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Way cranky today. Like WAY.

I have no idea why I’m so Mt. Krankatoa, but I think it needs to be nipped in the bud. I don’t like myself when I’m cranky. I make issues out of everything in my head and wave my arms around a lot when I talk and get this evil curl to my lip and raise my eyebrows at sincerity and generally become a massive pain in the ass.

Not pretty.

I think I need a Love List to pull me out of my self-indulgent little meh.

And so…

THINGS I LOVE EVEN THOUGH I AM A CRABBY WRETCH

The Canucks, for staying tough in the face of major challenges
Handmade stationery
Applauding for everything
Singing country songs in the shower
Lemon juice and soy sauce on hot rice. Mmmm…
Rainy-day ponytails
Old-school hip hop
The smell of cinnamon on the burner
Freshly-scrubbed stainless steel sinks
Hugging pillows in my sleep
That fireplace smell
The Muppet Christmas Album
Origins Peace of Mind
People who can pull off a wink
Making my very intimidating LARGE EYES face
Sourdough with balsamic and oil
Private Practice
The Ultimate Holiday Online Shopping Guide I am currently writing for MegFowler.com
MY TREE WHICH HAS BEEN UP FOR A WEEK TOMORROW OH YES
My pre-Uggs
Dreaming of snow
Boys with sticky-uppy hair
My lovely roommate, who is the best roommate in the GVRD… AND THE WORLD
Good huggers
My new 2500 text limit!
Squooshy babies
The cheese aisle at Whole Foods
You
Reconnecting with my Snoopy and Kermit from the mass of stuffed animals my parents found in their crawl space and have (very appropriately) given to my baby cousin Aayla:

(photos courtesy of my Aunt Gwen… that’s her house and dog and son in there)

I don’t do stuffed animals anymore, but Snoopy! Kermit! These were important touchstones in my young life.

Also note the walrus with the t-shirt that says “Tons of Fun”. I was a witty kid, no?

And what do you love?

Let me know below!

Okay, okay. I know I’m completely buying into a marketing scheme here. And really, doing some advertising for a corporation that most certainly shouldn’t get my lovin’ for free.

Still.

THE RED CUPS ARE IN AT STARBUCKS!

And apparently I am Googlefamous for discussing it within a couple hours!

I have loved the red cups for years, long before I worked for the company and survived the mania that is Christmas at Starbucks.

The mania challenged it, really. But it could not conquer it.

Even if it really tried.

When I was working as a barista, I steamed more jugs of eggnog than anyone should have to in a lifetime, especially given that it smells like cat food after about 120 F.

I don’t even want to talk about the rich people giving me five minute lectures on how their children wanted their hot chocolate. Suffice it to say, even a child who can barely walk can apparently ask for extra whip and a milk temperature of exactly 107 F.

The really surreal part was selling thousand dollar espresso machines to people who continued to come in morning and night to buy their cuppa from me. This was a function of serving as my store’s “Red Apron”, which really means that I ran around trying to convince people that they needed more red and green mugs!

More! More!

Oh, well.

That’s ancient history.

And RED CUPS ARE NOW!

I wanted to have a gingerbread latte in my first red cup of the season, but I made the mistake of going to the Twilight Zone Starbucks, where the guy at the counter always thinks he knows my drink and starts making it when I walk in the door.

A different drink every time, mind you.

And never the right one.

But he seems so excited, I never have the heart to say NO I DON’T WANT THAT. Well, a couple times I have, but that’s just because he was trying to slip me some soy.

Which sounds wrong.

Anyway.

RED CUPS! WOO!

(why are my fingers so short?)

Okay. We’re playing hardball now, kids.

Unless you’re ready to be covered in strawberries and whipped cream, no waffling!

(And no, I’m not actually going to cover you in strawberries and whipped cream. Give your head a shake.)

The choices we make sometimes say a lot about who we are. Sometimes they say nothing about who we are. But it’s funny — even the totally silly choices can end up dropping us into huge debates with our family and friends.

(Actually, I think it’s more interesting to note the choices we struggle with… or just don’t care about at all. And the ones we admit to, as opposed to the ones we hide.)

But today I don’t want to hear about definitions or shades of gray or your existential struggle or “I need to know context!” or qualifiers or “well, generally I think I like this, but it depends…”

Just choose.

