I hate these days. Oh, I don’t generally mind the rain. Or walking around in wet socks. Nah, what I hate or, more precisely, what I fear, are umbrellas. Terrified of them, actually. Shut up!
All these people walking around, completely oblivious to the fact that their personal space is about 2 feet wider than it normally is, and that the edge of this personal space is adorned with pointy wire stuff. Scares the bejesus out of me, it does. I’ll be walking by someone, and without warning this nylon fabric is heading straight for my face.
So you can keep your fear of heights, spiders, balloons, Bush, etc. Me, it’s those damned nasty umbrellas.
Went down to New Hampshire to climb for the weekend, this time with an Aussie chick. Thankfully, she didn’t kick my ass like the crazy Ukranian from last year, but that’s only because I’m not strong enough to climb anything she’s on. Anyhow, I’m climbing with her because the milliner is in Ottawa, attending a friend’s wedding. Because of my history with, ahem, receptions and all, I declined to go. But, being the whupped gentleman that I am, I made sure to call her during the weekend, to let her know that I wasn’t dead. Or in a ditch bleeding. Or whatever.
I get back home Sunday night, the milliner getting there a few hours later. With all my laundry. Which has been washed. And ironed. And folded. By her mom, no less. Score!
Oh, I’m more than able to do this myself, but I sure as heck ain’t complainin’. I think I should leave more often.
One of the managers here brought in a few dozen Krispy Kreme donuts to work. Bastards. The smell of deep-fried sugar calls to me, yet I resist. So I sit here, drinking my water.
Logged on to my gmail this morning (not going to say anything about google talk[love it, btw]), and saw that I had a message from Futureme. Open it up, and it’s someone claiming to be me, writing from my work, telling me what the weather is like, yada yada.
I’m kinda freaking out, until I remembered that, if you go to their site, you can write yourself an email and then set it to receive it in a year or whenever. Very time-capsulish.
Following up on a suggestion from the blorkster from several months ago, I finally got around to visiting Monas on Saturday.
Oh. My. I can’t believe, after being in this city for nearly 20 years, almost always living around the corner, I never went into that store. I think its industrial-looking display window might have something to do with it. But damn! was it ever a sybaritic experience. Looking for a chinois? Yeah, just pick out the size. Knives of all types. Sauté pans, sauce pans, stock pots, just, everything. And then, just when I thought I couldn’t take anymore, I come across these beautiful island chopping blocks. Everytime I turned a corner, I saw something else I just couldn’t live without. (Well, I can, but I wish I didn’t have to.) I could almost open a restaurant, if only to be able to shop there.
This could easily become an addiction.
Sigur Ros is playing at Théâtre Maisonneuve. I am so there.
Redheads don’t feel your pain. And here I was, thinking it was because I whimper like a little girl.
Went to Niagara-on-the-Lake this past weekend to attend a wedding. Not my own, of course, but a cousin of the milliner’s. Took off Friday afternoon, after first stopping off at a photographer to get our portrait taken. (I swear, portraits, wine tours, etc. I feel like a yuppie. That’s not a good thing.) Drive to Toronto, crash at S’s aunt’s, and drive to Niagara Saturday morning. Nice place, but wow are there ever a lot of tourists.
The milliner had confirmed our presence at a pre-wedding wine tasting, but when we got there we were informed, in no uncertain terms, that this was a ladies-only event, and that I was expected to do the manly thing of playing golf. Um, yeah. Bite me.
So, instead we depart from the wedding party and go off and do our own tastings. Hint: Peller wines? Yeah, not so good. Meet up with the folks, go for supper, and crash. Get up on Sunday (who gets married on a Sunday?, and after breakfast hit another winery. Mmmm, ice wine on a Sunday morning, she is good, no? Do the tourist thing until the afternoon, and go to the wedding. Outside. In the hot sun. The groom’s men were sweating buckets. Hee. Nice ceremony, however.
Later, we get to the reception. Annnnd, to tell the truth, I don’t remember much of that. The food was good, I remember that. And the wine flowed. I vaguely remember that. But there was no water to be had. So, to rehydrate after a day in the sun, I drank wine. Lots of it. And, um, several full glasses of Grand Marnier.
Trust me on this, a massive hangover of Grand Marnier and recent vintage white wine leave a taste in the mouth that I don’t want to repeat. Tough to get back to work this morning.