happy person. Secure. At peace. And I've felt things that I didn't know were possible to feel for another person outside of your family. For 12 years I've been in love. With the most incredible man.

And that's more than enough for me.

Happy Valentine's Day, hubster. Here's to many more dozens of years.

Someone save me from myself

I guess I haven't really updated everyone on the fact that I had to stop running for a while. (Foot injury. In yoga. Figures!) But it's been about 2 weeks of no running now. And let me tell you... it's getting to me.

Without an outlet to release my tensions each day, I'm getting a little mentally unstable. I might just go all "Jerry Maguire" on yer ass, Internet.

So anyway, this is my nice, little excuse as to why my blogs have been less-than-regular lately. And a little less-than-spectacular lately, too. It's hard to be witty and clever and engaging and all that junk when your head is foggy.

Hard! (For emphasis).

Oh, woe is me.

Anywho... without a proper segue, let me start in on a new topic. One where I may end up sounding seriously prissy. But I'm not. You guys know Hez... I burp! I giggle at farts! Bathroom humour is the highest form I know!

(Before I go too far down the "bodily function" route, let me bring it back to my topic). This would be: cutting the cord with my cleaning lady.

We all know how excruciatingly hard it is to switch hairdressers, for example. (Especially if you go to someone in between and then go BACK to that hairdresser. Not a good sitch.) It's all because of some odd, Canadian politeness thing, I suspect. Now, imagine how much harder it is to tell a woman that comes into your home that you don't see her fit to clean the hair out of your shower drain anymore.

She has wiped off hubster's pee from the side of the toilet, people. This is serious.

Hubster and I have felt a little silly having a cleaning person in the first place. We are physically able to do it ourselves. And we do quick clean-ups regularly. But we have the money to afford someone to come in every 2 or 3 weeks to do that "serious" clean, so that we at least have peace of mind knowing that there aren't horrible little bacteria men growing all over our floors. Or on the baseboards. Or in areas that I completely forget to clean until I can actually SEE the filth.

So we got a cleaning lady. The thing is? She's been doing a half-assed job for the past year. Like - really half-assed. I could be doing the job she's doing and save myself $70 every 2 weeks.

Which is why we decided to cut her out. As of January 1st.

And now here we are. February 12th.

And she's coming again in 2 weeks.

There's a part of me that can't bring myself to be the younger (30!!)-something who tells this 60-something woman that we no longer "need" her. I feel embarrassed playing the yuppie role in this case. As I go off to drink my Starbucks and listen to my iPod on my way into work and leave her behind, cleaning the food scraps off my floor. (Okay not really. I do a mini-duster-buster of the kitchen floor before she comes usually. I'm neurotic. Yes.)

But really. You get what I mean, right? Who the heck are hubster and I to be all WASP, y'know? Anyway. So that's our problem. Still trying to find a way to tell her that we'll do our own half-assed job, thank you very much. In a nice, non-prissy way, of course.

I will win you over with my smile, and you will forget all about the pee.

If I were...

• ...smarter, I would know how to get Google Analytics working again (after it stopped functioning for me one day. Out of the blue. Just stopped.) And since I'm not tech-savvy, I have no idea how to figure it out. Hence, I have no clue if anyone is even reading my blog anymore. Which makes me a little less motivated to write daily. It's a vicious cycle.
• ...less sick, I wouldn't feel like arse right now. And I might be funny. Instead of all sorts of boring.
• ...something other than a chicken, I would go back to the hairdressing place where Hairdresser-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named called me Mullet Girl, thus causing me to write a nasty email to the salon, which in turn resulted in the salon calling me back and offering me a free haircut the next time I go. Of course, Hairdresser-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named works every day during the week. So I can't go.
• ...a little less lazy, I would get off my butt and find another hair salon to go to for a haircut, before my hair turns into a REAL mullet.
• ...feeling creative, this post would be much more interesting. Too tired and blah today.

30 ain't so bad so far

Well, the weekend has come and gone. I'm another year older, another year wiser. And my bones and muscles? Another year stiffer.

Of course, this may be due to the fact that I received a Wii and Wii Fit for my b.day from my awesome parents and I decided to try it out last night AND this morning. Hence, the stiffness. (The Wii Fit lady voice told me I'm a bit stiff, too. And I'm not afraid to admit that I felt a little annoyed at Perfect Little Toned Avatar Wii Fit Lady.)

(Maybe I should be embarrassed to admit that I'm jealous of a virtual person's body??)

Alas! The stiffness is not a problem... as I have another wicked-awesome b.day present from 2 of my closest girlfriends... SPA DAY! Yes. I think I'll just go ahead and book myself a massage this weekend. Hurrah!

Oh, and next Saturday I get to enjoy good company with the hubster at a matinee of Dirty Dancing! Woo! (He realllllllllllllllllly loves me if he's willing to sit through that with me!) Can't wait. Can't wait. And, it's on Valentine's Day. *Insert gushing "awwwww" reactions here at the romantic sappiness of it all*.

I'm a lucky gal, aren't I?

To everyone who came and partied it up with me on Saturday night - thank you! I had lots of fun. And to everyone who's wished me well or generously given a gift or even just smiled at me... You've all made me feel so very loved on my big day.

You all rock.

Age is but a number. Until you turn 30.

Today is the last day that I can claim I'm a 20-something.

Tomorrow I will be 30.

And thusly, I must celebrate like I'm still a 20-something in the ridiculous fashion of dressing up and drinking. Yes. I'm talking about the Theme Party.

My 30th birthday theme? Is Canadian stereotypes. So, I've got my Sudbury Dinner Jacket and fuzzy toque ready to go.

Bring it on 30. I'm ready for it.

The curious incident of the hubster in the lake water

For those of you that know me well, you know that I'm a total cottage-joneser. (Definition: If you've got a cottage, I'll find some way to finagle an invite to it). So, this past weekend, hubster and I went to our friends' cabin.

I ADORE cottages in the winter. Where the snow is knee-deep and untouched, your cheeks get all rosy within just minutes of being outside and you get to suit up in snow pants and go sledding just like you did when you were a kid... it's awesome.

And being up there brings out the kid in hubby, too.

Which is why hubster found himself romping towards our friend's dog, singing a cute little ditty to the young pup, while I stood watching with a goofy grin on my face. (I'm telling you - we're KIDS).

(Before I continue, allow me to set the scene for a moment... Imagine if you will: Lots of snow. A frozen lake*. Hubster, myself and my friend standing on said lake while our friend put together some twigs and brush for a lovely outdoor campfire.) Scene is set.

I turned my back for a minute just as I heard hubster abruptly stop singing, followed by the unmistakable "shloop" (yes, that sound is unmistakable) of slush and water. When I turned around, I saw hubby down - one leg completely submerged in the lake, the other leg awkwardly bent and hands gripping to the ice for dear life.

Now, at this moment, most concerned wives would at the very least yell out helpful phrases like "Don't struggle!" or "Let me find a long stick for you to grab onto!" I, on the other hand, kind of laughed and watched hubby pull his sopping leg out of the broken ice and water, while immediately rushing to stand where I thought the dock was beneath all the snow.

He knows I love him. It's okay.

Anyway, hubby then hustled off to the cabin to warm his leg, while the rest of us decided to STOP making a fire on the frozen** lake and headed back to solid land.

We laughed about the incident... even talked about how much scarier it could have been. And then we realized that even falling into a lake in the dead of winter? Can't stop us from soaking up the cottage life. (No pun intended).

What hubster thinks of me and my laughter upon his falling into the lake.

*Not actually frozen.
**Again... NOT frozen.