Scary, I know.

(And one more parenthetical remark for good measure. Thank you.)

***

Coffee or tea?

PC or Mac?

Kids or no?

Political or no?

Summer or winter?

Artificial sweeteners or sugar?

Fries or salad?

Lake or ocean?

Own or rent?

Email or phone?

Traditional medical care or natural remedies?

Vegetarian (or vegan) or carnivore?

Apples or oranges?

Follow celeb culture or no?

Liberal or conservative?

Rural or urban?

Car or SUV?

Atheist or not (not includes agnostics)?

Marriage: necessary or no?

Cable or not?

Campsite or hotel?

Alcohol or no?

Up early or up late (if given the choice)?

News online or news on tv?

***

I can’t wait to read this one.

The looking-through-of-boxes went off without a hitch last night, though I have to say it was surreal to be reunited with strange items like my Rowlf the Dog Ceramic Piano and the now-mangled trophy I received for winning the Journalism 12 award (in grade ten.)

Sometimes it surprises me to look back and see the things I loved (a doll that smelled like oranges?), and sometimes, it makes absolute sense… because I still love those things.

What things?

Well, my Kermit the Frog with velcro flippers, my Snoopy doll with the wardrobe of clothes (including his rainwear, his baseball uniform, his surgical scrubs, and his track suit), and my “minky”: a large, fluffy monkey my Uncle Dave bought for me when I was six or seven.

Now, initially, I did not like the minky, because he was as big as my upper body and furry in a way that none of my other animals were. I believe I rejected him on sight, actually, which led to a series of follow-up gifts attempting to win back my heart (probably a bad precedent to set, but it worked out just fine for me.)

Fortunately (as with half the guys I’ve dated) I got past his weird looks and hairiness and fell utterly in love.

(With the minky, not my Uncle Dave.)

I also got to re-discover a bunch of my old elementary-age poetry and some report cards that indicated that a) I had an oddly vocal sense of humour in first grade; and b) I did not feel math was relevant to my future (grade three.)

I’ll be posting some photos of my “art” and excerpts from such fine treatises as “How To Care For a Dog” and “Lola and Lana the Christmas Mice”. Oh, and the photo of me winning the pumpkin carving contest in second grade in which the pumpkin and I are missing the same tooth.

Awesome.

I really, really like getting rid of stuff.

I like giving it away or recycling it or throwing it out or even just tossing it into the air and closing my eyes and hoping God claims it from the ether.

I like it when I can empty a drawer or closet or cupboard completely.

I like it when everything that’s left is in great condition, and there’s nothing old or broken or sketchy lying around to take away from the magic of the functional, the new, and the loved.

I am whatever the opposite of a packrat is. Maybe the rat who leaves the sinking ship full of old theater programs and sweaters with holes under the arms and Christmas lights that don’t work and dated issues of the Utne Reader?

Maybe it’s the fact that I’m OCD, or maybe I’ve moved too many times, or maybe I’m just weird.

But once I’ve gathered a solid store of clutter — which may not look like clutter to anyone else, but goodbye! — I hit it like Hurricane Glad Bag and soon there’s nothing but a misfiled cheque stub and 3/4 of a tube of lip gloss that I only wear when I have a tan.

I do this with my email and computer files, too. Even .jpgs and mp3s, once I’ve had enough of looking at a picture or listening to a song.

This is both weird and unnecessary, because I still have 80 GB of space on my hard drive and 21 GB of space on my iPod and 2 GB of space in my Gmail.

It’s just that there’s nothing more satisfying to me than clearing the decks. It’s blissful. It’s euphoric.

And sometimes it’s just problematic.

Why? Because I can’t afford to replace all the things I get rid of. Once I was left with two pairs of pants in the whole wide world because I decided to throw out everything that had stains or rough hems or made me look like a dreidel.

Or there was the time I gave away all my furniture to my friends, simply because my room felt too small.

Or the time I accidentally shredded a cheque in my zeal to avoid identity theft.

Stellar, I know.

I’m going to have to stop doing this when I have children. I don’t want to end up throwing out their report cards or Kiwanis Festival Awards or favourite t-shirts or comic cooks because I have a sudden fit of spatial clarity.

Which is a great reason to take my addiction in hand now. And tonight will be my first test.

My mom is bringing by five boxes of “stuff” — kitchen stuff, old writing of mine, old stuffed animals, heaven only knows what else — for me to sort through and keep.

They’re in the midst of a fairly dramatic move to a new place altogether (stress! stress!), and so they’re having to wade through all their stuff from spending several years in one community, and all my grandfather’s stuff from, well… being old.

Fortunately, they’ve moved a lot, too, and exfoliated their belongings many times over the years. And my grandfather was not unlike me in his need to get rid of a whole bunch of stuff every now and then. This means that most of what I am looking through today will be valuable in some way.

Oy.

So.

Don’t. Buy. Garbage. Bags.

Learn to cherish.

Try storing things correctly so they don’t feel like clutter.

Or, you know, have your mom duct-tape you to a wall while she goes through the boxes.

Between stomach-wrenching antibiotics, missing sleep, and leftover adrenalin from our firefighter/police/paramedic shindig this morning, I’m feeling a tad… well… uh… lacking.

Rather than go on and on about that, though, I’d thought I’d check in on you wacky kids and ask a few questions that have popped into my head today:

1. If you were running out of a burning house (I know, I know… I said I wasn’t going to go on about that, but I was curious!), what are the five things you’d grab, given a minute to do so?

2. Are you more cynical or optimistic about romance in general?

3. Do you judge people according to how they look? And if you do, what matters most: fitness, fashion, posture, or general mood?

4. Do you like your laugh?

5. If I gave you a camera right now, what are the first five things you’d want to capture on film?

6. What song should play when you come in a room?

7. Is there a colour you wear more often than not?

8. Do you dance when music plays?

I don’t know about you, but when I think of things that are fun to do at 4:30 in the morning, sitting in an ambulance wearing only a quilt and woolly boots is right up there.

Well, and pajamas, yes, but no one was going to see THOSE.

We woke early this morning to our fire alarm having a hissy fit and the distinct, cringe-worthy smell of smoke.

After checking to make sure that we weren’t the ones that set everything off (did we leave the cider on? The tree plugged in? are we running a meth lab?), we grabbed something to cover ourselves and ran out to the front porch, where we met our neighbours and their baby. Catherine called 911 and within another couple moments, our downstairs neighbour had joined us, too.

Fully clothed, mind you. With his laptop bag. Smart guy.

I started thinking of all the things I should go in and grab, but then we heard the sirens.

Lots of sirens.

And then they arrived.

Four police cars with eight police folks.

One ambulance with two paramedics.

Two fire engines with at least nine firemen.

My goodness.

Gorgeousness all around, and me looking like an ottoman with a bad slipcover. Ole!

They looked a bit hesitant to go in the house (given the uncertain origin of the smoke) but in a few moments, they were tromping about on all levels.

And instead of worrying about the place burning into oblivion, I was asking myself sage questions like:

Do I have bad breath?

Did I leave underwear on the floor?

How does one accentuate one’s figure with a blanket?

Sigh. Shameful.

They finally loaded us into the ambulance (since the temperature was well into the single digits) and so we (Dean, Karen, baby Presley, Catherine and I) sat and laughed at the fact that Karen had remembered to snag her most expensive purse after taking care of her most important concern (Presley, naturally.)

Oh, and we had to mock my attire. Because I was rocking a look I swore I’d never even try.

Uggs with bare legs.

So how does the story end?

They let us back into our apartment after divining that our furnace motor was on fire (!!!) and pumping smoke through the house. It ceased to be a problem once the furnace was turned off. So we’ll be chilly for a couple of days if our landlord doesn’t get it fixed up soon.

Dean and Karen went off to Starbucks (that baby was UP) and brought me a latte.

I was a half-hour early for work.

I’m frickin’ tired.

And how are you?

Ladies, do you see any continuum here?

Mr. Gosling:

Mr. Reynolds:

Mr. Adelstein:

Mr. Cusack:

Mr. Bettany:

Mr. Brady:

Mr. Macht:

I’m trying to figure out my taste in men.

I think it has something to do with sardonic grins, high foreheads, messy hair, a good sense of humour, and stubble.

Anyone?

Anyone?